tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59047506455103712652024-03-13T12:56:01.170-07:00Darkest Before The DawnA place to explore your deepest thoughts through writing. We publish fiction pieces that are between 2,500 and 10,000 words in length revolving around mystery and crime fiction.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-8330132247293461442010-11-25T12:30:00.000-08:002010-11-25T12:30:18.580-08:00You Would Say That , Wouldn't You?: POWDER BURN FLASH!<a href="http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/2010/11/powder-burn-flash.html">You Would Say That , Wouldn't You?: POWDER BURN FLASH!</a>Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-59962568135187130062009-04-13T13:29:00.000-07:002009-04-13T13:32:51.639-07:00New URL for Darkest!!!!!Yes, that's right, Darkest Before the Dawn now has its own url.<br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="http://www.darkestbeforedawn.net/"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#000000;">http://www.darkestbeforedawn.net/</span></a><a href="http://www.powderburnflash.com/"></a></div><br />I did for several reasons, one being able to have more control over the site and being to add features. More importantly I'm hoping that when it comes down to awards for short fiction that when I submit stories from this site that it will be taken as a more professional and worthy site.<br /><br />Hop on over to the new site and let me know what you think.The stories posted here will remain. All stories will be posted on the new site as well as making .pdf versions for your persual some time in the short future.<br /><br />EnjoyMystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-29835213515613834952009-03-05T11:03:00.000-08:002009-03-05T11:03:00.706-08:00Write Club - Garnett Elliott<strong>Write Club</strong><br /><br />I meet Vince at a strip-joint called Bad Turbulence near the airport. This is his idea, not mine. Guy like me arranges a meeting, it would probably be at a Quizno's, or a used bookstore, something like that.<br /><br />Turbulence caters to a rougher crowd. Baggage-handlers and grade C salesmen traveling coach. I squeeze past them, eyes down, picking through the darkness. There are plenty of empty tables. I choose one near the bar and order a seven dollar rum and Coke. The bartender-lady's wearing a tuxedo shirt with a bowtie, which I find a relief. Topless women make me nervous.<br /><br />"Jesus, relax already."<br /><br />Here comes Vince.<br /><br />He sits down, takes the drink out of my hand. Sips it. "Okay. Next time order a man's drink. I'd say a J&B, 'neat,' which means no ice. If you want to get a buzz, order a beer with it. Say: 'I want a J&B, neat, with a beer back.' You can pick the brand, but don't go with a microbrew."<br /><br />"Got it."<br /><br />He reaches over and loosens my tie. We're dressed nearly the same: white, long-sleeved Axcess shirts and black slacks. Again, Vince's idea. He'd cured me of printed tees a couple weeks ago.<br /><br />"You want a smoke?"<br /><br />"I don't know," I say. "They've passed laws--"<br /><br />He lights two dark brown cigarettes. Parks one in my mouth. The fragrance's sweet, kind of cinnamon, but harsh enough to make me cough. Vince looks the other way.<br /><br />"Sorry."<br /><br />"Know what these are? Cloves. Every time you cough, it means the smoke's ripping a thousand tiny holes in your lungs."<br /><br />He lets the thick vapors curl past his nose. Vince is one good-looking guy. If you took Adonis, gave him a razor-cut, then roughed him up a little with two weeks in County, you'd have Vincent Barberi. I mean, even the name. Don't get me wrong--I'm so heterosexual it's painful, but if I was a chick I'd have no choice but to do him. I wouldn't be able to help myself.<br /><br />A techno-beat pulses from somewhere farther back in the club. Vince stands up. "Show's starting. Let's get closer to the stage."<br /><br /> # # # # #<br /><br />The show's a disappointment.<br /><br />Growing up on Cinemax and pixel-tweaked internet models doesn't prepare you for the real thing when it comes jiggling down the runway. Lots of cellulite, lots of birthmarks and stretchmarks, appendectomy scars and even the telltale pucker of gunshot wounds. Not very erotic. Plus, all the girls seem to be doused in the same body spray, which mingles with their sweat and makes an odor like cat piss.<br /><br />"Pretty hot, huh?" Vince says.<br /><br />"Sure."<br /><br />"Real women, that's what I like. Take a look over there."<br /><br />He points a shot glass at a chunky Hispanic girl. She's got a mass of bright keloid scars down her back, and she's trying to do a pole dance. Only she doesn't have the strength to haul her way up very high, so she settles for a half-ass twirl about a foot off the ground.<br /><br />"Her name's Carla," Vince says. "I've watched her dance here before."<br /><br />Better make that Scarla.<br /><br />He drains his shot of Rumpleminz. "You up for some action? When Carla finishes this set, I can ask her about a private dance. Cost you a hundred, but trust me, it'd be worth it."<br /><br />"Private?" I say, looking around. There aren't any shadowed nooks like you see in higher-class strip clubs, where the girls give the patrons lap dances. No neon sign saying "Champagne Room," either. "Where?"<br /><br />"Out back."<br /><br />"They do dances outside?"<br /><br />Vince rolls his eyes. "No, dumb-ass. All the girls here turn tricks. Handjobs and blowjobs, out by the dumpster. That's why it costs a hundred."<br /><br />"Oh."<br /><br />I'm getting this feeling, sort of like my stomach's turning inside out. And I haven't had that much to drink.<br /><br />"So are you up, or what?"<br /><br /> # # # # #<br /><br />I'd met Vince in a creative writing class. Nothing special; community college at night. A burned-out prof and a dozen wannabes, mostly women. That's why Vince was there, he told me. For the women. He bagged about half of them before the semester was over, even this lady in her thirties with a gut. Said she was on the rebound and the best fuck he'd had in a long time.<br /><br />Me, I was there to write. I'm turning professional one of these days. Already got the spot at Barnes and Noble picked out where my books are going to go. Mystery-thrillers, because they're so fucking simple to crank out.<br /><br />I've even come up with a series character: J.B. Slade. The 'J.B.' stands for Julius Bascombe. He's a black guy, a Viet Nam vet who solves crimes the police can't and lives on a houseboat in San Diego harbor. Also, he's got a prosthetic hand he pimp-slaps the bad guys with.<br /><br />Can't wait to read it, can you?<br /><br />Only thing was, nobody in class liked my stuff. The prof told me I lacked the life experience to be writing about hard-boiled types like J.B. Which pissed me off, but after a couple hours brooding over a keyboard I figured maybe he was right. Maybe growing up in the suburbs really doesn't prepare you for crime writing.<br /><br />Luckily, Vince had a solution.<br /><br /> # # # # #<br /><br />I'm out by the dumpster, minus a hundred in cash and Scarla's kneeling in front of me.<br /><br />She's changed into a little black dress. The clothing helps, but I'm still a thousand miles from a hard-on. There's a pile of used condoms heaped next to the dumpster. Latex caked with translucent slime, and I can't stop staring at it.<br /><br />Scarla's brown hand snakes for my zipper. I slap it away.<br /><br />"Your friend," she says, "he didn't take so long."<br /><br />Vince had gone first. I'd been sort of, you know, curious about what he was going to do with her, but he said he wanted privacy. So I waited on the other side of the dumpster.<br /><br />I look down at her greasy scalp. This isn't going to happen.<br /><br />"Here," I say, handing her a clove. "Let's just smoke these and talk, okay? Anyone asks you, I was a real stallion."<br /><br /> # # # # #<br /><br />We decide to take my car from the club. Vince drove up in a Chevy Nova, cherry condition, but he's trying to keep the mileage down. He folds himself into the front seat of my vintage eighties Fiero and we're off, me taking it slow on account of the two drinks I've already had.<br /><br />He's wearing a suede jacket now. As I drive, he keeps patting at a bulge in the right pocket.<br /><br />"Got us a surprise," he says. "Ran into a friend while you were with Carla."<br /><br />"What kind of surprise?"<br /><br />"First, pull in here." He points at a Minuteman liquor store off to the left. "I haven't started drinking yet."<br /><br />My first thought is: uh-oh, open container law, but what the hell. I just paid a hundred bucks to smoke a cigarette with a stripper.<br /><br />I pull up to the window and Vince orders a whole flat of Mickey's Wide Mouths. He asks me to pay because purchasing our 'surprise' has left him short. I pay, no problem. He's guzzling from a bottle before I even start to drive away.<br /><br />"Where we going now?"<br /><br />"Head for 1-10," he says, and belches. "See, you scored a little off Carla, that's the first part of being a man. But there's other things, too."<br /><br />He hands me a bottle.<br /><br />"Look, Vince, I appreciate the education you're giving me, but there's no way I'm drinking while driving. Huh-uh."<br /><br />"You believe all that M.A.D.D. bullshit?"<br /><br />"I don't want to get pulled over."<br /><br />"What that is," Vince says, putting a foot up on the dash, "is just another way for the state to make money. All those DUI lawyers are in on it, too. The truth? Alcohol makes you drive better. Makes your reflexes sharper. "<br /><br />"Come on."<br /><br />"What happens is, you're so nervous about fucking up, getting busted, you pay more attention to the road." He twists the cap off a fresh one and shoves it under my chin. "Try it."<br /><br />"I'm not--"<br /><br />He jams the neck into my mouth. Glass clinks against my teeth, cold malt liquor sloshing out, but I swallow some down. He raises the bottle. I either chug or the rest goes spilling out onto my shirt, so I chug, keeping both hands on the wheel.<br /><br />"Fuck, Vince."<br /><br />"See, you're drinking and driving already. How does it feel?"<br /><br />The buzz doesn't take long to hit because I've got no tolerance, and yeah, it feels okay--pretty good, in fact. I see a stoplight ahead and brake like I normally would. Maybe even a little sooner. No lightning bolts crash down or anything. I turn to say as much to Vince but shut up when I see him sitting there, just kicking back with his eyes half-lidded. The passenger window's down and the night wind's playing with his dark hair.<br /><br />I swerve a little and snap my eyes back to the road.<br /><br /> # # # # #<br /><br />The stretch of interstate, when we reach it, looks almost deserted. There's a convenience store and the yellow and black sign for a Waffle Hut.<br /><br />"You want me to keep driving?" I say.<br /><br />Vince peers at the sign. "No. No. Stop here. It's perfect."<br /><br />"I'm not really hungry."<br /><br />"That's not the point, dipshit."<br /><br /> # # # # #<br /><br />A blast of warm grease and country music hits as Vince shoulders the door. The crowd's a couple notches farther on the bad-ass scale than what we had at Bad Turbulence. Rednecks, truckers, and bikers, almost to a man. More than a few look up from their waffles to give us the fuck-eye.<br /><br />A fat waitress in a paper hat darts up and tows us towards a booth. She leaves a pair of menus in her wake.<br /><br />"Okay," I say, "so this isn't about food."<br /><br />"Nope."<br /><br />"What then?"<br /><br />Vince cranes his head around, looking over the packed room. "Who would you say is the toughest motherfucker in here?"<br /><br />It's a hard choice. While I'm thinking it over, he slides me another Mickey's under the table. I take a quick sip and stash it before anyone sees.<br /><br />"I'd say this dude," I say, pointing at an Extremely Hairy Guy three booths down. He's wearing a leather vest with no shirt underneath and there's enough curlies darkening his chest, neck, and shoulders to clog a pool filter. Hard to tell with him sitting, but I figure he's six-four and just a couple pounds shy of three bills.<br /><br />"Yeah, he'll do," Vince says. "Now go pick a fight with him."<br /><br />"Excuse me?"<br /><br />"Pick a fight. Slap him, call him a fag, whatever. I'll back you up."<br /><br />"Uh--"<br /><br />"You pussy out, and your education ends here. Also, you won't get any surprise."<br /><br />I take another glance at Hairy. He's eating chicken and waffles, scowling at everyone. With his Fu Manchu he looks like Lemmy from Motorhead.<br /><br />"Vince, no disrespect to you, but this guy could kick both our asses. Easy."<br /><br />He motions for the Mickey's back and takes a brazen pull. "You, maybe. I'm a brown belt in Tang Soo Do. So no, he'd find my ass quite difficult to kick."<br /><br />"You'll really back me up?"<br /><br />"Of course."<br /><br />Scared as I am, I can appreciate where Vince is going with this. Ordering drinks and talking to hookers is just kiddie-pool stuff. If you want to learn how to skydive, you've got to jump out of a plane. And if you want to write about fucking people up, you'd better get into a couple fights.<br /><br />Life experiences.<br /><br />I take a final swig of Mickey's. How to get this started?<br /><br />There's a Sweet and Low dispenser by my hand. I shake a packet out, wad it into a ball, and toss it at Hairy, overhand. The packet arcs through the air. It bounces off his chest and lands in the syrup on his plate.<br /><br />His head shoots up.<br /><br />I give him the finger, just in case there's any confusion.<br /><br /> # # # # #<br /><br />Hairy's breath, up close, violates me with nicotine and maple syrup.<br /><br />". . . can't have a fucking meal, by myself, minding my own fucking business, without some college-aged cunt . . ."<br /><br />He's waddled over to our booth and hovers about four inches from my face. There's a double lightning bolt tattoo on his right shoulder. Man actually shaved that spot so the ink could be seen. Which would be kind of funny, under different circumstances.<br /><br />". . .no respect for my colors, my traditions, just up and throws shit at me in a Waffle Hut, a goddamn American institution . . ."<br /><br />The volume cuts out and I can't hear him anymore, only the thud of my own heartbeat. Thud, thud, thud. It's pretty fast. And Hairy's face is coming into sharper focus, while everything else around him blurs. It's like seeing him through a peephole, his nose and eyes warped in sudden closeness.<br /><br />Now he's reaching towards me. I can see his big hands in the periphery, moving near. But they're slow. Slower than mine as I whip the almost-empty Mickey's from under the table and slam it against his head.<br /><br />Why'd I do that?<br /><br />The bottle makes a hollow thok sound, but doesn't shatter. It slips from my fingers. Hairy blinks and his eyes seem to clear. The slowness is gone. He grabs me, hauls me out of the booth while my left hand tires to grasp a pitcher of Boysenberry syrup, and fails.<br /><br /> # # # # #<br /><br />You know how in the books, when the good guy gets sapped or sucker-punched? The world spins around and Our Hero dives for a spreading pool of blackness. The scene fades.<br /><br />That doesn't happen to me.<br /><br />What I get is a montage; Hairy cinching the tie around my neck with one hand while the other jacks knuckles against my face. Repeatedly.<br /><br />I'd like to say I can't feel any pain through the wall of adrenalin my body's thrown up. I really would.<br /><br />But the pain, baby, it's on tap tonight.<br /><br /> # # # # #<br /><br />At some point Hairy drags me outside. The montage ends. There's cold sidewalk under my ass and the thunder of a motorcycle ripping out of the parking lot.<br /><br />"Man, you just got nailed," Vince says, sitting down next to me. "I wanted to jump in, but that guy was too fast."<br /><br />The front of my shirt looks like the Red Sea. "Did he--did he bite me?"<br /><br />"I think so."<br /><br />I want to start crying, and realize I already am. "One thing I figured out," I say, babbling, "is that J.B. Slade fights too much. I'm going to have him be more diplomatic. Buy people beers and stuff, instead of just smacking them. It's not realistic."<br /><br />Vince pats my shoulder. "There you go."<br /><br />He's almost as close to me as Hairy was, and I don't know, it could be endorphins finally kicking in, but there's like a charge between us. A charge for me, anyways. What I'd like more than anything is for him to wrap his arms around me, comfort me. But not in a queer way. Like in those war movies, when one soldier embraces his wounded buddy.<br /><br />A siren keens.<br /><br />Vince leaps to his feet. "That's probably an ambulance," he says, eyes darting. "And look at you. You're a mess."<br /><br />He whips off his suede jacket. Wraps it around me, so my bloody shirt's covered. The gesture, I've got to admit, is so tender I start crying again.<br /><br />"Look, I'm going to find another way home," Vince says. "And I'd really appreciate it if anyone asks you anything, you don't tell them about me. Okay? Like you were sort of a lone wolf tonight and I just happened to be sitting in the same booth. Alright?"<br /><br />"Sure, Vince, but--"<br /><br />He's already moving, tearing off into some bushes along the frontage road.<br /><br /> # # # # #<br /><br />Okay, the siren isn't coming from an ambulance.<br /><br />Red and blue lights swirl across the Waffle Hut lot, and a police cruiser comes skidding right up to the curb, almost hitting me. Doors chunk open. A pair of cops climb out.<br /><br />I hear a woman's voice behind me: "That's him, officers," and I'm being hauled to my feet. One of the cops tells me to spread my legs and put my hands behind my head, but I'm hurt for Christ's sake, so I guess I don't do it fast enough. Down I go, against the cruiser's hood. Now one guy is going through the pockets of my slacks and the other's slapping cold steel over my wrists.<br /><br />"Check his jacket. Something fell out."<br /><br />I wonder for a moment about Vince's surprise. Then the cop behind me, the one not forcing me down against the hood, makes an 'ah-ha' grunt and calls his partner over. The pressure on my back relents. I try to crane my head around to see what's going on, but only catch the reflection of the Waffle Hut in the cruiser's windshield. All the customers are pressed against the windows.<br /><br />The cops are talking fast, like they're excited about something.<br /><br />"Alright, in you go for a sec," one of them says, grabbing my cuffed wrists. He opens the passenger door to the cruiser and shoves me inside. The seats are made of hard plastic. I've watched police shows enough times to know these guys are totally screwing with my Miranda rights, plus they're using way too much force and I can probably sue. I tell the officer this before he slams the door shut.<br /><br />He grins at me through the passenger window, and holds up a plastic baggie wound tight with several rubber bands. The baggie's full of white powder.<br /><br />"Gotcha," he mouths, and turns away to his partner.<br /><br />So that was the surprise.<br /><br /> # # # # #<br /><br />Now, I'm not a lawyer, but you got to figure with the drugs, on top of fighting in a Waffle Hut and God knows what else, I'm looking at some time here.<br /><br />And you might think I'm pissed at Vince, for ditching me like this.<br /><br />Nope.<br /><br />Because my education's not over.<br /><br />I'm going inside. A couple months in the pokey is exactly what my writing career needs. Ex-felon--that's going to look great on the dust jacket.<br /><br />My one concern is who I'm getting as a cellmate. The right guy could be both a protector and a teacher, sharing some jailhouse wisdom while he's fending off all the homos.<br /><br />God, I hope he's just like Vince.<br /><br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Mr. Elliott lives and works in Tucson, Arizona. His most recent stories have appeared in Plots with Guns and Out of the Gutter #5.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-51192618465273902582009-03-01T22:56:00.000-08:002009-03-02T11:01:52.261-08:00Amphetamine Twitch - Frank Bill<strong>Amphetamine Twitch</strong><br /><br />Alejandro’s knuckles sprayed backdoor glass across kitchen tile. His fingers twisted red on the doorknob and deadbolt. He maneuvered through the kitchen and down a dark hallway of family framed walls. Stepped into a bedroom where a silhouette sat up from a bed, suffocated his breath like a large-quilt smothering a fire.<br /><br />A voice yawned “You’re home early.”<br /><br />Alejandro pointed the 9mm. Pulled the trigger once. Twice. Shadows fragmented upon the bedroom walls. The silhouette thudded onto the carpet.<br /><br />Footsteps drummed like soldiers marching down the hallway behind Alejandro. He turned with gun raised. Met the small outline that screamed, “Mom!” Warmed the child’s insides. Silenced the screams.<br /><br />Amphetamine hunger pained through Alejandro’s brain as he rifled through the dresser drawers. Socks. Bras. Panties. Nothing of worth. In the closet he found a Beretta .380, stuffed it down the back of his chinos. On a chair in the corner he found a purse. Pulled out a wallet. Found a wad of bills. Pay dirt.<br /><br />He exited the bedroom to the hallway. Cleared the child whose lungs heaved and Alejandro diminished like a dream.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Detective Mitchell’s charred hair matched the bags beneath his vision of flesh gift-wrapping bone. His black tie hung loose from the open neck of the white button up. The bottle of Knob Creek met his lips. Eroded his guilt.<br /><br />Should’ve stayed home that night. He’d been cat fishing in the late hours of morning when Sgt. Moon’s words hollowed his being with the news.<br /><br />Wife. Son. Shot by a burglar. DOA.<br /><br />Even in a small town Mitchell’d seen a lot in fifteen years of service. Bodies floating in Blue River. Domestic disputes where beer breathed men gave purple abrasions, cracked marrow and lipstick red whelps with their fist to a woman’s flesh. Car’s wrapped around trees where bodies were removed with no pulse.<br /><br />But seeing his son laid out like meat hanging in walk-in freezer, cold innocence removed of character, it changed him. Then his wife. Identical to the son. Separated by age.<br /><br />Mitchell shook his head taking in the hallway. Two bullets opened the drywall where his son discovered his end. Dried innards smeared from wall to floor. Mitchell knew State Police Forensics collected a mess of blood evidence. Ballistics would take a few weeks.<br /><br />Entering the bedroom, Mitchell swigged the bottle of bourbon, saw the clothes hanging from dresser drawers. Looked where his wife had dropped from the bed, soiled the carpet. Forensics’d never find who done this.<br /><br />Glancing in the open closet he noticed the empty shelf and it came as quick as losing his family, his back-up gun was missing.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Alejandro was on all fours mistaking carpet lint for crystal. Around him men slept in sleeping bags on the body-soured carpet and matching couch like lifeless shapes in a county morgue.<br /><br />Scuffmarks decorated the walls of the shack as if second grade graffiti.<br /><br />Alejandro placed a piece of lint over the pin-needle holes on top of the aluminum can he held between middle finger and thumb. His other hand flicked a flame. While his mouth huffed on the opening. But got nothing.<br /><br />His hair was the shade of creosol, melding to his potholed face. He’d chewed the skin from his lips till they bled. Fingernails had dug at his arms that’d become like his lips. Sleeping was twitching. Sweat bathed his body instead of a shower.<br /><br />He’d been holed up for a week with a new crop of illegals in the one bedroom shack. Tried sleeping in the day. Smoked his Meth while others slept at night. Now the Meth was gone. Same as the money from the last robbery. He needed a fix.<br /><br />On the couch Alejandro’s hands patted through a man’s pockets in search of money. The man woke up horrified. Covered Alejandro’s left eye with five knuckles. Falling backwards on the carpet Alejandro pulled the 9mm from his waist. Pointed it at the man whose eyes sparked white. Two shots opened his chest.<br /><br />The gunfire pulled everyone’s eyes open. Alejandro didn’t quit pulling the trigger till the gun was empty.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />It was a long shot but Mitchell tossed the piece of paper on the counter of Joe’s Pawn Shop.<br /><br />Dressed in a hole worn Drive-by Truckers t-shirt Joe blinked his razor thin eyes. Mitchell’s bourbon breath irritated Joe’s face. Reminded him of paint thinner fumes as he picked up the paper.<br /><br />“Serial Numbers?”<br /><br />“For a .380-”<br /><br />With an un-groomed Collie beard hiding his cheeks. Shaggy braids went from chin to chest. Joe shook his opal skull inked with rebel flags above ears. A big middle finger inked in the center. Joe cut Mitchell off, “Beretta. Polymer grip. Matte Black. Seven rounds plus one in the chamber. I got the fiddle. You got the banjo. We can stomp down some sweet tunes.”<br /><br />It was no longer a long shot. Mitchell’s seriousness drove a 185 grain hallow point into Joe’s skull.<br /><br />“Who pawned the son of a bitch?”<br /><br />“Don’t member his name.”<br /><br />Mitchell laid his detective’s badge on the counter.<br /><br />“White? Black? Asian-”<br /><br />“Mexican guy with a tweaker. Mexican was clean cut. Runs that authentic restaurant up the hill. Usually there from daylight to dark. Got a kick ass lunch special. Dollar beers and Margaritas on Thursday nights. Never seen the tweaker before."<br /><br />“Where’s the gun?”<br /><br />Joe turned away. Unlocked a metal cabinet behind him.<br /><br />“Shit fire, should’ve said you’s a cop, I got it right here.”<br /><br />“What about footage?”<br /><br />“No smut tapes here officer.”<br /><br />Mitchell wanted a make on the Mexican. Pointed up in the corner behind the counter.<br /><br />“Surveillance footage of the guy who sold the gun.”<br /><br />Laying the gun on the counter Joe answered in a confused voice, “Yeah, sure. But I done told you it was the Mexican guy from on the hill.”<br /><br />“I need a positive ID.”<br /><br />Mitchell picked up the gun. Matched the serial numbers.<br /><br />“I’m taking the gun. Now, show me the footage of the Mexican. I’ll need it and today’s footage to take with me.”<br /><br />“Take with you?”<br /><br />“Yeah, I was never here so we never had this conversation. These last few minutes have been one big fuckin’ blur, got it?”<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Alejandro pulled into the small town’s pay by the week flop, slop and drop motel. He stepped from the idling Buick. His complexion was greasy dishwater with eyes floating in fire. His head twitched. Shoulders jerked. His fist met a door dotted by body fluids.<br /><br />A chain rattled. A lock clicked. The door cracked open with the television bouncing light and conversation. The smell of hot ammonia wafted behind a single brown eye spiked with blood. The other eye was missing.<br /><br />“How much crystal you need?”<br /><br />The white chalked-up corners of Alejandro’s broken English said, “Another hundred dollar worth.”<br /><br />The door closed. Alejandro’s hands balled into his sweatshirt pockets. He glanced down the concrete walk. Darkness hummed. Window curtains of connecting rooms parted in the corners. Eyes and noses smudged glass. Making Alejandro’s palms damp.<br /><br />The door opened back up, a bit wider than before. One hand held a small brown paper sack. The other hand reached out, open palm, wiggling four fingers minus a thumb.<br /><br />“The cash.”<br /><br />Alejandro slid his right foot between jamb and door. Pulled the 9mm from his sweatshirt pocket. Pointed it at the single brown eye. The first shot added more decorations to the door. The body dropped. Alejandro stepped on it. Entered the flop-drop-Meth factory. A shadow fought movement from the bed. The second and third shot let the shadow stay in bed.<br /><br />Alejandro flipped the light switch on the wall. Sandwich baggies full of ice crystal weighted a metal table next to the bed. His heart raced like a chemo patient trying to run, slid the 9mm into his waist. Removed his hooded sweatshirt and piled the baggies into the chest of the sweatshirt. Picked the pockets of the bodies he’d paid with bullets. Threw their crumpled bills in with the baggies. Tied the sweatshirt into a ball. Picked it up. Ran out to the Buick. Already imagining the chemical ricocheting behind his eyes as the car turned out onto highway 62.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Headlights flared off the glass windows. A car door slammed in the parking lot. The brass bell rang above the entrance door that Gaspar’d forgotten to lock. He looked up from counting out the restaurant’s register when a gloved hand introduced his forehead to the butt of a .45 Caliber Sig Sauer. His knees went liquid. His mind fogged.<br /><br />Blood warmed Gaspar’s blinking eyes. Steel burrowed into the rear of his neck with face pressed sideways into the still-warm surface of the grill in the kitchen. A handgun lay in his side-view. Wrists were plastic-quick tied behind his back.<br /><br />Mitchell’s gloved hand tightened around the gun. “I’ll ask you one time. You and some tweaker sold the gun you’re looking at to a pawn shop. Where’d you get the gun?”<br /><br />Gaspar took a deep breath. Pondered the blood relation to the man he’d smuggled to America.<br /><br />“I’m business man. Come to America to run business.”<br /><br />“Sure, the American fuckin’ dream.”<br /><br />Mitchell reached to his left, twisted the knob below the gas burner to HIGH. A blue/orange flame hissed. He slid the Sig down his pants. Clamped both hands into Gaspar’s black wad of grease. Slowly pressed his face toward the hiss.<br /><br />Like a dog that didn’t wanna lead Gaspar’s head tried to fight from Mitchells’ grip. Begged.<br /><br />“No! No! Please!”<br /><br />“The gun. Where’d you get it?”<br /><br />With no answer the orange hiss heated Mitchell’s hand. Warmed his forearm. Gaspar’s brownie skin curled black like melted plastic. Tears fell and sputtered off the blue glow. Mitchell thought about his wife and son. Pushed Gaspar till he thought his leather gloves would ignite.<br /><br />“My brother! My brother!”<br /><br />He pulled and turned Gaspar around. Mucus spread like poison ivy from nose to mouth. Tears met the gooey gum colored boil pushing from the black burn on Gaspar’s cheek. Fear flowed hot down his leg. Puddled onto the floor. Mitchell grabbed the stolen gun.<br /><br />“This gun you sold, stolen from my house. Your brother, where the fuck is he?”<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />In the shack fluorescent lights hugged the loaded needle trespassing in Alejandro’s vein. His thumb pushed the plunger. Endorphins swam and multiplied in his brain. Eyes darted with black pupils hiding the hazel as he pulled the needle from his arm.<br /><br />“You guys need try. Some good shit.”<br /><br />He waited for a reply from the bodies that lay scattered and stiff against the four wall room dressed with matching bullet holes.<br /><br />Some had heads resting on shoulders. Others bent forward. Chin into chest. Mouths trapped in a permanent yawn.<br /><br />He placed the needle in a glass of water clouded by crystal on the coffee table. Where ziplocks stuffed with jagged chunks of amphetamine lay like homemade Halloween treats. He loaded another fix as the front door opened. Gaspar limped onto the carpet his arms behind his back. Blood and bruises disguised his appearance.<br /><br />Alejandro barked, “Gaspar!”<br /><br />Mitchell’s heel stomped the bend behind Gaspar’s knee, “Heal shit bag!”<br /><br />Enraged, Alejandro jumped up duce eyed. Stormed Mitchell with the loaded needle in hand.<br /><br />Mitchell raised his .45, cubed meat from Alejandro’s chest.<br /><br />On a full-blown-Meth-rush Alejandro gritted his stalactite teeth, smothered Mitchell into a wall. Grabbed for the gun with his freehand. Stabbed the needle into Mitchell’s jugular with his other. Mitchell hollered, “Fuck!” Alejandro thumbed the plunger. Liquid roared a surge of strength through Mitchell’s veins. He pushed the .45 toward Alejandro, barrel to the floor. Squeezed the trigger. Separated the toes of Alejandro’s foot. Alejandro fell backwards. Mitchell leveled the .45, removed Alejandro’s face. Pulled the needle from his neck. Turned and lowered the .45 on Gaspar who lay screaming on the floor like the amphetamine twitch behind Mitchell’s dilating eyes. <br /><br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Struggling Southern Indiana writer of regional gritty crime stories. Have stories published or fourth coming from Thuglit, Plots With Guns, Pulp Pusher, Beat to a Pulp, Lunch Hour Stories, Hardboiled and Talking River Review. I live with my beautiful wife and two dogs. Check me out at facebook.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-40057092324548323872009-02-25T23:57:00.000-08:002009-02-26T19:01:52.700-08:00Borderline - Nik Jajic<strong>Borderline</strong><br /><br />It was typical Petrov tactics. You come home from a long day, open your front door, throw your coat on a chair, turn on the light, and bam. You’ve got two thugs and a Captain staring right back at you.<br /> <br />Ok, I owed money…but not the sort of bread that called for a late night pummeling. A few grand with points was nothing to break bones over, or at least that’s how I saw it. Of course I’ve been known to possess a slightly biased opinion when it comes to the infliction of bodily harm on yours truly. <br /><br />The two muscle heads did what they always do, and that’s look mean. Dimitri on the other hand just shot me one of those “I really enjoy what I do” psychopathic smiles he was so fond of displaying. <br /><br />“Gaps! Long time no see!” <br /><br />It had been an unfortunate nickname, bestowed upon me during childhood, when my teeth began to follow different gravitational pulls and my mouth started to resemble a multitude of neighboring viaducts.<br /><br />It was only when I began my less than stellar career in the investigation business, that the moniker converted itself into a somewhat more positive name tag. When potential clients asked, I would say it was because that’s what I did, fill in the gaps. <br /><br />Dimitri stared at me with his cold, faithless eyes and I did what I could to take this all in stride, as if I was used to having these maniacs hiding in my apartment <br /><br />“Hey fellas, uh… everything ok?” <br /><br />“No. We need you help us wit little thing. You’re still in dirt digging business, no?”<br /><br />When a nasty asshole of Dimitri’s caliber asks you something like that, you can’t help but picture yourself digging your own grave, even if you do know what he’s talking about. <br /><br />“Yeah, I’m still in the game if that’s what you’re asking.” <br /><br />“That is exact what I asking.” Dimitri said in a thick gurgled Russian accent. <br /><br />He sighed, slowly getting up and stretching his stocky frame. He always had a mild reptilian look to him that I wasn’t sure was actually present or was something I subconsciously connected to him. His facial features definitely fit all my quotas for a snake, but now he seemed to look more like a hungry croc.<br /><br />“We got gig for you, Gaps.” He continued on, as his hateful smile began to grow. <br /><br />“No pay, but I can clean your debt little bit.” <br /><br />My nerves were getting the better of me, I knew this was bad news, I just didn’t know how bad.<br /><br />“What are we talking about here?” <br /><br />“Notting big, you go south of Salvo Street and find out where hell Marty Poles is and what he up to.” <br /><br />“Uh, that’s Italian turf.” <br /><br />“I know dat, shitbrain. Dat why we want you do it. Marty been our eyes and ears over dere; he been our double-O Polack, if you know what I mean.”<br /><br />“Yeah, I think I follow.”<br /><br />“Good, cuz I no have contact wit dat little shit, and I want make sure he still wit da program, so you find out where hell he is, and keep eye on him, few days tops. Come to me and tell me what you’ve got, and dat’s it.”<br /><br />Now, I’ve worked for every corrupt piece of garbage on either side of the law and of Salvo Street for as long as I can remember, and one thing I know is Marty the Polack is really close to coming up dead. I also know I probably do not want to be involved with him whatsoever because of that. Unfortunately, sometimes you don’t get to pick who you’re involved with, instead the involvers get to pick for you.<br /><br />“I can start tomorrow, if you want.”<br /><br />“Good. Keep in touch.” <br /><br />And just like that I get dragged into shit way above my comfort zone. The Petrov’s—short for god knows what and just so happening to rhyme with nothing—ruled the North side of the city, that was Russian turf, and it was turf that had been expanded on greatly since an all out war with the South Side Italians a few years earlier.<br /><br />The Italians couldn’t match the amount of foot soldiers that the Russians had, but they still had enough to be respected, and they had enough power to run the South side. <br /><br />The turf wars were the bloodiest the city had ever seen, and by the time peace was finally brokered between the Russians and Italians, there were sixty-five reported casualties—including my brother. Not to mention a quarter of each organization getting new living arrangements behind bars. Although, unlike most cities, these Russians and Italians didn’t turn states evidence very easily, and major players—at least the ones left alive—stayed in power. <br /><br />So what came of all that nonsense, you ask? Not much. The Russians spread their drug and prostitution rackets a bit further south, nabbing a couple extra neighborhood aldermen for political purposes along the way, and the Italians kept moving their whores and drugs wherever they could. Same old, same old. <br /><br />Except with one major difference, both sides agreed to peace, and both sides agreed that Salvo Street was the border. No Italians operating North of it, and no Russians operating South of it, and god help any freelancers with shady ideas on either side of it. This was the holy rule, and Dimitri seemed a little dismissive of that. I wondered what Mr. Petrov himself would think of this breaching of the truce, I wondered if he even knew what his henchmen were up to… but it wasn’t my job to question god.<br /><br />I started on this gig like I did most of my investigative work, strumming the drugged out informants and addicts in general, anyone who knew the players and could keep their mouth shut for a hit, or maybe some blow, or even a roll of the dice.<br /><br />These were the kind of people I worked with; the secret eyes of the city. They were watching the game, they only pretended not to notice, and if you sifted through enough of them, you’d get the score.<br /><br />Manny Moe wasn’t reliable and he sure as hell wasn’t trustworthy, but what he lacked in those qualities he more than made up for in sheer audacity. Moe floated north and south of Salvo daily. He begged, bartered, ticket scalped, sold shitty drugs and stolen goods to peers, and basically bounced from alley to alley with complete disregard of territories and consequences. The guy just didn’t give a shit, and luckily enough he wasn’t operating on a level to be noticed by the big boys, but at the same time he knew them all to well.<br /><br />My luck had taken a positive turn for once, as I watched good old Manny Moe jitter back and forth on the corner in a Meth induced hysteria.<br /><br />“Manny! How goes it!” I called out while strolling over to his perch.<br /><br />“What up, Gaps.” He shot back, eyeing me warily.<br /><br />The smell hit me square in the face. I was now standing a few feet from a manic Manny Moe, whose constant shaking was not as distracting as the layers of soot that covered his face and clothes. I hated my job more now then ever before. I took a deep breath.<br /><br />“Good lord Manny, you look worse than usual, and that’s saying a lot.”<br /><br />“Let me get a few bucks man.”<br /><br />“I got a twenty with your name on it.”<br /><br />Manny’s jittering frame slowed its fluttering; his eyes began to focus on me. This was his transformation from a needy bum, to a business man. Eye contact, this was no longer pedestrian and bum relations, we were now equals in his mind. The currency of information tying us together.<br /><br />“What you need?”<br /><br />“Marty the Polack…You seen him?”<br /><br />“Hahaha! You still playing with fire ain’t you?!” Manny Moe smiled slyly.<br /><br />“You want the money or not?”<br /><br />“Shit man, you should check out Gabo’s. That fool is over there twenty four seven.”<br /><br />I stuffed the bill into his battered hand and made my way deeper into the pile of shit that this case would soon become.<br /><br />It had taken all of twenty four hours south of Salvo to get a location on one of the Polack’s hang outs. Gabo’s was a little night club with decent card games and nice eye candy, a place guys like Marty were born to.<br /><br />There I was parked and chain smoking, watching the front door of the club. It was nestled between two run down buildings, both of which were boarded up and looked to be haunted with the bad luck of the past. I took turns staring at the door and staring at my laptop. Spending equal time waiting on Marty and looking for any info on the club online.<br /><br />Time inched on, the hours slowly passing with a numbing effect. Finally, out he stumbled, fatter than I remember him being, with his arm around a leggy blonde.<br /><br />They slowly wobbled across the street ending up in his Lincoln town car. The engine roared and they swerved onto the street, speeding away carelessly.<br /><br />I followed in the inconspicuous manner that made me who I was. The town car zig zagged down streets, flying through red lights and cutting down side streets at a moments notice, turn signals and full stops were a thing of the past. At first I was worried that they might be onto me tailing them, the thought quickly faded as I recalled Marty's teetering walk to his ride.<br /><br />The Lincoln pulled up on a curb in front of a dilapidated tenement that Marty must’ve been calling home for the time being. I slowly pulled up and parked across the street, shutting off my lights as Marty led his soon to be conquest into the building. The lights on the fourth floor apartment went on, and I typed in the buildings address as I sat there.<br /><br />The internet was hell of a tool, one that could tell me everything I needed to know about the apartment building, about the club, who owned what, hell I could probably get some social security numbers if I looked hard enough. I had even gone so far as to take and pass (barely) my realtors licensing exam for the sole purpose of getting a bit more info which was withheld from the average mark.<br /><br />I watched from my Oldsmobile as Marty and his lady friend did a little sloppy slow dancing in front of his bedroom window. The room went to black and I wondered briefly how good of an actress the blonde really was. I wish that could have been it, I wish I would have just put my rig in drive and taken off.<br /><br />But no, I needed to reminisce on a couple of fine actresses from my less than romantic past. First rate talent, that much was for certain, always with me as their captive audience. I was almost thankful when the here and now brought me back from memory lane, almost.<br /><br />It happened fast, a flash of light from the darkened window, then another, and another, and another. Whoever it was had to be using a silencer, because the street was dead quiet and no doubt so was Marty and the actress. The shock of actually knowing the hit was in progress was what froze me up, and just like that the rusted out Van on the other side of the street unleashed its doors and produced a ski mask wearing, shotgun toting maniac.<br /><br />He casually walked towards my driver’s side door, pumped once, aimed, and let the cannon loose on me. The blast was deafening and the Oldsmobile shook from it. My rear driver side window exploded, with shards scraping their way across the back of my neck. My body acted in desperate measures, turning the key, I gripped the wheel, and slammed the gas pedal. Another booming shotgun blast roared somewhere behind me, as the adrenaline raced through my body.<br /><br />I called Dimitri on my cell as I made the mad dash north of Salvo Street. He first cursed the Italians for their obvious disregard of the truce, and then told me to meet him at his uncle’s bar. It wasn’t too far from me, and expanding on the particulars of what had just happened was best to be done in person anyhow.<br /><br />As far as I had it figured, the Italians were planning on clipping Poles, they saw that I was following him and they decided to make sure there were no witnesses to the deed, nothing to cement them to the murder.<br /><br />I wondered if this would lead to war. I was shaken, and retribution was an idea I was beginning to like, but deep down I hoped this wasn’t the case. <br />Too many guys died last time, guys with families, maybe they weren’t on the up and up, but the thought of dead men, fatherless children, and widowed mothers was one that disturbed me greatly.<br /><br />A man built like a six foot tree trunk opened the front door of Ivanov’s Bar and Grill for me. I walked in cautiously; the place was empty, and the tree trunk guy was standing in front of the doorway once more. I stood in the center of the deserted pub for a second, looking around for Dimitri in the bad lighting.<br /><br />For a brief instant I thought of the masked gunman storming in to finish me, but that vanished as soon as I witnessed Dimitri attempting to zip up while exiting the men’s room on the far side of the bar.<br /><br />“Gaps! Perfect timing, get ass over here and tell me what happen!” he sat down with a thud on the closest chair.<br /><br />I scurried over and began my tale, as Dimitri watched and listened with cold blooded concentration. Upon finishing my recount of the night’s events, there was silence.<br /><br />“Dat’s it, huh?” Dimitri said with finality.<br /><br />“Yeah, I guess so.” I responded.<br /><br />“Fucking Guineas just push button, now we go nuclear.” Dimitri declared in his broken English, emphasizing the last part with a thud of his fist on the table. <br />He got up and motioned for me to get up as well.<br /><br />“Come here.” he said pulling me into a hug. “You did good, twenty percent of your debt gone.”<br /><br />The embrace was finished, and it was clear that was my cue to leave. As I walked towards the exit I felt Dimitri’s reptilian eyes watching me go. All I got for risking my life was twenty percent off of a mediocre debt. I clenched my jaw in anger.<br /><br />“Hey Gaps, watch yourself! Waps might still be around in van looking for you!” Dimitri roared with laughter as I left.<br /><br />I took to my usual spot of contemplation, on my mattress, under the fan. Staring at the fan as it buzzed and swirled, I took a long pull of my cigarette and thought out loud. “What the hell happened?” was the first question I asked myself. Poles was definitely a goner, as was his sad eyed actress, and it didn’t seem to bother Dimitri one bit—which didn’t necessarily surprise me. What did however was his fake interest in my story. As if he knew the ending before I got there.<br /><br />Even on the phone, before Dimitri was given the decoded, non-cell phone version of my story, he had immediately put it on the Italians. I knew acting, I had spent most of my life surrounded by actors: Gangsters, cops, prostitutes, and druggies, the best actors on the whole fucking planet, including Hollywood.<br /><br />These were my people, they honed my skill for detecting bullshit, and that’s what I smelled on Dimitri, bullshit. There was also one little detail that he let slip.<br /><br />Dimitri knew the Italians were in a van, and I was almost certain I had said they got out of a car, as I was rushing through the story. That, plus his attempts at an Oscar nomination, and his eagerness to drop the bomb so to speak, was enough to peak my curiosity. Dimitri knew more than he was letting on, and I wanted to know exactly how much more.<br /><br />I retraced my steps, methodically moving from my conversations with the bottom of the barrel, to the club, to the apartment building. I checked all the angles I could from a laptop on my bed—I sure as hell wasn’t going to make another personal visit anywhere near this nonsense.<br /><br />Maybe I was going in circles, looking too much into something that wasn’t there to begin with, but then the trail began to slowly reveal itself. The new emails awaited me. I got back the info on the apartment building Poles and his lady friend were now using as a grave, and it turned out the owner was none other than Dimitri’s uncle Mike Ivanov.<br /><br />This little bit of information was enough to change the game completely. This little email meant that I was used; it meant that my suspicions were just, and it meant that Dimitri was indeed up to something. I dug deeper, the club was definitely Italian owned, the two boarded up store fronts on either side of it however, were not. Ivanov’s name popping up once again.<br /><br />Whatever Ivanov owned, Dimitri owned that much I knew, and it was becoming more apparent that Dimitri owned quite a bit of property south of Salvo Street.<br /><br />He knew where Poles was all along, how could he not? The guy was living in Dimitri’s goddamn building.<br /><br />The question now was why he wanted me to find Poles and keep an eye on him, to begin with, and how did the Italians figure into all of this.<br /><br />They were waiting for Poles inside the building, and that van was parked outside the building before I got there. So the Italians following us was out of the question.<br /><br />Fresh air was needed. Pulling back the blinds and lifting the window open in one swift gesture, I took in the cool fall afternoon. Leaning on the windowsill I stretched out my back slowly, staring down at the pedestrians walking back and forth three floors underneath me, carrying on with their everyday lives, oblivious to the people that walked amongst them. A man walked hand in hand with a child, no more then eight or nine years old. The boy looked up at the man smiling; he asked the man a question I couldn’t quite hear, only the murmur of his innocent voice.<br /><br />A sudden wave of sadness overtook me, thoughts of my own childhood, thoughts of fatherless children, thoughts of widowed wives, and grieving mothers. An all out war between the Russians and Italians could be close, and it would be because I told Dimitri that they killed Poles, and attempted to do so to me as well.<br /><br />Neither the Russians, nor the Italians, stood to gain anything from this. Turf was valuable, but it wasn’t the sort of valuable that was worth a war, it wasn’t the Middle East for Christ sake. In fact the only one who would truly profit would be Dimitri.<br /><br />After all the war would just lead to the Russians sooner or later taking more of the South Side. Which meant all properties just south of Salvo Street would now be under their umbrella, which in turn meant that Dimitri stood to have quite the monopoly to do with as he pleased, without fearing the Italians wrath.<br /><br />He could turn himself from an everyday Captain, into a major player within his organization… and that’s when I realized just what all of this meant, and what I’d have to do to at least live the rest of my quite possibly very short life with a conscience not completely soaked in guilt.<br /><br />The monolithic building loomed over the street like an ominous wraith. My nerves had begun rattling rapidly as I stood there. I was taking quite a leap in faith assuming that Dimitri did this on his own, behind Mr. Petrov’s back… but it felt right, and my instincts were the only thing I could rely on anymore.<br /><br />Still, I wasn’t just going to walk into Mr. Petrov’s place without letting a few people I could trust know where I would be. After all if Petrov did set this whole thing up, then the information I was going to give him would already be known to him, and I would just be a guy who knew too much. Walking into my own death was not an idea I liked all that much, and if the shit did go down, maybe he’d think twice if I told him that more than a few people knew I was there.<br /><br />The thick necked doorman stared at me through mirrored sunglasses, expressionless.<br /><br />“May I help you?” he asked in a reserved tone.<br /><br />“I, um… I need to see Mr. Petrov.”<br /><br />“I’m sorry sir, but Mr. Petrov isn’t in.” The man put his left hand to his ear, listening to someone from his ear piece, very cloak and dagger I thought.<br /><br />The man once again focused his full attention on me.<br /><br />“Mr. Petrov will see you.” The doorman stepped out from behind the desk and closer to me now.<br /><br />“Please turn around and lift your arms up.” He frisked me quickly but professionally, this was a task he had no doubt done many times before.<br /><br />“Take the elevator up to the fifteenth floor.” He said.<br /><br />It appeared that the doorman from downstairs had a twin brother who was waiting for me as the doors opened on the fifteenth floor. He didn’t say a word as he gestured me towards a large oak door.<br /><br />I entered the office of Mr. Petrov. The cavernous room took up most of the floor. It was a large, well decorated penthouse with art and furniture that was no doubt quite expensive. The bodyguard twins were actually septuplets, and the remainder of them stood at attention against different walls around the office as if they were living sculptures.<br /><br />Mr. Petrov stood with his back to me at the far end of the office. Gazing out the large windows, he turned slightly to address me.<br /><br />“Please sit down.”<br /><br />I did as I was told, sinking into an enormous leather chair. Mr. Petrov turned around slowly, first giving me a once over and finally staring into my eyes. I broke away from his gaze and looked down at the floor. There was no need to provoke him.<br /><br />He wore what can only be described as the nicest suit ever made. He was a good looking man, older, maybe mid sixties, with angular features, and strange, observant eyes.<br /><br />“You are the one they call Gaps, no?”<br /><br />Pushing through my rapidly increasing flight factor I responded,<br /><br />“I uh, I am.”<br /><br />Mr. Petrov stepped closer now; he was five feet away and standing over me.<br /><br />“I knew your Father and your Brother, not well, but well enough to know that they were real men.” <br /><br />His remarks triggered an underlying anger somewhere within my fear soaked body. “Thanks… Before we get any further, I want you to know that more than a few people know where I am right now.”<br /><br />Smiling slightly he stepped back a few feet and sat down slowly in one of the giant leather chairs opposite of mine.<br /><br />“Heh… I’m no boogie man, Gaps. Now, tell me why you are here.”<br /><br />I swallowed hard, “I did a job for Dimitri Ivanov, and I wanted to tell you what I know before anything drastic happened.”<br /><br />Mr. Petrov was expressionless “So, tell me.”<br /><br />“Dimitri hired me to find Marty Poles and keep an eye on him. Poles was South of Salvo, and he got dead, Dimitri blamed it on the Italians, but Marty got dead in an apartment building that Dimitri’s uncle owns, and not just that, but Dimitri and his Uncle have recently purchased quite a few other properties just south of Salvo.” I took a breath.<br /><br />Mr. Petrov stood up slowly once more, stuffing his hands in his pockets he slowly slinked back to his giant window.<br /><br />“And you think Dimitri is responsible for Poles, not the Italians.”<br /><br />“Yes I do, Sir.”<br /><br />Mr. Petrov was once again gazing out at the city. “You haven’t read the paper today, have you?”<br /><br />“No I haven’t.” I responded.<br /><br />“Well, it’s on my desk, take a look.”<br /><br />I walked over to his desk and picked it up, straightening out the newspaper in my hands.<br /><br />“Go to page three.” Mr. Petrov said coolly.<br /><br />Page three had a small story about a club being fire bombed last night. I glanced over it, my eyes immediately being drawn to the photograph that was alongside the article. A photograph of a burned out building, one that looked all too familiar. It was the place that I saw Poles and his blonde walking out of. My body reacted, hairs standing, and skin prickling. According to the article the charred remains of nine people were found inside. It had already begun.<br /><br />“W-what does this mean?” I nervously asked.<br /><br />“You know what it means.” He responded.<br /><br />Still looking out the window he continued, “Thank you for your honesty.”<br /><br />“So you didn’t know about Dimitri and Poles?” I asked.<br /><br />Mr. Petrov stared out at the gloomy sky, “No.”<br /><br />“What happens now?” I asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear what he planned to do.<br /><br />“What always happens in times of war. Hell will have its way.”<br /><br />I placed the paper back neatly on his desk. I had no more questions, no more thoughts.<br /><br />My desire to do what was right had left as quickly as it came. These events were too much, and they would only become more consuming, and I was once again no one, just another civilian peering in from the outside. This no longer concerned me, my case was now closed. I bid Mr. Petrov farewell.<br /><br />The rain was falling hard as I stepped out of the building, I fished through my pockets for a lighter that wasn’t there, and then I slowly made my way home. The rain never let up.<br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> I'm thirty years old and I currently reside in Chicago-land. Two of my graphic novels have been picked up by seperate publishers and will be released in the summer of 09. The first is "The Big Bad Book", which is due out by Alterna Comics. The second is "Loosely Based", which is due out around the same time by Arcana Comics. I've also had film and book reviews published by Lumino magazine, and poetry published by XND magazine.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-1365286551813884962009-02-24T19:13:00.000-08:002009-02-25T07:56:31.330-08:00Savage Henry Sings The Blues - Keith Rawson<strong>Savage Henry Sings The Blues</strong><br /><br />“UH ON’T ANNA IE!”<br /><br />For such a hard ass, Savage Henry screamed a lot. Even with a filthy old sock sandwiched between his pristine white teeth and a thick piece of dull gray duct tape securing the gag, his muffled pleas for mercy echoed through out the vacant white halls of the track house Stanly chose as Savage Henry’s final resting place.<br /><br />The kid’s real name is Charles Metzler, (The nickname stemmed from a beating young Charles dished out to a long hair named Henry Davis. The two had never met before, and the beating was entirely random. Just letting Young Henry Davis know that his kind was not welcomed. Good old Savage Henry skated the charges thanks to a sixty-five year-old Judge who <em>absolutely lived</em> for the local High school football team, which Savage Henry was a member of .The judge simply couldn’t stand the thought of having to ruin such a promising young man’s life, even though said promising young man did exactly that to Henry Davis. Six months probation and time served for an attempted murder beef.) Aged sixteen, a junior at some bum-fucking-no-where high school in a densely populated Southern Arizona Hamlet called Gilbert.<br /><br />The kid was nothing special. Your average suburban retard; so-so grades; Second string football ball; second string baseball. Savage Henry obviously liked sitting on his ass collecting splinters. Steady girlfriend who Savage Henry managed to rape (Stan doubted that Savage Henry would call what he did rape, but the bruises and bow legged way the girl walked told an entirely different story.) in the back of his SUV on a daily basis. Oldest of six children. Good Mormon family. Dad an orthodontist: Mom stayed at home and sat on her ass all day getting fat and eating V by the handful. Dad fooled around, secretly drank like a fish, and was openly addicted to crystal methane. During the week Stan had the Metzler’s under surveillance, Dad had yet to hit the hay, preferring the sweaty monitor glare of Internet porn sites. <em>Typical</em> good Mormon family. It goes without saying that Savage Henry bullied the entire household, wore his Arizona Cardinal’s hat backwards and loved hip-hop.<br /><br />Despite all of these obvious character flaws, Savage Henry did possess certain qualities that made him an ideal criminal. High intimidation factor, lots of ‘friends’ thanks to his exposure to high school sports; plus, the not guilty decision proved he had a certain amount of invisibility within the community, no matter how much shit he rained down.<br /><br />Less than a year ago, a little known small timer Mormon shit heal named Tibit Smith, started taking notice of the boy, and recruited good old Savage Henry to distributed small amounts of high end pot and enormous amounts of Mexican Cocaine that was more baby formula than blow. Product flew out of Savage Henry’s hands; the jocks loved staying up for days on end cruising for freaks to beat the shit out of. Tibit saw the potential of serious money coming from this boy. High school kids were suckers for product. Tibit contacted Stanley’s employers in San Francisco. He didn’t want to speculate on how Tibit had gained his connection to the organization. Old Hippies were weird, especially old <em>chemist</em> hippies, who’d spent the last twenty-five years doing nothing but cooking up acid and other such hallucinogenic drugs. But, it wasn’t Stanley’s place to question. It was Stanley’s place <em>to do, not think</em>. Tibit’s Woodstock generation connections were no business of his.<br /><br />Tibit wanted X and lots of it. Kids loved the shit. They’d eat four or five caps of cheap wannabe local product and fuck like rabbits. Just think what would happen if they got their hot little hands on the real thing? He could move product by the pound. He could build a little army of jock/dealers with Savage Henry leading the pack. The organization shipped down 20 thousand dollars worth of caps stuffed in a shipment of Bennie babies. Savage Henry and his boys sold it all within a week. The organization sent double, this time smuggled inside the white fluff guts of Cabbage patch dolls, the boys did the same as before.<br /><br />It was all going very well. The organization kept doubling the product amount and Savage Henry and his boy’s kept begging for more, literally saturating the Gilbert area with caplets of high-grade ecstasy for six blissful months.<br /><br />And suddenly nothing.<br /><br />Tibit was incommunicado, no new product was shipped, and none was asked for. The chemist’s first and only thought was that Tibit had employed his own talent down in the desert and had reverse engineered their secret sauce and was marketing it as his own. This simply would not do. So Stanley was shipped down Coach class from Oakland to investigate, report back, and possibly eliminate the competition. Simple enough job, Stanly figured he’d have to kick Tibit’s ass a little, let him know that his lack of product loyalty was unappreciated, and he was now expected to triple his import and he would now be extremely taxed for the time and trouble.<br />Stanly would of course kill Tibit’s new boy chemist to protect his bosses’ recipes.<br /><br />Too bad this was not how it played, of course, it never does when your dealing with Redneck’s like Tibit Smith and Savage Henry.<br /><br />The reason why Tibit had not been in contact with Stanley’s employers—as he discovered after only a single day of tapping his Arizona contacts for info—was because the slick little fuck had gone to mattress. Tibit was running in fear of his life, and not from Stanley’s employers. Tibit had managed to piss off the local tweak kingpin, Clyde Raines. Raines was a plug ugly Irish fuck who was rumored to have taken on the local Mexican and Colombian cartels and actually won. He ruled the State of Arizona; even Stanley’s employers knew not to fuck with this guy. Tibit obviously didn’t know any better.<br /><br />Raines approached Tibit with a small kick back agreement. Raines didn’t want the whole operation, hallucinogens weren’t his game, Raines merely wanted a taste of the action; a tribute, if you will. Tibit laughed in Raines face. Who the fuck did Raines think he was? Tibit was the shit in the East Valley, untouchable, not even the local PD screwed with his boys. Raines took the rebuff with seeming calm, and Tibit believed that he’d seen the last of Clyde Raines.Wrong.<br />Raines hit Tibit’s peaceful little suburban home and raped and killed Tibit’s entire family. Apparently only one of Tibit’s wives was kept alive to let the smug little fucker know what had transpired. Tibit ran and ran hard. Raines quickly stepped in and took over Savage Henry and his crew of suburban National Socialists. The current popular product line was dropped, and Raines cut rate tweak replaced it.<br /><br />Stanley reported all of this to his employers even though 50% of it was conjecture. Stanley’s employer suggested that he extent the olive branch to Raines; perhaps striking up a similar import/export agreement they formerly shared with Tibit. Stanley was to extend said olive branch via Savage Henry.<br /><br />Stanley’s first contact with Savage Henry was embarrassing. Stanley never lacked confidence, even when he was the perpetual 90 pound weakling in high school, but cunts like Savage Henry sent creepy fingers down his spine and provided flash backs of high school hallways back in his teen years when he didn’t have clue on how to defend himself and wedgies and sucker punches were the order of the day. Stanley knew guys like Savage Henry were nothing more than illusion; small time characters who masked their own under confidence with verbal abuse and violence; Not that Stanley couldn’t easily snap Savage Henry in two if the little shit tried getting too happy, but this was a delicate situation; Stanley’s employers wanted their piece of Arizona profit back, Stanley needed to be discreet and tactful.<br /><br />He approached Savage Henry inside a local Barbeque place that stank of sawdust and rancid burning fat. He was noshing ribs with his crew, his mouth and cheeks painted red with sauce, strands of beef caught between his teeth. Before Stanley could get a word in edge wise, Savage Henry sneered and spat out: “What the fuck do you want you little four-eyed nigger?” Savage Henry’s crew ate it up, giggling and pounding their picnic bench. Stanley turned on his heel and quickly scrambled away, his cheeks burning.<br /><br />What the fuck?<br /><br />Stanley trembled, his forehead popping sweat, his hands shook, he stuffed them his jeans pockets, gripped the smooth handles of his blades; focus; find center. Nigger, so much malice. Not like the brothers in Oakland. Not a casual reference, but a word full of venom; a word like a weapon. He’d be prepared the next time.<br /><br />Next time was the same night outside of Savage Henry’s family home. Stanley pulled up to the driveway in his rented Honda Accord; John Lee Hooker’s gravel voice rumbling quietly from the speakers, Savage Henry was wheeling out the family trash barrel from the garage. Stanley rolled down the passenger window blowing a sharp whistle between his teeth. Old Henry knew the language, some kid looking to score. He parked the trash can half way down the drive and double time it over to the open window, right hand dropping to the waist band of his pants; he carried his product in his jock.<br /><br />Fucking gross.<br /><br />Nothing in the world worse than your dope smelling like balls.<br /><br />Henry did a double take when he saw Stanley in the driver’s seat. The kid didn’t know what to make of the situation, but he still eased into the passenger seat, pupils like pinpricks scanning the inside of the car; as if his hyper alert tweaker vision could scan out a secret camera or microphone. Stanley rolled up the passenger windows so they could have a little privacy.<br /><br />“What d’ya want, man?”<br /><br />“I wanted to-“ before Stanley could continue, Henry cocked his head his head like an expectant dog.<br /><br />“What the fuck are you listening to? I thought all you niggers listened to was Tupac an’ shit like that? This guys sounds like sounds like he’s been gargling Drano or some shit.”<br /><br />Stanley’s fluid right hand found it’s way to the back of Savage Henry’s neck and in a single blurred motion slammed his pock-marked forehead into the dash of the rental car. Hooker’s scared voice had been his solace and greatest comfort for longer than he could remember. Stanley could take a lot of shit, but you didn’t fuck with him about Johnny Lee.<br /><br />So much for finding center.<br /><br />It didn’t take Stanley long to find some place where he and Henry could be alone.<br /><br />Southern Arizona seemed to be a constantly expanding, but no one seemed to live in this expansion; this seemingly endless sea of identically flawless track homes. Stanley shouldered Savage Henry’s weight once he’d located a half completed house dead center in what appeared to be 1000 home sub-division. Surprisingly the front door was unlocked, and Stanley dropped Savage Henry on the unfinished concrete floor of the entranceway. He returned to the Honda, popped the trunk and retrieved his roadside emergency supplies. After a decade on the job, he’d learned that no matter how new or expensive a vehicle was, if you were transporting a body—live, deceased, or soon to be—there was a fifty percent chance the car would break down. Stanley chocked it up to the hand of God however briefly working in favor of the victim. So he adopted the Boy Scout model when traveling by car to circumvent God’s assistance.<br /><br />Tool kit, radiator fluid, gas can, road flares.<br /><br />Essential roadside repair or portable torture chamber.<br /><br />Stanley didn’t consider himself the sadistic type, a top of the line cold-blooded killer, yes, but he was never the type who purposely wanted to inflect unnecessary pain.<br /><br />But he was more than willing to make an exception for Savage Henry. With this boy—whose face mixed and blended with so many of the slow-witted, cruel boys of his adolescence—he was committing career and literal suicide. He kept asking himself if it was worth it as he hog-tied Savage Henry to a rotting patio chair? Was it worth it all because this little shit called him a nigger and insulted a dead bluesman that he felt closer to than his own parents?<br /><br />The question kept rolling through Stanley’s mind as he walked calmly to where Savage Henry struggled and begged, the freshly opened bottle of Anti-freeze in his left hand sloshing with each deliberate step; his right hand tapping rhythmically against his leg. Stanley set the blue bottle down a few feet away from Savage Henry’s thrashing body but still within easy reach. He stared down at the boy impassive, watching as Savage Henry’s eyes grew huge with panic. Stanley gripped the boy’s throat with the thin fingers of his left hand, feeling the boy’s pulse race at near coronary levels. He ripped the duct tape away, the spit-slimed sock coming away with it.<br /><br />“Shit, man, come on-“<br /><br />“Shut the fuck up,” fingers tightening, Savage Henry’s face glowing red with effort to breathe. “I want you to listen to me. I want you to remember what I’m about to say. Nod if you understand.”<br /><br />The boy’s head bobbed up and down, his face going purple.<br /><br />“Good. Now I want you to remember, because every time ask you say it, you’re going to repeat it back to me exactly as I told you, understand?” He loosened his grip, the boy’s face was going ashy, no point in him passing out just when the fun was starting.<br /><br />“Now here’s what you’re gonna say: ‘Boom boom boom boom! I’m gonna shoot you right down.’ You got that?” Another nod, complacent and weak. “That’s real good, because if you don’t get it right when I ask you to say it, I’m gonna cut off one of your fingers.”<br /><br />The panic hits big and Savage Henry starts squirming like he’s on fire. Stanley tightens his grip to control the boy’s movements and reaches for the anti-freeze. “Open up your mouth, boy!” He tilts boy’s head up and starts to pour. “I wouldn’t swallow none of this shit. All I want you to do is hold it in you mouth and gargle, and if you try spitting it out before I tell you, I’ll cut your dick off.”<br /><br />The green sweet smelling liquid spills down on Savage Henry’s face; his mouth trying to form words, more begging, he gags again, trying not to swallow. It seems like he’s actually trying to gargle. Stanley figures that if the Anti-freeze doesn’t turn Savage Henry’s pubescent voice into a gravely timber, the gallon of gas should do the trick.<br /><br /><strong>Bio:</strong> Keith Rawson Lives in the Phoenix, AZ suburb of Gilbert with his wife and daughter. He has stories published (or Waiting to be published) at publications such as DZ Allen's Muzzleflash, Powder Burn Flash, Flashshots, Darkest Before the Dawn,A twist of Noir, Bad Things, Crooked, and Yellow Mama. He has also completed the first draft of a hard-boiled novel tentatively titled, Retirement. You can also sit and visit with Keith at his Blog, Bloody knuckles, Callused fingertips(<a href="http://bloodyknucklescallusedfingertips.blogspot.com/">http://bloodyknucklescallusedfingertips.blogspot.com/</a>)Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-68636151389192779342009-02-18T16:26:00.000-08:002009-02-18T16:34:56.619-08:00Tuesday and the Day After Christmas - Pierrino Mascarino<strong>Tuesday and the Day After Christmas</strong><br /><br />Up in mah room; hadda a smeared lipstick whore fer money but finished quick.<br /><br />Her sayin, "You not gonna try again with thet miserable wilted little thing?” Lookin at my privates, laughin, “you gotta midgetdick big boy.”<br /><br />Damn bitch, so I jest slapped her, made the blood spurt, for the extry time I already paid. If a man don’t have respect; life ain’t worth shit.<br /><br />Jones fired me off the farm after 22 years.<br /><br />"Dumb farmer hillbilly," whore screams, blubberin and scramblin, spittin red blood slime bubbles, "wearing dirty manure bib overalls in the bed, stupid hillbilly."<br /><br />And me never missing a day’s work in 22 year.<br /><br />I pulled out a dresser drawer thowed it at her.<br /><br />"Ignorant hillbilly,” she shriekin, crawlin under the bed, "big hillbilly ijut with a midgetdick."<br /><br /><em>Bam, bam</em> landlord’s doorbangin' yellin,’ “too much noise inna roomin' house, “you gotta git out!”<br /><br />I said, " I’m paid til the 26 after Christmas."<br /><br />I jumped up onna bed. whore hidin under, yellin, “this crazy dickless hillbilly; <em>umph! umph!</em> save me lord!” Me jumpin up an down squashin her under there.<br /><br />Landlord yellin, "That’s taday, Tuesday…"<br /><br />"No, 26's Wednesday--says so on this here wall calendar." umph umph<br /><br />“That’s last year’s calendar."<br /><br />“Whut’s last year?” umph, umph<br /><br />“That’s a old calendar in there's 1999.”<br /><br />“It’s still good fer the day not bein' but two year old. I’ll smash yer whole house down…”<br /><br />“Police comin, putting ye out.” Him, <em>blonk blonk</em> runnin his fool ass off down a hall.<br /><br />So kicked out roominghouse's damn flimsy door, busted flinders flying evrawhere, then kickin out banister slats goin downstairs.<br /><br />Busted the front door off the hinges. Blam inta the street.<br /><br />Didn’t hear no sirens out here, just a terrible preacher racket outside onna street. Hurting m'damn ears, “Jesus loves ye!”<br /><br />Me studin’ given this here yellin preacher here a head slap but a little killin’ud would be nice too if they’s no police.<br /><br />“Shut up preacher, it’s Tuesday, by the room calendar,” but that fool kept yellin ‘Jesus loves ye,’ so I slapped shit out of him, makin his holy hat fly, him flyin onto his face and stayin there-me bustin up his bibletable in splinterwood an smashin his wood chair.<br /><br />"Tuesday," I tol the preacher, "don't care about no year."<br /><br />Him still lookin’ up—if they was no police be nice ta stomp im, but I jest kicked him in his head.<br /><br />“Room calendar’s right,” I said.<br /><br />Security car pulled up--not a police, “What’s goin' own here?”<br /><br />“26th,” I said n'folded over Security’s rollup winder, bustin it ta cracks--him reachin’ fer somethin’ so I right quick grabbed his thoat and kindly banged his head 'gainst the roof so it bubbled up on top.<br /><br />What the hell jelloheaded dead people know about the 26th anaways?<br /><br />Then went over to the Trailways, only place open.<br /><br />They was sausage cart on Bus Station Hill and a feller sellin red sausages at tha toppa that steep grade by the Trailways with only a puny wood wedge keepin it from rollin'–I give that fool sausage man with his mustard spotted apron a whole damn dollar.<br /><br />He says, “What ye wont own it?”<br /><br />I said “Own it?”<br /><br />“Tha hot dog.”<br /><br />“I own it when I paid ye yer dollar—on one a them buns.”<br /><br />He said, “Don’t want nothin’ own it?”<br /><br />“Goldernnit,” ah sayed, “they a dollar er not?”<br /><br />”They a dollar,” he says<br /><br />I slapped my trousers’ dollar on his shiny steel wagon, was gonna slap’im–I hate a fool.<br /><br />Settin onna trash can eaten mah sausage.<br /><br />He says, “Don' sit own mah traish, people caint thow they hot dog wrappers init.”<br /><br />He needs killin, but here comes a Cadillac at th’corner was honkin, yellin ‘4 hot dogs with mustard and onions’. Sausage man grabbin up buns and sausages, runnin—me sticking mah foot out, him blind runnin –fell on his own winnies inta the gutter with tamata red minstrition all over his foolself.<br /><br />Lord God lets a fool live, so, right quick, I kicked his cart wedge out; cart starts rollin, then a brown UPS truck's comin’ up the steep Bus Station Hill--sausage wagon’s rollin beautiful, pickin up speed, jumpin off the curb, halleluiah, an' smashin inta tha UPS–yeller mustard n’ buns and sausages come spurtin’ up in tha air—I grabbed up ½ dozen, UPS honking.<br /><br />Best dern sausage I ever had; but, I swan, I left my purty pliers in that derned roomin house, with soft rubber handles, cuttin' jaws a'chrome? I reckon the police came back there now and got’em.<br /><br />So I went down to the hardware. Walked to the pliers part. Derned if they wasn’t a yella handles paira Stanley’s . I purely love a Stanley plier. Smart Alec yells out, "I’m closin you intendin' ta pay fer those?"<br /><br />"Sure," ah sa-yed, "how much it come to?"<br /><br />"Well, I already closed up the register closed; but those are three dollar Stanley pliers."<br /><br />"I understan," I pushed his cash registers off the counter to smash, kindly in’is lap jinglin and crashing, "take it outta thayet."<br /><br />Some people kin spawl a good time. Money coiens was layin all over on toppa that fool.<br /><br />Anaway, next day, I went out to Mama's.<br /><br />"Mama said, "Not comin out fer Christmas an a poor widder woman what raised ye up by hand to be left alone own Christmas? Ye big ox, go over ahind thet door and git me a switch, ye need a whipping, Thou Shalt Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother."<br /><br />"Yes’m, the calendar said a different day an didn't have Christmas right.”<br /><br />Mama sayin, "Evera blighted fool knows when Christmas is."<br /><br />Told her I even gotta Christmas present for her and took out my new chrome handle hardware store pliers.<br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Pierrino Mascarino lives on a dangerous street, Montecito Drive in LA, that has been largely abandoned by the local underpaid and undermanned constablary. Montecito connects two suppurating-crimial-pus societal sores on the Los Angeles Landscape, El Sereno and Highland Park. Bullets fly nightly. Garbage is nocturally ejected by passing barely amubulatory, rattling pickups. Screams and helicopters populate the night and sometimes dayscape. His neighbors are persecutory liars, psychopaths and dope fiends. He is currently publishing in The Beat, The Linnet's Wings, Barnaby Snopes. He played the title role in the Movie Uncle Nino that is being released on video in April and lectures frequently to those who will listen. Runs the writing group, Writers Helping Writers and appeared on the Budweiser Superbowl Commericial.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-43100227454999389042009-02-02T20:12:00.000-08:002009-02-03T20:15:41.335-08:00Beer - David Price<strong>Beer<br /></strong> <br />It’s a beautiful Friday in July here in San Diego. I took off work at noon and headed east on Interstate 8. I live in a little A-frame situated on a bluff in a rural community about thirty miles from the coast. It’s a small two story but there’s enough room for what I want, quiet and privacy.<br /><br />I make my living pushing paper. The physical part of me needs an outlet so I feed it the rigorous workouts that are core to my peace of mind.<br /><br />Many years ago I wrestled and played football. I didn’t set the world on fire but I could hold my own. I loved the challenge of man against man. Even when I lost, my opponent knew damn well he had been in a fight. And I didn’t lose many.<br /><br />That was twenty some years ago. I still have the bull neck and a beauty of a cauliflower ear. I’ve trimmed down to 225 pounds on my 6 ‘1” frame. Except for the tell tale signs mentioned, I am just a white collar guy without the pencil neck.<br /><br />To satisfy my aggressive side, I work out at a little dojo run by a Brazilian who specializes in jujitsu. I’ve learned a few joint locks to go with my wrestling skills. When we free style, I work hard and always choose the youngest and biggest stud in the class. He thinks he is going to have a walk over but it usually ends up that he taps out when I go for the kill. I’ve put more than a few guys out with injuries.<br /><br />I’m giving you all this background so you’ll know what I bring to the table when you mess with me.<br /><br />So here I am, heading home at noon looking forward to hitting the weights in my home gym. I’ve got a little Rolling Stones going on the CD and I’m feeling no pain.<br /><br />In my rear view mirror I pick up a vehicle cutting across several lanes behind me. You know how you pick up something that happens at a speed faster than everything going on around you.<br /><br />I check my passenger side mirror to see a Jeep in the lane next to me riding close to my blind spot. Looks like at least two people in the front seats.<br /><br />I slow but the Jeep keeps pace with me, not falling back or advancing.<br /><br />We go on a few miles like that and I go back to my daydreaming as I move past the densely populated community east of San Diego. The four lane freeway narrows to three.<br /><br />All of a sudden the Jeep pulls alongside me. When it doesn’t move past, I look over. In the Jeep are three guys, probably in their early twenties. They are all looking at me and laughing and pointing. I stare at them and that seems to incite them more.<br /><br />They’re in a Jeep with roll bars and no top, with the windows down. They’re probably heading east to the desert for some off-roading.<br /><br />Then they all flip me off. They continue to pace me side by side, laughing like hyenas the whole time. They’re all drinking beers. The guy in the back seat is literally jumping up and down in his seat and waving his arms like a crazy man.<br /><br />Now I’m getting pissed. The way they’re driving there’s going to be an accident and at 75 mph that will result in a multi-car pileup. They don’t even look to be wearing seat belts. If they pile up, they’re going airborne.<br /><br />I try and back off the speed to get them to pass me in hopes that they’ll settle down. They pull slightly ahead. I’m still driving and keeping these fools in sight.<br /><br />The guy in the back seat suddenly throws a full can of beer at my windshield. I know it’s full from the sound it makes as it misses and hits my fender with a thud. I can’t really stop as the traffic is pretty heavy and I’ll get rear-ended for sure. I slow and they pull ahead laughing and jumping around in their seats.<br /><br />My heart is racing. Now I’m seeing red but I don’t have many options. My cell is in my briefcase in the trunk.<br /><br />I don’t want to encourage their antics but I want their license plate number so I can call it in later.<br /><br />I accelerate to try and close on them so I can get a good read of the plate. Instead of trying to outrun me, they slow.<br /><br />I move up to about three car lengths of open space behind them and try to memorize the number. They slow even more and as I creep up on them, the front passenger and the guy in the rear each launch beers at me. One hits my hood and bounces over the top. The other hits the road on my right and bounces into the wind shield of the car to my right rear. I see the car swerve across my lane and go off the embankment and disappear. Then I see a plume of smoke in my rear view mirror.<br /><br />These assholes have played their hand. Time for me to call. For all I know someone in that car that went off the freeway is badly injured or dead.<br /><br />These fuckers are going to pay now.<br /><br />I stay on their tail but back ten car lengths. Soon we come to relatively open country. The traffic has thinned considerably.<br /><br />Two more beers hit the road in front of me but bounce away harmlessly. I continue to pace them for a couple more miles when they suddenly veer across the next lane and exit at an off ramp. I’m far enough back to follow their move. They pull up at the stop sign at the freeway underpass. The cross road is a rural road and there are no cars or businesses at this turnoff.<br /><br />They all jump out and are laughing and staring at me as I approach.<br /><br />I pull to a stop seven or eight car lengths back. They start towards me with one guy coming to my side and the other two heading to the passenger side. I open my door just enough to clear the lock but not enough for them to notice.<br /><br />I’m a guy who likes to be prepared. I don’t carry a knife or a gun but I keep two items in the car in case I’m ever jumped or followed.<br /><br />Behind the passenger seat I keep an old fashioned anti theft device that is no longer popular. It’s a two parter. A metal sleeve with a cane-type hook to loop under the brake pedal and another hook that loops over the low point of the steering wheel. One goes into the other and locks at the tightest point. I never use the lock but it’s the best way to carry a two foot metal rod with a curved handle that can’t be labeled a Billy club.<br /><br />Also behind the seat I keep a pair of one pound hands weights, the kind that are used by walkers for some aerobic arm work. These are iron covered by some kind of sprayed on rubberized coating for grip ability. The beauty of these is that there is a metal piece in a half circle from end to end. I guess that’s supposed to make them easier to hold onto. I’ve never used them, ever. I’m no walker. They are, however, a legal pair of brass knuckles that are about to get their first workout.<br /><br />I reach back and pull one piece of my lock and one hand weight onto the front passenger seat.<br /><br />Then I power down my window as if I’m going to talk to the guy approaching my door.<br /><br />Man, my heart is racing and my adrenaline is pumping. I feel like its kickoff time and I’m about to run downfield and break the wedge.<br /><br />It’s all I can do to control myself. I’m almost laughing, I feel so good. I just sit there and wait for them to close. Come on, chumps. Come up to the window. I wait.<br /><br />The driver approaches on my side and bends down to talk some shit. Soon as he lowers his head, I use my arm to flip the door open. The top of the door hits him right in the eyebrow. It splits open real good.<br /><br />I use all my weight to open the door wide. It becomes my flipper and he’s my pinball. He flies back a couple of feet. His eyebrow is gushing. I slide out quick with the club in my left hand and the knuckles in my right.<br /><br />The other two come racing around the car after they see their buddy get hit by the door.<br /><br />The guy holding his eye yells, “Get him.”<br /><br />For his kind words, I snap kick him right to his chin. Never hang your tongue out when you are in a fight. He’ll learn this as he bites half way through his and his mouth fills with blood.<br /><br />The guy coming around the back of my car gets a hard backhand with the steel club right to his larynx. Now I’ve been hit in the old Adam’s apple and it hurts like hell. It can debilitate you as you choke and gasp for breath. You feel like you are drowning. I get him good. He doubles over and falls to his knees.<br /><br />The guy coming around the front sees all this and his eyes tell me he wishes to hell that he was somewhere else. But it’s too late. His forward momentum is bringing him right to me.<br /><br />I face him with both tools at the ready. He tries a roundhouse right that I block with the club. I punch straight and hard with a twelve to sixteen inch punch to his center face with the knuckles. It’s a punch like when you push the button on those battling robot toys. No wasted effort, just a straight piston shot.<br /><br />They say Jack Dempsey’s best punch was a straight right hand and he didn’t wear an iron glove. I can hear the guys teeth snap off and his nasal septum collapses. He screams and grabs his face.<br /><br />Now they are all incapacitated but it ain’t over for me. They’re going to remember this, forever.<br /><br />I go back to the first guy and swing my club on his shin and it cracks. He falls face first as I come around and hammer fist him in his kidneys with three hard shots breaking a couple of ribs in the process.<br /><br />The choking guy can barely move and just waves his hands to me in a, “no mas” gesture.<br /><br />You should have thought of that before you started this shit. I kick him hard in the nuts. He’ll be walking cowboy style for at least a month.<br /><br />The last guy with the broken teeth is trying to run back to the Jeep. I sprint to him with ease and swing my club in a sweeping arc to the side of his head. He never saw it coming.<br /><br />He goes down hard. That metal plate he’ll soon be sporting will be setting off metal detectors at airports for the rest of his life.<br /><br />He was the asshole in the back seat doing most of the throwing. I drag him to the curb and place his throwing hand on the edge. Then I mash his fingers with repeated heel strikes. That should put an end to his throwing days for a long time.<br /><br />I walk over to the Jeep and look inside. I see the open cooler of ice with one can of beer left. I reach in, grab it and pop the top.<br /><br />There’s nothing quite like a cold beer on a hot afternoon to welcome the weekend.<br /><br /><strong>Bio:</strong> David Price is an ex college jock and retired probation officer residing in California. Writing is a recent hobby in his retirement. His efforts can be seen at Thuglit #28, A Twist of Noir 016 and The Flash Fiction Offensive at Out of the Gutter.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-82218282187655498252009-01-25T08:47:00.000-08:002009-01-26T21:08:49.517-08:00Point Murder - Ann WhipplePoint Murder<br /><br />A mild, cool, pleasant day after rain, with high fleecy clouds and smooth sheets of grey retreating to the east; just before eight o’clock, the sun was well over the green-filmed ridge, its outline sturdy enough behind the thinning drifts of cloud . A small silver car driven by a woman in her fifties passed from the cave of a garage into the fair light. Alice Perrin had not slept well, and getting ready had been full of irritations and false starts; she was more than usually on edge, though “on edge” was a frequent enough mode with her.<br /><br />How many hundreds of times, she addressed the sliding automatic gate; how many thousands? The sky, how many times? Never before just this sky; but still the same sky, time after time after time. Ah, it was lovely. Oh, it was unbearable. The grass, the pink-flowering plums, the prunus and the yellow and orange and white Iceland poppies, the very daisies and poppies of the waste places. The doves, the geese, the gulls. Lovely, lovely, lovely. Dear God, the world was new and lovely and old and awful–English daisies! Iceland poppies! Canada geese! She hoped she would get through the day.<br /><br />The rain had deepened some of the chuckholes, and she skirted them with her customary thought that to the uninitiated she must resemble a drunken driver. But here, where was anyone uninitiated? Theirs was a small community, set apart, seldom blundered upon by strangers.<br /><br />On her left, by some trick of clouded light, Angel Island reared a sooty blue against the pale water of the Bay; then beyond, the headlands and Tamalpais reposed, green in the sun, against blue sky and light clouds. Nothing would happen on this trip, nothing ever did; she would hear her Mozart or Scarlatti–ugh, really, sometimes his stuff could be more nerve-wracking than some of Vivaldi’s–and admire all the burgeoning and blooming and flight and light, deplore the fading–for Spring leaves early in California, and green changes to gold and brown in a twinkling. February, still, and she was glad of that. The park, around the turn, with the damp steepness of the headland on her right. As always, she would arrive at the station, mount to the platform, and sit through her brief train-ride; think her thoughts.<br /><br />She shuddered. She had forgotten, allowed herself to forget, what she had seen the day before. Late Sunday she had climbed that hill and hiked around the high ledge, vaguely hoping there would still be some boletes not tunneled by worms. She had called the police when she got home, being a good citizen. Though she had not been sure, in the front of her mind, she had been sure enough in her belly: a body, wrapped in a quilt. It had to be. The police had proved, as she had foreseen, kindly and phlegmatic. That had been that, except for her shakiness long after the call was over.<br /><br />Now, just beyond the dark green jutting of scrub oak and toyon, were parked a police van and three squad cars. The gate to the fire road, she saw, was open. She wanted to stop, wanted to know, wanted to see–but another urgency pressed her foot more firmly onto the gas: to be elsewhere fast. She hit a number of the potholes and was not quite calm, despite the lovely light and the lovely vistas and the music (it was Brahms, in fact), even when she had passed the last of the park and got into the tunnel that led to town.<br /><br />At the office–she ran, single-handedly, a small publishing company that produced limited-edition books on art, botany, ornithology, history, and the like, and was funded by a well-to-do old queen (his term) who lived in Florence–there was a polite but firm message on the machine to call Inspector Mullen of the local police.<br /><br />This she did, and he asked when he might see her. She was prompt; any time that day would be fine. He promised to be with her in half an hour (her domain was two towns away from her home). Until then she could not think or work. The cup of tea she made for herself tasted metallic, so she threw it away.<br /><br />“Miss Perrin? How do you do. I’m Inspector Aaron Mullen.”<br /><br />“Mrs., actually, Inspector. I’m a widow. How do you do? Please come in.”<br /><br />He was tall, attractive, fifty-something, with graying dark hair and serious dark eyes under a heavy brow. He was in plain clothes, and Alice remarked that they were not the usual glaring and unmistakable plain clothes of the usual policeman–a much nicer-than-normal tweed jacket, a tattersall shirt, well-creased gray slacks and excellent brown shoes, just a little in want of polish. No tie. She thought that they ought to understand one another well enough; she was most likely about his age, and she was herself graying and tweedy, though she was conscious that her excellent Italian pumps were nicely polished. Her sense was that he, like herself, understood the surfaces of things but knew how to disregard them as well.<br /><br />Inspector Mullen had looked at her and then about him. The rooms were not opulent, but they were pleasing–dear old Morgan Evers had stipulated that she order everything of the best, and his own cultivated taste, when he had visited once or twice, had pronounced the results more than satisfactory. Copies of the firm’s books, all limited editions beautifully designed, filled the protected shelves of the far wall, but she received visitors in a lighter area, Eastern in feeling, with some fine blue-and-white porcelain on shelves and tables, Mughal and Caucasian carpets on the polished pale floor, filmy plain curtains over the long windows, and comfortable chairs in pale leather. Beyond was her workroom, with simple, utilitarian desk, machines, files, tables, chairs, and cupboards.<br /><br />He explained that he wanted more information about the reason for her call of the day before; could they sit down? Of course, and would he care for anything? He declined. She indicated one of the big chairs, and sat opposite. She was at her ease; policemen did not intimidate her, and she had a fair experience of the world in general. Her work had introduced her to men and women of all kinds in many corners–worldly printers, dreamy designers, worldly authors, impractical authors, busy distributors, demanding publicists, conceited reporters, competent reporters. She had learned to keep the edgy Alice down when occasion demanded suavity.<br /><br />“I should tell you that I saw a van this morning as I came to work, so I suppose your people checked out what I reported.”<br /><br />“Yes. More of that later. Please tell me now the whole story of your experience.”<br /><br />He had a pad of forms and had already filled in a few of the blanks with a nondescript ballpoint.<br /><br />“It was about three-thirty, and I wanted air and exercise. I hiked up the hill from the path that is nearest my building, to the top, then took one of the side-tracks that lead to the summit. I admired the view a bit, then went on down by the path that skirts the edge, the northwesterly side. It’s pretty woodsy there, and shady. But I was peering into the woods because I hoped there might still be a few wild mushrooms–there sometimes are, even this late.”<br /><br />“Isn’t that dangerous?”<br /><br />“Not if you are very timid about it, as I am. I don’t pick anything I don’t know.”<br /><br />“I think the county gets some poisoning cases, most every year.”<br /><br />“I’m sure, and I hope I won’t ever be one–or any friend of mine. Nasty way to go.”<br /><br />He made a few more entries on his form. “You said earlier that you were a widow. I have your address. You live there alone?”<br /><br />“Oh, yes.”<br /><br />“How long?”<br /><br />“Alone there since my husband died, three years ago; eight years before that, with him.”<br /><br />“Nice place.”<br /><br />He spoke as if he knew the area in a workaday way.<br /><br />“Nice enough. Convenient. A place you don’t have to think about, and everyone in the complex seems decent.”<br /><br />He checked some boxes on his form. “And your work here? I see it’s called–what? Folium?”<br /><br />“Yes, Folium Editions. It’s essentially the hobby business of an elderly man who lives abroad. We publish fine editions of important books that are no longer widely available in the original–illustrated natural history chiefly. We add notes and introductions and so on to update them. We almost break even–some years a little better than that.”<br /><br />“Pretty costly books?”<br /><br />“Oh, yes,” she answered cheerfully. “They cost the earth to produce; you’d be surprised. But there’s a market.”<br /><br />“I suppose. So it is for most things, I guess. Oddly enough. You’ve been here how long?”<br /><br />“Fifteen years.”<br /><br />“Like it?”<br /><br />“It’s ideal for me. I’m virtually independent. Mr. Evers is intelligent and generous. We visit back and forth quite often, and staying at a beautiful villa outside Florence, with everything done for one, is not my idea of hardship. When my husband was alive, he came along–Arthur loved Italy and could roam about on his own while Mr. Evers and I attended to our tiny bits of business.”<br /><br />“But you don’t produce the books here?”<br /><br />“No. There are surprisingly many excellent printing firms in the Bay Area. Sometimes we need color work done abroad, though–Italy or the Orient these days. We try to stick with local firms for the sake of quality-control.”<br /><br />The Inspector gave the small smile that indicates a return to former subjects. “So you went out to look for mushrooms. Then?”<br /><br />“That’s all I did, really. But as I was returning to the trail that goes back down the hill, I looked up into a hollow on my right–I suppose it would be southeast of the actual trail. And I saw this–bundle. It bothered me, because of the size. I thought of investigating.”<br /><br />“Why didn’t you?”<br /><br />“Because it was very steep, and I hadn’t brought a stick. It was pretty overgrown, too. And I was afraid.”<br /><br />“Were you.”<br /><br />He said this not in great surprise, but still as if he had not expected her to be.<br /><br />“Yes, I was. It was getting dark, and the place is lonely, and I just didn’t want to see anything awful. It was far too still.... I thought of going up and around and then down the slope to look at it, but that was steep, too, and the area between the trail at that point and where the thing was is very thickly wooded, and full of poison oak. In fact, I wonder how it got there at all. Very tricky for anyone....”<br /><br />“Please believe that I think you did the right thing in the circumstances.”<br /><br />She thanked him gravely, but it seemed to her that she had been cowardly, and she kept silence for a moment, considering her action. No, the place and the time had been too much for her, and there was no sense in regret.<br /><br />“Well,” she said.<br /><br />“Please describe for me exactly what you saw.”<br /><br />“It was just a bundle, a quilt wrapping something. It was pinkish, with tan and white flowers, and I could tell by the piping that it had been wrapped around whatever it was at an angle–it was obviously a large quilt, and whatever was inside must have been not much more than five feet tall–or long–and small in proportion. Oh, God.”<br /><br />“It’s OK. Tell me, was it wet?”<br /><br />“Wet? No, it looked perfectly dry.”<br /><br />“You could tell that even in the dim light?”<br /><br />She thought a moment. “Yes, I could. I stood some moments and looked at it, and there is something different in the way a wet quilt lies from a dry one, as well as in the colors. Anyone could tell, I’d say.”<br /><br />He wrote some more, then looked up again, and their eyes held. He almost did not need to say what he said, but she knew that he must. “But it had rained yesterday morning, right?”<br /><br />“Right,” she breathed. “Until about nine. Then started again about midnight last night.”<br /><br />“Yes. I may as well tell you–the searchers found what you described, and pretty easily, too, despite the terrain and all–at about seven last night. We have some good lights, and there were even two men with us who knew the parks. It wasn’t easy to get to it, as you rightly said–but we went up by the fire road. The quilt was still quite dry–a little damp underneath from the wet grass, and a little dewy on top, but basically dry.”<br /><br />They sat for a while in silence, and then Alice looked up. She would not ask, she decided.<br /><br />“It was a body. A young woman. Naked except for a T-shirt, and strangled.”<br /><br />Alice rose and walked to the window. The whole story seemed to her pathetic and dreary and sordid, and she knew nothing of it beyond these bare facts, and her own memory of a shapeless heap in a wintry park. The realities would elude her forever, she felt sure–whatever passion had led to the killing, the details of the life that was taken. She thought of Arthur, quickly dead from heart failure, but lost to her forever in a moment that stood now in her consciousness like an impassable rock in a roadway. She had felt so dead herself since then, sometimes almost at the end of her rope, but in fact she was alive and could act, could climb steep hills and make useful telephone calls. Such muddle and stupidity.<br /><br />“What kind of person, may I ask?”<br /><br />The Inspector seemed surprised that she should ask. “Pretty,” he said, “despite everything, surely pretty. Brunette, slim, smallish. As you guessed, not much over five feet. In good health. They’ll do the usual tests, of course, including DNA. Then we may know more. Nothing but the T-shirt, and that as anonymous as you can get. Did you see anyone on your walk?”<br /><br />She shook her head. “No one on the hill, not a soul. It was eerie enough, but I suppose my taste for solitary winter walks is not shared by many people. Still, I wondered, I felt uneasy. Watched. That’s not uncommon, is it, when one’s alone?”<br /><br />“But go back to before. Did you see anyone as you approached the trail up the hill?”<br /><br />“On the level where the railroad tracks used to be, people walk their dogs. I think I saw several people out, mostly heading back to the condominiums or in that general direction, to the houses across the street. No one I knew or recognized.. I think they were mostly women, too. I remember someone with a black Lab and someone else with a tiny terrier–the dogs seemed more vivid than the owners, but I am pretty sure those two were women.”<br /><br />“Then as you came down again?”<br /><br />“No one. Except maybe.... There’s that very steep part just at the bottom of the trail, and it’s very muddy and slippery there, so I was coming down rather awkwardly, hanging onto the brush to steady myself. I stopped, and I did notice that someone was leaving the far end of that level field, the dog-walking place. It surprised me because I hadn’t seen anyone from up above, and I would have noticed–it’s all so open and clear there–so I wondered where he came from. He turned up into our apartment complex, I remember, and then I lost him, and forgot about him, too.”<br /><br />“Did he have a dog?”<br /><br />She shook her head. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t. But he was moving at a leisurely pace, not running away from anything. Maybe the dog was ahead of him–people do let them off the leash there sometimes.”<br /><br />“ From what you saw, what can you tell me about him?”<br /><br />“Well, I thought it might be Larry Dykstra–about his build, and Larry always wears that big-shouldered kind of mackinaw when he walks his dog–a setter. The hat was like Larry’s, too–do many people wear those broad-brimmed Australian hats?”<br /><br />“Hmm.”<br /><br />“Larry is the condominium association’s lawyer,” she added. “And there are other ways up and down that hill. Other steep trails down on the north side, very wooded ones.”<br /><br />“What about cars?”<br /><br />“Cars? Whizzing past almost all the time. I didn’t notice anything special. Oh, but there was! A green SUV was parked just at the far end of the field. People often park there when the yacht club lot is full, and I think there was a regatta on Sunday, but the green van was the only one still there when I came down from the hill.”<br /><br />He asked her for details of the van, but she had to confess that they all looked alike to her–“dark green, newish, in good repair” was the best she could do. “Those tinted windows,” she added.<br /><br />Inspector Mullen rose. “I think that’s about all we need for now, unless you can think of anything that might help us. I’m going to ask you to look at a picture of the girl–woman, she wasn’t more than twenty-five, but she looked girlish, being so small and slim. I’ll call you about that–could you drop by the station later today, when you’re free?”<br /><br />She laughed. “Of course, Inspector. My time here is very much my own; Mr. Evers doesn’t check on me or make me punch any clocks, and all the authors and printers are scribbling away happily at their computers or marking up proofs in their studios, without any help from me just now. Tell me where and when.”<br /><br />She spent the rest of the afternoon studying the re-designed title page for a Victorian “language of flowers” book. The printer had provided a choice of ten cuts, all exquisite, and the decision was difficult. She finally telephoned him, and they discussed each one in depth. They needed something in keeping, but did not want to compete with the color lithographs of the text, to be faithfully reproduced by modern printing methods. When they had finally decided on a posy that suggested the Victorian without excess, Alice felt too ill at ease about her forthcoming interview to do anything more. She made some tea, but, as before, it did not taste good to her, and she was presently locking up the office to go to meet Inspector Mullen.<br /><br />***<br />Aaron Mullen let his work absorb him; he found the complex routines as satisfying as math, but livelier because of the human component. Still, the known stood against the unknown, and the task was to complete the equation. The small, sordid murder at the Point, of course, was not the only thing he had to deal with for the rest of his busy shift, but he gave a good deal of time to it, delegating certain tasks and going after other necessary items of information himself.<br /><br />Late in the day, a few minutes before Alice Perrin’s appointment, he gave himself a break, and over coffee thought about her. He was puzzled by his own reaction to her–he felt there ought to have been some spark between them. Had her insistence upon her widowhood been the turn-off, or her bookishness? He was divorced himself, about as long as she had been widowed, and he was fond of books in a way–he read history and sociology as a mild recreation. He admired her fair, classic good looks and her air of candor. But no urge to reveal himself to her or to draw her out had come to him, and he wondered where the cool transparent barrier between them had its origin. In the circumstances? Possibly, but not necessarily; he seldom met people like her in the course of his work, so the novelty might have been an excitement–but no. He wondered if they would get to know one another better, if something might come of their association in this crime that superficially involved them. Hardly to tell, as Arnold Chen, his Chinese sidekick, often said. She would soon arrive.<br /><br />He thought her far more nervous than in the morning. “Please don’t take this too hard,” he said, and she nodded.<br /><br />The photograph was so gruesome that Alice shut her eyes at it; how infinitely worse the reality must have been, she thought. She was afraid she might be sick, but gave herself a few moments to repair her calm and courage. Then she looked at it, carefully and long.<br /><br />“Inspector Mullen,” she said, and looked long, too, at his disciplined and intelligent features.<br /><br />“You recognize her?”<br /><br />“It’s difficult, after one meeting, and that some time ago. But yes. I think her name is Rosie Marler. A San Francisco girl. I’ll tell you how I met her.”<br /><br />The Inspector had put aside the picture; they faced one another across his desk.<br /><br />“Briefly, it was at a party for a book by a friend of a friend, and this young woman was the elderly author’s helper–the book was his rather exaggerated memoirs of his wild Parisian youth. I gathered that this Rosie made her living by doing odd jobs for people like André Michaud–paying bills and clearing up generally and being paid under the table. Also by modeling–she was quite charming.”<br /><br />“This was when?”<br /><br />“Perhaps four years ago.”<br /><br />“You and your husband were at this party? Where was it?”<br /><br />“Yes, we went together–in fact, my husband had known André slightly. I.... Yes. It wasn’t long after the party that my husband died. André also. Quite a little epidemic of dying.” Alice stopped to turn away and overcome a working sob; Inspector Mullen waited in silence.<br /><br />“You asked where it was. The party was at an art gallery on Post Street. I can find the name for you. But I’m fairly sure that Rosie lived in the same neighborhood as the author, as André–somewhere on Russian Hill.”<br /><br />“How did you come by the information about this person?”<br /><br />“I chatted with her–she was sweet. I chatted with André, too, and he sang her praises. He was a dear old flirt.”<br /><br />“I thought you said this author was ‘a friend of a friend’?”<br /><br />“That’s basically true–but we actually knew him a little, Arthur and I. Not well, just to have a coffee or a drink someplace casually–Arthur and I used to like to go to North Beach, and he would turn up. We’d never been to his apartment, and he certainly never visited us. It was our friend Carol Ross who asked us to the book party–she’s a journalist. She knew Rosie, too, and she told me two things about her.”<br /><br />Mullen prompted her silently, but she took a moment. “That she was a model and that she was a meth head.”<br /><br />Inspector Mullen did not say anything; he was aware of Alice’s eyes intently on him.<br /><br />“It all puts me a good deal on the spot, I see,” she said at last.<br /><br />“You on the spot? You make big leaps and make them fast.”<br /><br />She smiled, but she was not happy. “It’s from reading too much fiction and taking too dim a view of human nature, a sad legacy from hard-boozing Calvinist parents.”<br /><br />Although she spoke with little inflection, his eyes widened; he knew what she was talking about, but he seldom encountered it in this coolly contained form.<br /><br />“I follow,” he said. “All too well.”<br /><br />There might not be a spark, he thought, but sympathy was pulsing between them.<br /><br />***<br />Aaron Mullen telephoned Mrs. Perrin the next day to say that the identification had been confirmed. The body to which she had pointed the way was that of Rosie Marler, who had not been seen by her Union Street roommate since Friday. Miss Marler’s older sister, a successful dress designer, had come to the East Bay and identified her positively.<br /><br />“Is that Laurel Marler?”<br /><br />“You know her, too?”<br /><br />“I’ve just recalled meeting her at that same party. We chatted, but she was too stylish for me, and I didn’t get to know her. Does she shed any light...?”<br /><br />“She says she hadn’t got together with her sister for several months. She confirmed what you told us, that Rosie used meth pretty consistently and that she made her living by modeling and odd jobs. She said that the work Rosie did for your author acquaintance was about the most solid and tame job she’d ever had. She said Michaud overpaid her–apparently he doted on her.”<br /><br />“I can imagine. And the roommate? Did she–or he?–have any inkling for you?”<br /><br />“No. They’d been coming and going without much contact lately. Sylvia Olin, her name is–works in a bookstore. She thought there might have been a modeling job, but she didn’t know anything. She was accustomed to Rosie’s not coming home at night a lot of the time.”<br /><br />“Well, I hope you can get somewhere with this sad business, Mr. Mullen.”<br /><br />“Thanks. We did find something that makes me want to ask you to look out for yourself.”<br /><br />“Oh?”<br /><br />“Don’t be alarmed. An uncashed check to her from a person who lives in your building, one Michael Fitzgerald.”<br /><br />“Michael Fitzgerald? But he’s....”<br /><br />“An artist, I believe.”<br /><br />“Yes. There are a lot of artists. The area has a history of it, going way back....”<br /><br />She heard the sudden strain in her voice and worried that she might seem hysterical to him.<br /><br />“I should have come by,” he said. “Sorry to upset you.”<br /><br />“No, it’s just that he lives two doors from me, very polite and private, and he’s quite a good artist–we had a little show a while back. It doesn’t add up.”<br /><br />“Well, I hope it doesn’t. But we’re going to talk to him all the same.”<br /><br />“I see that you have to. But as to my looking out for myself–what a notion. I mean, I always do.”<br /><br />“Keep it up,” he said, and they said good-bye.<br /><br />***<br />“Inspector Mullen?”<br /><br />The slight, fair man with the humorous wide mouth and tall brow did not look to Aaron Mullen entirely at his ease, but he did not look like the picture of guilt, either. He stepped back and invited the policeman into the apartment, which smelled agreeably like an artist’s studio. They went into the small tile-floored solarium overlooking a broad lawn in which pink-flowering plums flounced in the wind.<br /><br />“I’m here to ask about Rosie Marler.”<br /><br />“I wondered if you might be.”<br /><br />They looked levelly at one another, and, though Fitzgerald’s face was grim enough, he was not afraid of anything.<br /><br />“Why was that?”<br /><br />“Well, I didn’t treat her too well, I know. But she was on some kind of drug and was really making a damned nuisance of herself. Still, I shouldn’t have just kicked her out–I could have at least given her a lift to BART or something. This place is pretty remote. A car is a necessity.”<br /><br />“Suppose you tell me the whole story.”<br /><br />“I’ve known her for a while–met her through another artist I know in San Francisco. She was short on work and called me a couple of times to ask if she could model for me. I felt sorry for her and said OK about a month ago. I picked her up and brought her here–my studio’s in there, and you can see it, and see the sketches I did of her. It just wasn’t working–she’s not my type, and she had this feverish way of chatting that drove me nuts. So I gave her a check and drove her back to BART and that was that as far as I was concerned. But not for her, it seems.”<br /><br />Mullen interrupted. “The modeling session was when?”<br /><br />“I can tell you from my checkbook.”<br /><br />Michael Fitzgerald rose from the window seat and walked easily into the next room, then returned with his checkbook. He proffered it and Mullen saw the entry–$300 paid to Rosie Marler two weeks before the weekend of her death.<br /><br />“And then?”<br /><br />“Last Saturday she turned up at my door. She’d apparently walked all the way from the bus stop, which is well over a mile. I couldn’t make her out. She was manic. I was tired–I’d done a little art show up north and had just got in when she appeared. I hate to say it, but the idea was that she couldn’t get me out of her mind and so on. I didn’t like to be ungallant–we Fitzgeralds are known to be the soul of courtesy to all ladies; brought up that way, as you can imagine.”<br /><br />He had dropped into a slight brogue for a moment, and the two men exchanged a look of amused understanding.<br /><br />“I take it a red flag went up in the case of Miss Rosie Marler.”<br /><br />“Bright red. So I just kidded around with her, and listened to her as best I could, but she wasn’t making a lot of sense. I finally decided that the best thing would be to feed her, so I rustled up something–I’m not a bad bachelor cook and bottle-washer–and opened some wine, thinking it might calm her down. It did. She passed out. I can’t say I wasn’t relieved. I tipped her over onto that couch and threw a cover over her, then went to bed myself.”<br /><br />Mullen’s face worked slightly, and Fitzgerald looked a question at him, but the moment passed. “And?” Mullen prompted.<br /><br />“I washed up, did the usual, went to bed myself–in there. I locked my door, God help me. She woke me up in the small hours having some kind of fit, pounding on the door and crying and carrying on. I tried to get her to calm down, but I’d never seen anything quite like it. Finally, about six o’clock, even though it wasn’t quite light, I just got fed up. She hadn’t undressed at all, and she was a little thing–so I just frog-marched her to the door and shoved her out. She banged a little bit, and I put my head out and said that if she did that one more minute, the guard would be on her, and that up those stairs and down the road was the best place for her. Sometimes when you get really fed up you can get a tone in your voice that even a total loony will hear. She heard, and she went.”<br /><br />“So that was that.”<br /><br />“Not a pretty story, I know. But that was that.”<br /><br />Mullen sighed and the two men once again maintained a level and communicating regard.<br /><br />“I’m inclined to believe you.”<br /><br />“I should damn well hope so!” Fitzgerald said, color flaring up into his Viking face. “I’m not accustomed to having people doubt my word. What happened to the silly woman that gets you involved? She complain?”<br /><br />“She got herself killed.”<br /><br />The artist clenched his teeth and grimaced.<br /><br />“I might have known. She was that damned silly. But I blame myself for sending her out alone–I suppose that’s when it happened, isn’t it?”<br /><br />“We’re a little unclear on the time of death. Was it raining when you showed her the door–and the road?”<br /><br />“No, it wasn’t. I wasn’t that pissed off, and if it had been raining, I would have bundled her into my car and driven her to the train. It wasn’t even that cold, and she had a coat. It did rain later, though, and I remember hoping she’d made it to the bus or whatever by that time. I’d been trying to get a little sleep, but after that sort of episode, who could? It was at least an hour or two later that the rain started. By the way, what led you to me at all? The check?”<br /><br />“Yes. Will you show me the blanket you threw over her?”<br /><br />The request surprised Fitzgerald, but he complied, bringing for the Inspector’s inspection a large knit throw of soft, silky wool in vibrant bluish reds and greens.<br /><br />“Looks warm,” he said. “Elegant, too.”<br /><br />“A gift from an admirer,” said Michael Fitzgerald, with the kind of wryness that discourages questions.<br /><br />The policeman then asked to see the sketches he had made of Rosie Marler. There were four in charcoal on paper and one somewhat more finished piece in acrylic. To Aaron Mullen, they looked disspirited, almost like student work. He glanced at other sketches and canvases and saw far more life and sureness of technique in every one. The pretty little nude in her conventional poses had been simply an interruption in the life and work of Michael Fitzgerald, as far as his visitor could tell.<br /><br />“Actually, I’d rather do still lifes and outdoor stuff,” the artist said. He pointed at a stack of canvases.<br /><br />Mullen looked through these with growing admiration. They were local studies in several lights and several seasons, verging sometimes on the abstract, but always strong. There was one in which the pink and orange flowers of spring striped the slope in harsh bands of light and shadow. Such a subject, from the brush of a less secure artist, might have been sentimental, but the canvas had force. Another concentrated on tawny rock, with a thatch of dry grass and a limpid sky; the fast, strong, broad strokes of color let one feel the wind of the place.<br /><br />“I like these,” he said, “despite my ignorance of art.”<br /><br />“Thanks. I hoped you’d say that,” laughed Fitzgerald.<br /><br />“Do I strike you as such a rube?”<br /><br />“God, no. Just diffident about your areas of uncertainty–and a little conventional.”<br /><br />Mullen was not nettled–he thought that Fitzgerald had described him justly enough. He hoped the artist would not take his next remark as vengeful.<br /><br />“That’s about where we found her, up there.”<br /><br />He pointed to a spot on the far right of the canvas with the rippling flowers.<br /><br />Fitzgerald made a stifled sound that was half groan and half sigh. “God,” he said. “What am I supposed to think about that?”<br /><br />Mullen shrugged. “Nothing, I suppose. It’s a public park, after all. Lots of people have painted this place, I understand.”<br /><br />“You found her, when? Sometime on Sunday?”<br /><br />“That’s just a guess?”<br /><br />“Of course! I swear to God! She wouldn’t have gone up there by herself. It was a beastly time, and even she would have known it was going to rain soon. Somebody must have picked her up as she was walking along, after I gave her the boot.” Fitzgerald fingered the sketches of Rosie Marler. “Poor beast,” he said. “Wish I’d been more of a gentleman–she might be alive, and I wouldn’t be entertaining policemen. Still, she was a mess. Couldn’t shut up or sit still for a second.”<br /><br />They went back into the central room of the apartment. Michael Fitzgerald paced in suppressed fury.<br /><br />“Look here, officer. How much trouble am I in?”<br /><br />“Hard for me to say. At the moment, not too much. Probably none, if you’ve been telling the truth–though it’s a pity you have no witnesses.”<br /><br />“Awful lot of people around here. Maybe someone saw her go. All these windows overlook the road, and people do get up early and peer out, I have no doubt. She made that bit of ruckus.”<br /><br />“We’ll do our job, Mr. Fitzgerald.”<br /><br />“I’ll be grateful. Very.”<br /><br />They ended the interview on an easy note, and the policeman left. Two doors away, he knocked at Alice Perrin’s apartment, but there was no answer. He had his notes, and he went away thinking of rainstorms and quilts, wet and dry.<br /><br />His appointment with Larry Dykstra, the association attorney, came next. This did not take long and was unproductive–Mr. Dykstra was candor itself. He recalled Sunday perfectly; he had been out walking his dog, as usual, for a good part of the afternoon. He was retired and spent a lot of time outside with the dog, an elderly setter whose filmy eyes rested on Mullen without either criticism or interest. Mr. Dykstra had not gone up the hill; with knees like his, he kept to the level. He had seen people coming and going but had not noticed anything out of the way and could not recall who was out and about. He wondered what the trouble was, of course. Mullen gave him a brief sketch, and he deplored it with obvious sincerity. If anything came back to him, he would be in touch. Mullen thanked him and got on with canvassing of the neighbors, a job at which Officer Chen was already at work.<br /><br />“We’re not in the Iron Triangle any more, Toto,” Chen had said, referring to the desperate neighborhood in which they most often worked.<br /><br />Mullen had watched Chen taking in the swept roads and paths, the hill-sheltered and light-dappled buildings, the agreeable and varied landscaping. Because he knew that much grim Chinese experience lay close to the surface of his colleague’s mind, he felt at a loss to react to the pleasantry with more than a smile. The popular reference interested him, coming from the serious, self-contained Chen. The odd instant passed, and they had judged it physically possible that the whole complex could have overlooked some part of Rosie Marler’s early morning ejection by the irritated Fitzgerald.<br /><br />They both hit pay-dirt right away. Arnold Chen spoke with the pleasant young woman who lived above Fitzgerald, Caroline Sparv. She had been up early because of a sick cat; she had heard Fitzgerald’s door bang, heard someone pound on it and demand to be let in. It had struck her, because never before had any such disturbance come from Mr. Fitzgerald’s apartment. She had been frankly curious and had opened her door a crack, just in time to hear Mr. Fitzgerald tell the woman to go away. She had heard her go, and even glimpsed her running somewhat unsteadily down the drive moments later, but it had been too dark to know what sort of person she was or any details about her–just a vague impression of a small person, moving awkwardly. She put the time at “a little after six.”<br /><br />Aaron Mullen happened onto an elderly insomniac in the next building who had been waiting for morning by staring out his solarium window. He had been rather surprised to see a young-looking girl running down the road from the south-east part of the complex. He had watched her, the only moving thing in the dull morning, until she disappeared into the gloom, slowing down as she came to the public street and turning north-east, as she would if she were going to town. Mr. Baird put the time at “soon after six.” He had seen no one else, not a car, no details. It had seemed odd to him, but this was a safe enough neighborhood, and people did go running and walking early, so he had suppressed any slight uneasiness. There were so many people in the condominiums, and a lot of coming and going, so it was impossible to say whether she was a resident or not; he felt he had never seen her before, but from the third floor, in that light, and with his aging eyesight, he could not be sure of much. A dark-haired girl, wearing a dark coat. Mullen thanked him and trudged away to Fitzgerald’s building.<br /><br />“Just a quick question,” he said when the artist answered his knock.<br /><br />“Sure.”<br /><br />“Rosie Marler’s coat?”<br /><br />He thought a moment. “It was navy. A trench coat, but not really long.”<br /><br />“Anything else about her clothes you can tell me?”<br /><br />Fitzgerald smiled. “I know–I’ve had my quick question,” the policeman apologized.<br /><br />“Not my best field. But I remember plain running shoes, nondescript and dirty, and tight jeans with some kind of decoration around the cuffs–I noticed because I thought it was a little silly, putting glittery stuff on jeans. A high-necked jersey, long-sleeved, dull crimson.”<br /><br />“No logos or anything?”<br /><br />“I don’t think so.”<br /><br />“And the ‘glittery stuff’?”<br /><br />“It was beading, actually. Metallic beads and fringe. Like this.”<br /><br />He produced a small sketch-pad and drew a band of delicate arabesques, then added overlapping loops.<br /><br />“Distinctive. Silver and gold and scarlet beads.”<br /><br />Mullen took the sketch and thanked him gravely. “My first Fitzgerald,” he said. “It ought to be signed and dated.”<br /><br />The artist, with a solemn glance, added his pencilled name and the date; they parted amicably.<br /><br />No such garments as Fitzgerald had described had been found anywhere near the body–no garments of any sort, in fact. Mullen wearily supposed, as he drove past the slopes of the headland back toward town and his office, that they would have to search the whole area. He swore briefly as his left tire crossed a large and jagged chuckhole. With the infrastructure failing all over, watching the roads was one more of the many tiresome tasks of daily life.<br /><br />***<br />Rosie Marler’s death did not make news. It might have, from any one of several “angles,” but somehow it did not. Alice was not sorry for that. Her nerves, in fact, were becoming worse as time passed, and not because of any fear of a lurking criminal in the neighborhood. She felt an odd security about that–whoever had killed Rosie had killed her, and had no interest in killing anyone else. She could not have said why she felt this, but it was a conviction. As for feeling so rattled still, she had read somewhere about that–the mind can enlarge upon a bad experience for a long time afterwards, and a physical reaction may set in that was absent at the time of the event. She had, for example, spent a great deal of time wondering if she would ever be able to climb that steep path and walk about on the ridge again–even in bright weather, even with a companion. She counseled herself to try it as one might get back behind the wheel of a car after a driving accident, but she could see herself trembling her way uphill and shying at every shadow. For the time being, she would stick to the level and walk in the parks and on the beaches.<br /><br />On Saturday it was clear and breezy, typically fine. Her chores finished and no social engagements until much later, Alice walked halfway to the tunnel, past the first of the beaches and part of the park. There were people about, and traffic; it was a busy weekend scene such as people had enjoyed there countless times. Runners and joggers and bikers were in good supply for the time of year, and several young people were skating in one of the emptier parking lots. A park truck, sour-apple green, straddled the sidewalk while the uniformed worker did something mysterious to a gate. Alice gazed briefly to the west, admired the bay’s brilliant, shadow-dappled surface, and felt suddenly tired and alone. She turned back.<br /><br />By the time she had got to the beach, however, she had talked herself out of her doldrums–it wouldn’t do to be in a bad mood for the Ritchies’ dinner party. Just to make sure that all the cobwebs–in which were tangled her loss of Arthur, the enervating niceness of her daily life and her job, this late murder of a pathetic woman–were blown away, she decided to take a turn or two on the sand.<br /><br />It wasn’t very nice sand, nor very clean. The semi-circle of beach was pebbly and strewn with wood and plastic debris. Seaweed in dark masses sent up its rank salt smell. Broken glass glinted here and there, especially where the little waves broke. A plastic shoe rocked back and forth in the shifting waves. A gull swooped low, and a tug came by, its noise and the smell of its fuel carried shoreward on the steady breeze. Alice found it all bracing–it added up for her in a way that more pleasing surroundings did not always. She gazed at the bulk of Angel Island with all her usual affection, admired the lines of the headlands against the afternoon sky, then fell to scrutinizing the stones and broken shells and shards at the water’s edge. She sometimes took such bits home to put around potted plants.<br /><br />She turned over with her shoe a bit of black plastic that was stuck in the sand and was surprised at the resistance; she gave it another nudge, and the edge of the plastic appeared, with something shining in it. How odd–it was nothing like the usual broken glass. She used her foot still, then crouched down to look at what was revealed. Too odd for words, and too frightening, too: It was one leg of a pair of pants, edged in a bright, elaborate fringe of beadwork. She tugged further at the plastic, and the bag came away from the sand, torn, with the pants tangled in it.<br /><br />There was no question in Alice’s mind but that this garment had belonged to Rosie Marler. It was her size, her style, and she had been found without clothes except an anonymous T-shirt. The only question was how to cope with her discovery.<br /><br />After a few moments’ thought, she moved the pants and the torn plastic above the tide-line and covered everything with what she hoped was a random assemblage of driftwood–there was no lack of old boards. She climbed up the crumbling incline from the shore to the park. As she sprinted across the lawn, she was irritated at herself for having come out only with her key and no money–at the park lavatory there was a telephone she could have used. A park worker, hefting a garbage can, cast her a curious look as she hurried by, making her wonder if her face showed her upset. It would take her ten minutes to get home.<br /><br />She was just making breathless speed toward her door when Larry Dykstra appeared at her side.<br /><br />“Oh, hello, Larry,” she said, about to hurry on.<br /><br />“I hear you’ve been involved with the police over this body that was found up the hill,” he said.<br /><br />“Well, yes.”<br /><br />She felt his solemn eyes on her and wanted very much to get away, to call the Inspector, to have this further responsibility taken away from her. She wanted to get on with the nice little life she had been deploring so recently for its sweet regularity.<br /><br />"So was I. Inspector Mullen made me a visit and asked about my whereabouts and so on. And did I have a dark green van–no. Or know who does–no. Or seen one parked along the road–no. All this is because, Alice?”<br /><br />“Yes, I suppose it is because. I mentioned to him that I’d seen you on Sunday afternoon, when I came down from my walk, after I’d seen–what I saw, what turned out to be the body. As for the van, who knows?”<br /><br />“No harm in being out, is there?”<br /><br />“Of course not, Larry.”<br /><br />She looked at him hard, and he smiled.<br /><br />“You were part of the landscape, that’s all. I simply mentioned that, and there’s nothing to worry about....”<br /><br />“You might have something to worry about, yourself, being up on the hill. As we know.”<br /><br />“So I might,” Alice said. “Forgive me, but I’ve got to do an errand just now.”<br /><br />“See you, Alice.”<br /><br />She hurried into her apartment, not a little puzzled by the attorney’s manner. She wanted to protest that an aging widow is an unusual suspect in the murder of an artist’s model and junkie. Shaking her head at how little, it seemed, she knew these people among whom she lived, she dismissed him and his somewhat melodramatic menace. What, after all, had he been reading or watching on TV? Or had he simply meant something else, that she was in danger herself? That, too, was melodramatic–she hoped. She telephoned Mullen and told him of her find of the beaded pants and her disposition of them. He thanked her and asked her to meet him at the beach in twenty minutes. She glanced at her watch–four thirty. There was time; she decided she would drive, however. It worried her a little, some minutes later, to pass Larry Dykstra in front of the building. They exchanged their usual brief wave. Business as usual, she thought; and who are we and what are we to one another?<br /><br />She parked at the beach and waited, bemused to see the green park truck pass by and head straight for one of the larger potholes, rattling and jouncing across the jagged patch. Inspector Mullen’s unmarked car pulled up seconds later. Their purposeful progress took them over the rough, flat grass to the short drop that led to the beach. Alice lifted a hand to point to the jumble of boards she had arranged over the pants and the plastic bag, but they turned to stare briefly at one another instead of moving on.<br /><br />For it was obvious that someone had torn up her improvised hiding place and taken the evidence. Mullen did not even bother to ask Alice if she were sure of the place; the beach was small, perhaps fifteen yards, bounded on one end by six feet of tumbled boulders and on the other by ten sheer feet of riprap. The driftwood had been flung aside from a depression of damp sand.<br /><br />“Was anybody around to see what you were doing?” he asked at last.<br /><br />She shook her head. “I wasn’t aware of anyone. But someone must have seen me. If you go down there, you’ll see how sheltered it is–or seems, at least, when you’re there.”<br /><br />He nodded.<br /><br />“No one that you can recall, though?”<br /><br />She scanned the open landscape, the overlooking cliffs across the road, the derelict piers, as if to bring back the scene as it was only an hour or so before.<br /><br />“There could have been someone. There was a park worker up here when I left. There were a few kids over on the pier. Maybe a person walking along the road. But when I came this way just now, I passed Larry Dykstra, the attorney from the complex, walking along. Still, he wasn’t carrying anything....”<br /><br />She turned to him, and he waited, understanding that something had come to her.<br /><br />“Forget that last,” she said.<br /><br />They moved back toward the parking lot.<br /><br />“You’ve got an idea?” he prompted at last.<br /><br />The afternoon wind was tuning up. A slight warmth rose from the asphalt, grateful to them both. He handed her a small piece of paper from his pocket book, and she studied it with interest.<br /><br />“Yes,” she said, handing it back. “Gold and silver and dark red. Fringing some petite jeans.”<br /><br />It was Michael Fitzgerald’s sketch.<br /><br />“I’d be interested to know where you came by that,” she said.<br /><br />He gave a short laugh. “A cop’s first try at connoisseurship, I suppose,” he said. “I asked Fitzgerald to do it for me, from memory.”<br /><br />She shook her head. “No. Not Michael Fitzgerald,” she said. “I’d bet my life.” She paused. “‘When you know how, you know who.’”<br /><br />He raised his brows.<br /><br />“A quotation. Lord Peter Wimsey says it in one of the Dorothy L. Sayers stories.”<br /><br />“Sorry. I’m not one for fiction–though I seem to recall some TV series?”<br /><br />“Yes. Well enough done, too. I don’t imagine such things mean much to someone like you, though–no relation to your reality.”<br /><br />“No. That might be the appeal. But I don’t have much time for escapes.”<br /><br />“Ah,” she said, shaking her head, and they shared a smile.<br /><br />She turned out of the parking lot and walked a few yards northward. She gestured up toward the fire road. Beyond the closed gate, it rose in a dark and rutted curve to the ridge, muddy here and there still, then disappeared behind scrub oak and bay.<br /><br />“Those park trucks. Four-wheel drive, aren’t they?”<br /><br />Instantly he saw what she meant, but they stood in silence for some moments.<br /><br />“And the worker you saw when you were here?”<br /><br />“He was loading a trash can onto a truck. He glanced at me. I just hurried on, wanting to get through to you. I think it was the same one who passed by again just as you drove up, too.”<br /><br />The Inspector nodded. “It’s a direction for us,” he said.<br /><br />Back home, she hurried to get ready for the evening at the Ritchies’.<br /><br />Inspector Mullen put in some time on the routine of tracing park workers; he was irritated with himself for not knowing more about the organization and its protocols. Still, it was not long before he had a likely name–Ray Sanches–and some details. No one else had been on duty at the relevant time, and Sanches had been on this afternoon as well. He was a newcomer, still on probation, not a skilled park workman but seemingly competent. Nothing was known against him by the park brass. He was said to live alone in a bedroom community some thirty miles farther along the bay shore. Mullen sent two men out to bring him in for questioning. The Department of Motor Vehicles provided a license number for a five-year-old Saturn, white, and Mullen checked with the Highway Patrol. Mullen steeled himself against a growing confidence that might, not just superstitiously but practically, be dangerous: so easy to let something get past if you see yourself on the right track, he knew.<br /><br />When ten o’clock passed with no developments, any confidence that had lurked in Mullen’s mind gave way to misgivings. He enlarged the net. One small piece of information came his way and had a chilling effect on him: apparently there was a very large image of the Virgen de Guadalupe on the rear window of the Saturn.<br /><br />***<br />The talk at the Ritchies’ had been stimulating, and for that very reason Alice left early. She always found it difficult to come down after pleasing social events, and hoped for a quiet hour or two to compose herself before sleep. There had been more people than usual, and the rapid conversation had ranged in many directions, but always she had been conscious of keeping back her own unfinished drama.<br /><br />Flora Ritchie was the sister of Morgan Evers, and they had met in Italy on Alice and Arthur’s first visit to her boss there. Others in the party were new to Alice, but several of them knew Morgan, and almost all of them were sentimentally disposed to adore Italy as she did. Opera had succeeded literature and travel and architecture, then came excursions into football and soccer, and finally some politics, and then wine–the rival merits of Brunello and Rosso di Montalcino came up. The preferences were markedly indicative, Alice had thought. The fashionable young couple of attorneys, parents of an infant named Ashton, preferred the Rosso, Robert Ritchie defended the Brunello–always provided that it was adequately aged. The young couple kept on looking superior, and the male parent of Ashton added that the French had seen the light of late and were making their wine far more approachable, like the Rosso. Robert did not comment further, but, Alice noticed, he paid little attention to the couple thereafter. Since her own preference was for crusty people and austere wine, Alice approved.<br /><br />What if they had known what was behind her reserve? Nothing, probably; indifference rather than shock, perhaps some moralizing. She considered what she knew of the Berkeley point of view and wondered whom they would see as victim. Where would she herself see guilt?<br /><br />The little silver car ran easily down the steeps toward the Bay. In the clear, starry night, the spangles of the vast urban accretions around San Francisco Bay, as always, outshone the stars. She would have been totally content, she thought, if only Arthur had been beside her to share the sight and the recollections. What a wonderful place, but how divided, too. The prosperous bustled about their fine-tuned consumption, as at the Ritchies’, and the poor bustled about survival. Nothing much to be done. She shrugged off this mood to consider some questions of her work at Folium, and soon she was through the tunnel and close to home. Still, a funny old tune ran in her head, “She is more to be pitied than censured, she is more to be helped than despised....”<br /><br />As the car curved into the driveway and the electric doors opened before her, Alice was brought back to the present by a slight shadowy movement half-caught in her rear-view mirror; she paused and looked carefully: nothing there. She eased the car forward into her space, switched off the ignition, and reached for her handbag. She glanced around before getting out, but the garage seemed as solemn and silent as always.<br /><br />Her key was in the door lock when her senses became fully aroused to the sound of soft shoes on cement, some faint masculine perfume, and then, too late for action, a hand over her mouth and a strong pull of her body away from the car.<br /><br />She could not see him, but she struggled. He spoke in her ear.<br /><br />“How come you let her out like that?”<br /><br />The voice was soft, not unpleasant, with a little quaver and the ghost of an accent.<br /><br />The hand on her mouth relaxed a little, and she could turn enough almost to see him. He was small, shorter than herself, wiry, dressed in dark clothes.<br /><br />“That girl–she crazy. How come you don’t bring her up better?”<br /><br />Alice breathed hard, thinking wildly, then muttered. “Bring her up? I hardly even knew her.”<br /><br />He shoved her rather hard.<br /><br />“You know her. Her mother, I know you her mother. Now I have bad dreams forever, now I go to Hell because of her. You should bring her up better, teach her something, to be modest.”<br /><br />They were face to face now, and he had let her go. She could see that he was in agony, that he was about to break down. She was trembling, but there was a core of her that was not afraid.<br /><br />“I’m not her mother. She was a lost soul.”<br /><br />“Look at you!” he screamed, and held her arms hard. “You look at you! Just like her! I know she your girl. You lookin’ for her, you after her, you worried for her.”<br /><br />Alice shook her head in disbelief and sorrow.<br /><br />“No,” she said. “No. You are quite wrong. I’m sorry, sorry for you. But she was not my daughter.”<br /><br />After one long look at her serious face, the young man began to sob, letting her go and twisting around in a way that wrung her heart. She touched him gently on the shoulder.<br /><br />“What is your name?”<br /><br />“I am Ray. Raimondo, they call me Ray.”<br /><br />“It will be all right, Ray. There’s help for you, don’t worry.”<br /><br />He beat his head with his hand. “No,” he screamed. “After that, not even the Virgin herself will help me, my mother will not help me, my father will look at me like a snake.”<br /><br />The door from the building opened, and Alice looked across to see Aaron Mullen moving toward them, calm and purposeful, followed by three uniformed officers. She put her hand on Ray’s arm again.<br /><br />“It’s over now,” she said. “No one will hurt you, and pretty soon you will be able to forget it all. You have to tell them all the truth, though, everything. More than you told me. I’m sorry.”<br /><br />He submitted without a word, and the officers walked him to a patrol car waiting just outside the garage gate. Alice and Inspector Mullen followed them, watched the white car with its complicated electronic gear and lights hurry of into the soft night.<br /><br />“His Saturn’s up in the outside lot. I’ll get somebody to tow it away when I can. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to let him get so far, but he slipped into the bushes and down here. Bad timing all around. You weren’t hurt?”<br /><br />“No, just shaken.” She paused. “He seemed to think I was Rosie Marler’s mother. He said there was a resemblance.”<br /><br />He shook his head. “I can’t see it,” he said. “The poor guy’s beside himself.”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />He put a steadying hand under her elbow and they moved toward the garage elevators.<br /><br />“I don’t want to forget Rosie, though,” Alice said. “She’s been a wasted creature for years now, but she’s no more to blame....” That song! She shook her head at the vagaries of her own mind. “Only a lassie who ventured, on life’s stormy paths ill-advised....” Dear God.<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />They had reached her door and stood looking at one another, calm now but grim.<br /><br />“I think I’ll have a whisky and get maudlin about the human condition. Care to join me?”<br /><br />He glanced at his watch.<br /><br />“Thanks. Just one for me.”<br /><br />“Maybe I’ll skip the maudlin bit.”<br /><br />“Who knows? We might both need a good cry.”<br /><br />She laughed, however, and invited him to sit while she got glasses and whisky. That she was horribly tired came to her as she handed him his drink, and a glance at his face told her that he was drained and weary too.<br /><br />“You might like to know that all the while we were looking for Sanches up around Pinole and Hercules, he was just driving around here and sitting in his car. Your security man thought something was funny when he drove into the parking lot and sat, and he called us.”<br /><br />“Good for Ricky.”<br /><br />“He’s a new guy at the park.”<br /><br />“I guessed as much, because I see the workers when I walk.”<br /><br />“I suppose you do.”<br /><br />The silence that fell between them was easy enough, but Mullen finished his drink and rose to go.<br /><br />“Be seeing you, I guess,” Alice said.<br /><br />“In court,” he laughed. “Yes. Lots more to do, in fact. By the way, we found some of those little beads in the park truck. And hair. Have to find that coat, and the rest.”<br /><br />They exchanged a long look from beneath their shared weariness, and a quick handshake.<br /><br />“Aren’t you an odd sort of policeman, for this difficult part of the world?” she asked, holding open the door.<br /><br />“Native of the place,” he said. “Grew up just the other side of your tunnel.”<br /><br />His face set to acknowledge the grimness that lay beyond their territory, and was his sphere of work; but they understood one another. “It’s a long story.”<br /><br />“So many are,” she laughed. “Perhaps I’ll hear some of it another time.”<br /><br />He nodded, but almost did not acknowledge her polite comment; they were getting beyond tiredness, he thought, slipping toward stolidity; he had to go. “Thought I’d see what I could do,”<br />he added, though he knew she did not need his vague explanatory reference to early-day idealism.<br /><br />“Ah. Well. Good for you. And thanks.”<br /><br />“Don’t mention it.”<br /><br />It was of all there was to do, for everyone, and of new beginnings, that Alice was thinking when she left for the office next morning, after a wakeful night. She might have stayed at home, tired as she was, but it seemed to her that work and routine would be healing. The beauty of getting out in the world, of taking part–as Rosie Marler would never do again, as Ray Sanches would never do again as he had once done.<br /><br />Habitual motions took her out of the garage and into the fine light of a glorious wintry morning once more. She drove along, awake to everything, grateful for mercies small and large. She saw that some quick, mysterious powers-that-be had come by and filled in the chuckholes–patchily, it was true, and incompletely. How things got done! Wonderful. Still, the rain was far from over for the year, and drivers would be zigging and zagging around those same old hazards before the month was out.<br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Ann is a Bay Area native and long-time devotee of the mystery genre. Joe D'Ambnrosio of Scottsdale has previously published her LX Commute: My Sentence, a memoir of getting around in the Bay Area; and a story on disc with book included, Through A Glass. She now at work on A Commonplace Book of Tea, also to be published by Studio D'Ambrosio.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-16588228678640856382009-01-24T11:33:00.000-08:002009-01-25T11:52:36.356-08:00Don’t Judge A Strangler by the Hair - Bertil FalkDon’t Judge A Strangler by the Hair<br /><br />It is indeed nice to live out here in the summer on the outskirts of the archipelago on a small islet with only one neighbor. And that at a time when even the crevices of flat granite rocks are filled up with life in the shape of moss, where uncountable small creeping things pass their lives.<br /><br />When the sun shines, and the heat reaches its peak some time after that particular star was at its zenith, the mild sea breeze fondles my cheek. It actually turns over the pages for me of a book (in most cases Cicero at this time of the day). I read it in the shade of the tall spruce fir. All the while, light rollers lap against the flat rock, which dives down into the water, and against the landing stage the white cruisers sometimes call at.<br /><br />The married couple has not come to their cottage this summer. They went to the other side of the globe to experience a solar eclipse and in this connection “to do the world”, as they put it. It was probably this unexpected want of ingrained summer company that all of a sudden made me feel alone even though I had spent the long and cold winter all by myself without being affected by the condition we Swedes call “Lapland melancholy”. At all events, I decided on going to the Royal Capital and have a fling at the Katarina church in connection with a symposium on eschatology.<br /><br />I am not that well at home in the capital. I have spent most of my life abroad and Stockholm has more or less been a place I have passed through on my way to and from my home I – a superannuated missionary – bought on the islet in the autumn of my life.<br /><br />However, now I stayed in a prison cell at the Långholmen penitentiary. The reason for that is that I happen to be a member of the Swedish tourist organization, which has turned the old jail into a youth hostel. In that way I could “do the symposium” in Stockholm in a cheap way, while my neighbors “did the world” in a more extravagant way.<br /><br />The symposium on eschatology was not that exciting. It was about the same old eternal existential questions, which we Christians have an answer to, except for the moments when doubts set in, which happens now and then. But then something else happened. A young woman, who had been silent most of the time, opened her mouth.<br /><br />”Not even an atheist should repudiate the theory of a Creator, who has created the universe”, she said. “For even though the atheist is right that we can’t prove anything as to the origin or the genesis of anything and everything in a scientific way, the atheist is in a similar way not able to prove the absence of a Creator. It’s not enough to refer to a Big Bang. For what released the Big Bang and what in its turn released whatever released the Big Bang? And so on in all eternity. I just ask the question! Therefor the atheist should leave the door open for the theory that the world was created by a Creator.”<br /><br />The thought was sublime and I was surprised that I never had thought that thought myself. On the other hand, I am not a very profound thinker. My theology has always been simple. God created the world. Be kind to your fellow human beings. Try to understand them. Do what you can to help them. Exercise love. That kind of things, but in a way her thought was simple too and simple truth is not always simple to discover. It took a succession of inventors to invent a functioning zipper, but when it was done anyone could see how simple it is. Not to mention the typewriter! It took more than one hundred inventors to perfect that tool.<br /><br />During the coffee brake, I sat down by the side of the young lady. She turned out to be a curate. Her name was Lisa Bengtsson, thirty-five years old and besides being an intellectual she was intelligent too, in my experience a rare combination. She was probably good-looking according to the ruling standard when it comes to looks. Mascara around her eyes, black-with-green painted lips. There was an Indian golden ring in one of the wings of her nose. However, she turned out to be unmarried.<br /><br />Her interest in existential questions was as profound as she was unmarried and we became friends. I told her about my experiences and she listened to the story some inventive journalist had called “There Are No Pockets In Our Graveclothes” about how greed can make people do very bad things, least to say. She seemed to be affected by my story and when she heard that I lived on an island in the archipelago, she said that she would call on me some day.<br /><br />For a couple of weeks after the symposium I expected to hear from her, but my telephone never rang. Autumn came with autumn storms and winter went past. When snowdrops and winter aconites had ceased flowering and pansies and coltsfoots showed off, I had since long forgotten her. Then she called. It was not exactly a frantic call, but she was eager to tell me something. She had experienced something in line with my story of the uncut diamond and the lack of pockets I had told her.<br /><br />She came dressed as the Lutheran clergywoman she is, wearing a clerical collar, and she looked even better than I remembered her. She jumped ashore from the skerry cruiser and hugged me as if we had been friends for years or father and daughter. I realized that she and I for sure must have struck up a remarkable friendship last year, a friendship stronger than I had imagined.<br /><br />After she had taken a shower and occupied one of the two guestrooms, I showed her my house and we walked around the islet. In the evening, I made a Kenyan dinner. I put some butter in the frying pan, added shallots, and when they got brown, I turned up the heat and added crocodile fillets from a can. I managed to cook a dish, to some extent similar to the delicious game things I once had when I went to Carnivore on the verge of the Wilson Airfield outside Nairobi.<br /><br />Mother Lisa, as I came to call her, gorged herself and I was happy that she liked my cookery. Later on, I served her coffee and a glass of sherry, and while our northern summer sun still struggled to get down to earth in the northwest, she began to tell me her story.<br /><br />“It began eight years ago”, she said. “When you told me that strange story about the diamond and the lack of pockets of its owner’s grave-clothes, I came to think of it. For like your story this is a criminal one. It doesn’t involve the desecration of a grave. It’s worse than that. It’s about murder. There has never really been anyone I could tell the story until I heard you last year telling your story in that calm way of yours.”<br /><br />I had never before realized that my way of telling a story could be described as calm.<br /><br />“But for some reason I hesitated to tell you”, she continued. “But now something happened a few weeks ago and I decided to come here and tell you the story. For I must talk to someone.”<br /><br />“You’re welcome”, I said.<br /><br />“I certainly feel to be welcome here”, she replied and smiled. “I didn’t know that crocodile meat is such a delicious dish.”<br /><br />“And I’m very curious. I look forward to hearing your story.”<br /><br />“Well, it was a spring day eight years ago. The standing crops outside the town where my church is grow like mad. I took the bus to the town. Together with the sexton I looked through the run of things of the upcoming weekend. It was completed before the lunch hour. Then I hastened to the market place for the purpose of having lunch with my friend Eva Granberg.<br /><br />“I don’t think that anyone could fail to notice that Eva was a hairdresser. She often changed her hairstyles. Sometimes she had close-cropped hair. Sometimes she had long hair. And she used wigs. She had ponytails that were put up with a colorful ring on the back of her head and twined queues that need no ring.<br /><br />‘I dress according to circumstances’, she used to say, ‘so why shouldn’t I adjust my hair to the situation? Sometimes ones hair just has to be untidy, at other occasions it would be a mortal sin.’<br /><br />“Anyhow, young and old basked in the sun on the steps of the town hall. The open-air restaurant had opened a few days earlier and Eva was already on the spot when I arrived. For the day, Eva was lightly dressed and furnished with a long, plaited ponytail. She looked bright and plucky. However, there was a thoughtful expression on her face.<br /><br />‘I think we could sit here’, Eva said and got to her feet.<br /><br />‘Obviously’, I replied.<br /><br />We went inside the restaurant and after a while we returned outdoors to our table with one tray each. Eva had chosen sailor’s beef with potatoes and onions, while I preferred meatballs with potatoes fried raw. I remember so well how we enjoyed our food with an appetite.<br /><br />‘Well, what about your boyfriends?’ I said jokingly to Eva. ‘Any news?’<br /><br />Eva, who just had speared a meatball, put aside her fork on her plate.<br /><br />‘I don’t know what to say’, she told me. ‘Ulf and Göran are tremendously jealous of each other. I’ve told them that none of them is to my taste, so to speak, but they persist in courting me and looking askance at each other. I don’t know how to get rid of them.’<br /><br />At that I looked surprised at my friend. It was something in Eva’s voice I didn’t recognize, an anxiety of some kind. Where she sat, she certainly looked pretty. It was understandable that representatives of the male species liked her. But her brown eyes, which usually sparkled, had a hesitant trait.<br /><br />‘You don’t sound happy’, I said.<br /><br />‘I don’t like that they’re so difficult to shake off. And I neither like that they’ve become enemies because of me.’<br /><br />‘And you don’t know how to get rid of them?’<br /><br />‘That’s for sure’, Eva said.”<br /><br />Lisa sipped at her sherry and she looked very serious.<br /><br />“Three days later Eva nevertheless got rid of one of her admirers”, Lisa continued. “Car mechanic Ulf Svensson was found dead in his home. Strangled!”<br /><br />I began to get an idea of the relevance of her story, but I did not say anything. Lisa stared for a moment out through the window, where the light summer sky of the evening spread a pale shimmer across the white clouds.<br /><br />“To begin with the investigators thought that the marks on his throat had been caused by a thick, twined rope or a hawser. Eva was very upset when she came to see me in the church.<br /><br />‘I really hope that Göran Stenlund didn’t do it’, she said.<br /><br />“Do you mean that he could have been that jealous of his rival that he could have killed him?’ I asked her.<br /><br />‘What to believe after all that has happened between the three of us?’ was her reply.”<br /><br />Lisa once again sipped at her sherry before she continued.<br /><br />“Eva told the police the story of her two admirers. The murder investigator listened to what she had to say. She told him that she had visited her murdered admirer in the evening the day before he was found strangled. She said that she had returned a book she had borrowed from him. She didn’t want him to have any reason to come over to her place and therefor she had been anxious to return the book.<br /><br />“Then Göran Stenlund was heard by the investigator. He admitted that he and the murdered man had been rivals, but he also explained that Eva had told them both that she wasn’t interested in any of them.<br /><br />‘So why would I’ve killed him`, he had maintained.<br /><br />“Henceforth, it turned out that the police lay low while waiting for the report from the legal pathologist. When the report materialized, it became obvious not only that Ulf Svensson had been strangled but also that the murder weapon could not have been a twined rope or a hawser as they had thought from the very beginning. On the other hand the pathologist had found some hair on his throat. Since Eva Granberg was a hairdresser, this finding draw the investigator’s attention to her. But the hair neither came from her or from the rival Göran Stenlund. And they were not from the murder victim either.”<br /><br />As Mother Lisa’s story evolved, it turned out that Göran Stenlund had called on Eva Granberg early in the evening before the murder took place and that they had quarreled vehemently. When interrogated, they both had given the same version. Uninvited, Göran had turned up pleading, but Eva had been unbending and told him that if he and Ulf continued poisoning her life, she was forced to give up her work and move to some other place. The next day Göran Stenlund had returned and apologized for his behavior.<br /><br />And when the two women had another lunch together, Eva wore her pigtail, which hung all the way down to her behind. Now she had been even more alarmed than at their first meeting. It made no difference that the whole Nature sang and the sun shone with an encouraging shine from a heaven of blue crystal at the same time as the gulls screamed with joy of living. Eva was dejected.<br /><br />‘I can see that you’re depressed’, Lisa Bengtsson had said with sympathy. ‘I hope that you won’t get too absorbed in this mess. But what did you say to Ulf when you visited him that evening?’<br /><br />‘Oh, what did I say?’ Eva had exclaimed. ‘Nothing in particular.’<br /><br />‘Did you quarrel?’<br /><br />‘Not at all. It had sunk in that an affair between us was unthinkable. He had begun to accept it as a fact.’<br /><br />‘But Göran didn’t accept it?’ Lisa had asked.<br /><br />‘On the contrary, he tried to force me into a relationship and he was terribly jealous of Ulf.’<br /><br />‘So he could’ve been the perpetrator?”<br /><br />To that Eva responded with a smile, saying: ‘You sound like an interrogator and not like a spiritual guide, but yes, he could’ve done it, but I think that the police suspects me as well.’<br /><br />In response to that Lisa had said: ‘What can I say that comforts you in this distress. It had been easier if you had been a believer.’<br /><br />Lisa Bengtsson looked in a clairvoyant way across the waters.<br /><br />“Göran had made an unpleasant scene”, she said. “Eva was terribly upset when he was gone at last. It was then that she saw the book she had borrowed from Ulf. She decided on returning it straight away. She didn’t find her ponytail, which irritated her even more. At last she snatched the book and went over to Ulf. He told her that he had began to understand his position.”<br /><br />“And Göran?” I asked.<br /><br />“As I said, he came over to her the next day. He said he was sorry and apologized. He said he wanted to be her friend. Then he went away.”<br /><br />“That’s it?”<br /><br />“According to Eva, yes. But the thing is that … well, Eva found her ponytail. She wore it when we had our second lunch. The strange thing was that it had been visibly lying on her desk. She thought that she had been so upset after the quarrel with Göran that she didn’t see it when she looked for it.<br /><br />“Now, Göran was once more interrogated by the investigator. He repeatedly said that he had not been visiting Ulf for weeks. The interrogator pointed out that it was a well-known fact that the two men were jealous of each other and he asked what Göran had done that evening, when Ulf was strangled.<br /><br />‘I was at home looking at TV’, Göran said.<br /><br />‘But you called on Eva Granberg.’<br /><br />‘That was earlier. We quarreled and I walked straight home.’<br /><br />‘A witness says that you were out walking at 09.00 PM.’<br /><br />‘My usual evening walk.’<br /><br />‘Are you sure that you didn’t walk to Ulf Svensson’s place?”<br /><br />‘I may have walked in that direction’, Göran Stenlund had replied whiningly, ‘but I never called on him.’“<br /><br />Lisa sipped at her sherry, looked at me and said, “And now the events took a sharp turn. Eva was summoned for another questioning. The investigator was the same man as before. He smiled at her and said:<br /><br />‘Well, now let us …’<br /><br />At that he stiffened up and stared at her.<br /><br />‘Will you please turn your head’, he said.<br /><br />‘But why?’ Eva answered.<br /><br />‘Do as I say’, the policeman said.<br /><br />She turned her head.<br /><br />‘This time you’re wearing a pigtail or queue or whatever you call it and you wore it last time you were here as well.’<br /><br />Eva laughed and admitted the fact. And the interrogator asked her if it was detachable.<br /><br />‘It certainly is’, Eva said.<br /><br />‘A moment please’, the man said, went through the door and returned together with a woman. ‘Don’t move when we unfasten the false hair.’<br /><br />The ponytail was put in a transparent plastic bag. And at that Eva realized that they thought that the pigtail was the murder weapon.”<br /><br />I had listened to the story with increasing interest and I found this new twist breathtaking. From here Lisa told me that Eva became subject to what can be described as cross-examination. Had she not lied about her visit to the victim? Didn’t she visit Ulf Svensson in order to dispose of a persistent admirer? Had she not from behind strangled him with her ponytail?<br /><br />“Well, Eva cried and denied and explained that she had not worn the pigtail when she returned the book to Ulf. But it looked bad. And her situation did not improve, when the forensic medicine people established that the hair on the murdered man’s neck came from her thick, plaited pigtail. But Eva maintained that she had walked bareheaded and without ponytail to Ulf Svensson’s home, since she had not been able to found it. She had not used any wig at all.”<br /><br />“What happened?” I asked.<br /><br />“When I read the headlines in the vestry, I understood that my friend was under arrest, for good reasons suspected of having killed Ulf Svensson”, Lisa said. “I was very upset and all of a sudden a light dawned on me. I thought I knew how the murder had come about. I didn’t let the fast growing spring grass grow under my feet. I rushed out into the sunshine and hastened across the market place to the police station, where I got admission to the investigators. They listened to me and at the end Eva Granberg was released and Göran Stenlund was arrested. Some time later he confessed.<br /><br />“And what exactly had you found?” I asked my good-looking guest.<br /><br />“Well, I’ll tell you what I told Eva during our third lunch. This time she wore no pigtail. The police kept it as evidence. She thanked me and said that without me, she would probably have been shaking prison bars for years. I replied that the truth nevertheless probably would have been discovered along the investigation. It just happened that I found out the solution before anyone else. I recalled that after quarreling with Göran, she couldn’t find her pigtail. Therefor she went over to Ulf without it and returned the book. Thus, she could not possibly have strangled him with the pigtail. The next day Göran returned to her and apologized. That was even before Ulf was found murdered. But Göran didn’t return to apologize. He returned to slip back the pigtail on the sly. He had stolen it when they quarreled. I guess that Göran after the quarrel stood spying outside her house. When she came out and walked to Ulf, Göran’s jealousy took on monstrous proportions. His decision to kill his rival was strengthened. When Eva was gone, he called on Ulf and strangled him with her pigtail.”<br /><br />“One might say that your friend Eva escaped by a hairbreadth”, I said. “And the important thing is that your friend was innocent.”<br /><br />“Was she? I don’t know.”<br /><br />I must have looked utterly stupid.<br /><br />“There is more to this story”, she explained.<br /><br />“But you said …”<br /><br />“Hear me out and I’ll explain. He confessed to the murder. He was sentenced and served seven years and was released. Good behavior and all that, you know. My friend moved to some other town and I lost contact with her.”<br /><br />At that she made a wry smile.<br /><br />“Then one day”, she continued, “I got to know by chance that Eva has been visiting Göran in jail every month all these years. And after his release …”, she made a long pause, “… they married. What do you make of that?”<br /><br />“I see”, I replied, but I was in fact so surprised that I didn‘t see. Stunned, I said, “She may have lied to you about not being interested in him?”<br /><br />“I don’t think so. I rather think that Eva carried out the murder, while he took the blame. It was kind of blackmailing on his part. He promised her to suffer her punishment in exchange for her.”<br /><br />I stared at the gorgeous minister.<br /><br />“Can it be proven?”<br /><br />“Probably not.”<br /><br />She hesitated.<br /><br />“But it’s as if this story has not enough of twists, for there is one more twist to it.”<br /><br />If I had expected some sensational new turn, I was right.<br /><br />“You see’, Mother Lisa said, “three weeks ago my friend Eva most conveniently became a widow. Göran was found knifed to death not far away from their home. It was supposed that some jail mate had killed him. It has been said that many inmates had a grudge against him. But I wonder, I wonder. And that’s the story. What do you think?”<br /><br />There was a long silence.<br /><br />“A very strange story”, I said at last. “And you did come here to tell me this?”<br /><br />“As I said, I can’t think of someone else. But it’s not only a question of getting a load off my mind. The important question is rather: what shall I do? Leave it is as it is or go to the police once more?”<br /><br />We discussed that problem up to two o’clock that morning, and I am glad to say, that when we went to our rooms, the decision as to what had to be done was arrived at.<br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Bertil Falk, a retired Swedish newspaper and TV journalist. Debut at the age of 12 with the story “Trip In Space,” inspired by reading Edmond Hamilton and Eando (actually Otto) Binder. Their short stories were published in Swedish.<br /><br />Got his first novel The Masked Gang-Leader published in the pulp magazine Alibi Magasinet at the age of 20.<br /><br />Bertil’s only pulp mag, 1954 After that, Bertil worked as a journalist for newspapers all over Sweden and ending up as scriptwriter in the newsroom of a Scandinavian TV channel in London.<br />Bertil has spent more than ten years of his life in Britain, India and the United States and has travelled all over the world. He has produced TV documentaries in Kenya and Tanzania about medical doctors working for the Rotary Doctor Bank and the documentary The Woman Jack Didn’t Rip about the third victim of Jack the Ripper. She was Swedish. Some of these documentaries have been shown by QPTV in New York.<br /><br />Bertil’s second mystery, 1996 In 1996 Bertil’s second mystery, Murder and Orchids was published. There is a Ginnunga gap of 42 years between the two novels. Since 1996 he has written many mysteries, fantasies and sf-stories, not to mention a bunch of short stories, most of them published in Swedish.<br /><br />Bertil is now (2006) translating into Swedish the autobiography Flames from the Ashes by the Indian journalist and freedom fighter P. D. Tandon in Allahabad.<br />After his retirement Bertil was for a couple of years the editor of DAST Magazine, a Swedish publication dedicated to detective stories, secret agent stories, science fiction, fantasy, and thrillers: in a word, DAST. He is still writing for the magazine.<br /><br />Bertil has translated a lot of short stories from English to Swedish by Arnold Bennet, John Dickson Carr, Wilkie Collins, F. R. Corson, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jacques Futrelle, Willliam Schwenk Gilbert (of Sullivan fame), Jeremiah Healy, Edward D. Hoch, William Hope Hodgson, Jack London, L. T. Meade, O. Henry, Sue Parman, Anthony Parsons, Melville Davisson Post, Mark Twain, Edgar Wallace, Henry St. Clair Whitehead and Loel Yeo. Just to mention the top of an iceberg.<br /><br />Bertil is living on his own in a cottage in the small village Västra Alstad in Trelleborg, the southernmost community of Sweden. He has two daughters (both of them translators) and five grandchildren, at this stage (2006) of the Harry Potter-reading age.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-84639904134756101102009-01-14T19:53:00.000-08:002009-01-14T20:01:38.143-08:00Swimming Against The Tide - Barry Baldwin<strong>Swimming Against The Tide</strong><br /><br />There was only one thing on what was left of Eddie Coates' mind.<br /><br />Find Bert.<br /><br />Bert Shuttleworth. Eddie's old mate, his mucker, his oppo, from rampaging around their back street as nippers to first fags behind the bike shed to first fumblings under girls' jumpers also behind the bike shed - their local comprehensive school's after-hours social centre - to the day when they jumped together into the cold murk of the sea.<br /><br />Eddie was never any great shakes at swimming, just a floundering dog paddle picked up at the town baths and day trips to Blackpool where he'd been more interested in female breasts than his own and its stroke. He was, though, an optimist in his way. Back when he was still capable of coming out with such things, he'd said to Bert after one of his splashing sessions, "I reckon if I'm ever on a ship and it sinks four feet from shore I won't have a thing to worry about."<br /><br />Bert was a top-notch swimmer. He had more patience than Eddie, as well as the physique for it; while Eddie was glancing at the girls, they were sizing up Bert. But when they did their high-speed drop into the ocean, a good deal of Bert was on fire.<br /><br />The way eye-witnesses told it, Eddie and Bert had been seen each trying to push a large plank of wood that was bobbing about between them towards the other, until they were blotted out by the billows. When everything was clear and calm, Eddie was sprawled over it, Bert was nowhere to be seen, and that's how it was when the rescuers hauled him out.<br /><br />The medics patched him up on the outside, they couldn't do anything about inside, and that wasn't their job, anyway. So, when he kept insisting that Bert's last words had been "See you around, Eddie Coates," and that he must still be alive, they added a few verbal bromides to the pills they were feeding him, made a curt note in their report, and left it at that.<br /><br />Because of what the others had said, both of them were heroes of a sort, which did Bert no good but Eddie got a bit of money out of some government department, or rather his mother did. She took it over, saying it would go towards "keeping him," now that she supposed she would have to.<br /><br />She didn't, not one hundred percent. But she still had to put two hot meals a day into his belly and a roof over his head. Like many folk who know the price of everything and the value of very little, she was fond of saying that you can't measure everything by money, which is true enough even if the person saying it does. Eddie was out all day during the week, on Saturdays she drifted him off to football in the afternoon and the pictures at night, on Sundays "a nice long walk, it'll do you good after being cooped up in that place," or whatever else she could dream up.<br /><br />There was one other good thing, at least up to a point. When he was having one of his fits, he would be out until all hours roaming around looking for Bert Shuttleworth. He only seemed to have these attacks when the weather was wet; but it rains a lot in the Northern town where they lived. The snag is, when you know somebody who's out is bound to be back in sooner or later, it's nearly as bad as having them there all the time.<br /><br />Eve Coates' husband Fred had walked out soon after Eddie was born. Nobody was all that surprised, the main question being, was Eddie the last straw or a last hope soon given up on? Her version of events wasn't current in the pubs Fred drank in by himself, and he'd always taken care only to thump her where the bruises wouldn't show.<br /><br />His side of the bed was hartdly cold before she started auditioning his replacements. She was a good-looking woman, was Eve, if you go for big brassy blondes, which most blokes do. Some paid in one way, some paid in another. Some stuck money in Eddie's hand and told him to get lost; some gave him a clip round the ear and also told him to get lost. Eddie preferred the money, though was happy enough to grab any chance to bunk off with Bert, who basically filled in as his father and mother, while Eddie did much the same for Bert who was an orphan being brought up by grandparents whose best didn't add up to much, not that either of the lads realised any of this.<br /><br />After Eddie minus Eddie came back home, Eve started to insist on cash in hand for her favours, being forced to the understanding that money was money while meals out and weekends away only ended up as memories, which don't pay the bills. On top of everything else, the maintenance work on her face and figure was costing more and more. Eve had as few illusions about herself as about anyone else, and fully recognised the nature of her appeal to the punters. She knew exactly what that Yank singer - the one with the tits like melons and those glittery costumes, what was her name? - was getting at when she said in some magazine interview that people wouldn't believe what it cost to look that cheap.<br /><br />So, every week a bit of what she made out of her fifty hours a week behind Mr Patel's counter and her "gentlemen friends" and the extra from Eddie was put by. One day, a moonlight flit was going to be on the cards. Telling Eddie was not. She'd have done more than enough for him by then, as if she hadn't already - he was eating her out of house and home for one thing. If he went off at the deep end - not the best choice of words in his case, or perhaps it was - they'd put him in some safe place. One of her regular gentlemen was a doctor who said that any time she gave the word he could arrange to have Eddie sectioned and out of her way, meaning his as well, but tempted though she was she thought she'd keep that ace up her sleeve for another day, so played the good mother to the hilt, bursting into tears - she'd once fancied amateur dramatics and pretending with Fred and most of his successors had kept her in training - and exclaiming that come what may she couldn't ever do that to her own flesh and blood, however much grief he cost her. And, if he improved, or stayed the same, there were plenty of cheap lodgings in their neck of the woods and, well, he'd got a job, hadn't he?<br /><br />Not got, exactly. He'd been given it by Mr Aislabie Hardcastle, owner of the town's biggest factory. It wasn't much of a job, of course, being the kind no one else wanted, none of the locals would touch it, and there was a distinct shortage of black faces thereabouts, excepting Mr Patel whose sons and daughters had all "gone Western," which was how Eve came to have her spot behind his counter. Sweeping the floors, keeping the lavatory respectable, fetching and carrying for whoever shouted loudest, a bit like being a fag in one of those public school stories that Eddie used to devour in his reading days, though Bert would never look at them.<br /><br />Officially, Aislabie Hardcastle gave Eddie the job because his own son had copped it in much the same way as Bert Shuttleworth, so he wanted to do something for this other local lad who'd got knocked about doing his bit. At least, that was the version in the evening paper and on the regional radio. His regular workers, always more inclined to cynicism than credit for good intentions, and having no other cause to associate him with charity of any kind, reckoned it was just another of those government job creation things and old man Hardcastle was getting cheap labour and tax incentives and what-not out of it.<br /><br />It was obvious from the start how many planks short of a load Eddie was, so he'd have taken some stick from the others, especialy the ones around his own age, except that the foreman had put it about that anyone who tried anything on him would have the gaffer to answer to. By and large, then, apart from the dogs-bodying, they left him alone, which wasn't hard. When he was in a normal frame of mind, you wouldn't get a peep out of him, and when he was having one of his do's you couldn't shut him up about how Bert Shuttleworth was still alive and somewhere in the town and how he was going to find him one of these days. They'd just nudge each other and wink and go Yes Eddie, Right Eddie, You Go For It Eddie. Those who remembered the pair from old times led the pack in insincerity, content that it was just a delusion in an addled brain; no one who had known Bert Shuttleworth wanted him back.<br /><br />One day, another new man turned up. The first reaction on the shop floor - only muttered because of his size - was, where the hell does old man Hardcastle dig them up? Some whispered that this one was as daft as Eddie, you only had to look at his eyes, others thought this was a false impression because they were the only thing about him that seemed alive. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, then or ever, since he had this odd immobile face which gave nothing away except a vague sense that it was a costume mask he was wearing, though he wasn't misshapen or ugly in any outstanding way. As one of the men complained in the canteen, they say it takes forty-three muscles to frown and only seventeen to smile, but that bugger won't even move one. He went on to compare the voice that went with it to that of a droning Dalek on Dr Who. Not that they heard much of it. The new man, silent during his mumbled two-sentence introduction by the foreman, was hardly more talkative than Eddie on a good day, using an all-purpose nod to compensate for his vocal lack and blank look.<br /><br />What struck them most, though it was conveniently dismissed as two of a kind, and what a kind, was the way this bloke coped with Eddie. For a while, it wasn't too hard. The weather was unusually fine, so Eddie was dormant. He caused a flutter, though, by asking the new man more than once if he could do anything for him. With the rest, it was always a case of waiting to be told.<br /><br />Then the rain came back, right on schedule for mid-summer, teeming bucketfuls, flash floods in the town centre, people sloshing into work even if they'd only had a short sprint from bus stop or car park. With it came the worst-ever tide of Bert Shuttleworthism. The new man took the full lot, which suited the shop floor well enough, although it now had the distraction of seeing how he actually sat down with Eddie as if they were old friends and let him rave on for ages, not just nodding but laying a hand on his shoulder and putting in a few drones of his own; no one could make out what, and who cared?<br /><br />They would have, if they'd bothered to.<br /><br />Eve thought she'd not seen Eddie quite this worked up before. His talk was the usual drivel about Bert Shuttleworth. She let that wash over her, as always. But he'd barely touched his fried bacon and baked beans, his favourite meal, which Eve would slap together for him as a Friday treat, backed up when she was in a rare good mood by a condensed milk sandwich, in exchange for his pay packet. She hoped he wasn't sickening for something; that was all she needed. Even more surprisingly, he'd got himself all poshed up, wearing his best jacket, the one with all the pockets, a tie whose style was years out of date but it was still a tie, real shoes instead of trainers, and his mousy hair stuck down with carbolic soap and water, doing it was pointless, that he'd troubled to do it at all was not. Eve hadn't realised that Eddie knew any more that he had a best jacket. It was the one Bert Shuttleworth had egged him on to buy; he'd never worn it since that last night out before they'd gone away. She was more pleased by than interested in Eddie's condition, since it suggested that he'd be late back, which suited her own plans for a discreet meal and afters with her doctor friend. Hoping it would help find room for the message in his teeming head, she gave him back a bit more than usual from his wages: "Here, if you do bump into that Bert Shuttleworth finally, buy him a pint on me. You don't want to hurry back. I'll most like be late myself. You know where to find the key."<br /><br />It was still wet, the on-again-off-again stuff that is more aggravating than the real thing. Eve watched him set off from the front room window, which wasn't usual, shaking her head, which was. She hoped those bulges in his pockets were his plastic Pak-A-Mak and muffler, otherwise if the rain really set in again his jacket would get sodden and he'd catch his death of cold. She couldn't be bothered to open the door and shout after him about it, she was running a bit behind schedule and needed to get to work on her own tittivating if she wasn't going to be late.<br /><br />It normally took Eddie a good hour or so to walk from their house to the town centre. He never took the bus, whatever the weather, a good policy on principle, they'd become a lot more expensive and erratic since the municipal ones had been sold off. Eddie's reason was that he was nervous of being caged up in anything after what had happened to him and Bert.<br /><br />Tonight, he was quicker, not stopping to do his usual spot checks in all the pubs along the way. He kept worrying maybe he ought to, in case he should at last strike lucky off his own bat, but he didn't want to risk being late and the old watch of Fred's that his mother had once chucked at him wasn't always very good about telling the time. He did keep his eyes peeled on the Friday night crowds, though, but nothing doing, except he had a stroke of fortune without realising it when he stopped and stared too long at the gang of youths congregated outside The Roxy, the town's one glum remaining cinema, a social solecism that would have got most people a good kicking on any weekend English street, and the youths did nudge each other and turn in his direction, but something about him put them off and they slouched away with nothing more than a bit of Eff-You fist waving.<br /><br />It was too early for the Dog and Bear to have got going. Just a couple of old-age pensioners at one of the back tables spinning out the halves of mild which was all they could afford, heads bent down over the delaying tactic of their game of dominoes. The landlord, new since Eddie had last been in with Bert, not that he was aware, summed him up with professional speed as another poor spender, so ignored him.<br /><br />There was no sign of the man from the factory. Eddie retreated to the doorway. He didn't fancy trying to order a drirnk by himself, Bert had always done that for them and he'd never been out with anybody else since and in any case he wasn't much of a drinker and still remembered that pubs don't care much for men who only have an orange squash. But he thought he should hang around in case he was early or the man was off having a jimmy riddle in the Gents. But after only a couple of minutes a fresh customer trying to get in had to push his way around Eddie with more than a bit of swearing and the landlord called out "Did you want something, mate?" in a tone that implied he'd better not, and Eddie shook his head and backed out into the alley down which the Dog and Bear was situated, almost colliding with the woman who was stood there watching him.<br /><br />For a jumbled minute, Eddie fancied it was his mother, come to fetch him home with a few clouts and no supper and straight up to bed for stopping out too long with Bert when there were chores waiting for him. This woman was a younger version, just as blonde as Eve in her prime and just as big if not bigger under her leather jacket and roll-top sweater and showing off the same amounts of leg and thigh thanks to a skirt that didn't know what a knee was. The real article, not mutton dressed up as lamb. She was smiling at him as well, something his mother never did, and other women only out of pity.<br /><br />"Would you be Eddie Coates, by any chance?"<br /><br />Like smiles, enquiries about who he was didn't come Eddie's way very often. Those who knew him spent very little time in his company, unless it was for a spot of light relief, and those who didn't know him didn't want to. Because of what they often had to put up with themselves, women could sympathise a bit more, in a vague not-going-any-further-than-that way. Back in the old days, Eddie had been as keen on girls as the next lad, one reason he stuck to Bert, trying not to mind too much that Bert clicked with them ten times to his one and when in pairs always went off with the bobby-dazzler, leaving him and the plain Jane or hairy Mary looking at each other in a Now What? way after last orders or last waltz. Still, he had had a few moments, especially after he'd broken down one time and begged Eve for some tips and without really knowing why, except that she was between friends and had got to thinking about Fred without the thumpings and Eddie was the only thing of Fred she had apart from the old wooden sea-chest that he had sanded and begun to varnish before leaving it in the cellar empty and unfinished like everything else he had started, she helped him in a way that very few mothers would. All the fragments of this mental kaleidoscope shook themselves into place for an isolated second: "I used to be," he said.<br /><br />This answer surprised her, though she kept the smile tacked on her face. It wasn't what she'd been led to expect, a smarty-pants comeback. She paused, uncertain whether she should reply in kind or stick to her script. Eddie, already retreating into his one-man world, solved it for her with "Who are you? You're not my mother."<br /><br />"Hardly. I'm a friend of him from the factory. You know, the one who said he was going to help you look for Bert Shuttleworth."<br /><br />It was the right and the wrong thing to say. "Has he found Bert? Where is he?" Eddie looked desperately up and down the alley, its gloom made worse by the single street lamp long since vandalised out of action and the frosted glass of the Dog and Bear's window which kept most of its light to itself.<br /><br />Along with Eddie having let on that the Dog and Bear had been one of Bert's favourites, this was the reason it had been chosen, and why she'd been hanging around in the shadows waiting for him to go in and come out. It had been dinned into her that no one should see them together long enough to remember.<br /><br />"Hang on a minute. No, Bert's not here. But he knows where he is. He's told me to take you to him."<br /><br />"Where are they, then, where are they?"<br /><br />"Let go my arm, you're hurting. That's more like it. Only, there's one thing to be settled first. He told you it might cost a bit, his looking around and that. Did you manage to bring any money, like he said?"<br /><br />Eddie dug a hand into his bulgiest pocket. Not knowing whether to be more thrilled or amazed over the mass of notes he was pushing at her, she stopped him as he was starting to fumble for more, wanting to get away before anyone else came into the alley or out of the pub. "That'll do nicely. Keep it in your pocket till we get there. Right, let's get cracking. I've been wondering what Bert and you'll make of each other after all this time."<br /><br />That wasn't the only thing she was wondering, now.<br /><br />Avoiding the lights of the town centre as much as possible, she led Eddie through a maze of back streets and ginnels, grateful she'd been told to do a dry run the night before to make sure she wouldn't get them lost. Eddie trotted along, sometimes beside her, sometimes behind, like a puppy anxious to keep up with its mistress but not sure how. Had this image entered her head, it wouldn't have endeared him to her one little bit; she disliked animals almost as much as men.<br /><br />They finally reached a rickety swing bridge. Eddie didn't like the look of its ropes and girders, they reminded him too much of too much, so was relieved when she steered him away from it and on to a path that had been worn down to and through the wasteland that made up the bank of the old industrial canal. This bothered Eddie more than the bridge. "Why are we here? Bert won't like water since..."<br /><br />"Calm down. It's all right." She squinted at her watch, a far cry from Eddie's old thing. "Almost time. We'll just have a fag, and you can hand over that money while we're about it." She rummaged in her bag for the cigarettes, leaving it unclasped, producing a battered pack. "Bugger it, only one left. Sorry. You don't mind, do you?" She lit up, not expecting an answer. Holding up the lighted Swan Vesta like a flare before tossing it, she took a deep drag, doing her calculations. "A rum spot, this, I grant you. There's one like it where I come from. They used to hold an open-air market on it every Saturday. My grandad used to buy his specs and false teeth from a stall there." It wasn't the moment to add how the old so-and-so was always groping after her though he was too decrepit to do such a good job at it as her father; it never was. Anyway, she knew she was talking to herself. "Let's be having you with that money, then." Obediently, Eddie clawed into a pocket, but she'd only had time to grab a couple of handfuls of notes before he gaped past her and started to shout, "He's there, he's there, look, he's come!"<br /><br />He was pointing to underneath the bridge. The man was standing there; he'd emerged from behind one of its pylons. She cursed him silently for not giving her enough time to lay hands on all the money. "Hold hard!" But Eddie was off, puppy turned greyhound, almost tripping over a length of rusted pipe that was slumbering on the canal bank amidst all the other rubbish ancient and modern, including a number of old packing crates, in any one of which a man or woman would easily fit. She started after him, moving a good deal more slowly, despite the strength her regular profession had given her legs, partly because of her high heels, partly because the final choice was still at a crossroads in her brain.<br /><br />The man didn't move. He had his back to them, giving an impression of the villain in an old black -and-white film with his heavy black coat and antique porkpie hat. He thought he'd gauged it perfectly, doing an about turn with military precision a second before Eddie would be on him.<br /><br />"See you around, Eddie Coates."<br /><br />Until the doorbell rang, Eve was having a good night. The dinner with her doctor friend had gone well, so had the afters, and he was starting to sound genuine about leaving his wife. She decided to treat herself to a drop of brandy and a nice long soak, even sparing a thought for Eddie and how he might have got on as she pottered about.<br /><br />The two uniformed police officers, scuffers as Eve was old enough to call them, a male and a female, were propping Eddie up between them. Above his slumping body and rag-doll limbs his face was all blotchy and the intense light in his eyes from tea time was quite gone out.<br /><br />"Mrs Coates?"<br /><br />"For my sins. You'd best bring him in. Look at the state of his clothes. That was his best jacket, and those shoes cost me I don't know how much..." The uniforms exchanged a look.<br /><br />"What have you been up to, you daft ha'porth?" Getting no change out of the question, or the good shaking with which she followed it up until the male officer stopped her, she changed tack. "He'll be no help. Best get him upstairs and into bed. I'll have a go at him in the morning."<br /><br />They followed Eve upstairs, half-carrying half-dragging Eddie, into a back bedroom which looked not much more inviting than the holding cells down at the station, with its cracked ceiling, dim bulb, and faded wallpaper unrelieved by any sort of picture or poster. They flopped him down on the narrow bed and started to watch but very soon didn't want to as Eve dragged off his jacket and trousers and shoes, not bothering with the rest and tossing a thin scruffy blanket over him without any attempt to clean him up or dry him off.<br /><br />The male officer said he'd stop with him for a bit, just in case, and perched at the foot of the bed, no chair being in evidence. The woman one followed Eve back down the uncarpeted stairs and into the old-fashioned kitchen, almost falling over one of the peeling brown squares of lino, where she wasn't offered any of the brandy Eve started swigging, so there was no call for the Not While We're On Duty routine.<br /><br />Eve had noticed the stumble. "I had our Eddie down on that lino. All by myself, as well; my bastard husband was in the pub." That was the extent of her trip down memory lane. "What's this all about, then?"<br /><br />I thought you'd never ask. Aloud, "There's been a bit of a to-do down at the canal."<br /><br />"The canal? What was our Eddie doing down there?" This flurry of Our Eddies struck the police woman's ear as grafted on for effect. "He's never gone near water since..."<br /><br />"We don't know yet. Eddie hasn't been able to tell us anything. The truth is, Mrs Coates, it's rather more than a to-do. There was another man there and..."<br /><br />"And what did he tell you?"<br /><br />"I'm afraid he was in no condition to tell us anything. He was dead by the time we were on the scene. We're wondering if he might have been a friend of your son..."<br /><br />"Eddie hasn't got any friends. He only ever had one, Bert Shuttleworth, and he's been dead for ages, good riddance to bad rubbish, though nobody can get Eddie to believe that."<br /><br />"Yes, I've heard bits and bobs about that in the canteen, but they mainly make a joke of it and I've not been here that long and've never heard the full story."<br /><br />"They wouldn't make a joke of it if they had to live with it, I can tell you. There's not a lot to say. Eddie and this Bert Shuttleworth had always knocked around together ever since they were out of nappies, almost. Too much so, for my liking, Bert was always taking advantage of Eddie as far as I could see, but when your husband's done a bunk and you're out at work six days a week, what are you supposed to do? Anyhow, the pair of them suddenly went and signd on for the navy. They didn't have a lot of education, and there's precious little for lads around here. Six months later, they were in the thick of the Falklands, helping old Ma Thatcher keep the sheep British. Their ship was hit by one of those Exocet things. Half the crew went killed or missing. Eddie got picked up, Bert didn't, that's the long and the short of it, except Eddie's never been right since. The quacks say it's guilt transference, whatever that is when it's at home. They reckon Eddie somehow thinks he ought to have done more to try and save his pal, though Bert was always the swimmer of the two, and he won't believe he's dead because he has to find him to make up."<br /><br />"Does he get violent much?"<br /><br />"Violent? He's never that. A lot of the time he's all right, though slow, like. And when he gets these fits, all he does is tramp about the town looking in the pubs and asking folk if they've seen Bert. You're not telling me he had owt to do with that bloke being dead...?"<br /><br />"We're not sure of anything yet, but we don't think so, and after what you've just said...Does Eddie have treatment, pills or anything?"<br /><br />"They haven't come up with a pill for what ails him, love." This last word sounded as tactical as the Our Eddies. "I admit they've warned me he could suddenly go right round the twist and never come back, and I have this doctor who says he ought to be sectioned for his own good, but when all's said and done he is my lad and..."<br /><br />Change the details and the police woman had heard this sort of stuff a thousand times before. "Does Eddie usually have much money on him, like when he's seeing a girl or anything?"<br /><br />"Seeing a girl? Don't make me laugh. He used to be interested when he was right, he had to be, going with that Bert Shuttleworth. I could tell you a tale or two about both of them, but not since he came back. Money, well, I give him his allowance every pay day, enough for what he does and a bit more to make sure you lot can't run him in for vagrancy. What's money got to do with this business?"<br /><br />"Quite a lot, though we haven't fathomed the ins and out of it yet. We only came on all this by accident. One of our Panda cars went down there for some reason, there's not usually much happening by the canal except a spot of courting and the odd suicide. Between you and me, they just wanted a quiet half hour with fish and chips and a listen to the football. Anyway, they found this fellow in the water and Eddie hunched up on the bank and this woman scrabbling around trying to pick up all these bank notes. She swears blind they're hers, and she's known to us as the sort who does her earnng at night, but it seems an awful lot for somebody at her level, which is why we're wondering if your son...?"<br /><br />The sarky emphasis she put on Your Son was water off a duck's back. "Well, that's a complete mystery to me..." As Eve emptied her glass, not the first, she went vacant-looking, as though she'd gone inside herself. More likely the brandy than any of this, the police woman thought. At that moment, her colleague came lumbering down the stairs and into the kitchen, shaking his head as she looked up at him. "A bit of whimpering, otherwise dead to the world." When Eve shook herself back and managed "Is he in trouble, then?" he grabbed the chance to take the spotlight away from his opposite number. "I doubt it, especially not with him being the way he is, though it's too early to be sure, and whatever happens the police doctor will want another look at him. We reckon she somehow got Eddie down there to do, you know, the business, and this bloke was her minder and she had him waiting to jump her client. It does happen, not just in London" - he sounded almost proud of the local villains' ability to keep pace with crime in the capital. "The medic they brought to the scene says the bloke didn't drown, someone clobbered him, probably with an old bit of iron pipe we found there. It's thought when she saw how much money there was she reckoned she wasn't in a sharing mood, so she cracked Mr X over the head and pushed him into the canal for good measure, probably hoping he'd go down or float away. We'll soon know that from fingerprints, she wasn't wearing any gloves, spur of the moment thing. And she'd have got away with it, if those Panda chaps hadn't sloped off down there."<br /><br />The woman was presently spilling some of the beans, egged on though not too convinced by the suggestion tha a clean breast of things would be a fair swap for a word to the judge on her behalf before sentencing. She'd met this factory bloke in a pub, not the Dog and Bear, and they'd got talking and weighing each other up, he was partly after the obvious, but had bigger fish to fry. He'd given her a down payment to meet Eddie and pretend she was a friend, and have her wangle him down to the canal so there would be no danger that he'd be seen with him in the town. When she asked him why, he'd clammed up, and although his face couldn't convey any subtle messages, he'd contrived to make it silently clear that this was something not to be asked or answered. This made her wary of enquiring how he thought a dumbo like Eddie could raise any worthwhile amount of money. But when she put the question of what should she do if Eddie turned up cashless, he replied as tersely as his Dalek tonsils allowed to bring him down anyway. She agreed that she was the one who'd felled him with the iron pipe, but sh hadn't intended to kill him, she was trying to stop him from doing harm to Eddie who'd lurched at him and was promptly knocked down and obviously in for some GBH at best.<br /><br />The police doctor sent round to look at Eddie, who hadn't said a word since he'd been brought home, and never would again, found a few marks and bruises which did a bit to bolster her story, to which she stuck, and without Eddie's side of things and no other witnesses, they agreed with her not to pursue the idea that she had done Mr X in because she reckoned that after all his precautions he wouldn't be planning on leaving her around to tell the tale, in return for which she only objected inside herself to their earmarking the money for an unofficial contribution to the Police Benevolent Fund, and settled for manslaughter with extenuating circumstances that along with her cooperation left her facing only a couple of years, not counting time off for conduct.<br /><br />Eddie, however, got a life sentence. The police doctor said it was a bad sign, his refusing to speak, bottling it all up could lead to a big explosion. There was no longer anything in it for Eve's doctor, who had finally decided not to leave his wife, and he was counting on enjoying not doing anything to help Eve until she pointed out that sectioning would be a suitable exchange for her not blabbing to wifey about his carryings-on. The papers were signed, and Eddie was taken away. The Long Suffering Mother act was left down the cellar where she'd gone the minute the police officers had left and seen how much of her savings were missing from the wooden sea-chest.<br /><br />The optimists on the mental home staff thought that, given a long period of treatment and isolation, Eddie might just snap out of it. Not wanting to run the risk of tipping him over the edge into permanent Bertmania, it was resolved not to tell him the rest of the story, nor Eve either, not trusting her after the impresion she'd made on the police officers; and there were no relatives or friends on the Shuttleworth side. So, it was kept under the carpet how the authorities with some reluctant help from Aislabie Hardcastle traced Mr X back from the factory to the ship and the naval hospital records and the details of seaman Shuttleworth being picked up against all the odds by a helicopter that had come back on the off-chance and the plastic surgery so drastic that not even his mother would have recongised him and the artificial voice-box and the warnings in the file about his mental state, he seemed to be blaming his best friend, and when tracked down one of the eye-witnesses had admitted that they'd agreed to lie for the sake of the service's reputation, in reality both Eddie and Bert had been heard going at each other on board for signing on in the first place and landing them in this war, and the scraps of their old mateship drowned in the icy water and the smoke and the noise, and they'd actually been seen both trying to pull themselves on to that plank, all of which gave good reason why Bert, when finally discharged from the hospital because a shortage of beds, should return home like a dog to its vomit to lure Eddie to what he'd missed the first time round, not to mention, which no one did, the different light it would have shed on to Eddie's own quest.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-42051173647403845622008-12-02T22:07:00.000-08:002008-12-02T22:21:36.392-08:00The Untouchable - Edward C. BurtonThe Untouchable<br /><br />What do you get when you cross a Hindu “untouchable” with an unsung hero? Me. Yes, that’s me, just a regular walking joke. I work behind the scenes at the Renner-McCallum funeral home. I’m the guy you never see, but without me, Renner and McCallum both would be miserable men, having to do all the dirty work themselves. I’m the guy who has to go to the nursing homes and the hospitals, the dork toting a body down the halls in a stretcher, the body zipped up in a body bag looking like some awkward black vinyl cello case, trying to get to the exit as quickly and inconspicuous as possible. The idea of a dead body in proximity always has an effect on one’s spirits. I generally do okay, although there was that time I stopped for lunch at Sonic on the way back from a body run. There I was feasting on a Number One Cheeseburger with large fries, a body in the back of the Suburban, and when it came time to leave, the freakin’ Suburban wouldn’t start. Of all places for a vehicle battery to give up the ghost. And it was a hot day for this part of the country. I had to sit there for over two hours waiting for a mobile mechanic, not to mention the number of times the carhop kept walking back and forth asking if I was still enjoying my meal. Good thing the ride had tinted windows. <br /><br />I got the call at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning. I just happened to be in the funeral home because I couldn’t sleep. Mr. Renner had suggested I place an order to Batesville for more caskets. Actually, he’d mentioned it a few times in the past week before he went off to his annual “meeting” of the USA Mortician’s Society down in Fort Myers, Florida. I could see him and Mr. McCallum down there, both of them looking like the vultures in Disney’s Jungle Book movie asking each other, “whatcha wanna do now, Mac?” “I don’t know, Ren, what you wanna do?” Senior bachelors who smoked and drank like fish, gaping at anything that had two legs on the beach. And here I was stuck in Indiana with my cell phone set to auto alert me to calls the funeral home got. I got the call before it hit my cell phone.<br /><br />“Renner-McCallum, what may I do for you?” I asked, hoping it was a wrong number.<br /><br />“Yeah, I got a body for you. My uncle died in the night. Coroner’s here already,” a hoarse chilly voice said on the other end. I had no idea why, but my skin crawled with goose pimples.<br /><br />“Okay, well, I’m sorry, sir. Did your funeral have a pre-planned arrangement with us?” <br /><br />I could hear heavy breathing on the other end. Hey, people mourn in different ways. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. All the guy ever did was drink Budweiser and watch television. He never left the house. But when you come down here we can sort that out,” the man said.<br /><br />I began to sense an odd sort of familiarity about the man. It was something extrasensory. I knew this man. I got the particulars. The residence was only a few miles away. I perked some coffee, a full pot because I knew I’d be busy until at least noon when I got back, a hell of a way to spend a Saturday. I could at least have the body prepped for Tuesday when Renner and McCallum came back. I savored a cup of the black rich coffee before slipping my windbreaker on and stepping out into the pre morning autumn wet. It wasn’t cold, but fall was definitely in the air. It had rained most of the night. Amber leaves were stuck on the pavement like wet sheets of paper. A pole lamp behind the funeral home parking lot highlighted the glistening raindrops and offered an artificial sense of sunshine warmth. <br /><br />I started up the white hearse and let the engine warm for a bit before darting into the local McDonald’s drive thru for an Egg McMuffin and a hash brown which ended up crumbling in my lap as I navigated the gigantic hearse through the wet slicked streets. I found the house on the other side of town, a somber saggy wooden house painted red which looked black in the pre-dawn light. The yellow bulb that made up the porch light gave a sinister air of Halloween, a hastily fashioned haunted house hosted by a family of hill jacks. <br /><br />When I clomped onto the porch, I saw a form at the window. The door opened and I still didn’t recognize the silhouette until I was invited in and I saw the occupant under his living room light. Bobby Kravenewski. I felt a twinge of guilt shoot through me. We had made his life a living hell in school, everything from dunking his head in the toilet to turning his ass cheeks blood red by snapping gym towels at him. And now here he was with a dead uncle on his hands. He didn’t seem to recognize me, and I was glad. I glanced at the talking head on his TV screen pronouncing some get rich real estate scheme.<br /><br />"My uncle’s in his bedroom there,” he pointed. It occurred to me the coroner was nowhere around. I wondered if he’d even been there. He seemed to read my mind. “Coroner’s on his way. I already called the police,” he said. <br /><br />“Hmmmm, well, okay then,” I said. He had lied to me saying over the phone the coroner was already here. His house was hot and I started to take my windbreaker off. “Here ya, go. I hope you like it black.” He proffered me a ceramic mug of coffee, filled to the brim. Had he asked me, I would have refused, but I thought I should take a sip or two to be polite. <br /><br />“So, what happened . . . with your uncle?” I asked.<br /><br />“Not sure, really, I think he just up and died in his sleep. I went in there and he just looked, I don’t know . . . different, I guess.” <br /><br />“How old is . . . was, your uncle?” I asked.<br /><br />“Oh, jeeze, pushing seventy I suppose,” he said.<br /><br />This guy was clueless. Wasn’t he aware the coroner could request an autopsy? If any kind of foul play were suspected the police or sheriff’s department would be involved. <br /><br />“Come on, I’ll let you have a look,” he gestured toward his uncle’s room. I debated about waiting for the coroner, but thought I’d be polite and at least follow him. He opened his uncle’s room, and the room had no light on. Then it hit me like a kick to the crotch. My head swam, and the talking face droning in the background on the television began to echo. I looked at Bobby, and could feel my mouth going numb and my jaw hanging slack. <br /><br />“What’s a matter?” he asked. Then he smiled and I knew I was in deep trouble. “I’ll bet you didn’t think I knew who you was. How could I forget?” He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “You made my life such fun back in school, I’m just going to pay you back a little, that’s all.” He threw his head back and laughed. I was feeling dizzy. My eyes had adjusted to the dark. I glanced at the bed. There was no body there.<br /><br />When I felt my legs go he grabbed me and dragged me down to his basement. He continued talking, describing how he was going to take care of me real good. I listened until even my hearing became buzzed. He dropped me into a shallow dirt floor grave and began shoveling cold damp earth on top of me. I wondered what he could have put into the coffee to make me lose all control. I thought of the X-Files episode in which the spooky guy from Haiti blew zombie powder into people’s faces and gave them the semblance of being dead. I had the episode in a box set on my living room shelf. That thought almost made me smile although I couldn’t even feel my lips. Then I realized I would never see the episode again, nor would I ever again watch an episode of anything. I watched him pour the dirt on me and I was oblivious to the weight of it on me. I could feel nothing. How in the hell did he know I would have been alone? Had he been staking me out? I pondered these things clear up until the dirt closed over my face. And when he brought the shovel up over his head and slammed it down packing the dirt in and smashing my nasal cavity I didn’t even feel it.<br /><br />The End<br /> <br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Edward Burton is an avid PC gamer, and has had essays published in Computer Games Magazine. He has written dozens of short stories and has been published in Children, Churches, and Daddies Magazine. He currently has two novel manuscripts floating through the NYC publishing house circuit.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-7590406249837887062008-11-23T21:53:00.000-08:002008-11-23T21:57:50.160-08:00Happily Here Hereafter - Grace Gannon RudolphHAPPILY HERE HEREAFTER<br /><br />Annabelle vowed if there was such a thing as reincarnation she’d come back as a boy. “Men have all the advantages,” she’d say, up to her elbows in warm soapy water, crashing dishes around the sink and slamming them on the counter. When Annabelle was angry her green eyes, with a tiny fleck of blue pigment in the left eye, would flash. “Men have it easy,” she’d say, rolling her long blond hair on hard plastic rollers; after bleaching, washing, untangling it and preparing to spend another sleepless night staring at the ceiling, and wondering where her husband Harry was at three in the morning. Again. “He’s going to hell,” she’d hiss in the darkness to reassure herself there was justice somewhere, maybe not in this world but definitely in the hereafter.<br /><br />A preoccupation with death was a genetic glitch in Annabelle’s make up.<br />It was the favorite topic of discussion among her aunts each Sunday when they gathered in her living room after Mass at Saint Pius, for tea and cucumber sandwiches. While Annabelle prepared the food and Harry slipped out the back door, they regaled each other with horror stories. On Sundays five-year-old Lola, Annabelle’s only child, crouched on the steps of the staircase in the living room with her elbows on her knees, her fists propped against her chin and her thumbs close enough to block her ears when things got too scary.<br /><br />“Did you hear about the road they’re putting in near the farm?” Aunt Hildegard began.<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“I didn’t tell you about that?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Well….”<br /><br />Lola knew what was coming. She’d heard every gruesome detail the Sunday before. She winced. Her thumbs inched closer to her ears and hovered there but, self-control wasn’t her long suit.<br /><br />“….they started building a new road up by Nelson’s farm and they found out the old one was built over a cemetery.”<br /><br />“No!” Aunt Sophie gasped.<br /><br />“Yes! And, wait till you hear this….”<br /><br />Nightmares for sure.<br /><br />“…they found coffins.”<br /><br />“Coffins?”<br /><br />Oh oh.<br /><br />How could they not remember they’d heard this same story a week ago?<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“No!”<br /><br />“Yes. Inside they found skeletons clawing at the lids.” Aunt Hildegard clawed the air and twisted her mouth in agony for emphasis. “They’d been buried alive and were trying to get out.”<br /><br />“A lot of good that would do,” Aunt Rose huffed. “So you get out of your coffin and then what?”<br /><br />Lola knew after being tucked into bed and kissed goodnight the nightmare would float into the room. She had the same dream every night after first hearing that death related tale. There were others, shared while cucumber sandwiches were devoured and washed down with dainty sips of Red Rose tea. But the premature burial found a nook in Lola’s brain and set up house.<br /><br />The nightmare never varied. Lola’s father Harry was being waked at St. Pius. Candles flickered. The scent of incense and melting wax filled the air. After the last mourner had viewed the body Lola tiptoed to the casket to pray. The lid began to lower slowly but paused long enough for Lola to catch a fleeting glimpse of Harry as he opened his eyes and winked. Lola, frantic, tried to shout, “Don’t bury ‘im.” But, the congregation, busy with their rosaries or novena booklets, either didn’t care or didn’t believe her. Lola, awake, had a terrible time with truth; asleep, she paid dearly for this shortcoming.<br /><br />When Lola was nine several cataclysmic events occurred within a week of each other. First, the mother of Beatrice, the disheveled girl who sat beside her at school, died. Next, Harry moved out of the house into an apartment. Then, Aunt Sophie died. Sophie, at eighty-nine, was the youngest of the group and the only one with a valid driver’s license, even though she occasionally drove over curbs or forgot where she was going. The Sunday gatherings stopped abruptly.<br /><br />On the moonless night of Sophie’s wake Lola and her mother stood alone on the funeral parlor porch watching nearby trees pitch and writhe in the wind. The scent of rain was heavy in the air. Suddenly Annabelle whispered, “I was thinking about Beatrice today, the one whose mother died.” Lola looked up at her mother, a looming shadow in the darkness. “I wonder what Beatrice will do now that her mother’s gone.”<br /><br />Lola felt a chill, wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.<br /><br />“Are you cold?” Annabelle gathered Lola to her side.<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Do you want to go in?”<br /><br />Sophie was inside; in a coffin. “No.”<br /><br />“Well,” Annabelle’s voice drifted into the darkness as she lit a cigarette. The tip<br />caught fire and flared for a moment then melted into a faint orange glow. Annabelle sucked the smoke deep into her lungs, held it a moment then, jutting out her chin, exhaled it into the darkness. “Someone just walked over your grave,” she said.<br /><br />“My grave?” Lola reared away from Annabelle.<br /><br />“Not really. It’s just a saying.” Annabelle dropped her cigarette, grinding it out with the toe of her shoe. She draped her arm around Lola’s shoulders and said, “Let’s go in.” She dragged Lola inside where they took a front row seat.<br /><br />Aunt Hildegard, sitting behind them, leaned over and whispered in Annabelle’s ear, “What are you going to do now that that snake moved out? Are you going to be able to keep the house?”<br /><br />Annabelle shrugged. “I don’t know,” she sighed. “I haven’t figured it out.”<br /><br />When Lola realized the ‘snake’ was Harry a new terror nudged the old terror from the nook in her brain and settled in. What would happen now that it was just Lola and Annabelle against the world? The apartment her father had moved into wasn’t an apartment at all. It was his girlfriend’s house. And, what if Annabelle, like Beatrice’s mother, died?<br /><br />Lola checked out the woods behind their house. Tangled masses of vines drooped from trees making canopies over small clearings big enough to house a nine-year-old. Reassured, she went home and watched cartoons.<br /><br />One rainy afternoon she slogged into the woods to test her home away from home. She crawled inside the clearing that seemed the homiest and sat cross-legged on the ground. The rain pounded through the vines and stung Lola with such fury that she ran back inside the house and was walking through the kitchen when Annabelle, in the dining room, heard water squishing in her shoes. “Stop!” Annabelle shouted, about to run towards Lola who froze mid-step. Annabelle back-pedaled out of the kitchen on her tiptoes. “I just washed that floor.” Lola stood stock still beside the sink as rain water pooled on the floor around her. “What happened to you?” Annabelle asked.<br /><br />“I was playing in the woods.”<br /><br />“Have you lost your mind? It’s pouring cats and dogs.”<br /><br />Since the woods didn’t work out Lola came up with a new plan.<br /><br />Each morning she’d press her nose against the school bus window to scope out alleyways as the bus rocketed its way to St. Clements School. Bobby Slecthman, the kid next door, had a club house made from the cardboard crate his mother’s new refrigerator arrived in, so Lola decided if worse came to worse and she was alone and adrift in the world, she could live in a crate at the end of an alley.<br /><br />When Lola turned twelve Annabelle had an epiphany. As her anger at Harry subsided she noticed that Lola had turned into a bundle of angst waiting to erupt. She had a solution. She gave Lola a book, Song of the Scaffold, the story of a timid girl caught in the chaos of the French Revolution. Lola, an avid reader tore through the book, got to the last page and, pressed her hands against her mouth. “What’s wrong now?” Annabelle asked.<br /><br />“What an awful story.”<br /><br />“It’s a great story. It shows you can overcome your fears and be stronger. Like that girl.”<br /><br />“Her mother died in childbirth. The Carmelite nuns were beheaded. She got stoned to death,” said Lola, trying to rid her brain of the image of a feeble twitching arm poking out of the bottom of a heap of stones. The only way she could keep from screaming was to focus on the tiny blue star in her mother’s eye.<br /><br />Annabelle rested her fist on her hip, tilted her head to one side and said, “I give up. You missed the point.”<br /><br />Over the years, as Lola grew up, old fears were replaced by new ones; Fear she would never get a decent job, never find a man willing to commit or, find an apartment she could afford.<br /><br />Eventually, Lola met men unwilling to commit, couldn’t find an apartment she could afford but, got a job as a receptionist in a small ad agency. When the copywriter left in a huff, Lola’s boss asked her to write a 60-second radio ad for a meat market. “Pretend you’re pitching to hungry cannibals,” he said. Lola, who had the right mind-set for the task, did so well she began writing ads for newspapers and flyers as well as for radio. She lived at home, putting money aside for the day when either Mr. Right or the right apartment came along.<br /><br />One Sunday after Mass Annabelle, inspired by Lola’s success, poured over the employment section of the Globe until she found a job as a receptionist in a large hospital.<br /><br />On the morning of her interview Annabelle locked herself in the bathroom until an hour later the door slammed open and she emerged with a loud, “Tahdah, What do you think?”<br /><br />“About what?” Lola asked<br /><br />Annabelle turned to the left and fluttered her eye lashes. She had applied dark eye-liner and several layers of mascara. “Can you see it?”<br /><br />“See what?”<br /><br />“I don’t look like a freak?” She tapped the cheekbone under her left eye.<br /><br />“Mom, you look great.”<br /><br />Annabelle slung her new purse over her shoulder and braced herself against the front door as she stumbled onto the front porch on her new three-inch heels. With a wave of her hand she was gone.<br /><br />After Annabelle got the job she began bringing home stories of people she met and offered them up over dinner and Lola continued her search for an apartment she could afford. Finally Lola abandoned the search and the arrangement that was supposed to be temporary, drifted from one year to the next. They had known each other so well for so long, and had weathered so many storms together that Annabelle was the compatible roommate Lola was looking for. They did the grocery shopping together, ate dinner together and shared the days’ successes and disappointments together, but then went their separate ways.<br /><br />One Wednesday evening Annabelle told Lola about a homeless man who had died the previous Monday. The hospital was no closer to finding a funeral home for him than they were after he slipped the mortal coil. Annabelle patted her lips and tossed her napkin on to her plate. “I’m going to see Digger O’Dell about funeral arrangements.” She pushed her chair away from the table and headed for the phone.<br /><br />Digger O’Dell, the nickname of the local undertaker Kevin O’Malley, was a short, portly man who even in the summer wore a long black coat and a black homburg tilted to one side on his bald head. He was the father of eight raucous kids who lived upstairs over the funeral parlor viewing rooms. Mr. O’Malley did the embalming; Mrs. O’Malley kept the kids under control. It was an unequal division of labor.<br /><br />“Whose funeral arrangements,” Lola asked as Annabelle, her mouth set in a grim, determined line, picked up the phone and began to dial.<br /><br />“Mine,” she said.<br /><br />Lola’s mouth opened and her half eaten sandwich dropped to her plate. Childhood fears nipped at the edges of her brain. “Are you sick?” she asked.<br /><br />Annabelle waved the question away. “I’m healthy as a horse,” she said. “When I die I don’t want you moping around trying to make decisions that’ll have you spending a bundle on something I’m not even going to enjoy.”<br /><br />Annabelle pressed her finger against her lips, then using her professional receptionist’s voice said, “Mr. O’Malley, I’d like to make an appointment to meet with you.” During the pause that followed she shook her head several times then said, “No emergency.” Another pause; more head shaking. “No, she’s fine, too.” Annabelle turned, snapped her fingers and pointed to the cabinet where they kept pencils, tape, paperclips, notebooks, and curls of dust. Cradling the phone between her shoulder and her ear she mimed writing and motioned for Lola to bring her something to write on.<br /><br />That night Lola woke up and squinted at the illuminated clock on the nightstand beside her bed. Three a.m. She rolled on her back, put her hands behind her head and tried to remember what had roused her from her sleep. A slow smile spread across her mouth as she realized she was finally and completely free from fears about death, dying, abandonment, and funerals. Her mother had made an appointment to arrange for her own funeral and Lola had held the notebook, secure in the knowledge that if worse came to worse she was an adult. She could survive. She rolled on her side, hugged her pillow, and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.<br /><br />The next Saturday while walking down Lebanon Street to buy groceries Annabelle spotted Mr. O’Malley a block away, power walking towards the A&P. “Hurry up, Lola” Annabelle said. “I need to talk to him.” They raced to his side and while Annabelle caught her breath he tilted his homburg and smiled. She fell in step beside him and they continued down the street while Lola tagged along behind. “Can I change my obituary,” Annabelle said.<br /><br />“Absolutely,” he said. “Stop by anytime and we’ll talk.”<br /><br />“I’d like my funeral Mass to be in the evening.”<br /><br />“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.<br /><br />Lola silently vowed she would never go shopping with Annabelle again.<br /><br />Since they lived in a small town Annabelle’s path frequently crossed Mr. O’Malley’s path, especially on Saturdays. While he did the grocery shopping for his large family, funeral arrangements were tweaked and re-tweaked as he and Annabelle wheeled their shopping carts side-by-side down the aisles snatching items from the shelves.<br /><br />One stormy night the snow deepened against the garage and crawled in drifts up the window panes. The wind shook the house in its fist and the lights flickered on and off as Lola tried to read. Annabelle crocheted another doily for the table cloth she had set aside after Harry left her. Suddenly she sai “I missed my birth. I don’t want to miss my death.” The lights flickered off. Lola drew in a deep breath. The lights flicked on. A spasm of fear clutched her heart. “I mean,” Annabelle continued, “no one remembers their birth and what an adventure that must have been.” Lola shook her head as if to shake loose the Sunday tales of gnashing teeth and poor dears who sold their souls to the devil to escape the excruciating pain of childbirth. She put her book down and stared at Annabelle who said, “I want to be awake when I die. I want to know what it’s all about.” She looked up from her crocheting and smiled. “How about you?”<br /><br />“I’d rather die in my sleep.”<br /><br />“Would you want me to be with you when you die?”<br /><br />“Okay.”<br /><br />“Would you want to be with me when I die?”<br /><br />Lola wasn’t sure where this was leading. “If you want me there,”<br /><br />Annabelle finished one doily and began another as the wind howled like a banshee against the window beside her chair. “If you’re far away I’ll wait for you.”<br /><br />Euphoric that she hadn’t committed herself to a bizarre murder-suicide pact, Lola heaved a sigh of relief and said, “I’ll be there.” She picked up her book but put it down when the questions got harder and came faster. “If,” Annabelle said, leaning forward, “I can come back and let you know if there’s a hereafter would you want me to do that?”<br /><br />Lola’s eyes widened. “Mom,” she began.<br /><br />“I’ll figure out a way. I won’t scare you.”<br /><br />“If you promise not to lurk in dark corners.”<br /><br />Annabelle crossed her heart. “If you die first I wouldn’t mind if you’d come back and let me know.” She winked and said, “I wouldn’t mind if you lurked in dark corners.”<br /><br />The wind gave the house another mighty shake as though to seal the pact. Lola brought the book close to her face, hoping to end the conversation. Annabelle was sending chills down her back.<br /><br />“You know,” Annabelle said, “If there is such a thing as reincarnation I’m coming back as a boy. Men have it easy.” She threw her head back and shouted at the ceiling, “Hear that?” Lola glanced over, expecting to find a bitter down-turn to Annabelle’s mouth, and was not disappointed. That afternoon Aunt Hildegard had called to tell Annabelle she had seen Harry in a restaurant with a woman who looked so much like Annabelle that she had gone up to their table and sat down before she realized it was his new wife; Not only a new wife but, his fourth.<br /><br />Winter gave way to spring and the frost in Annabelle’s heart melted as Harry became a fading unpleasant memory.<br /><br />That spring Lola’s car died and she began taking the subway to work since there was a station around the corner from her job. One morning as she stepped off the train she noticed a circle of people gathered around something on the ground. Further down the platform a man huddled in a phone booth occasionally gestured towards the small knot of people as though the person on the other end could see what he was seeing. Lola joined the crowd. A man in a three piece suit was lying on his back; his arms and legs akimbo. His brief case had snapped open and papers drifted aimlessly around her feet. “What happened,” Lola asked, crouching beside him.<br /><br />“I don’t know,” a woman said. “He just leaned up against that wall and slid down.” A flurry of papers caught in the slipstream of the train and followed it as it pulled out of the station and into the darkness of the tunnel. “I think he hit his head.”<br /><br />Lola cradled her hand behind his skull and realized he was bleeding profusely. “Louis,” she whispered in his ear, sitting down and pulling him onto her lap.<br /><br />“Do you know him?” a man in the crowd asked.<br /><br />Lola nodded. “He’s our bookkeeper. Louis Johnstone. Louis’ eyes fluttered open and he looked at Lola. His mouth was slack; his eyes vacant. “You’ve been hurt,” Lola said, “But they’ve called for help.” She glanced up and raised her eyebrows looking for confirmation. A woman wearing a floral dress nodded towards the man who had left the phone booth and was running towards them. “There’s an ambulance on the way,” he shouted.<br /><br />“Did you hear that Louis?” Lola said. “Hold on.” His eyes slowly rolled back, his chest heaved and he took a deep breath. A stream of frothy spittle oozed from the corner of his mouth. The crowd turned towards a loud echo of footsteps as two ambulance drivers and a policeman clattered down the stairs and hurried towards them. “Move aside,” the policeman said, helping Lola to her feet. Louis was lifted on to the stretcher, strapped in, and taken up the stairs. “That’s all folks,” the policeman said. “Move on.” He touched Lola’s arm and took a small notebook and pen from his pocket. “Are you related?” he asked.<br /><br />“No. I work with him.”<br /><br />“Where?”<br /><br />“At the Harvard Humphrey Agency , it’s an ad agency.” She pointed vaguely over her shoulder and gave information about herself and the telephone number of the agency, but Louis had been a loner, a suspected weekend drunk, and she wasn’t sure if anyone at the agency would know who to contact.<br /><br />After the policeman left, the woman in the floral dress came to Lola’s side. “Here,” she said, offering a package of Kleenex from her pocketbook. “I’m sorry about your friend.” Lola nodded and rubbed the stain on her skirt, making it worse. “It was good you were there for him.” she said. “I was at my mother’s bedside when she died.” Lola gave back the package of Kleenex, bundling the stained one in her fist. “It’s a gift,” the woman said, “Letting you be there during their last adventure.”<br /><br />“He didn’t die, did he?” Lola asked. “Not like that.” She looked over at the dirty platform and her eyes misted.<br /><br />The woman patted her shoulder and was about to walk away but turned and asked, “Are you going to be all right?” Lola nodded. “I’ll walk you to work.” Lola nodded and together they came out of the shadows of the subway and into the bright sunlit street.<br /><br />That night when Lola told Annabelle about Louis and the woman in the floral dress, Annabelle smiled. “See?” she said, “That wasn’t so bad was it.”<br /><br />Lola slammed down her fork. “What are you talking about?” she shouted. “Louis died in my arms, mama.”<br /><br />Annabelle reached across the table and took her hand, “And you were there to comfort him. You weren’t afraid where you?” She asked softly. Lola thought it over then shook her head and smiled.<br /><br />That night the dream crept back. The casket was closing, her father’s eyes snapped open and they were Annabelle’s green eyes with the tiny blue star. He winked as the lid closed and Lola woke up screaming. Annabelle, her white nightgown billowing around her in the moonlight rushed into the room. “What’s wrong?” she cried.<br /><br />“I had a nightmare.” Lola sat up in bed. Perspiration drenched her pajamas and she held her hand against her throat as though trying to push her heart back into her chest.<br /><br />“About what?”<br /><br />“I don’t know,” Lola lied. She lay down on her side with her back to Annabelle who crawled under the covers behind her and put her arm around her waist. “Shhh,” Annabelle said, “Go back to sleep.” Lola felt like a terrified child whose goal in life was to find a refrigerator crate large enough to house an adult.<br /><br />It seemed to Lola that everything in life happened in clumps. Shortly after Louis died it was discovered he had been embezzling from Harvard and Humphrey long enough to sink the agency like a depressive en route to a deep pool with a pocket full of rocks.<br /><br />Jason Harvard called Lola into his massive glass paneled office, an office overlooking the bustling street below and the harbor beyond. “I supposed you’ve heard the rumors,” he began. Lola nodded. “They’re true. Louis wiped us out. I suppose you know what that means?” Lola tilted her head and waited. “We’re done. It’s over.” He leaned back in his brown leather chair, the leather as soft as melting butter. “We may reorganize but in the meantime we have to lay people off.” He looked down at his desk, a thick sheet of green acrylic resting on stainless steel legs, and began flipping his antique letter opener from side-to-side. “I’m sorry, Lola. We don’t want to let you go but,” he looked up, waiting for her to say something to make it easier for him. The sun poured into the room through the window behind his back, crept over his shoulder and touched the twitching letter opener.<br /><br />“When am I done?” Lola finally asked.<br /><br />He looked over the top of his rimless glasses, “Today?” It was a question more than a directive and she knew she could stay longer if she wanted to but, for what purpose.<br /><br />“It’s okay,” she said. “I understand.”<br /><br />She was almost out the door when he called her back. “Lola, sit down for a minute,” he said. She drew up a chair and sat down. “You were with Louis when he died.” She nodded. “That must have been a comfort to him.” She shrugged. “That son-of-a-bitch ruined us. I hope he’s rotting in hell but, I’m glad you were there.”<br /><br />That night she and Annabelle ordered a plain cheese pizza. After the delivery boy flew back to his dented car and sped off into the night, they discovered it was a pepperoni. “Figures,” Annabelle said, picking off greasy rounds of meat. “The only thing you can count on anymore is that you can’t count on anything anymore.” She kicked off her shoes and sat down at the table.<br /><br />“How was your day?” she asked while Lola brought the plates to the table and opened two cans of beer.<br /><br />“I lost my job.”<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />“Remember Louis? He embezzled so much money from the company they went under. I was last one in, first one out.”<br />Annabelle’s eyes narrowed; the tiny blue star seemed more prominent. “You were the only one?”<br /><br />“No, mom, relax. By the end of next week everyone will be gone. It’s over.”<br /><br />“Well,” Annabelle picked up a slice of pizza, eyed it carefully then took a bite, “Look at the bright side,” she said. “It’s the weekend. Check out Sunday’s want-ads. You’ll find something.”<br /><br />Lola took a long swallow of beer, “I’m a failure.”<br /><br />“You’re not the failure. That stupid boss is the failure. He hired a crook, gave him free rein and never bothered to check the books himself.” She slid the pizza box closer to Lola, “Don’t lose faith in your self. You’ll find a better job. You’re a good copywriter.”<br /><br />“It won’t be copywriting.”<br /><br />“Why not?”<br /><br />“I want something different,” Lola said. Annabelle held her fist to her chest and grimaced. “Are you all right?” Lola was about to stand up but Annabelle waved her back down and took a sip of beer. “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s the damn grease left over from the pepperoni.”<br /><br />“How was your day?”<br /><br />“The usual.” She didn’t tell Lola she had been over-come by a spell of dizziness so severe she had to lay down on a sofa in the nurses’ lounge.<br /><br />On Sunday Lola poured over the want-ads while Annabelle concentrated on the crossword puzzle. “Find anything?” Annabelle asked.<br /><br />“Not yet.” She was about to fold the paper and put it away when an ad caught her eye:<br />FT GAL FRIDAY<br />Lumber company. Friendly,<br />Energetic, w/ability to multi<br />task. Computer skills not<br />necessary. Call Ruben at 555-307-6218.<br /><br />At the sound of ripping paper Annabelle put aside her crossword puzzle and held out her hand. “Let’s see,” she said. She scanned the ad and frowned. Lola braced herself for the worst. “‘Gal Friday?’ Did this guy just crawl out of the primeval sludge? He’s probably a fat slob sitting behind a huge desk somewhere with his feet up and a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth. Men have the power; we have the ‘phones.” She crumpled the ad and tossed it at Lola then went back to her crossword puzzle. “Don’t answer it,” she said.<br /><br />Lola put the crumpled ad in her pocket, and called for an interview the next morning.<br /><br />Cohen’s Lumber Company was housed in a large orange metal building. The entry was bracketed by a wooden bower covered with non-flowering vines. A startled robin flew out of its nest in a rain gutter as Lola approached the door. She stood for a moment inhaling the smell of fresh hewn wood as men on forklifts stacked piles of lumber behind the building. Then she straightened her back and went inside.<br /><br />Rubin Cohen, a thin nervous man with sad brown eyes, was a foot shorter than Lola. Their interview was interrupted by continuous phone calls and a harried secretary who kept slipping in and out of the office to lay messages on his metal desk. Lola took out the ad and passed it across to him while he was on the phone. He tucked the phone against his ear, looked at the ad, and put it aside. When he finally put the receiver back in its cradle he sighed and gnawed his lower lip. “I’m sorry,” he said, “we just filled that position.” Lola began to cry; big, heaving sobs that rocked her back and forth in her chair. “What’s wrong?” Rubin asked. His large eyes got larger and he pressed his palms against the desk, ready to get up just as the door opened and another man, a little taller and slightly bald, but close enough to be Rubin’s twin, entered the room. “What’s this?” he asked, stepping back from Lola’s chair as though he had encountered a leper.<br /><br />Rubin shrugged. “Miss,” he said gently, “Miss?” Lola snuffled and brushed her sleeve against her nose. “This is my brother Sidney.” Sidney stooped down so he was at eye-level with Lola. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.<br /><br />“I lost my job,” she sobbed, “and I need to get another one fast so I can forget everything.” As the Cohen brothers exchanged a quick anxious look the misery Lola had trapped in her heart poured out of her mouth and she told them about her old job, about being laid off, about the embezzlement, and finally about Louis dying in her arms.<br /><br />Sidney pulled up a chair and sat down. “Rube,” he said, “Isn’t there something she can do? This is a big place. There’s gotta be something.”<br /><br />“They always need somebody in collections. There’s always somebody leaving to have a baby and we always get Office Temps for a month or two. I was going to call today but,” he nodded at Lola, “if you want to do that you can. It’s only temporary and it’s boring compared to what you were doing.”<br /><br />“I’ll take it.” Lola hiccupped. She wiped her nose against her sleeve again.<br /><br />“It’s just opening envelopes and sorting them into piles,” Sidney said. “We’re not computerized. Everything’s done by hand. Dad wanted us to keep the company the way it was when he ran it. It’s been successful for four generations…”<br /><br />“…and ‘if it’s not broke, don’t fix it’ was dad’s motto,” said Rubin.<br /><br />“When can I start?” Lola asked.<br /><br />Rubin and Sidney exchanged a glance. “Now?” Rubin asked.<br /><br />After Lola left the room Sidney said, “We just hired a nut case. What would dad have done?”<br /><br />“What we just did,” Rubin said. “A man died in her arms, Sid. How could we say no? It’s only a week or two at the most.”<br /><br />The job that was supposed to last a week or two at the most, was nearing the end of its second year thanks to the fecundity of the collections department. As one woman returned from maternity leave another left. The department was awash with baby pictures. Lola and Jackie were the only unmarried women in the office and that was about to change as Jackie was planning for a wedding in May. Although she was right-handed Jackie answered the phone with her left hand, fixed her hair with her left hand and generally invented creative ways to call attention to the ring that sparkled on her third finger.<br /><br />One day over lunch Jackie, a large red-headed woman who had taken Lola under her wing, asked if Lola had ever had a serious boyfriend. Lola shook her head. “Not even in high school?” Lola shook her head again. “Girlfriend, class is in session. Get-A-Guy 101 will meet at Murphy’s pub after work. I’ll pick up the tab this time; you pick it up next time.”<br /><br />Jackie convinced Lola that she needed a computer to go on line and find a compatible date. On the Saturday they planned to price computers but stopped first at Macy’s for free facials. Then Jackie snapped pictures of Lola and they took them to a one-hour-photo shop. While they waited in line the cell phone, Jackie insisted Lola could not live without, began to chime in Lola’s purse. She dug it out and snapped it open “Hello,” she shouted. People behind her frowned and whispered among themselves until Jackie motioned for her to lower her voice. “Hello,” Lola whispered, “Oh God! Where is she?” The line leaned forward straining to hear. Jackie took Lola by the arm and they stepped outside. “NO. Tell her Lola’s on the way. Tell her I’ll be there.” She snapped the phone shut. “I’ve got to get to City Hospital .” She rushed into the parking lot with Jackie close behind.<br /><br />“What happened?”<br /><br />“My mother had a heart attack. They said I should come but they don’t think I’ll get there on time. She flat lined twice.”<br /><br />“What do they know?” Jackie tore the passenger door open and yelled, “Get in,” then rushed to the other side and slid behind the wheel.<br /><br />Traffic was stalled and roads were barricaded everywhere they turned. They drove down side streets and alleyways, bumping over curbs and mangling trash cans until they were trapped in a log jam of cars and semi-wheelers. Jackie hit her horn several times then got out of the car. The traffic signal at the corner flashed from green, to gold to red several times and then she heard bagpipes in the distance. She threw her arms into the air, turned in circles, and finally slid back inside the car.<br /><br />“What’s the problem?” Lola asked.<br /><br />“It’s Saint Patrick’s Day. I forgot about the parade.”<br /><br />“I’ll walk,”<br /><br />Lola opened the car door. Jackie leaned across and pulled it shut. “We’re five miles from the hospital,” Jackie said. “It’ll be quicker if we sit it out and wait till the parade’s over.” She shut off the engine and rolled down her window. Lola turned to the window beside her. At the far end of an alley next to the car, a man in black and white checked pants and a soiled chef’s jacket sat on an overturned white plastic bucket spooning food into his mouth from a plate on his lap. “He must be cold,” Lola said. When Jackie didn’t answer Lola turned towards her. Jackie’s eyes glistened with unspilled tears. Lola squeezed her hand. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “We’ll get there in time. My mother will wait for me.”<br /><br />“It’s not that,” Jackie held up her left hand. The ring was gone. “The wedding’s off.” She took a deep breath and shook her head, “It’s over,” she whispered.<br /><br />“Well it’s better you found out he was an immature jerk now rather than after you married the rat.”<br /><br />Jackie rested her head on the steering wheel. Her voice was so low and muffled that Lola almost didn’t hear her when she said, “He called it off when I told him I was pregnant.”<br /><br />“Do your parents know?”<br /><br />“Not yet. When dad finds out he’ll throw me out of the house.”<br /><br />“Your mother won’t let that happen,” Lola said.<br /><br />“Wanna bet? You don’t know my dad.”<br /><br />“What are you going to do?”<br /><br />“I don’t know.”<br /><br />Lola gazed out the window trying to think of something comforting. The man at the end of the alley stood up, scraped something from his plate, and disappeared into one of the buildings. “You can stay with us,” Lola said.<br /><br />“With all you’re going through?” Jackie shook her head.<br /><br />“It would be good to have you there.”<br /><br />“I don’t know.”<br /><br />“It’s an option.”<br /><br />The sound of drums and bag pipes gave way to shouts and cheers as people streamed down the sidewalks. A group of teens stopped beside the car. One stuck his head through the open window on Jackie’s side. “Kiss me. I’m Irish,” he slurred<br /><br />Jackie rolled up the window and caught his head. “Don’t mess with me I’m in a bad mood, you freak.” His eyes bulged and as his buddies weaved their way to his rescue she rolled down the window, put her hand against his forehead and pushed him into their arms. They stumbled onto the sidewalk and were swept away by the sea of foot traffic. The car in front inched forward and Jackie muttered under her breath, “Men! They’re a different species.”<br /><br />When they reached the hospital Annabelle was already in the Intensive Care Unit. Jackie chose a chair in the waiting room and picked up a magazine while Lola went to the ICU and sat beside Annabelle. “I’m here,” she said. The light above Annabelle’s bed threw shadows into the corners of the room. Tubes from her body fed into machines and filled the room with soft beeps and hums. There were long pauses between each ragged breath and a low bubbling in the base of Annabelle’s throat. Her hand was icy; the finger tips and nails blue. “Mom,” Lola whispered. “I’m here.” Annabelle opened her eyes and made a feeble attempt to lift herself onto her elbows. She stared at the foot of the bed with such intensity that Lola turned to look. “Who do you see, mom?” she asked. When she turned back Annabelle’s head again rested on the pillow. Her eyes were wide and vacant and her chest was still. An even line crept across the face of the monitor closest to the bed as a nurse came into the room.<br /><br />A few days after the funeral Lola found out that Jackie had been right about her father. “I was always a rebellious kid,” Jackie told Lola, “but you’d think he would have forgiven me by now.”<br /><br />“Where are you living?” Lola asked.<br /><br />“In my car.”<br /><br />“Not anymore,” Lola said. “Move in with me.”<br /><br />“I couldn’t impose.”<br /><br />“You wouldn’t be imposing. You’d be paying half the bills.”<br /><br />Jackie smiled. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll give it a try.”<br /><br />The day she moved in Jackie insisted on sleeping on the couch and hanging her clothes in the hallway closet. Annabelle’s room stayed untouched until July when Jackie, six months pregnant, rolled off the couch and on to the floor while trying to turn over. Lola painted the walls in Annabelle’s room and together she and Jackie turned one corner into a nursery. When Jackie enrolled in the Lamaze class she asked Lola to be her coach and then insisted on finding some way to repay her. “Listen,” she said. “We never got that computer.”<br /><br />“You can’t afford a computer,” Lola said.<br /><br />“But together we could afford one.”<br /><br />“And?”<br /><br />“And then we’ll go on line and find you Mr. Right.”<br /><br />“Jackie, you’re not the poster girl for finding Mr. Right.”<br /><br />“I know, but the people at <a href="http://www.rudyledonnematchmakers.com/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">http://www.rudyledonnematchmakers.com/</a> are.”<br /><br />After the arrival of Jackie’s baby Minnie, Lola and Jackie, with Minnie on Lola’s lap for good luck, trolled the site each night. Before going out on dates Lola left Jackie the date’s name, where they were meeting, and when she’d be home. By pre-arrangement the dates were interrupted by whispered phone calls from Jackie to check on Lola’s safety, and to give her an excuse to escape: “My cat’s dying. Gotta go. Bye.”<br /><br />Lola was about to abandon all hope when the week before Thanksgiving <a href="http://www.rudyledonnematchmakers.com/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">http://www.rudyledonnematchmakers.com/</a> lived up to their hype. Much to her delight, and Jackie’s amazement, Lola met the man who met the criteria on her wish list.<br /><br />Drew Benson was divorced, in his mid-forties, and raising a teenaged son. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a sign on the side of his pick up advertising his construction company: Homes at Last. He had been a customer of Cohen’s for several years but since he picked up lumber in the back of the building and Lola worked in the front of the building, they had never met.<br /><br />By December the relationship was becoming serious.<br /><br />“What do you like most about him?” Jackie asked.<br /><br />“I feel safe. I feel like he cradles me in his hands,” she shrugged and smiled, “and I’m home at last.”<br /><br />It was a tradition at the Cohen Brothers Lumber Company that every Christmas Eve the holiday party started at 10 a.m. and employees could leave at noon . One of the warehouses was cleared out and a bagpiper, Liam from the accounting department, fronted by the Cohen brothers, led the employees in Christmas carols. After a buffet brunch the company closed its doors for three days. Another tradition was that former employees brought children in for a maternal show-and-tell.<br /><br />Drew was picking Lola up at noon and it was hard for her to concentrate because the holiday excitement in the collections department was at a fevered pitch. Flocks of babies were carried into the room for display but Lola kept working, kept her head down and only glanced up to check the clock. A steady stream of toddlers surged around desks and filing cabinets, some wandering up to Lola to rest their mittened hands on her knee waiting for a Christmas treat. When no candy was forthcoming they moved on and ignored her; except for nine-month old Patrick. No matter which way his mother turned Patrick twisted in her arms in search of Lola. She wasn’t aware of him until someone behind her whispered, “Patrick’s a cute baby, but…”<br /><br />“But what? Jackie asked.<br /><br />“Did you see his left eye? He’s got a broken blood vessel.”<br /><br />Jackie snorted. “That’s pigment. If it was a broken blood vessel it would be red. It’s blue.”<br /><br />Lola’s head snapped up. Patrick had rested his fist against the door jamb and wouldn’t let go.<br /><br />“It’s just pigment,” Jackie said. “It’s cute. It makes him unique.”<br /><br />Lola and Patrick’s eyes met. He gave her a droll smile, let go of the door jamb, disappeared around the corner and as she did she forgot all past memories as he sailed into the brave new world of male entitlement.<br /><br />The End<br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Grace Gannon Rudolph is the author of the plays We’re All in this Together, and Elder’s Statements. Her articles and short stories have appeared in Contemporary Long Term Care, Intergenerations.com, shortstory.us.com and short-humour.comMystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-70325799773824354432008-11-16T17:57:00.000-08:002008-11-16T18:52:00.760-08:00Randon Acts of Fatherhood - Robert PezaRANDOM ACTS OF FATHERHOOD<br /><br />Before the thing with the trains, or any of the talk about hidden gold or lightning rods, there had been the little woman at the employment agency. Later Mabry would suspect her act was a put-on, the crisp, professional tone as contrived as her high penciled eyebrows, or the immovable globe of hair, its shade reminding Mabry of the antique bronze he had seen on hardware store spray paint caps. But on that first visit he was simply annoyed, put off by the way she slid the pink sheet of paper across the desk without getting into why he was here, what his career aspirations were. Then tapping her chin with a brown painted fingernail as he read it, watching over the bifocals.<br /><br />Mabry read the sheet, shook his head.<br /><br />The woman smiled patiently. “It’s a good job. They have benefits.”<br /><br />“I don’t look good in a blue vest,” Mabry said. “And giving out happy face stickers doesn’t sound challenging.”<br /><br />“There are other positions. You could be a cashier or stock person.”<br /><br />“I was hoping for something in management.”<br /><br />The woman stared at him, then slid the pink sheet away without comment. She withdrew another from her top drawer, this one white.<br /><br />“Let’s review your employment experience.” She took a pen from a set on her desk, the brass plate on which read Mrs. Walker. Aside from the phone it was the only object on the metal desk. “Describe in one sentence your primary marketable skill.”<br /><br />Mabry thought about it. “Procurement.”<br /><br />The pen dipped toward the paper, paused. Mrs. Walker looked up. “That’s all? Procurement?”<br /><br />Mabry thought some more. “I was in trains.”<br /><br />“So you were an engineer.”<br /><br />Mabry shook his head. “More on the inventory side.” The pen hovered for a moment longer, then Mrs. Walker said, “Transportation Inventory Management,” writing in a script so neat it looked to Mabry like newspaper print. While she wrote Mabry looked around for an ashtray, knowing he would find none, the office so sterile it echoed.<br /><br />“When was the last time you were employed?” Mrs. Walker asked.<br /><br />“My last job was four years ago.”<br /><br />The penciled eyebrows arched over the bifocals. “And you haven’t worked since?”<br /><br />“I made a lot on that job.”<br /><br />A hundred and eighteen thousand, Mabry thought. Then immediately thought of Philip, the image coming unbidden, the way it always did with that dollar figure. The boy’s face fading in his mind now, like the face on a coin that’s passed through too many fingers.<br /><br />“No salary requirement defined,” Mrs. Walker said. “What about tool skills? That can also include computer proficiency, or any particular software.”<br /><br />Mabry said, “I’m good with firearms.”<br /><br />“I see. So you were an armed guard.”<br /><br />Mabry shrugged. “I have a lot of experience in that area.”<br /><br />“But… you weren’t really a guard.”<br /><br />Mabry kept silent.Mrs. Walker turned the white sheet over and pushed it to the corner of her desk. She returned the pen to the marble base and straightened it. Then stared at Mabry for a long time over the bifocals.He thought the meeting was over.But Mrs. Walker said, “I may have something for you.”<br /><br />***<br /><br />The first – and only – time Mabry had gone to visit Philip after the South Boston freight job was three weeks later. Really only seeing a wedge of Philip, because Bobbi’s father had kept the chain on the apartment door. But Mabry had seen enough to know the boy’s grandparents had given him a haircut, what Mabry thought of as a white-trash cut, the way they left his blond hair long in the back but spiky on top. Trying to be contemporary but only making it up to the early eighties, probably doing the cutting themselves with the same shears the old lady used to snip coupons.<br /><br />By then Mabry had already hidden the money, the amount forcing him into a distributed banking system: some in plastic bags in the apartment’s tiny freezer, some beneath a flagstone in the weed-choked backyard, a few notes tucked under a corner of carpet for spending. The chrome-plated locomotive had set him back almost a hundred bucks, but he was still in the afterglow of new money and his personal economy had not yet equalized. It wasn’t until later he would realize he would have been better off with something unrelated to trains, but that’s what the kid loved.<br /><br />“For your birthday,” Mabry said, holding the toy up to the crack in the apartment door, its chrome reflecting the milky light of the hallway. Then eventually setting it on the faded hallway carpet when it became clear the grandfather wouldn’t release the chain.<br /><br />He had hoped it would go better, but then Bobbi’s mother had come up to the door and started spouting off, her pale, wrinkled face hovering in the gap and using language Mabry thought unbefitting a grandmother.<br /><br />Mabry left, but not before seeing the look in Philip’s eyes at the sight of the locomotive, knowing his son would be all right, understanding the amazing resilience of children. <br /><br /><br />***<br /><br />Mabry stepped out of the taxi, double-checking the sheet Mrs. Walker had given him, the address written in her fussy lettering. He was watching his pennies now and couldn’t afford for the cab to leave if it was the wrong place. But then the sight of the property told him all he needed to know: manicured shrubs as flat as end tables, the small lawn cropped as tight as a putting green. The brown November leaves had been herded off to neighboring yards, like sheep held at bay by some invisible border shepherd. There were no potted plants or humorous lawn signs, only the house number beside the brown, windowless front door. A beige compact stood in the driveway.<br /><br />Mrs. Walker answered the door, her weekend appearance similar to his visit two days before but softened, the pantsuit replaced by a brown velour jogging suit, zipped to the neck. She seated him on a plastic-covered sofa in a small living room. The opposite wall was dominated by a wide bay window with drawn curtains, as if the sunlight itself were too unpredictable a prospect to allow into the tidy room. <br /><br />A moment later she returned with a glass tumbler filled with iced tea, which she placed on a coaster produced from some unseen location. She sat across from Mabry, smoothed her jogging pants, then followed his gaze to a framed photograph on the coffee table.<br /><br />“My late husband,” Mrs. Walker said. Then added, “He worked for the Great East Coast Railway,” seeming to feel a need to explain the engineer’s cap.<br /><br />Mabry had seen many engineers in his career, none of whom ever wore a cap, but kept it to himself. “When did he die?”<br /><br />“December will make a year.”Mabry nodded, then could think of nothing else to say, not knowing the man.<br /><br />Mrs. Walker said, “I imagine you know your way around trains pretty well.”<br /><br />“Around them?”<br /><br />“Yes. The ins and outs. How they’re built.”<br /><br />Mabry shrugged. “Sure.” <br /><br />“And if something was, say, hidden in one. Like a in boxcar. You’d know how to find it?”<br /><br />Mabry thought about it. “Not many places to hide in a boxcar.”<br /><br />“Or hidden in any kind of train car.”<br /><br />Mabry shrugged again and waited.<br /><br />Mrs. Walker smoothed her pants again, which Mabry realized was a habit born out of the absence of anything else in her immediate radius to straighten.<br /><br />“I believe my husband stole something,” she said, getting to it at last. “From the freight company.”<br /><br />“You mean something owned by the company? Or the freight itself.”<br /><br />“Freight,” she said. “Gold.”<br /><br />“Gold?”<br /><br />“Ingots. Or gold bars.”<br /><br />Mabry sipped the iced tea, which was tepid and bland, as though Mrs. Walker had devoted her full attention to neither ice nor tea. “What makes you say that?” he said.<br /><br />“I saw it.”<br /><br />“The gold, you mean.”<br /><br />“Yes. I saw him carrying it on several occasions.”<br /><br />She saw his look of doubt. “He worked in a high security area,” she said. “They used those armored boxcars. He told me about it once. Banks and financial institutions use the service to transport currency and other valuables.”<br /><br />Mabry did know about that. “And you saw him carrying gold.”<br /><br />“Yes. What I believe was gold, a bar or ingot, as I’ve said.”<br /><br />“But you didn’t actually see the gold.”<br /><br />“It makes sense, Mr. Mabry. There are other reasons.”<br /><br />“Where was he going with it?” Mabry said, picking up the iced tea, then remembering the taste and cradling it in his lap. “Where would he hide it?”<br /><br />Mrs. Walker stood, smoothed her pants, and went to the bay window. She swept open the big curtains.<br /><br />There, beyond a low hedge and stretching in three directions under the pale autumn sky, lay what Mabry thought at first was a junkyard. But then understanding it wasn’t a junkyard at all, for there wasn’t a single automobile in the vast, scrub-choked plane. This place held only trains. Ancient locomotives, rusted boxcars, commuter cars, tankers, hoppers, flatbeds, gondolas. In the far distance, on a low ridge of second growth, Mabry thought he even spied the silver flank of a high-speed passenger cabin, its chrome detail winking in the early sun.<br /><br />“Nice view,” Mabry said.<br /><br />“Those bushes used to be taller. Lou cut them down so he could see that mess.”<br /><br />“So he could see where he hid the gold.”<br /><br />“This was before all that. Before he started acting funny. Not that he was ever normal.”<br /><br />“So he just liked the view.”<br /><br />“He was a rail fan, Mr. Mabry,” Mrs. Walker said, crossing her arms across her chest. “Have you ever heard of that?”<br /><br />“Someone who likes trains.”<br /><br />“That’s an understatement. Rabid about trains is better. Before he died the basement was wall-to-wall trains. Photographs, paintings, you name it. He even tried to set up a model train set down there.” She waved a hand. “I put a stop to that nonsense right away.”<br /><br />“Which explains why he was an engineer. His love of trains.”<br /><br />“He wasn’t an engineer. He worked for the freight company. So he could be around trains.”<br /><br />“Also to steal gold.”<br /><br />Mrs. Walker sighed. “He wasn’t a bad man, Mr. Mabry. Stupid, yes. Childish. He attended model train conventions, if you can imagine. An overweight, balding man wearing that silly cap. But I think an opportunity presented itself at the freight company and he took it.”<br /><br />Mabry looked out over the vast graveyard.<br /><br />“You’ll take twenty-five percent of whatever you find,” Mrs. Walker said, watching him.<br /><br />He tried to estimate the number of dead trains in the salvage yard. Five-hundred? Eight? Certainly not a thousand.<br /><br />Mabry said, “I’ll want a daily rate.”<br /><br />***<br /><br />It wasn’t like there was shooting. The way Mabry had planned it, he was in and out, no shooting, no one even aware that he was there until ten minutes after he walked out with the money. Philip was in the car – Mabry had no choice with that, Bobbi leaving the way she did without notice. But Philip was never in any real danger. When Mabry dropped him at the grandparents’ place the kid was even smiling.<br /><br />It wasn’t like there was any shooting.<br /><br />***<br /><br />On Monday Mabry showed up at eight-fifteen, stepping out of the cab to a bright autumn chill and the waiting Mrs. Walker, who was standing by her car and looking at her watch.“I thought we agreed on eight-o’clock,” she said.<br /><br />“Cab was late.”<br /><br />“Arrive at eight. Lunch at noon. Closeout at four-thirty. That’s our agreement.”<br /><br />She handed a stack of bills to the cab driver, who counted it and drove off, meaning she had somehow calculated the exact fare and tip. Mabry watched her get into her Toyota and drive away, wondering if the hundred a day was worth it, wishing he had held to his original price of two. But the woman had been immovable, and he needed the money. Two weeks, a hundred a day, then the agreement was terminated whether he found something or not. At least he had negotiated cab fare.<br /><br />Now he went with his plan, which was to start at the far corner of the freight yard and work his way in. The thinking being, if this guy Lou wanted to hide something from his wife, he would probably get as far away as possible to do it.<br /><br />But as Mabry picked his way through the pathless graveyard, he found the plan more difficult than he had imagined. After twenty minutes he had only covered about a hundred yards, the scrub and Bermuda grass hiding an invisible course of oxidized rails, potholes, locomotive parts, boulders, and tumbled deadwood. Here and there glass glittered in the watery sunlight, most from broken beer bottles, sparkling like green and amber gemstones scattered among the rust and debris.<br /><br />He eventually settled on a row of commuter cars about halfway out, lined up on a an overgrown siding. Their broad silver sides were scrawled with old graffiti, like the faded hieroglyphs of some crumbled civilization. Inside, Mabry found more or less what he expected: shredded seat cushions, beer cans, used condoms, and yellowed skin magazines. Amid the swollen stuffing of one cushion he turned up twenty-six cents in tarnished coins. But no gold.At noon he made his way back toward the house, glad to be out in the sharp air and away from the odor of decay inside the cars. Mrs. Walker was there with sandwiches and more of the bland iced tea. He had nothing to report and so they spoke little, business being the only thing they really had in common.<br /><br />He spent the afternoon poking through a jumble of dilapidated boxcars near the northwest corner of the yard, and realized it was going to be a long two weeks.<br /><br />***<br /><br />At lunch on the second day, after a fruitless search through a collection of locomotives – mostly diesel-electrics but there was even a rusty old steamer, its pulls and levers petrified to the floor like arthritic limbs – Mabry asked Mrs. Walker about her husband. <br /><br />“I’m all over the place out there,” Mabry said, pinching one of Mrs. Walker’s finger sandwiches but not eating. The smell of coal tar creosote clung to his clothes and knocked the edge off his appetite, more than could be accounted for by the rubbery lunchmeat, which he had gotten used to yesterday. “I need a little more to go on.”<br /><br />“What would you like to know?” Mrs. Walker said.<br /><br />“Anything about him. His hobbies.”<br /><br />“I told you, he was a rail fan. That’s all he did. All he ever thought of.”<br /><br />“Drinker? Smoker?”<br /><br />“Only a social drinker. And no smoking.” She waved a hand, which Mabry noticed was a frequent gesture when discussing her husband. “At least not in my house.”<br /><br />Mabry had entertained an idea of following a trail of empties and cigarette butts, but now tossed it aside. He said, “How did he die?”<br /><br />“Lou was killed,” Mrs. Walker said. She sat with her hands in her lap, as though the subject of her husband’s demise was conventional parlor conversation.“Killed,” Mabry said.<br /><br />Mrs. Walker stood and went to the bay window, pointed out. “They found him over there. By that group of newer freight cars? Two maintenance-of-way workers found him.”<br /><br />Mabry said, “And you think this is something to do with the gold. Or the alleged gold.”<br /><br />“Yes. I think the freight company sent someone out here. Or whatever company was shipping the gold.”<br /><br />“I’m surprised you didn’t tell me before.”<br /><br />“It’s not like there’s any danger to you. I’m sure whoever was looking for it has long given up.” <br /><br />Mabry looked out at the boxcars. “Maybe it was an accident.”<br /><br />“Not likely, Mr. Mabry,” she said. “He had a lightning rod through his heart.”<br /><br />“A what?”<br /><br />“They’re pretty common around here. We have one up on top of our house.” She nodded out the window at the flatness of the freight yard. “Being the tallest structure around. And all that metal lying about. The salvage company installed them on some of the train cars out there too, to attract the lightning away. But a lot of them have fallen off, or the kids have torn them down to play with.”<br /><br />“Why would a hired killer use a lightning rod?”<br /><br />“Not a hired killer. I think they sent someone out to retrieve the gold. But Lou wouldn’t tell them where it was, and they killed him.”<br /><br />Mabry looked out at the group of freight cars. Maybe fifteen in all, some still holding their painted colors, mostly reds but some blues and yellows, bright in the midday sun. At least it was something.<br /><br />“Why was he out there?” Mabry said. “Was he bringing out more gold or something?”<br /><br />“Lou was in the habit of going out almost every night after work. He liked to take walks. But sometimes he’d be gone for a couple of hours. The thought of it. Out there with all that filth.” She picked a spot of lint from her pants and then hugged herself, looking out.<br /><br />Mabry waited. “Anything else?”<br /><br />She thought about it, said, “His knees were dirty.”<br /><br />“Knees?”<br /><br />“Not his actual knees. His pants. I found them in the laundry several times, the knees dark with ground-in dirt.”<br /><br />“Any idea why?”<br /><br />“I’ve thought about it. Maybe he was crawling around, hiding the gold under a train car or something. I don’t really know. I asked him once and he had no answer.”<br /><br />Mabry thought it might be a clue but made no comment either way. After lunch he made his way to the freight cars. The going in this part of the yard was stonier, one of the reasons he hadn’t gone this way. He wondered what would happen if he broke an ankle, whether Mrs. Walker would send someone out for him, or assume he was dead and wait for maintenance workers to find him in the morning.<br /><br />***<br /><br />What really stuck in Mabry’s mind, more than the way Bobbi was dressed or her impatient glances at the guy in the idling Mustang, was the way she had ignored Philip. At that time Philip was only three, but Mabry thought the kid knew a lot more than Bobbi gave him credit for. Philip’s round face peered through the fogged windows of the Buick, watching his parents stand out in the cold.<br /><br />“What the hell is in Georgia?” Mabry said, seeing Bobbi glance again at the tricked out Mustang. It looked newly-waxed, the aftermarket spokes and chrome trim glinting under the cold sun, the driver only a silhouette behind the smoked glass.<br /><br />“Well, it’s warm for one thing,” she said, hugging herself. Her skirt was sheer, too short for the weather. “And it’s not like we’re married or anything.”<br /><br />Mabry said, “What about tomorrow?” Then realized that was a mistake, making it sound like the South Boston job was the only thing that mattered to him, standing here breaking up after a four-year relationship.<br /><br />“I wasn’t going with you anyway.”<br /><br />“But who’s going to watch Philip? The whole goddamned thing was planned.”<br /><br />Bobbi didn’t answer, only half listening. She glanced down at her left hand, like a woman who inspects her nail polish, only Mabry had already seen her do it four or five times and knew she was looking at the diamond. He suspected it was Cubic Zirconium but didn’t say. Her eyes shimmered, meaning she had gotten her head up before the encounter and now it was starting to kick in. Her eyes could still look good with makeup if she took the time, the purple blotches underneath softened with the powdery stuff she used. But now they told him she was already gone.<br /><br />He tried a few more arguments anyway, reminding her what he had given up to support her way of life, other lines of reasoning he had made over the years, trying to get her to back off the lifestyle. Arguments that had never worked then and didn’t now.<br /><br />And then Bobbi was gone, the Mustang growling as it fishtailed out of the driveway, again at the stop sign. And she hadn’t even glanced at Philip.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Mabry’s first inclination was to look for a bloody spot, the place where Lou had been stabbed with the lightning rod. But then he remembered that almost a year had gone by, the Massachusetts seasons freezing, drenching, then baking away any sign that might have been left from that long ago encounter. So instead he concentrated on the group of newer boxcars, making his methodical way through their interiors, searching for something that looked out of place, a loose section of floor or ceiling. The going was slow. After crouching under four or five cars he gave up on the idea that Lou would have hidden anything there, the undersides smooth, the great wheels and axles exposed and devoid of hiding places. While he worked he thought, mostly about gold and lightning rods, but also about the hundred a day, and which bills he would pay first.<br /><br />Mingled with the painted boxcars were three coal hoppers, as well as an old Pullman dining car. He tackled the hoppers first since they were the most difficult, their steel ladders flaking, the going especially shaky as he crested the tops for the descent into the pits. The first two held only scattered debris, enough so he had to get all the way down inside to see if anything had been hidden there. At the bottom of the third, amid a scrim of coal, lay a dead coyote. Mabry saw that it had bloodied its muzzle and paws clawing at the ladder to get out, its coat matted and black with coal dust. He saw how it had gotten in, leaping from a nearby outcrop of puddingstone, possibly after a bird or rodent. Then wondered what had been like, dying alone down there, cut off from its places of roaming and its children, starving to death for following its hungers.<br /><br />Later, as Mabry explored the Pullman, a boy appeared, away to the east and picking his way through the tall grass. The windows of the Pullman had been shot out and Mabry saw the boy now and again, tossing stones or climbing boxcars, while Mabry inspected the Pullman’s ornately carved wooden booths and tables, the gilded tray ceiling. After an hour he had found no secret compartments or loose screws. When he thought to look again the boy’s bright yellow coat had vanished beyond the back of the yard.<br /><br />At noon on Thursday, over tuna sandwich wedges as dry as ash, Mabry asked Mrs. Walker if there were any children.<br /><br />“What, Lou and I?” Mrs. Walker said, nibbling a corner of a sandwich.<br /><br />Mabry nodded. “I don’t see any photos around.”<br /><br />“We were childless, Mr. Mabry.” She saw the way Mabry looked at her and added, “Not because we couldn’t. It was a decision.”<br /><br />Mabry thought about it. “You probably liked to travel.”<br /><br />She shrugged. “Sometimes. Mostly we stayed here and enjoyed our home. Children just never fit in.”<br /><br />Meaning they we too messy, Mabry thought.<br /><br />“How about you?” Mrs. Walker said. “Any little dependents? I don’t remember any on your application.”<br /><br />Mabry thought about how to answer. He thought about Philip with Bobbi’s parents, the checks he was sending. Before the money dried up.<br /><br />“No,” he said at last. “No dependents.”<br /><br />***<br /><br />By Wednesday of the second week, Mabry came to realize he was only going through the motions. The luster of the autumn afternoons had fallen off to a pre-winter gray, and with it Mabry’s belief that any gold existed in the rusted wasteland. He had scaled double-decker coaches, inspected snow plow engines, prowled cabooses. He had picked Mrs. Walker’s brain for details, believed he knew Lou as much as a man could learn about another man he had never met, but still had found no trace of him.<br /><br />During the past five days the boy had appeared off and on, the yellow coat flickering at the fringe of Mabry’s vision like an occasional sunbeam slipping through the overcast. He always chose a different area of the vast yard in which to play, well beyond the distance Mabry could throw a stone or his voice. The boy never waved or acknowledged Mabry in any way. Mabry found himself thinking of Philip, and whether he had a place like this to roam, or if he spent his afternoons in the cluttered, shag-and-mahogany gloom of his grandparents’ apartment.<br /><br />It wasn’t until Thursday morning, with two days remaining and nothing to show but the daily wage, that Mabry came to realize the boy was his only hope.<br /><br />***<br /><br />The birth of Philip had been a touch and go thing, what the pediatricians in the special care ward termed a cocaine birth. Bobbi went five weeks early and Philip showed up at less than half of the hospital’s average infant weight, looking to Mabry like one of those marionette puppets, his head too big, his body frail and stick-like, fighting it out in the pale glow of the incubator’s heat lamp.<br /><br />Eventually they got Philip home and Mabry saw it as a new chapter in their life, and for a while it was true. Bobbi sometimes went for days without a visit to her guy in the north end, breaking the previous routine of once a day, twice when she was on a roll. A flame of motherly instinct seemed to flare up inside her, for a while burning away the other appetites, or at least outshining them.<br /><br />But as Philip gained weight and his needs began to diminish to that of a normal baby, Bobbi’s needs slowly grew back to their normal weight as well. Mabry began to find the stashes of cheap vodka or rum in the usual places, in the toilet tank or the bottom of the laundry hamper. For some reason Bobbi was open about the cocaine and beer, but quiet about the hard stuff, as though she could manage her addictions by limiting their disclosure.<br /><br />But the flame of motherhood never completely disappeared and for that reason Mabry held on, hoping for some future reform, a vague idea of change that always hovered on the edge of his thought, an elusive Monday morning that always seemed a week away but never actually came. Back then they were living off Mabry’s second or third heist, Mabry getting pretty good at Bobbi’s original idea. But always wondering where it would end, waiting for his own Monday morning. He saw it in his mind’s eye, stepping out of the apartment’s front door in a tie, back to the working grind but not dreading it. Something that utilized his talents more than the communications position he had held when he met Bobbi. Possibly something in management.<br /><br />***<br /><br />To Mabry the sight was so foreign, so utterly unexpected, that at first he thought it was a trick of the distance, an effect of the cloud shadow that obscured the basin of land between him and the boy. At first there was only cold terrain surrounding the cluster of boxcars across the valley. Then the yellow coat, emerging from the November earth like some bizarre, late bloom.<br /><br />The fact that the boxcars were there at all was a surprise to Mabry. He had roamed the rear acreage of the yard twice in his two weeks, but had never climbed the bluff of second-growth, or known about this older section, an additional four or five acres of railroad salvage. Nor had he known about the crowded neighborhood of trailer homes beyond.<br /><br />So a secret cave or tunnel, Mabry thought, his mind suddenly alive with possibilities, letting the thrill of it run through him. Lou must have known the boy. And the boy had the gold.<br /><br />Mabry forced himself to be patient, waiting until the boy crossed the vale. When he was halfway up the rocky slope, Mabry stood and started down.<br /><br />“Hey son,” he said, waving, putting on a friendly face.<br /><br />The boy looked up and froze.<br /><br />Mabry came on. “I’ve got a kid your age,” he said. Stretching the truth, but it didn’t matter because the kid turned and bolted back down the slope.<br /><br />Mabry tried to follow, but after a dozen steps the terrain became loose, as slick as aquarium gravel, and Mabry nearly tumbled. When next he looked the kid had already reached the far side of the basin, and then he was gone, rocketing past the boxcars toward the trailer homes beyond. Mabry crossed the vale and reached the boxcars just as a light drizzle began to fall. <br /><br />After thirty minutes of searching he cursed himself for not marking the location while up on the rise. Down here the cars all looked the same, the surrounding earth featureless but for some scrub pine and scattered pea gravel. Nothing resembling a hole or cave opening.<br /><br />After two hours the drizzle swelled to a full rain and Mabry gave up, made his way up the treacherous slope and back to Mrs. Walker’s house. In the kitchen, over pallid instant coffee, Mrs. Walker said, “Only one day left. I thought you’d have more leads. Knowing your way around trains the way you do.”<br /><br />Mabry shrugged. “Tomorrow’s another day,” thinking of the boy and the tunnel but keeping it to himself. No sense setting expectations.<br /><br />“What will you do after this?”<br /><br />“Do?”<br /><br />“With your career. I’m wondering what you’ll do for work.” She paused. “Whether you’ll stay in trains.”<br /><br />Mabry could tell she wanted to ask about the robberies. He said, “I’m looking for something else.”<br /><br />Mrs. Walker set her coffee down. “Have you ever had a regular job?” Getting into it now.<br /><br />Mabry looked across the table at the bronzed hair, the folded hands and patient smile. He said, “At one time.”<br /><br />And he thought about his last real job, where he met Bobbi. Fresh out of the army and plying his new vocation in railroad communications, surprised at how quickly he had gotten a job in the growing field of high-speed passenger services. Traveling up and down the east coast with a small crew on a rip-and-replace project, pulling out the old control equipment and installing the new fiber optic stuff, the modernized computer-operated systems. The company also handled freight lines and that’s where he met Bobbi, doing light secretarial for an armored freight carrier in Virginia.<br /><br />Bobbi’s habit had already been heavy back then, but Mabry was young and open-minded and it was kind of cool, going to the parties or just hanging out and getting high, cramming all your sleep into Sunday night after your nose was too burned out for any more blow.<br /><br />Then that one party, hanging with that coke-freak friend of Bobbi’s, the skinny guy who worked for a security consulting company. The guy’s head was up but he had said some lucid things, talking about social engineering, how companies spent piles of money on electronic and physical security but always forgot about the third piece, the human factor. The guy’s firm did something called penetration testing, where the coke head or one of the other consultants would dress up as a maintenance worker or delivery guy and walk right into a place, the workers all assuming it was alright because the guy looked legitimate. Or a computer repairman, asking workers their passwords, people giving them without thinking twice. The consultants would go into the system and pull out some data, maybe the company’s tax return or the names and birthdays of the CEO’s kids. Then charge the company big money to go in and educate the workers, teach them how to react to social threats.<br /><br />And so Bobbi had come up with the scheme. Mabry was resistant to the idea, and for two months Bobbi worked on him, withholding her affections and sulking. Finally Mabry had given in and worked with Bobbi on the preparations, which took another month.<br /><br />And then, when the timing was right, he had gone in and done it, stepping into Bobbi’s office on her off day, wearing a records management name tag, which Bobbi had gotten off the Internet and sewn onto his shirt. Timing the visit around a currency transfer. And the receptionist had buzzed him right in, even telling him which part of the vault they kept the backup tapes in. If Mabry wasn’t so nervous that first time it might have been comical, there among so many security precautions: time locks, fortified boxcars, razor ribbon, video surveillance, and sealed containers. But no armed guard inside the secure area, just the transfer agent, moving bags from the vault to the container. Mabry was apprehensive but it turned to be easy, stepping in and nuzzling the bogus .38 under the man’s chin, forcing him back into the boxcar and telling him to stay put, making him believe Mabry was with a team. Mabry felt some remorse afterwards, counting out the twenty-two thousand, remembering the way the transfer agent had looked, talking about his two kids and begging Mabry to spare him. But for Bobbi it was the start of an extended party.<br /><br /><br />Later they got worried, Bobbi hearing that parts of Mabry’s face had been visible on the video. Bobbi quit the freight company and they left the little furnished apartment and drove up the coast to D.C.. From there it was easy to repeat the process, watching the routines at the local freight depots from the parking lots and finding a pattern, going with a different plan each time but always using what the coke head had taught them about social engineering. They had varying success, the smallest score being the first twenty-two, the biggest almost fifty. After that one Bobbi worked on Mabry to quit the communications job. She liked the lifestyle. <br /><br />And Mabry had embarked on his new career.<br /><br />***<br /><br />A blast of Canada air shouldered out the rain, Mabry’s last day on the job coming in bright and hard with a bitter wind. He spent the morning out of sight of the crouching trailer homes, sitting in the relative warmth of a wood-floored boxcar. At noon he skipped the trek back to Mrs. Walker’s house and resisted the temptation to go out and look for the tunnel, waiting it out, letting his mind wander through the possibilities.<br /><br />Much later a sound jarred Mabry and he sat up, realizing he had dozed, seeing that some of the brightness had faded from the day. He waited and the sound came again, a scuffle of shoes on gravel. He peered around the edge of the boxcar door and the boy was there, not six feet away. He was squatting, bent over something on the ground. <br /><br />A moment later a section of earth seemed to shift before the boy’s feet. As Mabry watched it broke free, a tidy three-foot square, shrubs and all. The boy grunted and Mabry saw how he did it, a length of black cable attached to a sheet of plywood, sliding now as the boy pulled. Mabry remembered stepping on that cable yesterday as he searched in the rain, probably more than once. The camouflage had been artfully done, earth and pea stone attached to the wood in a realistic manner, dead shrubs carefully placed to avoid a wayward step and subsequent discovery of the hollow place underneath. Mabry remembered Mrs. Walker’s comment about the dirty knees, felt something shift in his gut.<br /><br />When the yellow coat disappeared, swallowed up by the hole, Mabry stepped out. He went to the opening, saw that the hole extended into a tunnel of sorts. He could hear the kid rustling further in. He turned it over in his head a few times, wondering how to play it.<br /><br />“Hey son,” he said, bending to the opening, deciding it was the only way. The hole was wide enough to accommodate his frame, but following the kid in would only frighten him.<br /><br />The rustling stopped. Mabry waited but the boy said nothing.<br /><br />“Come on out, son.”<br /><br />More rustling, and the boy’s head appeared. “What do you want?” the boy said. There was a fear in his eyes that Mabry couldn’t equate to the situation.<br /><br />“I’m not going to hurt you.”<br /><br />“What do you want?” the boy said again.<br /><br />“I need to see your tunnel.”<br /><br />The boy’s eyes darted away, then back to Mabry. “You can’t be there. Someone’s going to see you.”<br /><br />Mabry looked around, realized he was in view of the trailer homes. The opening itself was hidden by the angle of the boxcars and the slope of the land. The boy had probably approached from the opposite side so he could remain hidden.<br /><br />“I’m coming in.”<br /><br />“No,” the boy said, but backed away into the tunnel as Mabry approached.<br /><br />Mabry squatted, peered in. The earth had been excavated to a depth of four or five feet, the walls muddy from the rain but smooth-sided. Looking closer, Mabry saw how the tunnel had been formed, not really a tunnel but a trench with a roof of plywood, camouflaged along the surface with more shrubs and soil. Mabry could hear the boy’s rustling further in, the nylon coat noisy in the darkness. After a moment’s hesitation he lowered himself into the hole.<br /><br />Then worried, because the boy was gone. Somehow the kid had vanished up ahead, the yellow coat no longer visible. Mabry paused, listened. A new sound came back, hollow and metallic. The boy had gotten into some other part of the tunnel. There were footsteps.<br /><br />Then all at once he got it. He lifted his head out of the hole and saw the boxcar, across from the opening a dozen feet away. The boy had to be inside it, gone up through a hole in the floor. The reason for the trench became clear: it allowed access to the boxcar without crossing the dozen feet, which were in view of the trailer homes through a gap between the other boxcars.<br /><br />After a claustrophobic scuttle in the dark Mabry was there, squeezing his shoulders through the opening in the floor of the car. The wheels had settled and the floor was only a few inches from the ground, causing Mabry to wonder how the hole, a neat, nearly perfect square in the steel, had been cut.<br /><br />Looking around the inside of the car, he got several answers at once, more than he could take in and process. The sliding door had been secured from the inside with a hasp and padlock, answering his first question. Whoever had cut the opening in the floor had done it from the inside, then locked the door. Other holes he been drilled in strategic locations for natural light, and a pair of battery-powered lanterns stood in each of the four corners.<br /><br />Scattered around the space were various artifacts. Remnants, Mabry thought, of a dead man. An ashtray shaped like a coal car, the filters of three or four butts still lying in its bottom. A tattered engineer’s cap hanging on a nail. Taped to the wall were several grainy instant snapshots of the boy or Lou with that same cap perched on their heads, twisted in odd directions, the subjects tugging on their ears or making funny faces. <br /><br />And the model train set. More than just a set. A whole model city, taking up most of the boxcar’s floor. Trees, office buildings, bridges, high-tension poles, cell towers. A plastic lake with miniature sailboats. Cars, trucks, pedestrians. Even an airport, its tiny painted aircraft huddled around the hanger like exotic insects. And through it all a winding track, a shining pair of steel ribbons meandering through the landscape.<br /><br />Mabry heaved himself into the car for a closer look. The boy stood in a corner, silent.<br /><br />Parked in a section of track in the far corner, directly in front of the boy, was another answer, the real reason Mabry was here. The model train was one of the larger scales, maybe HO or S, Mabry could never remember how they went. It was at least twenty cars long and made of solid brass, right down to the wheels and fittings. The caboose glittered in a shaft of sunlight from one of the holes in the wall. Mabry could see how Mrs. Walker could mistake one of the cars for a bar of gold.<br /><br />“Mr. Walker did this?” Mabry said.<br /><br />The boy didn’t speak.<br /><br />Mabry looked around, noticed an aluminum baseball bat standing in the corner, a tattered baseball on the floor.<br /><br />“He played ball with you.” Mabry said. Then stared the boy down until he nodded. The kid was dirty, and not only from the crawl through the hole. His fingernails and hair looked like they hadn’t seen the inside of a bathtub in recent memory.<br /><br />“Mr. Walker was quite a craftsman.”<br /><br />When the boy didn’t answer again, Mabry went back to taking in the space, his eyes falling again upon the ashtray. He wondered how Lou got the smell of smoke from his clothes after his evening excursions. Probably delayed coming home until Mrs. Walker was in bed, then tossed his clothes in the hamper. Or more likely the pair didn’t sleep together at all.<br /><br />“Diesel,” the boy said.<br /><br />Mabry looked up. The boy was watching him. “What?”<br /><br />“That was his nickname. Diesel. Mine’s Steamer.”<br /><br />Mabry nodded. Rail fan nicknames. Although Diesel didn’t seem quite right for an overweight, balding man. He went to the line of brass cars and plucked a boxcar from the track, unexpectedly liking the feel of it, the weight in his hand. “What happened to Diesel?”<br /><br />The boy shrugged, then squatted and began adjusting pieces of artificial landscape.<br /><br />Mabry watched for a while, thinking it out but not too hard. There was no gold. So the job was over.<br /><br />He was about to stand when a sound came from outside the car. He looked up. The boy froze.<br /><br />Then a voice, coming through the opening in the floor. “Get your ass out of that hole, boy.”<br /><br />The look of fear, now amplified, was back on the boy’s face. He stood and went straight to the hole without looking at Mabry.<br /><br />Mabry went to the hole after the boy disappeared, then paused, thought about it. He stuffed the brass boxcar into his back pocket, then went to the corner and picked up the aluminum bat.<br /><br />“Who the fuck are you?” the man said as Mabry emerged into the sunlight. The boy stood a few paces away, hands thrust in his pockets and staring at his shoes.<br /><br />Despite the cold, the man wore a faded cotton athletic shirt, his exposed arms thin but ropy with veins. A red stubble covered his jaw and cheeks, hair flat on one side as though he had just awoken. His eyes were watery and rimmed with red. Meaning he was coming down off something and not happy about it.<br /><br />The man held something in his hand. It took Mabry two or three hard heartbeats to realize it was a lightning rod.<br /><br />“The fuck you doing with my boy?” the man said.<br /><br />“No one’s doing anything with him.”<br /><br />“Damn kid draws queers like a magnet.” He raised the lightning rod a little, suddenly inflamed by his own words.<br /><br />Mabry said, “You don’t know a thing about the boy, do you?”<br /><br />“Fucking around in holes with grown men. That’s enough.”<br /><br />Mabry realized then that the man – by ignorance or plain lethargy – had never bothered to see what was on the other side of the tunnel.<br /><br />“The boy likes model trains,” Mabry said. “Did you know?”<br /><br />“Who the hell are you to tell me about my own boy?”<br /><br />“Someone needs to.”<br /><br />The guy spat something in the dirt. “You think you could do better mister?”<br /><br />Mabry thought he could. As he passed, the guy made a feint with the lightning rod, but Mabry raised the bat and the guy stepped back. Which told Mabry that overweight, balding men were more the man’s speed. He wondered where it had happened, whether the guy had done it here and moved the body to the other section, or if he had ambushed Lou in the dark as he walked back home through the yard. Then decided it didn’t matter.<br /><br />He left the brass boxcar with Mrs. Walker and explained about the boy, then called a taxi. Today’s hundred would be enough for cab fare to Philip’s grandparents’ apartment complex. He thought about telling Mrs. Walker about the father and the lightning rod. But then changed his mind and let that part lie as a mystery, a random act. A boy needed a father.<br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Robert Peza has published stories in the magazines Mysterical-E, Amarillo Bay, Conversely, Shots, Millenium Writings, and Gorilla magazine. His short story, "Love Triangle," was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2005. He lives in Massachusetts and is currently working to locate an agent for a recently-completed detective novel.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-29606246330893818122008-11-11T22:29:00.000-08:002008-11-13T22:20:19.723-08:00Out on Joppa - Robert WardOUT ON JOPPA<br /> <br />So it was like this went down back when I was a kid and Nicky Scarlatti scared the living shit out of everyone who hung around The Lodge because that was the kind of guy he was. Nicky and me ran around with two other Whale- Boy Blake, and we did whatever and whoever we could. Our specialty was house robbing; for a year or two we all lived in a row house down on Calvert Street and it was a short jog right up to Homeland, and Roland Park where we lifted up the ladders and pried our way into stately homes, basically ripping off everything we could carry. We had a really nice little fencing scene going over in Dundalk; Nick owned a warehouse in which he kept paintings, and silverware and the family jewels, TV’s, compact disc players, Moose heads for laughs, all kinds of shit. All this when he was just seventeen. I mean he was a real villain, top of the class. Robbing, strong arming, dope selling…you name it, the kid had it cornered. <br /><br />Where were the cops? They were around. But what could they do? Nicky’s dad was Jimmy Scarlatti, yeah that one…he ran nine clubs, and fifty hookers and more dope out of the great Port O’ Baltimore than Al Capone did whiskey in Old Chicago. <br /><br />He also owned politicians by the score…they were like little puppets he kept in his hip pocket, took them out, dusted them off and let them make speeches at City Hall.<br /><br />What’d they talk about? Reform. What the fuck else? The roads gotta be reformed, concrete is gotta be poured, don’t we need a new dam now that Pretty Boy is old and cracked? Yeah, we do and who is gonna supply the concrete ,none other than Maiden Choice Concrete, owned and operated by Tommy Floria, Jimmy’s running buddy from Little Italy. How about schools, fuck yes we need schools, great big concrete mutherfucking schools, and what about a new stadium, well fuck n A yes we need a new stadium…old Memorial Stadium is a piece of shit, the piss runs in lakes out of the broken urinals…Now stadiums are good things…Jesus, there’s a million ways to make money off a stadium…from the stanchions to the new seats to the fucking crab cake and beer franchises. That’s American enterprise at its fucking best. <br /><br />Yes, the world was good for the Scarlatti’s, and better than that for young Nicky, king of the teenage bad boys. <br /><br />Everything was coming up money, right until Jimmy got Nick his new Corvette for his 18th birthday. Well, actually it was an old Corvette, 1956 classic, but all tricked out with duel carbs, super fuel inject, two steel pipes in the back, and original white wall tires. The engine only had about five hundred and eighty horses. What a fucking beauty. I woulda given my own left nuts for it and both of yours. <br /><br />Oh, did Nicky love that car. He and me and Whale Boy used to blast up to the Lodge get down on some crystal meth in the back bathroom, drink down about half a gallon of Jack Daniels and then go cruising through the city, looking for chicks to fuck, guys to fuck over, houses to rob. <br /><br />I remember hitting the light at Charles and North Avenue…fucking North Avenue with like four lanes of traffic and Jimmy doesn’t even slow down, just blasts through it going about ninety miles an hour. <br /><br />I’m screaming: “Hollllly shittttt,” <br /><br />Cars are slamming their brake and horns are blasting and I see a five car crash-up behind us, and Jimmy is laughing, screaming with his pointed chin and beady eyes, and Whale is doing his Whale Boy flip out…yelling <br /><br />“Whaaaa Whaaa Whaaaa!” <br /><br />What a rush! <br /><br />And Nicky keeps right on going through the city, and out onto the Baltimore Beltway where we start terrorizing four girls in a Toyota, screaming “Baby come sit on my face!” and other subtle shit like that. (Can you believe they didn’t wanna?) <br />And then it happens…like we knew it would. <br /><br />There’s a siren and a flashing red light behind us and this state trooper is closing in on us. <br /><br />And Nicky starts laughing and weaving right and left…and then the guy starts in over the loudspeaker: <br /><br />“This is the Maryland State Police. Pull over at once, sir!” <br /><br />And Nicky is laughing so hard he almost rams into the speed limit sign as he pulls over, and the guy stops about ten feet behind us. Nicky starts to get out of the car, and the guy freaks, starts yelling over his speaker: <br /><br />“Do not leave your car, sir. Get back into your car at once, sir.” <br /><br />And Nicky is just laughing, doubled over…as he sort of half gets back in, sitting on the back of the seat top…<br /><br />And the trooper walks toward us, all stiff and formal, a long lean Clint Eastwood looking guy with the reflector shades on even though it’s nighttime. And he goes through the whole “Let me see your license and registration, bit,” and me and Whale are sitting there not knowing what’s going down. But Nicky hands it to him real cool, and then looks at the guy and before he can say anything else, Nick says, “Aren’t you gonna ask me was I drinking?” And the Trooper, whose name I can now read as Stumpfel, looks at him and says,” Are you trying to be funny, son?” And Nicky says, “No sir, I just didn’t want you to be derelict in your duty.” I liked that touch “derelict”. Nicky had a pretty good vocabulary for a gangster…Now the guy looks at him harder and says, “Thank you very much, but I don’t think I’m going to have a problem doing my duty, punk.” And Nicky looks all a flutter at that one, says in this kind of high pitched fag voice, “That is sooo upsetting. My dad is gonna hate that you called me that.” Now the guy looks at him again, taking off the mirrored shades and you know he wants to stick his hand down Nicky’s throat and pull out his heart, but instead something like a revelation comes into his face, and he looks back down at the license…and when he looks back up again, he’s totally changed., I mean the whole Clint thing is stone gone, and the tight little tough guy lips are kind of twitching and his voice, I swear, is like a half-register higher, and he says, “Oh Mr. Scarlatti, well why didn’t you say so? Listen, no problem son. Just take it a little bit easy will you?” And he’s sort of backing away like some old slave, shucking and jiving, and Nicky’s looking after him and laughing, and saying, “Yeah ,no problem Sergeant Dickhead…none at all. We’ll be rolling along now, fuckface.” And he turns and slides back down into the seat and we peeled out of there like we’d been shot out of a cannon, leaving a rubber patch about twenty feet long. And the dickhead trooper, he didn’t see or hear a thing. Man, he couldn’t wait to get away…<br /><br />That was maybe…no for sure, the greatest night of Nick’s life. As he explained to me later when we got back down the Lodge and were smoking these big spliffs he’d gotten off a boat from Jamaica…<br /><br />“Here’s the thing, man…The cops, the politicians all of them are nothing. We run the scene Eddie Boy, you and me and Whale man, and anybody else we fucking choose.”<br /><br />And I was nodding my head and digging the music on the box…some ancient Stones thing…and yet I couldn’t help but add a note of caution, and I said: <br /><br />“Yeah but Nick, we don’t want to attract too much attention,” And he laughed and said, “Don’t be a pussy. I studied ancient Rome, which is what we got here. We run the show and the thing to do is to make sure the cocksuckers know it. This whole secretive thing…I don’t buy it. You want to spread the fear, the intimidation, so that they are already beaten before you even show up. They’ve shit their pants and they can’t fight back. You saw that cop tonight. He was paralyzed with fear cause he knew the Roman legions had swooped out of the city onto his territory. Man, I loved that…That boy is my bitch. Love it, dig it…We all die Edward so grab the power and squeeze while you got it.” <br /><br />“I guess so,” I said. The way he said it, the way his eyes shown into mine like headlamps, oh man, I believed it. <br /><br />And that was how Nick’s new hobby began. <br /><br />In the red Corvette, screaming out to the belt way, high on every drug we could cop, and scaring the shit out of the local cops. <br /><br />I dreaded it really…I kept thinking one of them would take us off to jail, kick our asses, but Nicky was right. It never happened. We cruised, we drove on the grass plot in the middle of the fucking highway, we drove over people’s lawns in the middle of the night and then waited for the cops to come. <br /><br />City cops, state cops, it didn’t make a bit of difference baby. They all freaked when they saw that license…<br /><br />“Sorry Mr. Scarlatti.” <br /><br />“Nick Scarlatti, hey how you doing?” <br /><br />“Oh Nick? I know your dad. Take it easy son.” <br /> <br />There was something about those rides that made Nick, me Whale…all of us felt like we were golden. Like they couldn’t touch us. Soon we got real empowered, as the shrinks say now…empowered to steal more and more. Guilford, Falls Road, Homeland…man we were racking up the robberies. Rolling in ill gotten gains. <br /><br />One night we climbed into this guy’s house lived on Hollywood Lane. Cruised right in and robbed the fucking guy blind while he was passed out in the bed next to his wife. <br /> <br />The guy wakes up and looks out, all blinky and freaked, and says: <br /> <br />“Who’s there?” <br /> <br />And Nick says: <br /> <br />“Just me.”<br /> <br />“Who?” <br /><br />“House robbers,” Nick says. “Go back to sleep.”<br /><br />“What the hell?” the guy says. “Who the hell are you?” <br /><br />“My name’s Nick,” Nicky says. “This is Eddie, and this big guy is Whale Boy. “We’re gonna take all your shit now, okay?” <br /><br />“Fuck!” the guy says. <br /><br />“Who is it, Gerald?” the wife says now rolling over with cold cream on her face. <br /><br />“Geez, how many times I gotta tell you?” Nick asks, picking up a big handful of the guy’s silk ties. “It’s Nick, the house robber. We’re going to take all your shit. You got too much of it anyway.”<br /><br />“Call the police, Gerald,” the woman says. <br /><br />“Nah, you don’t want to do that Gerald, Nick says. “Cause if you do I’m gonna have Whale Boy hear stick his Beluga up your wife’s pee-pee. Then I’m gonna come over to you, and make you suck my cock, Gerald.”<br /><br />“Gerald,” the wife said. “Do something!” <br /><br />“Shut the fuck up, Lois,” Gerald said.” Take the stuff guys. Just hurry…I think I’m gonna be sick.” <br /><br />“Goodman Gerald,” Nick said. He put the ties in his bag and started scraping up the money off the dresser. <br /><br />What a scene that night was. Robbing a guy and telling him your name and knowing that he wasn’t going to do shit. I mean that was colorful. Yet, I got a little worried. Turned out the guy was some kind of bigwig doctor at Larson Payne Hospital and was on boards at a lot of downtown businesses. <br /><br />But Nick never got scared. Just the opposite. He loved it that we’d jerked the guy off like that. <br /><br />He took the guy’s ties and started wearing them around. I mean a tie with the guy’s initials on it. Jesus fucking Christ…<br /><br />I worried about that. But ok I loved it too. <br /><br />Then he went over the top. <br /><br />I mean there was this Christmas thing at City Hall and we went and there was the fucking guy, Gerald himself, right across the room, hobnobbing with the head of the city council Joe Narowski, and there’s Nicky wearing his tie. Man, I wanted to book right away, but not Nicky. He grabs me by the arm and pulls me over to the guy with him, smiling and greeting his old man’s friends like he’s the Pope. <br /><br />“Gerald,” Nick says, “I’ve heard all about your work. Very impressive.” <br /><br />Gerald looks confused at first like he’s trying to place the voice. I’m feeling embarrassed, looking down at my feet. Man, this was not called for. But Nick isn’t going to stop. He sort of punches Gerald on the arm, and goes right on: <br /><br />“I’m Nick Scarlatti. This is my friend, Edward Morris. Pleased to meet you, sir.” <br /><br />But Gerald says nothing at all. He’s just staring at Nick’s tie. . <br /><br />“Sir?” Nick says. “Are you all right, sir?’ <br /><br />“Oh yes, fine,” Gerald says. But his voice is like a little squeak. And his face is crimson, man…<br /><br />“You like this tie?” Nick says. “Got it as a Christmas gift. Well, good to meet you Doc. You de man.” <br /><br />We walked away, Nicky laughing, and grabbing a drink as we staggered out to the Vette. <br /><br />See,it was like one kind of dare…robbing a guy, fed the other kind of automotive insanity, and there we were one day later driving out the Joppa Road doing about ninety-five as we go by Carney’s Crab House…I forget what the fuck we were doing out there, trolling for Christmas pussy no doubt…and running people off the road, of course…laughing as we see their cars hitting the ditch…ba boom ba boom, and we get to this little stretch of woods over in Parkville somewhere, you know the area where the hairhoppers all live, and Nick really opens up…and sure enough right around the corner comes this fucking trooper’s car…it’s coming after us…and Nicky is laughing and doing power slides around corners and handing me a joint… and I’m so wasted I don’t quite know what’s going down, but the guy does the whole siren thing, then the walky-talky bit, except this cop seems to have a sense of humor, because he doesn’t command us to pull over and stop, instead he says, “I strongly suggest you stop,” and Nicky looks at me and says, “Great! Comedian cops now. This ought to be different.” <br /><br />So he pulls to a stop, and hops right out of the car, and the guy comes walking toward us…and I’m expecting the usual Clint long tall laconic bit but instead we get this guy who is built like a fireplug, and there’s something else about him too…though I was sort of too wasted to know what it was…but I think it was the color of his uniform. It didn’t look quite right…like an off brown that was more piss yellow. And he acted kinda cool when Nick handed him his license. I mean even after he looked down at it, he seemed …like the name didn’t mean shit to him. <br /><br />And he smiled at us…oh man, that smile. <br /><br />And he said: <br /><br />“Mr. Scarlatti, you were driving at ninety miles an hour and you were responsible for a number of motor accidents a few miles back, and therefore I am going to have to ask you and your friend here to come with me.” <br /><br />Nick squinted and looked right through him, with his deaths head smile and said: <br />“Have you read my license you fucking punk?” <br /><br />The cop nodded and handed it back to him. But as Nicky took it, the guy had unsheathed his pistol. That was when I started feeling all hollow inside. <br /><br />“Come with me now,” he said. “Both of you.” <br /><br />“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Nicky said. “My father will…”<br /><br />But the guy didn’t let him finish. Instead he hit him across the face with the gun butt, breaking Nicky’s nose like you’d snap a kitchen match. <br /><br />“You come too, sir,” the man said. <br /><br />He pulled Nicky out of the car and kicked him in the back of his leg, bringing him to his knees. <br /><br />I thought maybe I could run away out to the road, which now looked so empty and dark. But there was no way. <br /><br />“You can’t do this,” I said, as he pushed us toward his car. <br /><br />That’s when I began to really feel sick. The paint job on his car was off. It had obviously been done in a hurry by someone who wasn’t too sure how it should really look. <br /><br />It was fine until you got up close, but then you could see that the Maryland decal was messed up, and that there was some metallic primer still showing underneath. <br />Nicky saw it too, and said:<br /><br />“You asshole, you can’t get away with this. My father will fucking scrape your nuts off with a nail file.” <br /><br />“Shut up,” the guy said. “You rude little shit.” <br /><br />He kicked Nicky inside. That’s when I tried to run for it, but he hammered me in the head, and as I fell I thought I heard him giggle. Like this was all some kind of cute little game. <br /><br /><br />When I came too we weren’t even on the road anymore. Oh no…we were back in some kind of Parkville woods, the kind that are all thick pine, so dark you can’t even see the moon. <br /><br />Nicky was down on his knees next to me, and the guy was standing over him with his big assed barreled .45 an inch or so in front of Nick’s nose. I was lying next to him…and I heard Nicky start to beg: <br /><br />“Look man, I don’t know who you are but if you don’t do this, my old man…he’ll set you up for life. For life! You won’t have to do shit, except go down to your mailbox everyday and just take out your money.” <br /><br />The guy laughed then too…a high pitched clown’s laugh…Oh man…that laugh. <br /><br />He put the gun next to Nicky’s lips, ran it around them in this gentle way. <br /><br />“Suck on this, Nicky Boy,” he said. <br /><br />“No!” Nick said. “Please.” <br /><br />He was starting to cry now. Nicky! I couldn’t believe it.<br /><br />“Who the fuck are you?” Nick said. <br /><br />“Just think of me as a friend of Gerald’s,” the guy said. “He said you could keep the tie.” <br /><br />Then he fired the .45. The back of Nicky’s head blew backwards and splattered on an oak…I think it was an oak anyway. It’s funny the shit that goes through your mind when you’re about to be killed. Oak, pine, I never could tell them apart. Neither one of them looks good with hair and brains sliding down them though. <br /><br />I staggered to my feet and watched the guy standing there, the smoke coming out of his gun. He had on his goddamned reflector shades and he stuck his belly out and rubbed his back. Like he was finishing up a good day’s work and getting ready for a friendly beer. <br /><br />I turned and ran, ran for the tree line, and was sure, dead sure that any second he’d blast me in the back. Then I heard him laughing after me, that high pitched screech of a laugh, and I kept on running, stumbling, falling ,getting back up again, scared shitless… until I came to a place called Jo Jo’s Tire yard, and I fell in there and found the old man. Jo Jo himself, who took me in and gave me a pint of cheap booze…and then about an hour later drove me back into the city. And never asked one damned question the whole time. <br /><br />I cleared out that night…as fast as I could, and caught a Greyhound headed south. <br /> <br />For over a year, I moved around a lot from motel to motel. <br /><br />I changed my hair color to red, and then to blonde and I grew a beard. <br /> <br />I read the papers and watched the TV. It came up pretty soon. <br /> <br />SON OF CRIME FIGURE DISAPPEARS. Somewhere farther down in the lead they’d mention me too. Edward Morris, 18, a family friend also gone. Yeah, I liked that. A family friend, like we were old school mates from St Paul Prep or someplace. <br /> <br />It’s been over ten years now, and they never found Nick. Not one hair of him. <br /> <br />They never found me either. I don’t go by Eddie anymore, and I don’t stay in one place all that long. I know I know…if the guy had wanted to kill me he could have and that I should feel safe. <br /> <br />But I don’t. <br /> <br />I’m never going to feel safe again as long as I remember those glasses, and hear that laugh. That’s just how it is, and all because of a Red Corvette. .Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-21300475332815290772008-11-11T20:56:00.000-08:002008-11-13T22:02:50.310-08:00A Quiet Minute of Reflection - Keith Rawson<div align="left">A MINUTE OF QUIET REFLECTION<br /><br />“Come on, motherfucker, un-cuff me and get this asshole off of me!” The girl's voice is nails on a blackboard. Not that I could blame the panic. She’s handcuffed to a radiator with 300 lbs. of dead man resting in between her legs.<br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">“Come on, come on! He’s still in me! Please he’s still in me!”<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">I’m sure the girl has had worse lays than my headless, still warm ex-partner. I know this, because I’ve seen Paul naked more times than I care to admit, and trust me, the boy was definitely packing. Of course, I imagine most of her former fuck buddies—although I’m sure not as well endowed as Paul—were in possession of fully functioning skulls that didn’t leak blood all over her glorious, surgically enhanced tits.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">I needed a minute to zone out; just a quick second to smoke and take in my current situation with a fresher perspective. I’d been gone all of ten minutes, down to the bodega for a fresh deck of smokes, a couple of sandwiches, and some coffee. Ten minutes and I come back to the flop and spy Paul humping away on the girl like $39.99 of Mylar blow up doll. Under a normal set of circumstances, I would’ve attempted to slip back out the door unnoticed and let the bruiser finish up. Not that I condone rape—being the victim of a vicious gang bang myself, which by the way, was headed up by Paul. This was before we got chummy, of course, and I was just another pretty white man new to the slam. It’s just better idea to let a boy like Paul drain the spunk out of his thick head so he could have a coherent thought for longer than 3 seconds.<br /><br /></div><div align="left">But our situation was far from fucking normal. Orders were to sit on the girl until we got the call confirming that the contact had his money. After that, it was up to us what happened to the girl. But since I had the phone and no call had come from the contact, that meant Me and Paul were still on the clock and that meant do not touch the fucking girl! So instead of discreetly exiting stage right, I dropped my sandwiches and coffee, pulled my Browning and sighted down on Paul’s contorted rape driven snarl of a face and turned it into a big red mist.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">If only the big dumb fucker waited a little longer, a couple hours at the most, he could have done whatever he wanted to the cunt. Hell, I might’ve broken my no forced screwing policy and had a couple of 'around the worlds' with her before turning her out and scrapping her remains in some lonely cornfield. But that was always Paul’s problem, patience. Paul was strictly a smash and grab type. Quick jobs that required muscle and not all that much in the brain cell department. But Paul was fresh out of stir and in need of cash and was begging me for a job, anything to carry him for the next six months, anything to keep from getting a straight job.<br /><br /></div><div align="left">I was more than sympathetic. I’d been through more than my fair share of rough patches. Hell, I even had to do a stretch peddling used cars before a solid caper finally came my way. Plus, I’d known Paul for over 10 years, we’d done time together; most of the brotherhood tattoos decorating Paul’s massive frame (Not that either of us was racist, in the real, money was green no matter who handed it over. But inside you were either dead or fucked within a week if you didn’t join up with one of the racially charged gentleman clubs.) Was tapped into his flesh by my hand, and the contract for the girl was a sweet deal. Not exactly a two-man gig, but the cash was enough to split down the middle, or at the very least 75/25. The job was simple enough: Snatch the girl, sit on her, and once the contact had the money, pump and dump. I thought even Paul could handle a job so shockingly simple?<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">The only major issue was the grab. The girl was high profile. An entertainment industry heiress who liked hitting the clubs and enjoyed pretending she was an actress/model/singer, but lacked the basic skills necessary to pursue any of those endeavors. What the girl truly excelled at was spending the family fortune, inhaling brand name pharmaceuticals like they were M&M’s, and acting as a human condom to any cock worth more than twenty million. It was rare that she was ever alone—a caravan of scumbag photog’s were typically tailing her like eager puppies—and Daddy loved her enough to provide her with gun toting monkey men of the failed football player type. You know the type, six-foot-five steroid freaks who looked good in the spotlight as their clients shadow, but would crawl into the fetal position and whine like little girls as soon as they saw a gun.<br /><br /></div><div align="left">But the girl was smart. She didn’t like Daddy’s giants following her around all the time, so five days out of seven she would get them drunk, or laid, or a combo of the two and she would sneak off with one of her 3rd generation wealthy boyfriends to go and score a couple of pipe full’s of crack, and spend 8 or 9 hours sucking on a two different kinds of dicks. And that’s the where and when I decided to grab her, just as her and some shit heel with a vintage Porsche and a trust fund pulled up to girl’s favorite corner man.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Luckily the contact had provided detailed information on the girl’s nightly movements, so all Paul and I had to do was sit around and wait for her to pop up. I held the Browning on the faggot boyfriend and the dealer and Paul grabbed the girl. The dealer was smart and faded back into his alley; the bitch wasn’t anything to him, just another fifty-dollar sale. The trust fund tried puffing out his shallow chest and pulling that ‘Do you know who I am?’ bullshit. I opened him up above the right eye with my piece; that shut him the fuck up quick and caused him to ruin the leather driver’s seat of his car. Paul’s job was a bit more of a struggle. The little bitch played right into the stereo type of the raging female, hissing and spitting, all fingernails and attempted shots to the groin. She was pissed, and I couldn’t quite figure if it was because we were grabbing her or because she wasn’t scoring any crack tonight?<br /><br /></div><div align="left">After a couple minutes of her bullshit, Paul had enough and gave her a stiff elbow to the jaw. I should’ve known right then he was going to be trouble when I saw his eyes after his little tussle with the girl; glassy, bug eyed wonder, his face slick and shiny, a noticeable bulge in his jeans. Of course, all of this was hindsight. At the time, all I was concerned about was getting the girl in the van and back to the flop; it was only a matter of minutes before the photog’s caught back up with her.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">The flop the contact provided us was a couple of blocks away from the grab sight, a typical fleabag: run down and populated by tenants who mind their own business or were too old to care and simply turned their TV’s way up to deafening volumes anytime there was trouble. The place was bare bones, no furniture except a couple of hard folding chairs, an ancient card table, and a crystal ashtray that added just the slightest hint of elegance to our surroundings. No TV, no radio, no land line, nothing to connect us to the outside except the prepaid cell phone I kept on me at all times for when the call came.<br /><br /></div><div align="left">We kept the girl handcuffed to the radiator, eyes and mouth duct taped, she slept most of the time, either from the stress of the situation, or that this was the first time in years—perhaps in her entire life—where she was forced to sit in one spot for longer than 10 minutes. When she was awake, she did the usual hostage thing, cried a lot, plead a little through her gag; not that either of us could understand her, it was all dentist chair mumbles. I stayed on top of news of the grab when I went out for food. The story, as expected, spread fast. The Post ran the grab as its front page for three days straight; interviews with the cops, with the crack head boyfriend (A Horror in the Inner City was the headline, and the boyfriend or whatever the little pussy was to the girl, sobbed like a fairy about what he had to endure.) the parents. The cops, according to the paper, the cops didn’t have a clue, which didn’t mean all that much. Cops were a fountain of disinformation when it came to the media, but after three days, there were no sirens screaming down in the street, the blinding strobe of red and blue lights, there was no pounding at the door demanding to open up or they were going to knock it down.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">My minute of quiet reflection is up. I toss my butt on the carpet and grind it out with my heel instead of snuffing it in the overflowing ashtray. I stash my piece behind my back and walk over to what’s left of Paul and the still very freaked out girl. The two of them are still joined at the hip and the girl is slick with Paul’s blood; her once perfectly coifed blonde hair now matted and clumpy with brain tissue. It’s very modern art and I take a couple of seconds to admire the contrast and shadow. Eh, not really, it’s just the shit coming out of the girl’s mouth is making me want to fall down with a case of the giggles.<br /><br />I finally manage to muscle Paul’s weight off of her and drag his big ass over into a corner of the flop a few feet away from her. I’m bent over hacking and trying to catch my breath when the cell chirps a couple of times. I pull it from the inside pocket of my coat and answer.<br /><br /></div><div align="left">“Yeah?”<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">“It’s done. Your fee will be transferred within fifteen minutes.”<br /></div><div align="left">I hang up and pocket it again. Stupid bastard Paul, you just couldn’t wait it out like a normal person. I collect myself for a couple of more seconds making sure my heart rate is calm and my breath is nice and even. I walk back over to the girl, and pull the Browning. It’s primed and ready. I draw down on her and inch the hammer back.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Paul lived for the chance to put his cock in anything warm, slick, and struggling. Me, sex just doesn’t do the trick. For me it’s those two or three seconds when you’ve lined up the sights on your target and their eyes go big and watery with the fear. Yeah, I know it’s cliché as all fucking get out, but what can I say, I am who I am.<br /><br /></div><div align="left">The girl’s keeping me waiting though and I’m starting to get a little pissed. My anticipation is so heavy, I don’t notice the flop’s door click and swing open. I don’t notice the warm body behind me. I only notice when the girl starts throwing off a big throaty laugh, her eyes focused over my shoulder. I half turn and the faggot boyfriend from the grab puts a bullet through my skull.<br /><br /></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Fucking shitty nine millimeter.<br /><br /></div><div align="left">The slug doesn’t even kill me; it just bounces around and turns my brain into a soupy gray and pink jell-o. If some how my now useless body is discovered, I’ll spend the rest of my very limited existence wearing a diaper and watching shitty daytime television. Hopefully I’ll just bleed out. <br /><br /></div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"><strong>BIO:</strong> Keith Rawson lives in the Phoenix, Az. suburb of Gilbert with his wife, daughter, and dog. He works as an Education counselor and has been writing off and on for the past fifteen years. He love crime fiction and other such degenerate literature.</div>Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-89444121038028441672008-10-11T16:38:00.000-07:002008-10-11T17:03:10.428-07:00Death Has No Friends - Jason White<strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Death has no Friends<br /></span></strong>Found in the Toronto Star archives, 2008<br /><br />August 10, 1974<br />Angela lies behind me on the couch wearing only a G-string. The white of coke residue rests in powdery streaks upon the surface glass of the coffee table. Beside this are a burnt spoon, a lighter, and an ashtray full of drying cotton and cigarette butts. Empty liquor bottles are littered in the small apartment living room. I lie somewhere in the middle, my brain a fuzz from the last threads of cocaine static. The heroin I use to counteract the speed so that I can sleep, but tonight I lay wide-awake. Angela moves her thigh, of which I rest my head on, and then Lenny is there, kneeling before me like some stone gargoyle, his overly large teeth shining with the streetlights outside.<br /> <br />I lean up against the couch and raise my eyebrows. “What the fuck you want?”<br /> <br />“Ya know, you might sleep better on a bed,” Lenny says, chuckling.<br /> <br />“Fuck you.”<br /> <br />Still smiling, Lenny says, “Listen. We need to talk out of ear shot about the next job.”<br /> <br />Slowly, I stand up on shaky legs, my mind swimming and motions slow. In the bedroom, we sit on the bed, and Lenny loses the comical look upon his face.<br /> <br />“We’ve been friends for a long time now,” Lenny says. “You’re like a brother to me.”<br /> <br />“Get to the fucking point,” I slur. I am tired and want to sleep.<br /> <br />“Well, you see, it’s like this. Jimmy and Bill were your friends, too. But…”<br /> <br />“<em><u>Were</u></em> my friends? What the fuck are you talking about?”<br /> <br />Lenny begins to sweat. “You see, after our next job, they plan on taking your share, and moving on without you.”<br /> <br />I can’t say that I’m surprised. As clichéd as such betrayals are in the movies, they are also very common on the streets. It was only a matter of time, and I did not doubt how they planned to get rid of me. I picture them tossing my body, wrapped in garbage bags, into Lake Ontario.<br /> <br />“The pricks!” I say, unable to feel the anger. But my mind is already planning. “Why are you telling me this?”<br /> <br />“Because,” Lenny says, “We’re like brothers. It was always you and me in the beginning.”<br /> <br />He is right, of course. I had known Lenny since the ninth grade, after my mom had hauled our asses south to Toronto. We met in homeroom and became quick friends, getting drunk on cheap liquor and bullying fellow ninth-graders, stealing their lunch money. It didn’t take long for the principal to kick both of us out, before we even reached the tenth grade. Fucking pricks! But they got what they deserved in the end.<br /> <br />With a little research, Lenny and I figured out where Mr. Swanson, the prick principal, lived. One night, about a month after we got the boot, Lenny and I headed to Mississauga, with Jimmy Townsend at the wheel. Jimmy was the son to a friend of Lenny’s family. Five years older than us, he had a car and a license. <br /> <br />We arrived around 1 o’clock in the morning, to a street vacant of activity, save for the barking dogs and wandering cats. With liquor bottles filled with petroleum, we lit the rag wicks and threw them through Mr. Swanson’s windows. We remained there for a few moments, making sure our bombs did the job, only pulling away with screeching tires when most of the first floor had caught. <br /> <br />Nobody saw Jimmy’s massive Dodge. They only heard the car tires speeding away, and when they crawled to their windows to check out the racket, we were already gone.<br /> <br />The drive back home was a celebration, three frantic voices hooting and hollering our triumph, though we did not learn of our true success until the next day. Mr. and Mrs. Swanson’s death hit the hearts and minds of the people of Toronto hard. Flags remained hung at half-mast, while upon the school grounds students lit candles for an early evening farewell session. <br /> <br />“This is fucking great,” Jimmy said a few nights later, while we washed our parched throats with <em><u>Crown Royal</u></em> whiskey and <em><u>Molson Canadian</u></em> beer. “I should introduce you to my buddy, Bill Sweeny. If we banded together, who knows what we’d pull off.”<br /> <br />Now, I look up into Lenny’s eyes. They stare back, fat with worry at what I might say or do at the betrayal. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” his eyes seem to say. <br /> <br />My smile relaxes him. I reach out and grab him by the neck, perhaps as a brother would do. I pull him close so that our foreheads are touching. “We’ll take care of this,” I say to him. “Together.”<br /> <br />Relieved, he leaves me to my slumber.<br /> <br />It had been five years or more since Jimmy introduced us to his buddy, Bill Sweeny. In that time, many people have met their fate through the barrel of my gun, and I’m surprised our little enterprise had even lasted this long. <br /> <br />Our crimes escalated from there. Gang is a poor word, as we are more like a band of thieves—young men who make their living mugging old women and knocking over convenience stores. For years we lived working shit jobs while pulling the more exciting stuff on the side. No one ever survived one of our miniature heists. I always made certain of that. Popping some asshole at three in the morning with the late-night coke burning inside my skull—there’s nothing like it in the world.<br /> <br />Over the years, our exploits evolved. Suddenly robbing old women and convenience stores was no longer enough. We needed something more dangerous that would lead to more money and less working shit jobs. We turned our greedy heads towards the city’s many banks, hitting at least one every month. We hit them in the early morning business hours. We hit them quick, in and out, without firing a shot. We quit our jobs and lived free, pulling five, ten, sometimes twenty thousand dollars a go. <br /> <br />However, now that attitudes are changing within the gang, my trigger finger is getting itchy. But I already know what I am going to do. In the end, I will probably get caught. But I no longer care.<br /> <br />I lay in bed, writing this in my journal—the drugs failing at knocking me out—and I can think only of revenge. <br /> <br />Which is okay, really. It is time for a change, anyway.<br /><br /><br />August 13, 1974<br />I’m not sure why I write this journal. Or, why I’m documenting these events as they happen in it. I usually leave the crime shit out, for various reason. Maybe you’re thinking that this is some sort of confessional. Perhaps so. But let me make one thing clear before I continue with my story. I never once felt regret or remorse over <em><u>any</u></em> of my decisions. To me, killing is nothing more than what you might feel like while at the movie theatre, vicariously watching fictional characters fall under a hail of bullets: entertaining for the moment, but easily forgettable once finished.<br /> <br />The first time I killed I was only twelve years of age. I lived north of Toronto back then, in a small town named Angus, which is probably for the better, because Johnny Haledon and I were walking through the woods, looking for what every twelve-year-old looks for: the long lost thug hideout, Nazis running around the Hurtgen Forest with murder in their eyes, a dead dog to poke a stick at. The fact that most of these things did not exist within our location and time period did not matter. Our imaginations were more than capable of filling in the blanks.<br /> <br />We walked with sticks in our hands—large branches from trees that had fallen during the heavy snowfalls from winter. And Johnny was going on and on about Cindy Clarke, a fellow seventh-grader.<br /> <br />“Man, I’d like to pin her down and show her what a real man is,” Johnny was saying. He was brooding over a comment he had heard Cindy say to her friends earlier that day, while in class. Something about Johnny Haledon never being man enough for <em><u>any</u></em> woman, never mind <em><u>her</u></em>. “I’m more than man enough for her. More of a man than anyone. Even you Slick!”<br /> <br />I shrugged, not really paying attention. I could give a shit about his premature romantic woes.<br /> <br />“Hey Slick, I bet you wouldn’t even be a tenth of what she needs.”<br /> <br />Growing frustrated, I again shrugged. I said, “I don’t really care about this shit. Girls are a waste of time, and Cindy’s too much of a slut, so why bother?”<br /> <br />Johnny stopped walking. Apparently, I had insulted him.<br /> <br />“Don’t you say that about Cindy,” he said, his face all red, chest puffing out like some hen ready to peck at my ankles.<br /> <br />I laughed at him. “Fuck off, Johnny.” And before I could say anything else, the knuckles of his fist slapped me across the jaw. <br /> <br />I don’t remember much of what happened next. It was like someone threw a switch inside my skull. I do remember the world going fuzzy, and Johnny’s body crumpling to the ground as I pummeled him with the tree branch, his face and head caving in as though it were no stronger than a melon. Then I was running home, blood and skull fragments splattered on my clothes.<br /> <br />The second time came long after my mother had found the gore on my clothes while doing laundry, after the cops came along with their questions—though I must add here that they never truly suspected me—and we had moved to Toronto. It was late evening, when some asshole decided to cut me off on Highway 401. I was alone, and that invisible switch flicked somewhere inside my cranium, but I had learned patience somewhere down the line. I followed the prick. Thankfully, he didn’t live in the city. Forty minutes later, heading north, we pulled into an old farmhouse somewhere near Newmarket.<br /> <br />I had learned of his name from the 6 o’clock news a day or two later. Don Pullman had been found sitting in his Ford truck on his driveway, gunshots littering his chest and head. <br /> <br />There were no witnesses or suspects. Again, I was free. <br /><br /><br />August 18, 1974<br />A very small percentage of people have my abilities. I noticed the disgust in Bill and Jimmy’s eyes the first time I shot dead a Mack’s Milk midnight shift employee. Maybe they looked at me that way because the woman in question was young with large breasts and long legs. A head full of blonde hair. But I could only see what a bullet might look like as it passed through her skull, spraying the cigarette display behind with skull, brain, and blood. They kept their opinions to themselves, however, as time moved on and more people died. Yet, now that they are planning to betray me, I am not surprised that they suddenly object to my trigger-happy ways. <br /> <br />The morning is clear, the streets busy, but the bank is nearly empty. The four of us don our ski masks and enter the bank. Nobody gets out a word. There is no, “Get on the floor, this is a hold up,” bullshit. I just pull out my gun and start shooting. <br /> <br />There are only five. But I leave one alive. The manager: the man who’s going to get me into the vault.<br /> <br />In the week since Lenny confessed to me of Jimmy and Bill’s plan to get rid of me, the job of scoping out and researching our next heist fell to me. As it usually does. So, I already knew the man’s name.<br /> <br />“Sandy Tidwell, nice to make your acquaintance,” I say once the shooting has stopped. He looks up at me from behind the service counter, his thick wireless glasses splattered with blood. <br /> <br />“Jesus Christ!” This is from Bill Sweeny. He stands over the body of a woman who had the misfortune to do her banking this early. Her daughter lies beside her, both bodies broken and unmoving. <br /> <br />“You fucking psycho! The cops are gonna be looking for us hardcore this time.”<br /> <br />“Shut the fuck up,” I say. “I’m talking to my new friend.”<br /> <br />Sandy Tidwell flinches at my words. He is wearing a grey suit, red tie, and sits hunched on his hindquarters between two dead bank tellers, his arms swaying to the left and right as though trying to fathom what had just happened. He reminds me of a bird with a broken wing trying to take flight. <br /> <br />“Now, I just might spare your life if you take me and my friend to the vault.” I motion to Bill, who still stands over the mother and child. “Quickly now, as you know we don’t have much time.”<br /> <br />Finally, he looks up, acknowledging my existence. He stands and leads Bill and me to the vault. On our way, I order Lenny and Jimmy to clean out the tellers’ cash drawers while we are gone.<br /> <br />“Killing people wasn’t in the plans,” Bill says, as Sandy Tidwell works at opening the vault with his shaking hands. “And neither was entering the vault. You’ve fucking lost it, you crazy fuck! I’ll make sure you pay for this.” <br /> <br />Then we are inside the vault, a large grey and white walk-in safe. We begin loading our pillowcases. I must agree with Bill on one thing. This is the first time we ever went this far into any bank, satisfied as we were with just the cash drawers up front. Today, however, I have other plans. <br /> <br />Once the bags are full enough, I turn to Sandy, who has sat down beside the vault’s large door. Shock and fear glaze his eyes, and I look down at him without an ounce of sympathy. “You did good,” I say to him. “Unfortunately, I was lying when I said that I might let you live.”<br /> <br />I rest my bags down by my feet, and aim my gun. His brains splatter against the stainless steel of the vault’s inner door. I then turn to Bill.<br /> <br />“I may be a psycho, but you’re a betraying asshole.”<br /> <br />Recognition of what I am talking about registers in Bill’s eyes behind the ski mask. He drops his bags, raises his hands and says, “Slick, I don’t know what—”<br /> <br />As we don’t have much time, I don’t let him finish the sentence. He falls in a pool of his own blood. I quickly reload, then put the gun in the waistline of my pants. I then grab Bill’s bags along with my own and head back out into the front lobby. Lenny and Jimmy are behind the counter, finishing their jobs. They both look nervous, anxious at what might happen next. <br /> <br />“We heard gunshots,” Jimmy says, his voice cracking. <br /> <br />Again, I drop my bags. “Indeed you did,” I say. I save the short spiel this time around. I pull my gun. Jimmy doesn’t say a word. His eyes only grow large as I aim the barrel at his head. One loud <em><u>crack</u></em>, and he also lies in a pool of his own bloody filth. <br /> <br />Lenny, meanwhile, has gathered his and Jimmy’s loot, and is heading around the counter for the exit. He’s acting as though nothing is wrong, though I can’t help but notice how he trembles as he moves. <br /> <br />“We’d better get going,” he says. “The cops will be here soon enough.”<br /> <br />“You’re not going anywhere, Lenny.” <br /><br />Hefting the larger loot over the counter, I hop over and train my gun on him.<br /> <br />“If this is a joke,” Lenny says, “it’s not very funny.”<br /> <br />For a long moment, I don’t say anything. I keep the gun aimed at his head, as I had with everyone else, but I do not pull the trigger. And as the silence grows between us, so does the realization in Lenny’s eyes that this is indeed no joke.<br /> <br />His body begins to convulse with sobs. <br /> <br />“We’ve been friends for over ten years now,” he says. “You’re like a brother to me.”<br /> <br />Still, I do not pull the trigger. He has spoken the truth, and I view him as a brother, as well. For some reason, the day he and I took a trip to my old hometown of Angus, so I could show him my first crime scene, pops into my head. This was about a month after we had burned down the principal’s house, and I wanted to prove to him, in the way teenagers need to prove themselves, of my violent history. The day was thick with humidity, and I remember Lenny standing on the spot where Johnny Haledon had perished. He held a <em><u>Molson Canadian</u></em> beer in one hand, a joint in the other. <br /> <br />“Dude, you’re one sick bastard,” he had said. “But I love you, man. I’ll stick by you forever.”<br /> <br />Thinking of this, I wonder if I have it within myself to show sympathy once the devil has turned his horned head. I could let Lenny go. I have the power to let him live.<br /> <br />It is no wonder that I hesitate. Lenny has been my only real friend, ever. Unfortunately for him, I never asked him to become my friend.<br /> <br />“I can’t trust you, Lenny,” I say. “You betrayed Jimmy and Bill. I love you for it, but it’ll only be a matter of time before you turn on me.”<br /> <br />And I pull the trigger.<br /> <br />No tears are spent. No feelings of remorse. I simply pocket the gun, grab all that my hands can carry, then headed for the car.<br /><br /><br />August 19, 1974<br />I was on the plane long before the police linked Jimmy and Bill and Lenny’s faces to mine. Over the telephone with Angela the next day, she told me that they had issued a Canada-wide warrant for my arrest, my face filling television screens and the front pages of newspapers everywhere. But I am already in Jamaica, looking for a boat ride out.<br /> <br />Before I leave, I will wait for Angela to arrive. I do not need her company, but she insisted on joining me. Money for her to get here is no problem, as I had lots of it at the old apartment. But I can’t help thinking that she must have some sort of death wish.<br /> <br />In the mean time, I will find a place to sit down and rewrite these past journal entries. I plan to make two copies and mail one to the Ontario Provincial Police and the other to <em><u>The Toronto Star</u></em>. Why? Perhaps it is my wish to mock the laws of my birthplace, to wipe my ass with their dos and don’ts, laughing drunkenly all the way down the crimson path to true freedom. I really don’t know. All I know is what I am, and that is a killer and a thief. <br /> <br />There will be more victims, as I have no control over that switch within my skull. One wrong move, something said, and…well, I’m sure you get the point by now. And if I were to be completely honest with you, dear reader, I doubt I would even want control.<br /> <br />I like myself just the way I am, thank you very much. <br /><br /><strong>BIO: </strong> Jason White was born in Quebec , Canada . His parents moved him at an early to where he now lives in a small, creepy town in Ontario . He has published stories with online magazines The Harrow and Nanobison under his old pen name, Joseph Plaxton. You can also reach him online at <a href="http://myspace.com/jasonwhite_writer" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">http://myspace.com/jasonwhite_writer</a>.<br /> <br />Credits:<br />“Room 118”—-The Harrow (<a href="http://www.theharrow.com/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">www.theharrow.com</a>)—Vol. 9, No 11 (2006) Published under my pen name, Joseph Plaxton.<br /> <br />“The Serpent’s Son”—The Harrow (<a href="http://www.theharrow.com/" target="_blank">www.theharrow.com</a>)—Vol. 11, No 2 (2008) Published under my pen name, Joseph Plaxton.<br /> <br />“House of Coal”—Nanobison (<a href="http://www.nanobison.com/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">www.nanobison.com</a>)–Issue 9, summer 2008. Published under my pen name, Joseph Plaxton.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-4895096216808813112008-09-30T20:58:00.000-07:002008-09-30T22:34:13.854-07:00Blood Brothers - Joseph GrantAngelo had always thought of himself as a lucky guy. But his luck had seemingly just run out. You don’t piss off the head of the East Coast Mafia by sleeping with his daughter and knock her up, but that’s exactly what Angelo Maglioni did.<br /><br />If Angelo could pinpoint the exact time when his luck ran out it would have been when Gina excitedly brought him the EPT, still damp with her piss and exclaimed: “Holy shit, Angelo! I’m pregnant!”<br /><br />Angelo wished Gina had followed the practice of omerta, the Mafia code of silence but instead had blabbed her good news and his misfortune to everyone in her family and now he was on the run with her.<br /><br />Understandably, her father had not taken the news in stride and wanted to meet the young man who had defiled his youngest flower of a daughter, his pride and joy. Angelo knew better and convinced Gina to run away with him.<br /><br />They made it as far as the Weehawken Motor Inn where Gina used her credit card to buy cigarettes in the lobby, tipping off police friendly to the Carlucci crime syndicate. Within hours, Sammy Carlucci, capo di tutti capi of the New York’s most powerful crime family was knocking on the door.<br /><br />“Who is that?” Angelo said, taking his head out from under Gina’s sleepy embrace.<br /><br />“I don’t know. I don’t think we should answer it, Angelo.”<br /><br />“I’ll go answer it, I ain’t afraid of nobody.” He said and opened the door to the extension of the chain link.<br /><br />“Angelo Maglioni?”<br /><br />“Who wants to know?” He said and peered over the chain link at the salt-and pepper-haired gentleman in a brown leather jacket standing there. The man reeked of cheap-smelling cologne, Angelo thought and his breath smelled like bad gorgonzola. Angelo figured the guy looked drunk.<br /><br />“I wanna know!” The slightly built man erupted and busted through the chain link, splintering the door frame, sending Angelo backwards and Gina screaming to the bathroom.<br /><br />The man stepped over Angelo and pounded on the bathroom door as it slammed shut. “Open up, there!”<br /><br />Angelo regained his composure long enough to get to his feet and pounce the middle-aged man. The man deftly responded by getting Angelo in a headlock and telling him: “All I gotta do is just squeeze and you’ll be dead, pal!”<br /><br />“All right, all right!” Angelo whined.<br /><br />“Don’t you hurt him!” Came Gina’s voice from the bathroom. “Papa, don’t you hurt my Angelo!”<br /><br />“Papa?” Angelo asked as he strained for breath.<br /><br />The man responded by asking: “So, you’re the big, tough guy Angelo my Gina’s been talking about?<br /><br />“Yeah I am Angelo Maglioni.”<br /><br />“I should just squeeze and break your neck right now.”<br /><br />The bathroom door opened at the statement and Gina looked at her father. “Papa, don’t you dare scare this one. I love Angelo and me and him’s gonna get married.”<br /><br />“Over my dead body.” Sammy Carlucci said and looked down at Angelo. “Or yours.”<br /><br />“Let him go, Papa.” Gina said though tears. “I love‘m.”<br /><br />And so it went that Sammy Carlucci, the mightiest Mafioso on the East Coast let his daughter’s boyfriend literally slip through his fingers without so much as even a scratch. “I got people wantin’ to whack me every day but I think you’re gonna give your father a heart attack, you know that, doncha know?” The most dangerous man in America shook his head and wiped away a sentimental tear. “I didn’t picture it this way, ya know? I pictured you’d meet up with some guy, no offense and after you got our blessing youse two would get married and then have a baby! Ahhh, the younger generation, I tell ya. Not for nothin’ but in my day, my father woulda beat my ass in if I did this.”<br /><br />“Whaddya talkin’ about?” Gina said. “You knocked up Mom before the wedding.”<br /><br />“Hey! Show some respect, that’s your mother you’re talkin’ about, there.”<br /><br />“Youse two were having Joey when she was walkin’ up the aisle, so don’t even go there.”<br /><br />“That’s different, we was married when we had your brother.”<br /><br />“No different, Papa.” She waved him off and lit up a cigarette.<br /><br />“Youse two got any plans to get hitched? I don’t think so. And you shouldn’t be doing that!”<br /><br />“Doin’ what?” Gina shrugged. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”<br /><br />“Smokin’, around the baby, you shouldn’t be smokin’ around the baby.”<br /><br />“Oh, please.” She waved him off with an exhale of smoke. “Mom smoked all throughout her pregnancies. Don’t gimme that.”<br /><br />“Well, we didn’t know no better then. We know better now.” Her father explained. “What? You gonna just stand there like a bump on a log and not say anythin’?” He directed at Angelo.<br /><br />“What you want me to say?” Angelo shrugged nonchalantly.<br /><br />“What you want me to say?” Sammy Carlucci mimicked him. “Oh, he’s a real beaut, Gina.”<br /><br />“Leave my Angelo alone.” She said protectively. He don’t mean nothin’.<br /><br />“I’ll leave him alone all right.” Carlucci mumbled under his breath. “Hey, how are youse gonna bring up the kid, huh?”<br /><br />“I work.” Angelo shot back.<br /><br />“Where?”<br /><br />“Whaddya mean where? I work.”<br /><br />“Yeah, where?” The older man asked.<br /><br />“In my father’s auto body shop.”<br /><br />“Marone! You listenin’ to this kid?” Carlucci asked out loud with a laugh. “No grandson’s father of mine’s is workin’ in an auto body shop, I’ll clue ya.”<br /><br />“Why not?” Angelo asked defensively. “It was good enough for my old man. Whaddya do?”<br /><br />“I’m an independent plumbing contractor.” Sammy Carlucci answered in a controlled monotone, an answer he always supplied when asked.<br /><br />“Not from what I hear.” Angelo sneered.<br /><br />“Listen ya chooch, I ain’t here to fight with ya, although I must admit my first response was to cut ya balls off but for Gina’s sake and seein’s that the damage has been done, I’m here to make you an offer…”<br /><br />“An offer that I can’t refuse, right?”<br /><br />“Kid, that’s the movies.” Carlucci said and gesticulated. “Oh, you can refuse it, but it wouldn’t be wise on your part.” He smiled. “Despite what you may have heard or read, I am still her father and I am Sicilian and we Sicilians are a close family with lots of hands like an octopus and those tentacles have a far reach, capiche? Don’t run away again with my daughter. We got a problem here, we solve it, that’s what businessmen do. I am a business man.”<br /><br />“Okay, so whaddya proposin’?”<br /><br />“Exactly that, kid.”<br /><br />“Huh?”<br /><br />“Seein’s youse two already done the deed, youse two gotta get married like me and her mother did, it’s the only way.”<br /><br />“Papa! What if’n I don’t wanna get married?” Gina complained.<br /><br />“Gina, my flower, you will get married and that’s final, get me?” Carlucci said in no uncertain terms, his powers of persuasion unparalleled.<br /><br />“Frig you...” Was the response from the one person in the world with whom his persuasion didn’t work.<br /><br />“Marone, just like your muddah.” Carlucci muttered.<br /><br />“Mr. Carlucci, I can fix this.” Angelo spoke up.<br /><br />“How?” He shot him a nasty look. “Ain’t you done enough?”<br /><br />“I’ll ask my old man for a raise and we’ll get a cheap apartment somewheres…”<br /><br />“Whoa! No daughter of mine is living in a tenement walk-up.”<br /><br />“Look, I can talk to my father.”<br /><br />“How’s about I do youse two one better and I get you a union job on the dock or somethin’.”<br /><br />“I could still talk to my father.”<br /><br />“Nah, nah…forget all that. Youse workin’ for me, now.”<br /><br />“Papa, I..” Gina gushed.<br /><br />“Ah-ah!” He held up a bejeweled pinky finger.<br /><br />“Not for nothin’, I don’t wanna hear it. Foist thing Monday morning, you show up at my office and we’ll get youse set up, capiche?” He pointed at Angelo. “Ain’t no son-in-law a mine workin’ for nobody but me. Think of it as an early wedding present, let’s just say.” He smiled in a sly manner and nodded. “You an’ me, we are gonna get to know each other, youse family now. And you know we Italians, we stick together, no? After a while when we see youse are workin’ out, don’t be surprised to see yourself, eh, let’s say, advancin’ your career, maybe branchin’ out into da, let’s say, family business.” He touched his nose. “Now youse two, get your shit and let’s get outta here. “He said as he walked towards the door. “An’ Gina?” He said, turning around.<br /><br />“Yeah?” She said in her usual, spoiled way. “What?”<br /><br />“No more secrets, ah?”<br /><br />“Keep walkin’, old man.” She waved him off. “Lemme get dressed, ah?”<br /><br />“Ay, kid?” Carlucci smiled. “You hearin’ ‘at? That’s all yours now. You gotta put up with’at.” He laughed. “She’s all yours. Get dressed, da botha ya. I’ll be outside.”<br /><br />Angelo returned the smile and didn’t think of this time again until he was working for the man. True to his word, if nothing else in his life, Carlucci had gotten his bastard of a son-in-law a job on the docks in Brooklyn. It was strictly blue color, but this did not rub Angelo the wrong way as he was working his way up to be blue color.<br /><br />There were many perks to the job, 99% of it coming from being known as the guy who knocked up Carlucci’s daughter; even his supervisor, a poor excuse for inbreeding with a greaser’s man and fucked-up nose spread over most of the midsection of his face as possible, cut him a huge path of slack. Angelo would come in late, call in sick when Gina needed him in the first and second trimesters and even help himself to the latest “damaged shipment”, as long as it was approved first by his dear old father-in-law.<br /><br />One day, the supervisor tried to get him fired. The way Angelo told it to Gina was that he was talking to a co-worker in the bathroom. As Angelo walked out and tossed the wet paper towel into the bin, his supervisor walked in, saw two of his employees talking instead of working and asked:<br /><br />“What is this, the loser’s club?”<br /><br />As Angelo was walking out of the restroom when the comment was said and his supervisor was walking in, Angelo smiled: “It is now, muthafucka.”<br /><br />Afterwards, his supervisor stomped over to him on the loading dock and told him to go home, that his services were no longer needed and that he was fired. Gina hit the roof when her Angelo told her. When her father received word, he sent two of his biggest thugs over to the docks and in front of all of his employees, made sure the supervisor’s nose was even more spread out over his face. Angelo returned to work the next day his supervisor made a public apology the next time he was able to show up for work and all returned to normal for Angelo. Such was his position of low man at the loading docks, he even got his younger cousin, Frankie, whom he always considered a blood brother, a job there.<br /><br />By the time Gina was ready to deliver; Angelo had risen past his co-workers and his supervisor and was now the lead supervisor of the docks, much to his supervisor’s silent and battered chagrin. Angelo was also doing side jobs for the big man, such as collecting on bets and loans that were not paid in enough of a timely manner. It was grunt work, but paid better than the docks, as it was hazard pay and soon Angelo found himself working more away from the docks than on them. Angelo considered himself a lucky guy until now, but he was starting to finally realize he was locked into a nationally known crime family, with no way out but in.<br /><br />He was now in good standing with his father-in-law but this was probably due more to the fact that he had made the old capo a grandfather than anything else. Carlucci doted on his grandson whom the proud but respectful parents named Samuel Ignatius Delcorro Carlucci II, even though he was not Carlucci’s own, he was the son Carlucci could never have, having four daughters, each one more like him than the last, all of them putting him closer to an early grave than any of his enemy’s bullets, he always joked. His grandson was his pride and joy and reluctantly, he had a moax like Angelo Maglioni to thank, the kid was alright, but just that, Carlucci thought, he was Gina’s problem and one he only had to front during family functions.<br /><br />Angelo’s latest transgression was his dream of becoming a white rapper. It was embarrassing to Carlucci and his associates and when the kid got a diamond-studded earring and Carlucci reluctantly looked the other way to keep the peace on Gina’s insistence. But when the chooch started getting bookings around Brooklyn as “Mos Def Mobsta of the Second Generation Mafia” running around with a gun-toting posse, and with the help of his cousin, Frankie, creating havoc in his syndicate. Carlucci reached his boiling point when it began to affect business. So, he settled it like any businessman would settle a problem. He laid down the law but to little avail, it turned out. While it was true that Angelo butted heads with his father-in-law, truth be told, Gina was none too crazy about his late nights in the clubs with all the girls and it was Gina, not her powerful father who finally convinced Angelo to quit his dream of becoming the premier rap star in Flatbush. The Carlucci family already had enough bad press, the old man knew, he didn’t need more.<br /><br />Angelo’s greatest and last transgression was getting Gina’s best friend, Carla, pregnant while Gina was at home with the baby. For Angelo, his luck had run out for the last time. Standing at Sheepshead Bay, smoking dope with his posse now surreptitiously bought and paid for by Carlucci himself, with Angelo bemoaning the fact that his life well may be over without his music, his power-hungry cousin Frankie, eager to fulfill that wish and get ahead, led the posse as they emptied their chambers into Angelo Maglioni and dumped his punk-ass body into the quiet, moonlit bay.<br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> I am originally from New York City and my short stories have been published in 80 literary reviews and e-zines, such as Byline, New Authors Journal, Nite-Writer's International Literary Arts Journal,Howling Moon Press, Hack Writers, New Online Review, Literary Tonic, six sentences and most recently in NexGenPulp, the UK literary review, Bottom of the World and another UK review, Cupboard Gloom. I have written for The New York Bar Guide (as a reviewer) and in various newspaper articles that have appeared in The Pasadena Star, Whittier News and the San Gabriel Tribune. I have published a work of verse, Indigo, with Alpha Beat Press and have completed my first novel. I currently reside in Los Angeles . NOTE: Six stories of mine have been recently featured in 6S Volume 1, a collection of short stories by various writers available at Amazon.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-3395258251025159822008-08-06T07:15:00.000-07:002008-08-07T07:13:08.625-07:00Into the Deepest Shadow - Karen Bremer MasudaInto the Deepest Shadow<br /><br />The light from his cell phone lit up a square area of his face; the bluish white illumination changing him into a ghostly figure in the fading light of this tiny, tiny room. Gonta was so absorbed in the words in front of him that it was like he had been abducted from the present by them, and taken to the brink of shadows which he was just now considering.<br />‘Would you rob a bank with me?’<br /><br /><br />The ‘me’ was a nameless faceless person, gender, age, and everything unknown, who had answered Gonta. His frame of mind was one of curiosity rather than desperation, the ad for ways to make money fast had jumped out at him as he checked his mail. This little square frame of his cell phone, exuding light, was his address; his home, absolutely the only rooted thing about him. It was his life line; the place where he contacted the work for the day, and where people could find him. He had even gotten fired by a text message, ‘we don’t need you tomorrow.’ They had been unkind anyways. Nobody was looking for him now, except someone who wanted to rob a bank with him.<br /><br /><br />After a few seconds the light went off and the words that had held him in their grip disappeared. He sat in the gathering dark of this tiny room, the luxury of not having to move at this moment washed over him. He didn’t have to make any rash decisions right now. He had paid his two thousand yen for the night, and if he didn’t eat a couple of meals, could even afford one more night. He thought about getting out his money belt and counting his money once again, but he wanted this luxury of non movement just a little longer.<br /><br /><br />Movement meant worry and thinking about his next meal and going out in the cold or heat where he was worn to a frazzle by construction work and then paid meager wages. Movement meant wandering the streets looking for a place to stretch out or using his insufficient funds for a room like this for the night or a hot meal, or an internet café where he could surf the internet and curl up to sleep for only a thousand yen.<br /><br /><br />He stretched out face down and sniffed the <em>tatami </em>matt, his body taking up the full length of the room. He couldn’t smell any newness to it and therefore didn’t start to reminisce of childhood nights spent on new <em>tatami</em>, falling asleep to the fresh clean smell of it. He only smelt old smoke tinged with someone else’s sweat. Maybe the owner of that sweat wanted to rob a bank; the person who had asked him if he wanted to. Gonta rolled over on his back and stared at the dark screen of his keitai. It would only take the light pressure of one of his fingers to lighten up the screen for him again, but he put it off.<br /><br /><br />At first it had been his right to leave home after high school and come to Tokyo to look for work. My god, that had been fifteen years ago now. At first he had had an apartment of his own, an address, a name. He had worn suits to job interviews, but why would anybody hire him anyway? Nobody wanted him. He began to loath himself and working for convenience stores and gas stations was the only thing he could do. This is when he became a slave to his life.<br /><br /><br />“He should go on a diet!” The other clerk of the convenience store where he’d just got hired to whispered, all too loudly, about the manager, Mr. Noda, puffing out of the office. Gonta had snickered, and nodded to the girl who was cute in a very childish way. The manager’s eyes swept over him, she could be forgiven, she was a girl, but from that day on the manager had it in for Gonta. He spoke gruffly to him and glared when he had the chance.<br /><br /><br />“You’re lucky I don’t call the police!” The double chin of Mr. Noda expanded as he lowered his head. “You’re fired, give back the money and I’ll give you what you earned up to today.”<br /><br />The rent was paid but with ten days left till his next pay check there would be nothing to eat. The ten thousand yen note laid on the counter by the customer floated off to Gonta’s feet with a gust of air from the door before he had time to secure it with a paper weight. He smiled at the customer, handing him his change, counting it carefully, while securing the ten thousand yen note with his foot. Three customers later, he had time to bend over for the note and having already closed the cash register slipped it easily into his jean’s pocket. No thought whatsoever had gone into the act, but it was recorded on the security camera and he was called into the office the evening of the same day. At the end of that month he left his apartment for the streets.<br /><br /><br />The light flicked on with the slight pressure of his thumb and there shown the message, “Would you rob a bank with me?” Gonta felt the absoluteness of the darkness surrounding him. Feeling the light’s magnetic power he quickly pushed reply before the light could go out and leave him in total darkness.<br /><br />Gonta nodded to the man at the counter sliding into the high stool next to him. It had to be who he was looking for because of the red scarf he was instructed to look for which was tied around the man’s thick neck. This was a coffee shop, a pleasant one in fact, and the man next to him, other than the red scarf, was dressed like he was ready to play golf. He was probably older than Gonta by a few years which, with his attire, intimidated Gonta, so that his heart beat loudly. Wishing he could silence it, he waited for what was to come.<br /><br /><br />“You drink coffee don’t you?” The red scarf asked him. His voice was surprisingly pleasant for a bank robber.<br /><br /><br />He nodded and the man ordered one for him.<br /><br /><br />Through the ensuing silence Gonta became increasingly agitated; wanting to get on with this meeting, needing answers to his burning questions, he leaned over to the man as close as he dared and whispered, “bank robbery?”<br /><br /><br />The coffee arrived and as the woman who served it disappeared from Gonta’s peripheral vision, the man threw his head back and laughed. “Oh yes, oh yes, but better!” He put his hand on the back of Gonta’s chair, leaned into his coffee and took a sip. Gonta was mesmerized, for what could be better than bank robbery?<br /><br /><br />This was the beginning of the four ‘runs’ that Gonta did for the man. He called Gonta <em>Ashinaga</em>, long legs, although, in fact, Gonta’s legs were very short, so that he knew he was being mocked. Gonta didn’t know his name, and never had to address him. He knew him only from the various accessories he said he would be wearing; a red scarf, a bright yellow bandana, or light green baseball cap. And it worked, for if asked to describe this man, those are the only items that would come to mind. He would contact Gonta with the place and the accessory of the day, they would meet, and he would give him his instructions. Take this cash card, go to such and such bank down the street, and using this pin number, handing him a tiny sliver of paper, withdraw one million yen. He gave Gonta a black knit cap, and high collared black bomber jacket to wear. “I’ll be waiting here, and I’ll be watching.” This was said as pleasantly as when he offered him coffee. When Gonta got back, the fat envelope, cap, and jacket were retrieved and a ten thousand yen note was removed, and handed over to him.<br /><br /><br />After the third run of withdrawing money Gonta decided to ignore the contacts from this man; after all the last time, instead of pulling out the ten thousand yen note from the envelope, he had withdrawn from his own pocket, a wallet, and extracted only five thousand yen from it. The fact that he was being duped angered him, but it was still easy money, allowing him to treat himself to a business hotel for a change. Gonta was beginning to get his own ideas for making money. He went on one last run because along with the place, time, and accessory, the man wrote, “This time I need you for something different.” in his message.<br /><br /><br />“More money?” Gonta asked back.<br /><br /><br />“Of course”, came the answer.<br /><br /><br />They were sitting lined up at a counter in yet another coffee shop. “This time I need you to deliver a bag, a black Nike bag, from a locker in Yotsuya station to a contact in front of Hachiko in Shibuya station."<br /><br /><br />“What about money?” Gonta felt emboldened for he wasn’t going to put up with any five thousand yen this time!<br /><br />The man’s thin mouth turned up as he handed over a crisp ten thousand yen note along with a locker key. ‘The locker is in the Southern exit of the station”.<br /><br /><br />“How will I know who to give it to?”<br /><br /><br />“I’ll send you a message so you’ll know.”<br /><br /><br />But there was no message. After waiting five minutes Gonta was accosted by two men who turned out to be plain clothed policemen. He was arrested and taken in.<br /><br />It didn’t matter how frustrated the detectives got with him he could only tell them what he knew, which was very little. Gonta was imprisoned for possession of illegal drugs for what should have been seven years but only amounted to one when he was paroled, and he was back on the street.<br /><br /><br /><br />This time, he placed the ad, through his reactivated keitai, which he now held lovingly in his hand. All he had to do was to go to the website and make a post. He would not be anyone’s sucker again!<br /><br /><br />He wouldn’t use the bank robbery line, but something just as good. “Get your hands on a lot of money!”<br /><br /><br />Gonta was surfing the net in an internet café, when he got not only one reply, but two. Since getting out he had spent a week on a construction site job which ended. That money was already gone for he had spent it on a business hotel and booze. He had no patience any more. Bitterness filled his empty stomach leaving a rancid sour taste in his mouth. This time he would be the user; he was determined.<br /><br /><br />This coffee shop only had three booth-like tables and a small counter, and since they were three, they sat in a booth, at first, just blinking at one another.<br /><br /><br />Without saying it they knew they were all much in the same predicament. Gonta had one thousand five hundred yen in loose change and that was all. He didn’t want to buy these guys’ coffee, because that would nearly deplete it.<br /><br />“How’re we going to make money?” Gonta opened his mouth first.<br /><br /><br />“We’ll have to rob somebody.”<br /><br /><br />“A woman, let’s rob a woman.”<br /><br /><br />Gonta nodded as it suddenly dawned on him that these two guys didn’t know he’d posted the ad, and it didn’t matter that he didn’t have a definite game plan. They were gathered for that purpose, to make a plan.<br /><br /><br />A woman came over to take their order and they all looked down at their hands for a moment. “Coffee”, they all chimed together.<br /><br /><br />“Three coffees, American, or blend?”<br /><br /><br />The American was the cheapest so that is what they ordered.<br /><br /><br />“Yeah let’s rob a woman,” then, “someone who lives in one of those rich neighborhoods”<br /><br /><br />“Yeah that would be the easiest thing! I could do that alone so no problem with three of us!”<br /><br /><br />“What if she escapes?” Gonta regretted asking such a question for they both shot him accusing looks.<br /><br /><br />“She couldn’t escape from the three of us.”<br /><br /><br />“No of course not!” Gonta felt he had to make up for his doubts.<br /><br /><br />They all grew silent as the woman came with their coffees. There was such a tension in the air that the woman wondered why the three had their fists clenched like that.<br /><br /><br />When she’d retreated, “after we grab her purse we’ll push her in the car,” it was said vehemently.<br /><br /><br />“Car?” Gonta and the one sitting next to him cast their eyes questioningly on the one sitting<br /><br />across from them.<br /><br /><br />“Yeah”, he said gleefully, “by the time we do this I can have a car.”<br /><br /><br />“Where will he take her?” Gonta was afraid to ask.<br /><br /><br />“She’s going to squeal and squirm and yell.”<br /><br /><br />“We’ll tape her mouth shut!”<br /><br /><br />“And tape her hands and feet together!”<br /><br /><br />"We’ll kill her!”<br /><br /><br />It was not Gonta who said that. But his blood was already rushing violently around his body.<br /><br /><br />They exchanged cell phone addresses. Gonta called one A and one B on his cell phone. They met three nights in a row, the first night to buy the necessary tape and a metal bat, and the second night to check out one of the rich neighborhoods that A knew about. The third night a taxi pulled up on the corner and a young woman alighted.<br /><br /><br />Mr. Noda stretched in his office chair and turned his cell phone on to TV thinking to catch the news. The screen was so tiny that he didn’t recognize Gonta’s face when it was lined up with the two other’s on the screen.<br /><br /><br />“Three men have been arrested in the murder of a young twenty three year old woman who was kidnapped as a taxi drove away, only fifty meters from her front door. She was gagged and beaten to death three kilometers away in an empty parking lot. Forty thousand yen was stolen from her bag.”<br /><br /><br />Mr. Noda shivered, deciding that he didn’t want to hear anymore of such news, turned off his <em>keitai</em>, leaving the little screen in total darkness.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> I am a writer living in Shizuoka, Japan with my two teenage kids, husband, dog, and cat.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-87820246016850926532008-08-05T17:25:00.001-07:002008-08-05T18:16:55.010-07:00The Silver Ring - Brian J. SmithTHE SILVER RING <br /><strong><u></u></strong><br /><strong><u>CHAPTER ONE<br /></u></strong>STANDING on the balcony overlooking the west end of town, I felt the westward wind fondle my forehead. A thick column of white smoke stretched across the sky, drifting lazily over the town like a blanket of fog after a bad rainstorm. Late afternoon traffic was thick and sluggish.<br /> <br />I checked my watch to see what time it was, walked back into my office and slumped down into the little black chair behind his desk. The woman sitting across from me looked about twenty-three, maybe twenty-five. A slender black dress concealed her slim, tan physique. Brown leather sandals covered the center of both feet, exposing short toenails painted blood red.<br /> <br />“Well, Misses Rowan.” I sighed a little. “What can I help you with?”<br /> <br />“I need you to find my daughter.” Her voice sounded sweet and gentle.<br /> <br />“When was the last time you saw her?”<br /> <br />“My ex-husband Nick picked her up on Friday. He was supposed to drop her off on Monday because she starts school this week and he knew he had to work the night shift at the paper mill.”<br /> <br />“You said ex-husband, right?”<br /> <br />“Yes.” It was her turn to sigh.<br /> <br />“Could you tell me the cause of your and Nick’s divorce?”<br /> <br />She thought about it for a minute, looking up at the ceiling then back over at him. “When I first met Nick, we were just barely out of high school. He was on the football team and I was a cheerleader.” She took a sip from the water bottle he offered her a few minutes ago and set it back on the desk. “On the night he brought the championship back home to Shallow Rock, we did our own little celebrating in the back seat of his car. I ended up pregnant and he injured his knee so badly he couldn’t play football anymore.”<br /> <br />“And then what happened?”<br /> <br />“We got married and took care of Leigh.” She leaned forward as if the volume of her voice was too low and he couldn’t hear her. “He would constantly come home drunk off his ass. You know what he did Mister Rivers ? He beat the living shit out of me so bad I couldn’t stand.”<br /> <br />“Is that why you got divorced?” I asked as the breeze came through the sliding glass doors behind me.<br /> <br />“That was Leigh’s decision.” She held her hands up in the air like she were warding off the signs of evil. “She saw him beating me up one night in her bedroom, snuck out of the window and called the police at a neighbor’s house.”<br /> <br />“She sounds like a very brave little girl.”<br /> <br />“She gets that from her mother.” Flattery turned her face red.<br /> <br />“So tell me about Leigh’s disappearance?”<br /> <br />“He always brings her home at around seven in the evening because his shift starts at eight. He didn’t show up at seven or seven thirty or even eight o’clock for that fact and I assumed he was running a little late. After I waited for two hours, I called the police. They sent a car over to Nick’s and nobody was there. They told me that if he didn’t return the next day I was better off hiring a private investigator.”<br /> <br />I didn‘t know anyone on The Shallow Rock Police Department. Anyone of them could’ve drop her into my lap.<br /> <br />“Okay.” I replied as I slid open the desk drawer on the lower right side and took out a pad and pen. “I need a description of your daughter.”<br /> <br />“She’s five feet one. Brown eyes like mine, but she doesn’t have my hair.” She raked a hand through her boyish-cut black hair. “But she has Nick’s blonde hair and its long and goes down to her shoulders.”<br /> <br />“How old is she?”<br /> <br />“She turned fifteen in July.” Today was the thirteenth of August.<br /> <br />I tore out that page and handed her the pad and pen.<br /> <br />“I need a list of names and addresses of his friends and relatives. Anybody who would be willing to hide him or know his whereabouts.”<br /> <br />She scribbled something on the pad and slid both items back to him. I looked at the paper with inquiring eyes.<br /> <br />“What’s this?”<br /> <br />“I gave you my cell-phone number in case you come up with anything.” She replied. “The person you’ll want to see is Scott Dugan. He lives on Pickett Run Road and he’s one of Nick’s best friends. He can probably tell you what the guy eats.”<br /> <br />I wrote the name three inches below her cell phone number and stuffed the paper into my shirt pocket.<br /> <br />“What’s the price for something like this?”<br /> <br />“One fifty a day.”<br /> <br />She took a black-leather purse from the floor at her feet, placed it on the edge of the desk and searched it. Three seconds later, she produced a long dark-blue checkbook, set it on her knee, flipped through the book until she found a blank check and scribbled across it with a black ballpoint pen. As she stood over the desk, I caught himself looking through the V-neck slit of her dress, peeking at her cheerleader tea-cup breasts. I spun around in my chair, hoping she wouldn’t notice where my eyes were aimed and stopped when she tore out the check and handed it to me.<br /> <br />After a quick glance at the check, I said: “You gave me two thousand.”<br /> <br />“Leigh is more important to me than life itself and I’d give you a million dollars if that’s what it took to find her.” A tear began to protrude out of the corner of her right eye. “I just want my daughter back in my arms again, safe and sound. I would die if I ever lost her.”<br /> <br />She stood up and slung her purse over her left shoulder. She opened the door halfway, turned and faced him. Her thin-fingered hand clutched the cold, brass doorknob.<br /> <br />Smiling devilishly, she said: “Truthfully, Mister Rivers.”<br /> <br />“Call me Joe.”<br /> <br />She thought about it for a second, smiled and said: “I expected you to be taller.”<br /> <br />“What?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Five-eleven isn’t tall enough?”<br /> <br />She didn’t answer. She just smiled, but she manage to say.<br /> <br />“Thank you, Travis.” She walked out and shut the door behind her.<br /> <br />I turned and walked back out to the balcony again. The sun slid behind the horizon like a quarter dropped into a slot machine in slow motion. I walked around my desk, took my car keys off the top of the filing cabinet and headed out the door.<br /><br /><strong><u>CHAPTER TWO<br /></u></strong>SHALLOW Rock, Ohio was a charming little town located just off Interstate-33 between Enterprise and Oak River. Of course, with any other place, there were variances between my hometown and this one.<br /> <br />In San Diego, California, there were lush-green palm trees and the shrill cry of a hawk flying overhead. Cool summer winds. Bikini clad ladies strolling the boardwalk alongside the hypnotizing ocean. But Shallow Rock was different.<br /> <br />The only women walking these streets were married, too young--too ugly--or the kind who chose to flaunt their bodies in unnecessarily tight clothing, even if the occasional never called for it. The palm trees were replaced by naked gnarly oaks placed along yellow painted curbs. The sweet sound of the seagulls were traded in for the occasional fart popping from the muffler of a rusted pickup truck. If San Diego was a bright and colorful metropolis of drugs, sex, crime and the movie business, then Shallow Rock was a dingy, gray fabrication of a tourist’s nightmare.<br /> <br />I drove my dark-blue Ford Mustang down Main Street and pulled into the Savings and Loan and cashed Amy’s check. I transferred half the money into my savings account and kept the rest in my wallet; small bills only. I despised carrying a whole lot of cash because even the amount in my savings account could make me a prime target for the criminal underworld. I gave a courteous wink to the pretty drive-thru teller with the boyish-cut blonde hair--and a wedding ring on her right hand--and drove away.<br /> <br />One hand on the wheel, eyes locked on the road, I got off Main, onto Poplar and fished the list from my shirt pocket. To my right, a large pool sat encased behind a green-plastic fence, its occupants laughed and splashed, shooting great geysers of cool, refreshing water into the air. I swung a left off Poplar and got onto a wide concrete bridge right flanked by a green sign with white lettering that said: PICKETT RUN ROAD.<br /> <br />Pickett Run Road was a sprinkle of one and two story homes scattered across the base of a lush green hill. I passed two houses before I found the right one and eased my car onto its driveway. I killed the engine and slid out from behind the wheel. I shut my door and dropped my car keys into the same pocket with my cell phone. I turned away from the house and heard the river splashing around behind a long, metal guardrail bordering the road.<br /> <br />The two story, redbrick house sat on a flat shelf of shaved grass split in half by two masks of sunlight and shadow. It had small curtained windows and a wooden wraparound porch. I heard something that sounded like a gunshot and jolted back around, realizing it was the sound of a screen door being slammed shut. A young, baby faced girl emerged from the front porch, crossed the front lawn and stopped directly in front of me, her hands tucked into the pockets of her blue-jean cutoffs.<br /> <br />“Can I help you?” She asked in a mild Southern accent.<br /> <br />Draped across her shoulders, her long red hair had curled at the end. Her small china-blue eyes scanned me engagingly like a circle of ladies watching a crew of construction workers. A pouch of baby fat overlapped the waistline of her shorts. I tried not to look because even the aspect of such a fashion statement was unattractive and very nauseous. The nipples from her balloon-sized bosoms peeked out from underneath a Tommy Hilfiger tee-shirt the color of raw hamburger.<br /> <br />“I’m here to see Tim Dugan.”<br /> <br />“He’s in the basement right now.” She exposed two rows of clean white teeth in<br />wide, pencil-thin smile. “Can I ask was this is all about?”<br /> <br />“I can come back tomorrow if he’s too busy.”<br /> <br />“He’s just tinkering around with his tools.”<br /> <br />When she extended her hand, I noticed something sparkling from one of her fingers. I stared at it for a moment, admiring the way it looked. It was a silver ring with a bright-blue bead surrounded by an array of different colored beads.<br /> <br />“I’m Sandra, Scott’s daughter.”<br /> <br />I shook her hand and it felt like clean sheets.<br /> <br />“Joe Rivers.” I said, breaking the handshake.<br /> <br />“I’ve never seen you around here before.” Her forehead wrinkled and folded with thought. “Are you new in town?”<br /> <br />“I moved in two weeks ago.”<br /> <br />She started to tug at her shorts, twirling her body in a half-circle. Her legs were the color of the Arizona desert at sundown: deep, dark and brown. I relished in many enticing attempts thrown at me by irresistible, attractive women probably just as much as Elvis Presley or the Beatles. But this one was different. This one could get me into a whole lot of trouble.<br /> <br />“Can I help you?” A voice called out from a distance.<br /> <br />I looked up at the front lawn again. A tall man wearing denim jeans, a sleeveless white tee shirt and a pair of black-striped Nikes started walking toward us.<br /> <br />Once he got to us, he said to Sandra: “Your boyfriend’s on the phone.”<br /> <br />“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Disgrace took the color out of her face.<br /> <br />“Get in the house anyway.”<br /> <br />She rolled her eyes and sighed like a teakettle. Mumbling incoherently to herself, she pouted back up the yard, toward the front porch. The screen door opened, she disappeared and then it banged shut again. The man standing in front of me had solid muscular arms and hands half as large as a bear’s. Due to his massive size and strength, he looked as if he picked up cars for a living. I could put up a hell of a fight, but I’d more than likely get my ass kicked. His dark eyes were filled with a calm anger he showed by biting his lower lip.<br /> <br />“I’m Tim Dugan.” We shook hands. “Unless you want to keep driving that nice fucking car of yours, you’ll keep your eyes off my daughter.”<br /> <br />“I wasn’t attracted to her, anyway.”<br /> <br />You saying my daughter isn’t beautiful?”<br /> <br />“Sandra’s a beautiful girl, Mister Dugan.” I said, reassuringly. “And any guy who spends the rest of his life with her is the luckiest man in the world. But I was no way, shape or form trying to bang your daughter in the back of my car. Too young for me.”<br /> <br />“She should know better than that.” He ogled in the direction of my car like he were going to buy it. “That’s a smooth sombitch you got there. What she got?”<br /> <br />“AM/FM stereo, bucket seats and an engine that purrs like a panther.”<br /> <br />“This is a classic.” He eyeballed the clean, spotless hood and looked up at me and asked: “Why are you driving around? If I were you, I’d keep this thing under Fort Knox<br />security. Someone’s liable to steal it.”<br /> <br />I didn’t want to be rude and changed the subject.<br /> <br />“Mister Dugan, I need to ask you some questions. My name’s Joe Rivers. I’m a private investigator working for Amy Rowan.”<br /> <br />“What’s this pertaining to?” He walked away from the car and took a seat on a waist-level brick wall that separated the front yard from the driveway. “Is she okay?”<br /> <br />“She’s fine.” I put up my hand. “Her daughter Leigh has been missing and Amy’s asked me to find her.”<br /> <br />“If it’s help her out,” He nodded, wiping a film of sweat from his forehead with the back of his palm. “ask until your heart’s content.”<br /> <br />“Okay, I’ll start off by asking how you first meet Amy?”<br /> <br />“In high school. Nick introduced me to her a month before the big game.”<br /> <br />“From your point of view, how was their relationship.”<br /> <br />“They act like Romeo and Juliet. All lovey-dovey and shit. But when they’ve seen each other too much, they start insulting each other and stuff. He’ll say something about her face. She’ll say something about his sexual performance.”<br /> <br />Did this go on forever?”<br /> <br />“No. Eventually they’d be all over each other. If you ask me, it was more like a small war than an actual relationship.” He stood up from the brick wall and walked up to me, his eyes darting this way and that as if he didn’t want anyone to hear. “Just between you and me, I think the bitch is a prime candidate for the rubber room. Catch my drift.”<br /> <br />“What’s that supposed to mean?”<br /> <br />“Well, it goes back to the championship game in eighty-five.” He stared up at the sky, his head held high. “It was the Shallow Rock Wolves against the Oak River Stallions. One look at her told me she was trouble.”<br /> <br />"How could you tell she was crazy?”<br /> <br />“I wasn’t going to tell you, but--.” He took his head out of the clouds and looked down at me.<br /> <br />“Withholding information in a missing persons case is against the law.” I cut his sentence in half, avoiding any disrespect.<br /> <br />“But now that there’s a little girl involved, I have no choice.” He looked unaffected by my quick disruption. “After the big game, the whole team was going to celebrate at this college kid’s house. Nick and Amy didn’t want to go so they left together. Me and my future wife Veronica,” He smiled proudly. “decided to go to the post-game celebration. You know how those things are. Boobs and beer for everyone. People were nearly naked, jumping into the pool in the backyard. This place was on fire. Every bedroom in the house was occupied.”<br /> <br />From the tone of his voice, he sounded as if he missed the past when most people wanted to forget it. But unlike theirs, Tim’s was obviously paved with beer, boobs and naked people jumping into backyard swimming pools.<br /> <br />He continued. “Anyway, I had to get Veronica home by the time her parents got back from their trip. I went back home and fought with an unbearable headache and tried<br />to get some sleep. The phone rings and its Amy and she‘s crying.”<br /> <br />I considered getting all this on a tape recorder. Then I thought I would loose my head if it came unattached. What made me think I could keep track of a tape recorder?<br /> <br />“She was saying something about how Nick beat her up and she wanted me to come over. I gulped down some headache pills and drove down to her house. I walked in and found her lying on the couch, naked as the day she was born. Candles were lit all over the place. Al Green was playing on the stereo.”<br /> <br />Did she tell you why she did it?”<br /> <br />She said Nick was holding back on her and that she was the right one for me and how she loved the way I moved up and down the field and how tight my ass looked in the uniform.”<br /> <br />What happened then?”<br /> <br />“She ran off the couch and shoved me against the wall beside the front door. She started kissing me all over my face and neck and through the kisses she was telling me she wanted to fuck me till I was blue in the face. I was thinking about what Veronica would say and do if she found out I was cheating on her. So I threw Amy off my lap, ran out the front door and got into my truck.” He took in a gulp of air and continued. “And as I’m leaving, she’s running beside of my truck like that blonde from that Terminator movie. She knew she couldn’t keep up with me so she got mad and threw a brick through my back windshield. I spent the entire weekend cleaning glass from the front seat of my truck. I have to admit, the offer was enticing but I was already taken and she knew it.”<br /> <br />“Did Nick always ignore Amy’s sexual appetite?”<br /> <br />“Oh, hell no.” He chuffed. “Nick always talked about nailing her?”<br /> <br />“Did you see her again after that?”<br /> <br />"No.” He chuffed again as if it didn’t really matter. “Two days later, I heard Nick messed up his knee and she got knocked up. Last time I heard she was working for a law firm here in town.”<br /> <br />“Thank you for your time, Mister Dugan.” I reached around to my back pocket, took out my wallet, flipped it open and handed him a business card. “This has my phone number and my address. If you hear from him, call me immediately. She may not try to screw you, but she’ll happy to see her daughter again. She’ll probably be more happy knowing an old friend made it happen.”<br /> <br />“Sure will.” We shook hands again.<br /> <br />Tim marched up the yard and I got back in my car. I fired up the engine and backed out, my tires crunching the gravel underneath. I gazed up at the rearview mirror when something caught my attention. I hit the brakes, kicking up a small cloud of dust and sat in the driveway.<br /> <br />Standing in front of the second floor window on the right, Sandra Dugan watched her father disappear through the front door before she pressed her hand to her mouth and kissed it. I looked up at her, my hand resting on the steering wheel, my right arm placed on the headrest of the passenger seat like I were courting an imaginary date. She aimed her hand at me and blew into it. Once she thought the kiss had reached my face--or wherever she intended for it to go--she grabbed her shirt and jerked it halfway up. She exposed half of her snow-pale stomach before Tim crept up from behind her and tugged her away from the window, canceling her little peepshow.<br /> <br />He peered through the window at me and waved. Respecting the man’s wishes, I drove away, laughing.<br /><br /><strong><u>CHAPTER THREE<br /></u></strong>IT was six o’clock in the evening when I decided to call it quit for the day. I was too tired from having to unpack all those boxes and sorting their contents into the right places. The other people on my list would have to wait.<br /> <br />Besides, tomorrow might be a brighter day.<br /> <br /> parked the car, killed the engine and got out, carrying my third bag of take out for the week. I was slowly getting tired of fast food. On Monday when I first moved in, I had pizza. Tuesday I had Chinese. Tonight, I was staring at another bag of pork-fried rice, teriyaki chicken and two egg rolls.<br /> <br /> hiked up the stairs, down the stark-lime corridor and into the office. I took the food to my desk and sat down and ate. When I was finished, I padded to the bedroom, stripped down and stepped into a pair of black dojo pants. My physical physique that drew women to me like magnets wasn’t something that came to me when I was born. I had to workout hard to earn it and earn it I did. My routine started with four-hundred snap kicks, one hundred and fifty sidekicks and ended with a twenty-minutes of meditation. <br /> <br />oaked in sweat, my body felt like a barrel full of molasses when I walked into the bathroom to take a shower. By the time I was done, it was six-forty-five. I stayed in longer than necessary so as to let the soothing hot water pound the tightness out of my back and shoulders. I dried myself off in front of the mirror, taking the towel across the necessary areas, wrapped it around my waist and brushed my teeth. For some strange reason, Sandra Dugan came to mind and then I erased her from memory.<br /> <br />At the age of twenty-five, my mother used to tell me that I remind her of Fred MacMurray from the movie <u>Double Indemnity</u>. My black hair was cut short and combed down to the crest of my forehead and my eyes are small and brown. My arms were thick with muscle and my stomach was as hard as a rock. I had the same sunburned color that my Native American ancestors have had since Day One. I slipped into a San Diego Padres tee and stone-washed jeans just long enough to finish unpacking and sorting out my kitchen utensils. I padded into my office to lock the door and stopped dead in my tracks.<br /> <br />my Rowan stood beside my desk, fingering the plastic brown Willie E. Coyote cup sitting next to the lamp. Instead of the black dress, she donned a dark-blue business suit and maroon high heels. A cheap-looking gold watch glimmered from her wrist. Her nails were painted a bright, pastel pink and her hair was knotted into a fat brown bun that looked like a bran muffin fresh out of the package.<br /> <br />“Catch you at a bad time?” She asked and walked away from my desk and sat down in front of my desk.<br /> <br />“No.” I walked over to my desk and sat down. “There anything you need?”<br /> <br />“I tried to call you earlier ago but you weren’t here. I drove around until I saw your lights come on.” She crossed her legs, pulling up the cuffs of her pants and exposing a tan, golden ankle. “You know that list I gave you?”<br /> <br />“I still have it, yes.” I replied, patting my pants pockets only to remember I’d put it somewhere else. “Hold on for one minute.”<br /> <br />I dashed from my chair and back into my apartment. I ran to my bedroom, took the list off my dresser--where he had put it before I dressed down for the day--and carried it with me to the office. I unfolded the list, spread it out across my desktop and smoothed it out.<br /> <br />“Is there a Doctor Jake Mathis on that list somewhere?”<br /> <br />“Yes.”<br /> <br />“Well, after I left your office today, I went straight to work and put a few hours in. My boss knew about and saw that I wasn’t concentrating on my work all that well and he sent me home early. I went back home and my phone rang. I picked it up and it was Doctor Mathis on the other line. He kept whispering something into the phone. When I asked him to speak up, he just kept on whispering. I heard a crashing sound in the background, you know like a tree falling down after it’s been cut and then the phone died.”<br /><br />“Who is Doctor Mathis, anyway?”<br /><br /> <br />“He was Nick’s anger management therapist.”<br /> <br />“Did you ever sit in during one of his sessions?”<br /> <br />“No.” She shook her head a little. “Some kind of confidential thing.”<br /> <br />“Patient Doctor Confidentiality.”<br /> <br />“What’s that?”<br /> <br />“A few years ago a law was passed stating that a patient’s medical records couldn’t be revealed to anyone but them. That also includes their wives and other family members as well.”<br /> <br />“How can we get Nick’s file?” She leaned up in her chair for a second and then leaned back.<br /> <br />“We need a warrant.”<br /> <br />“How do we get that?”<br /> <br />“First off, we need probable cause. That links your suspect to the crime. In order for us to obtain his medical records, we need evidence that Nick’s mental health was the reason for him just taking off with Leigh. Until we get that, we’re sitting ducks.”<br /> <br />“Do you think Doctor Mathis had something to do with it?”<br /> <br />“I don’t know the guy personally. But I do know that Mathis would’ve handed that file over in a flash even if it meant protecting his practice and his reputation.”<br /> <br />“What did you come up with today?”<br /> <br />“You really don’t want to hear it.”<br /> <br />“Mister Rivers.”<br /> <br />“Call me Joe.”<br /> <br />“Well, Joe.” I could tell she was going to get a little testy. “My daughter is missing and my life is slowly starting to fall apart. So say whatever you have to say.”<br /> <br />Optimism glimmered in her eyes. I starting to understand that who ever lived underneath me was a bonafide music freak. This time, Ashlee Simpson sang “Pieces of Me”. The song started to remind me of Amy’s situation. Her daughter’s disappearance had her so stressed out she was starting to fall to pieces.<br /> <br />Maybe I was, too. So I let her have. I told her everything Tim Dugan had to say.<br /> <br />“Now I’m a sex-crazed psycho.” She smiled teasingly, as if she expected Tim to throw me off course with a make-believe fantasy. “He knows the real reason why I chased him down that night. He just told you what he wanted you to hear.”<br /> <br />“Why?”<br /> <br />“After Nick left, I asked Tim to come over and chat. Just friends, nothing else. Veronica and me were best friends so why the hell would I ruin that by flirting with him. I chased him down only to thank him for keeping me company. I’ve never had any sexual attraction to Tim Dugan.” She breathed through her nose and lifted her nostrils up a bit. “I want to thank you for everything you’re doing for me. No one’s ever done anything like this for me.”<br /><br />“It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there.” I said, standing up from my chair. “and you’ve got to do what you can to stop from getting bit. Would you like to watch some television with me?” <br /> <br />Sure.” The question and the answer both brought a smile to her sagging sad face.<br /> <br />We walked in and sat on the living couch together, looking like a pair of shy lovers, our knees touching at the sides, quietly pondering who should kiss who. I reached over quietly and turned on the television. Once the screen came to life, Lon Chaney wore black clothing and a paper-white mask while moving his fingers up and down the keys of a large golden pipe organ. I could smell her perfume and it was tantalizing. On more than one occasion, I caught myself looking down the V-shaped slit from her suit blouse, staring directly at the tops of her tiny breasts. <br /> <br />Like a gunshot, she jumped out of her seat as if a ghost touched her shoulder. She reached over and picked up her purse from the floor next to the feet of the couch.<br /> <br />“I brought you a picture of Leigh I found on the nightstand earlier today.” She began to search through her purse, pulling back every flap. “I thought it might help you.”<br /> <br />She took out the picture and showed me. She was exactly as Amydescribed. Looking at thepicture, something caught my attention and shot me up from the couch.<br /> <br />“What’s wrong?” Amy asked, also standing up from the couch.<br /> <br />I was so speechless I forgot to answer. The one thing that had blown right by me had come back to hit me in the face. The excitement of this new revelation kicked an extreme amount of adrenaline through my veins, straight into my heart. Goose bumps prickled the back of my arms as if I’d stepped into a walk-in freezer.<br /> <br />“The ring on Leigh’s hand.” Again, the excitement closed my throat, prohibiting me from speaking.<br /> <br />“Tell me.” She took the picture from my hand and stared at it.<br /> <br />Today when I went to the Dugan residence. Tim’s daughter Sandra was wearing that same exact ring your daughter is wearing in that picture. A silver ring with a small blue bead sitting around a bunch of colored beads.”<br /> <br />“Are you sure?”<br /> <br />“Of course I’m sure.” I said, thinking that she would doubt me for one second.<br /> <br />“We need to--.”<br /> <br />Just then, my office door busted open and fell to the floor, spraying splinters across the air. I heard the hinges pop off the wall and dance across the floor like tumbling marbles. Before I could move a muscle, let alone breathe, two figures dressed in black clothes stepped through my office and into my apartment. One of them was carrying a double barrel shotgun. The other was holding what looked like a .38 revolver. I couldn’t tell because I kept thinking about what my office looked like.<br /> <br />“Don’t be a hero.” One of them spoke, their voice sounding like gargled glass.<br /> <br />They wore black boots, black jeans, black trench coats and black ski masks.<br /> <br />“Get your shoes on,” said the other one whose voice sounded rather female. “we’re going for a little ride.”<br /> <br />I did what they asked me.<br /><br /><strong><u>CHAPTER FOUR</u></strong><br />AFTER I tied on a pair of brown-leather work boots, Amy and I led our guests through the hallway, down a long flight of polished marble stairs and out through the front doors.<br /> <br />The air outside was so cool it quickly reminded me of California. The full moon burned the night sky with a pallid-white glaze mostly concealed by the thick veneer of dark clouds floating by. They stuck us into the back seat of a muddy-red Jeep Cherokee sitting along the curb. The taller of the two rode shotgun while the much shorter one sat behind the wheel, sticking his shotgun in my face.<br /> <br />“Keep your mouth shut,” he spoke to Amy as the driver pulled away from the curb. “and you just might make it through the night.”<br /> <br />Just then, something screeched to a halt behind us, its tires screaming against the asphalt. The smell of burnt rubber and noxious exhaust stung my nose as the vehicle stopped just inches from my side of the vehicle. The driver of the Jeep ignored the other driver’s command to go “fuck yourself” and sped away. Our chauffeur guided the monstrous vehicle through large brick/paved streets, past trash-littered alleys with<br />graffiti-streaked brick walls. The driver used good tactics when taking the sharp turns. The Jeep would slow down a little when it came around the curb, then quickly recuperate to its original speed.<br /> <br />With two barrels still aimed at my face, I saw a tear sliding down Amy’s cheek. I wrapped her hand in mine, letting her know that nothing was going to hurt her and that everything was okay. The shotgun wielding passenger tapped my shoulder with the barrel, motioning for me to back away. But I wouldn’t so he left it at that. The radio was booming out a rock and roll classic I remembered from my childhood days: Pat Benetar singing “Heartbreaker”.<br /> <br />When the driver took a sharp turn onto Pickett Run Road, I knew instantly where we were going. The person behind the wheel tapped their fingers against their leg as the Jeep coasted past the Dugan residence. We turned right and raced down a stretch of clean, gray asphalt. We passed a slab of road kill sprawled on the side of the road, lying under a red blanket of blood. On the right side of the road, long thin-wire fences ran along the foot of the lush green hill bullying it.<br /> <br />The Jeep went straight for another twenty seconds and took a left onto a narrow stretch of dirt and gravel. Gusts of brown dust rose up into the sour-yellow headlights piercing the darkness blanketing the wide, open countryside. The tires jutted and bounced over unseen potholes, pressing the cold seat belt against my chest like an ice-pack. The Jeep stopped at the end of the road and took a right. It followed a second stretch of dirt and gravel for about thirty yards before it took another left and braked to a halt between two lush green hills. <br /> <br />When the headlights died, so did the engine. The driver stepped out from behind the wheel, walked over to our side and yanked off the mask.<br /> <br />“You.”<br /> <br />“Hello, Amy.”<br /> <br />“Veronica?” Amy looked at her confused. “Veronica Dugan? What the hell is going on?”<br /> <br />“Don’t you just hate it when a child doesn’t listen to you. I told that dumb ass daughter of mine not to wear that ring until everything sort of blew over but she never listened to me. I mean, hell. She doesn’t even listen to her father.” Veronica Dugan replied, snickering a little. “I’m sorry my son Chad hasn’t taken off his mask. He, unlike his sister, listens to his mother. Now get out.”<br /> <br />She pulled her gun from between the seats and aimed it at me. Chad grabbed the meaty part of Amy’s arm. He pulled her out of the back seat, her screams and kicks unheard from nearby ears.<br /> <br />It’s okay, Amy.” I said, hopping out of the Jeep, my feet smacking hard onto the soft, black grass. “I won’t let them hurt you.”<br /> <br />We didn’t ask for an Afternoon School Special, asshole.” Veronica replied, walking up behind me, shoving the barrel of the gun against my back. “Get going.”<br /> <br />Chad came up the yard from my left and paced backwards, watching me intently.<br /> <br />Sitting one football field away from the Jeep, was a crumbling two-story clapboard house. The windows on the top floor were faintly lit by a strong golden light. The front porch stairs were in desperate need of repair and the wind chimes poised above jingled like a child’s xylophone. The nude oak tree parked at the left side of the house swayed under the weight of the howling wind, its black skeletal branches raking the air. The town sat sprawled over the side of the hill; an island of bright lights streaked through the middle by a large gray river spangled with moonlight.<br /> <br />We stopped at the side of the house where a set of concrete steps led down to a large, wooden door. Flakes of white paint were scattered about the bottom of the door and conjoined in small piles. The big man paced down the stairs, knocked three times, took a key from the inner pocket of his trench coat and unlocked the door. Veronica shoved Amy and me down the stairs and into a small underground basement.<br /> <br />The floor was a wide flat pan of dirt and the brick wall surrounding it looked as if it were polished and buffed to mirror-like perfection. The room stank of mildew, sweat and the strange scent of jasmine. On the far left, a set of wooden stairs led up to the house itself. On the far right corner, a clean bare mattress was placed in front of a tall, purple-velvet curtain that was properly secured to the wall. A black camcorder sat on a set of spider-legs and was connected to a desktop computer set against the side on the wall.<br /> <br />A tall man in sneakers, a gray sports tee and blue jeans was hunkered down on one knee, peering through the lens of the camcorder. He stood up and turned toward us. He had stone-chiseled face and a lean, wiry build. His salt and pepper hair was trimmed just as short as mine and his blue eyes were somewhat hypnotizing like a crystal dangling from the end of a gold chain. As Veronica shoved Amy towards the far right section of the room, making sure she was facing the mattress, Chad kept his eyes on me, his hands still cradling the shotgun.<br /> <br />When she looked at the man standing in front of the camera, Amy’s eyes swelled to the size of grapefruits. I didn’t know why she was acting that way, but my curiosity<br />was solved when she said:<br /> <br />“Doctor Mathis.” A tear slid down her cheek again. “Where’s my daughter?<br /> <br />“Hello to you, too.” He gave her the false smile of a car salesman.<br /> <br />Chad stepped up, whispered something into the good doctor’s ear, stepped back, pulled something from his hip holster and threw it onto the ground. Once my eyes adjusted to the light in the basement, the object looked familiar to me. It was the same Sig Sauer P-229 I keep in the glove box in my car. Loaded with .357 caliber bullets, it costs more than the average price of gas and kicks like a horse. He must’ve taken it out of the glove box before he kicked down my door.<br /> <br />Jake Mathis walked over to me, looked over at Chad, turned back to me and drove his fist into my stomach--hard. I hit the ground knee first, coughing and wheezing and holding my abdomen. Amy ran up to pull me to my feet, but I waved my hand at her, insisting she stay where she was at.<br /> <br />“You must be the prick she hired?”<br /> <br />“Why do you care?” I said, getting to my feet.<br /> <br />“Its my job to care. Especially when some California cock sucker thinks he can stroll into town and stick his nose into someone else’s business.” He walked away from me and hollered at the basement stairs. “Tanya, bring down my new star would you?”<br /> <br />He walked back to the camera when a tall limber young woman with long dark hair padded down the stairs in a white gauzy nightgown. A crying sound followed Tanya down the stairs, holding hands with Leigh Rowan, taking each step one by one. Amy made a mad dash for her daughter. I grabbed her around the waist and held her back just<br />in time to halt Chad’s trigger finger. Veronica pulled Amy away from me, slammed her against the wall and pressed the barrel of the .38 between her breasts.<br /> <br />“What’s going on, Mathis?” Amy asked.<br /> <br />“Leigh’s going to make me rich.”<br /> <br />“How’s that?” I asked, staring at him and my gun at the same time.<br /> <br />"There's this thing called child support. It’s where the husband has to pay a certain sum of money for his ex-wife to take care of their daughter. Did you know, Mister Rivers that Amy makes two hundred and fifty dollars a month, but yet guys like me and you have to pay child support. I can barely live on what I make at the clinic. The kickbacks aren’t doing me a damn bit of good and half of my staff has threatened to strike if I don’t raise their wages. Man’s got to make money somehow.”<br /> <br />“What the hell are you talking about?” Amy leaned up from the wall, attempting to force the barrel off her chest.<br /> <br />“The good doctor is running a child pornography site on the Internet.” A cold chill slithered up my spine as I said all this. “He’ll charge visitors outrageous prices to see films of Leigh and Tanya having sex.”<br /> <br />I knew where this was going and I didn’t like it. It’s the kind of thing you expect to hear on the news, happening to other people besides you. You never expect it to happen to you.<br /> <br />“Where’s Nick?”<br /> <br />“Don’t worry about him.” Mathis replied, shrugging his left shoulder only. “He’s in the living room right above us.”<br /> <br />“Let me talk to him.”<br /> <br />“I wish I could let you,” His condescending tone was like nails scratching along a giant chalkboard. “but he chose to go against me. So I had Chad take care of him.”<br /> <br />"You'd be surprised what damage a twelve-guage shotgun can do when you shoot them point-blank in the jaw.” Chad replied through the mouth hole of his ski mask.<br /> <br />“You son of a bitch.” Amy growled.<br /> <br />“Let me guess, Doc.” I said, turning his attention from Amy to me. “In the end, you and the Manson family here get a certain percentage of the royalties that are brought in from the website.”<br /> <br />“I’m not a betting man.” Chad replied in a thick Southern accent. “But my finger is just aching to pull this trigger and blow your fucking---.”<br /> <br />Before Chad could finish his sentence, I leaned back and kicked the shotgun. It went off, causing everyone to hit the dirt like soldiers in an ambush. The buckshot hit the far wall and struck the computer, rupturing the monitor and spraying a vicious mist of sharp glass and bright yellow sparks across the room. Like a baseball player heading for home plate, I slid across the floor, grabbed my gun, aimed and fired. The bullet struck Tanya in the forehead; blood gushed from the exit wound in the back of her head staining the purple curtain behind her. Once Tanya landed on the mattress, Leigh took off and cowered behind the stairs, sobbing uncontrollably. Growling like an enraged beast, Chad raised the double barrel at my face. I spun around the dirt like a break dancer, staining the back of my shirt and raised the pistol up at him and fired. In the matter of three seconds, the bottom of his chin and the top of his head exploded at the same time. The shotgun fell into my hands as he stumbled back against the wall, legs and arms jerking under Death’s unseen electrical charge.<br /> <br />When I got to my feet, Jake punched me in the stomach and back. I backpedaled and hit him in the jaw with a high roundhouse kick, shoving him against the wall. His arms flailed, knocking the camcorder to the ground where it snapped in half, spilling screws and metallic fragments onto the floor. Leigh came out from behind the stairs and collided with her mother. Gun gripped in both hands, I looked around for Veronica, only to find her lying on the floor behind me, her face bleeding profusely from the shards of glass impaled into her cheeks, face and neck. She must’ve been near the computer when it went off. <br /> <br />Looking up from her daughter, eyes bigger than they were when Veronica took off her ski mask, Amy screamed: “Behind you, Joe.”<br /> <br />Jake was pulling a small pistol from the ankle holster hidden behind the cuff of his jeans when I brought up my gun and shot him in the hand. The gun flew across the room, bounced off the purple curtain and fell onto the mattress. I heard a clicking sound from behind me. Amy had picked up Veronica’s .38 and aimed it at the doctor. I tucked my gun into the waistband of my jeans and stepped toward her.<br /> <br />“I can’t let you do this, Amy.” I said, feeling the cold barrel of the .38 press against my chest.<br /> <br />“Get out of my way, Joe.” She thumbed back the hammer, telling me she was serious. “Or I’ll take you out, too.”<br /> <br />“Listen.” I said, waving at Leigh to stand by the basement door. “You don’t need to stoop yourself to his level. Men like him deserve to go to prison. The minute he sets foot in general population, they’ll kill him. If you fire that gun, you’re no better than him. Give me the gun, Amy.”<br /> <br />As if my little speech had worked, she lowered her head, her face crinkling up to cry and lowered the .38. I slipped it out of her hand and hugged her as tightly as I could.<br /> <br />“You think this is all over?” Mathis said, lying on the floor, his chin resting on his chest. “I’ll claim insanity and get out in six months. I’ll come back for her even if it takes me forever. And when I do, you’ll never find her.”<br /> <br />“No you won’t.” I took the pistol from my pocket and winked at Amy. “Because Amy is going to slap a restraining order on you that says if you come within a hundred yards of Leigh or her, you’ll be arrested. If you’re prosecuted, you’ll get the maximum sentence. Kidnapping is a federal offense and that’s twenty-five to life. Then they’ll add on five more years for child pornography and child endangerment. I’m sure the other charges will add more time to your sentence so there’s no way you’ll find her again.”<br /> <br />“You’re lying.” He tried to get up from the floor, but he used the wrong hand--the one I’d shot--and fell back down, teeth and eyes clenching in pain.<br /> <br />Off in the distance, sirens howled toward the house. Looking at them now, not even The Gates Of Hell could separate Amy and Leigh.<br /> <br />“You really think I’m all there is.” He snickered. “There are others out there just like me who do the same thing everyday and get away with it. They never get caught and they make a shit load of money doing it. Who doesn’t want a little green for old time’s sake, huh?”<br /> <br />“You don’t put a price on a child, Jake.” Amy replied, wiping tears from her face. “You’re a disgusting man and I’ll never understand why. You’re just damaged goods. That’s all you’ll ever be and I hope you die in prison.”<br /> <br />“Hey, Doc.” He turned and looked at me. “Tell all the others like you I said this.”<br /> <br />I raised the pistol and shot him. The blast echoed across the basement. Screaming, he clamped his hands over the bloody stain soaking the crotch of his jeans--where his dick used to be. I lowered the gun and followed Amy and Leigh outside. We left Jake in the basement and met up with the patrol cars sitting in the driveway behind the Jeep.<br /><br /><strong><u>CHAPTER FIVE</u></strong><br />TWO days later, after everything seem to settle down, I slipped into shorts, sandals and a sleeveless tee-shirt and met Amy and Leigh at Dale’s for lunch. Dale’s is a quaint little café across the street from my office and it reminds me of something from the movie Mischief. Leigh busted through the front door, kicking the little bell above it and gave me a big hug. I hadn’t expected it, but it was nice of her to think of me anyway. Amy slid into the seat across from me in a dark blue dress and a white blouse.<br /> <br />“How are you guys holding up?”<br /> <br />“Okay, I guess.” Her face looked uneasy, as if she had something to tell me but was afraid of what I’d think about it. “Did you hear about Tim Dugan?”<br /> <br />“No.”<br /> <br />“The cops found him in the Hocking with two bullets in his forehead. They think he knew about Nick’s deal and he threatened to go to the cops about it.”<br /> <br />“I’m leaving town, Joe.” She said it fast, but not too fast.<br /> <br />“Why?” A slight sadness began to wash over me.<br /> <br />“This place isn’t safe anymore.” She folded her arms across her chest as if she were cold. “Not for me or Leigh. My uncle has a job waiting for me in Florida. It’s better this way.”<br /> <br />I couldn’t despise her for making the right decision. What ever she could do to protect Leigh was the best decision she’d ever made.<br /> <br />We stood up from our seats and kissed for what would be the second and final time. I slipped back into my seat and watched them climb into a gray Lexus parked in front of the café. Amy was hunched over the driver’s seat, crying inside her hands. Leigh leaned over and gave her mother a comforting pat on the back as the Lexus took off out of sight.<br /> <br />This time, she wouldn’t be coming back. I started to wonder if I would ever see her again. If so, would she recognize me? Would Leigh?<br /> <br />Watching a teal blue Ford Escort park along the curb in front of the same office building I operated out of, I slipped her into the file along with all the other unsolved mysteries, slipped out of the booth and out of the café.<br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Since the age of thirteen, Brian J. Smith has dreamed of becoming a published writer. His story "A Day With Daddy" was published as a podcast and just recently his story "Nobody Does" was published by The Forbidden Zone Magazine.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-78983090185053832782008-07-26T16:49:00.000-07:002008-07-26T16:49:00.809-07:00Family Man - Wayne ScheerFamily Man<br /><br /><br /><br />Whenever my life seems to be getting back to normal, things get screwed up. That's my story, short and simple. I finally got myself to admit I had a drinking problem and I went to my first AA meeting. So what happened? I got into a fight at a bar while drinking club soda.<br /><br />I went to the meeting because I felt my life had gotten away from me. I was going through the motions, like I was sleepwalking or something--waking up, going to work and drinking until I passed out. I had just lost my girlfriend. And my family, especially my mother, seemed to be tugging at me like some kind of marionette. Mom was in her own hell with my sister into crack the way some people get into Jesus. I had to act strong, but what I really wanted to do was find a quiet place to hide and lick my wounds.<br /><br />It was Arnie Caruso, from the old neighborhood in Brooklyn, who got me to go to an AA meeting. I ran into him a while back as I staggered out of an East New York bar on New Lots Avenue. He suggested we get some coffee and catch up on old times.<br /><br />We talked about the old days for a while. Then he said, "Paulie, you and me go way back. What happened to you? When we were kids, you had plans."<br /><br />"Life is what happened to me."<br /><br />"Bullshit," he said, making a face like he just smelled a fart. "Where'd you get that crap?"<br /><br />I laughed. "Probably from some movie."<br /><br />"You're becoming a drunk, Paulie. Hell, you are a drunk."<br /><br />I almost took a swing at him. But something in his voice said he wasn't making fun of me. "I got responsibilities, you know?"<br /><br />He didn't say anything for a while. We just sipped our coffees. Finally, he asked, "How's your sister doing?"<br /><br />"Not too good. You know how it is with drugs. But I'm trying to help her."<br /><br />"Make sure she doesn't drag you down, Paulie. You can't help her if she doesn't want to be helped."<br /><br />"Where'd you hear that? Maybe you're watching the same movies I am."<br /><br />"No. I go to the same meetings you should go to."<br /><br />That's when he told me about AA and gave me a printed list of meetings in the area, along with his cell phone number. "Call me if you need to. Anytime"<br /><br />I folded the list and put it in my wallet, and didn't think much about it. A few days ago, hungover so bad I hardly knew my name, I happened to find the paper and decided to go to a meeting just for the hell of it.<br /><br />It was corny. They really say, "Hello. My name is So and So, and I'm an alcoholic," but it was kind of interesting, too. It had me thinking about what I could be doing to get out of my mess instead of just going along with it. People had much worse stories than mine, but they seemed to be doing all right. Even if it was just one day at a time.<br /><br />After the meeting, everyone wanted to talk to me, like I was fresh meat or something. I told them I needed to be alone to think about what I had heard, so I went to Manny's Tavern, where I always go when I want to think. I figured I'd get a couple of club sodas. Really. I didn't want to go home and I couldn't think of any other place to just sit and mull over what they talked about at the meeting, especially the part about giving yourself over to a higher power. I hadn't been in a church since I was a kid.<br /><br />I probably would have had two sodas and left, if not for this fool drinking next to me. I didn't like the things he was saying about a black dude minding his own business at the other end of the bar. I could have walked away, I know, but if I walked it would have eaten me up inside for days. I hate that feeling even more than a broken nose.<br /><br />So I told him to shut up. "The guy ain't bothering nobody, which is more than I can say for you." I can usually get away with saying stuff like that because I weigh about two fifty and I'm over six feet. I used to get extra work as a bouncer. Most guys take one look at my hands, that a Polish friend told me looks like I've been making sausage all my life, and they back down.<br /><br />But he kept on talking, and not just about the black guy. He was going on about gays and Arabs and Jews. Then he said only fags drink club soda.<br /><br />So what could I do? I popped him one. I heard his nose crack and he'll probably need to see his dentist, too. But I got to give it to him, he came back at me like a champ dead set on keeping his title. Got in some good shots to my face before he went down.<br /><br />Anyhow, the guy finally collapsed. The bartender was a friend, so no big deal. But somebody called the cops and they show up like there was some kind of riot taking place. You want to laugh? I think it was the black dude that made the call.<br /><br />I knew one of the cops and he talked to the loudmouth with a broken nose, who wasn't happy when he came to and saw the police. He decided not to press charges and got out of there so quick he didn't even pay his bill.<br /><br />The cop I knew talked to me about how I should clean myself up. I told him I went to an AA meeting and that I'm going to be all right.<br /><br />"Then what the hell you doing here?"<br /><br />"No booze for me," I said. "From now on I'm walking the straight and narrow."<br /><br />He looked at me like he knew I was full of it, but he told me to pay my bill and the loudmouth's, and go home. He even offered me a ride, but I told him I wanted to walk and clear my head.<br /><br />Now that should have ended it. Right? My eye was swollen almost shut and my head felt like something was rattling around inside it. I don't know what came over me, but I stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of Old Granddad. I started drinking it before I even got home.<br /><br />The next morning I was in no shape to go to work so I called in sick. I'd only been working at this body shop since Ted closed his place. I worked with Ted for almost four years. He was an older guy and he watched out for me. But he liked the ponies too much and lost his shop. And I lost my job.<br /><br />My new boss said, "I'll give you an hour to show up sober, or don't show up at all."<br /><br />I thought of all the banging and clanging in the shop and in my head. I said, "I choose the second option."<br /><br />So I spent the day feeling sorry for myself. I was entitled. Hung over with no job and no woman. All I needed was to run over my dog with my truck, and I'd be ready for Nashville.<br /><br />I would have laughed, but my face hurt too bad.<br /><br />When I was with Joanna I hardly drank. That's also when I started working for Ted. He even sent me to school to work on transmissions. Paid for it and all. "The guy does my transmission work is dumber than a water pump," Ted told me. "If he could do the job, you can."<br /><br />And Joanna worked as a waitress and went to school at night taking art classes. She sure could draw. What she really wanted to do was design clothing. We paid our bills, even saved a little money, and made plans for the future. I talked to Ted about buying part of the shop and Joanna worked on her portfolio.<br /><br />But, like I said, whenever my life gets normal, that's when I can count on it getting screwed up. Usually, it involves my family.<br /><br />At first, Joanna liked that I was so good to my mother and my sister. "A man that's good to his mother makes a good husband," she said. I liked that she thought I was a good man. But Mom kept calling for me to do this for her or that and then Polly hooked up with Raphael and lost her freaking mind. I tried explaining I had my own life, but Mom said, "First you got your family. Then you got your life."<br /><br />When Joanna left, she said she still loved me but my family was too much for her. She even wanted us to move. She had friends in Arizona, she said. But I couldn't do that. "I'm no cowboy," I told her. "My family's here."<br /><br />"I know," she said. "You want to keep your family and I want to keep my sanity." She packed up and left.<br /><br />I knew she'd be staying with her friend, Gloria, until she finished at the college. She only had two semesters left. But I didn't stop her because she deserves a normal life. And she sure won't get that with me.<br /><br />She left just about the time Ted lost his shop. I was feeling about as low as I thought I could feel, but I didn't give up. I got work at a body shop in Canarsie and thought maybe I could start over. But it's rough coming home to an empty apartment when you've been sharing it with someone you love. I started drinking myself stupid every night. Working in a body shop with a hangover is no picnic, believe me.<br /><br />The morning after my bar fight, I looked in the mirror and I saw my eye all swollen and purple. I felt a stinging in the back of my throat, like I wanted to cry. I thought maybe this was rock bottom, like the guy at the meeting said. Maybe now I could start picking myself up off the ground. It almost made me feel good. So what happened? Mom called, saying she was worried about Polly and it was my responsibility as her big brother to make sure she was safe.<br /><br />So instead of begging for my job back, I did some asking around and found Polly turning tricks for Raphael. She was standing by a bus stop, her tits hanging out through her top like she was offering them for some kind of two-for-one special. When I went to talk with her, she could hardly focus on who I was. I told her to go sit in my car. She was so strung out, she did what I said.<br /><br />Then I went to find her asshole-pimp-crackhead-boyfriend, Raphael. I knew he wasn't far away. I found him in an alley down the street, a cigarette hanging from his lips like some tough guy he'd seen on TV. The punk cried like a baby after I banged him around a little and showed him my knife. But I wasn't about to cut him. As much as I hate him for what he did to Polly, I sure as hell won't do hard time over him. Instead, while I had my size 13 on his chest, I pulled out my dick and pissed all over his face. When I was done, I gave him a goodbye kick in the balls and left him there in the alley, squirming and stinking and spitting piss.<br /><br />Meanwhile, Polly was in my car waiting for me. I think that was the saddest thing. Polly always had a mind of her own, real independent. Now she just sat there like a dog waiting to be told what trick to do next. I couldn't take her home to Mom looking like that, so I took her back to my place. I took off her clothes, this mesh top and short skirt, but kept on her underpants, and I washed her with a towel. She smelled like puke, some was crusted on her face. I got her as clean as I could. I even washed her hair in the sink. I put her in an old pair of jeans Joanna had left and one of my shirts. The clothes were big on her, but she looked more like the Polly I used to walk to elementary school than the whore who did blow jobs to feed her and her crackhead boyfriend's habit.<br /><br />She slept in my bed and I slept on the couch. The next day, I made her toast with jelly and peanut butter, the way I did when she was a kid. After she ate a little and drank some coffee, she started screaming at me and cursing, like I was holding her prisoner. When she screams, her voice gets almost squeaky. I hate that sound.<br /><br />I slammed my fist on the table and made her toast jump off the plate. "Shut the fuck up!" I shouted.<br /><br />She got real quiet. She looked at me, expecting me to hit her or something. And then we laughed. I think I started it, but for like the next few minutes we laughed so hard snot dripped from our noses. It was disgusting, but it was also about the best damn time I could remember in a long while.<br /><br />Polly wasn't even mad about what I had done to Raphael. She made me tell over and over the part about me pissing on him. She laughed the way she did when she was a kid, with her eyes bulging like they were about to pop out.<br /><br />Later that day, I took her back to Mom, and Polly even thanked me. I felt so damn good about what I had done, I stayed late and we played Monopoly, just like in the old days. But soon after I left, Mom called and said that Polly was gone. She took whatever money she could find. She even took Mom's diamond ring, the one she got from Polly's Daddy.<br /><br />Now Mom was mad at me for bringing Polly to her place. She was cursing at me like I was the one who took her stuff. Cursing and crying. She also started in repeating her story about how my father walked out on her when she was pregnant and how Polly's father did the same. "Men are no good," she said. "I raised you to be different. I raised you to take care of your family. But when you got with Joanna you abandoned us, just like your father. Look at what you let happen to your sister."<br /><br />That did it. It took thirty-two years, but blaming me for Polly set me off. "Hold on one goddamn second," I shouted into the phone. "Don't blame me for Polly. She's a crack whore and she'll be a crack whore until she decides not to be. And you're a booze whore and you'll be a booze whore until you decide not to be. And I'm an alcoholic. And I'll be an alcoholic until I decide to change." I slammed down the phone so hard the receiver cracked.<br /><br />My hands were shaking. I had never spoken like that to Mom. I knew what she was since I was a boy, but I always figured this was my family, and I had to make the best of it. For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like I was holding back the whole fucking ocean. I let it go. I also felt something I had never admitted before. I felt scared. I was shaking like a crazy man and crying like a baby.<br /><br />I wanted a drink so bad I even looked through the medicine cabinet for something with alcohol in it.<br /><br />I called Arnie Caruso and told him my story. He said he was proud of me for not drinking and for standing up to my mother. He also said he had friends who could try to talk with Polly, if she was ready to listen. He told me about a meeting on Linden Boulevard and said I should meet him there in an hour or he'd tear me a new one.<br /><br />"You and what army?" We laughed like it was old times and we were back in high school.<br /><br />So I figure I'm off the hook for the time being, but I know Mom's gonna call again and Arnie can't save me from her. She's my mother, no matter what. I have to deal with her.<br /><br />I think of Joanna and me going off to Arizona. It sounds wonderful going out west and starting all over with her, but I still can't see myself as a cowboy. I want to call her, just to hear her voice. But I don't want to complicate her life until I get mine in order. Instead of cowboy boots, I put on an old pair of sneakers, make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and get ready to go to a meeting.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Wayne Scheer retired after twenty-five years of teaching writing and literature in college to follow his own advice and write. He's been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net. His work has appeared in a number of print and online publications, such as Notre Dame Magazine, The Christian Science Monitor, Pedestal Magazine, flashquake, Flash Me Magazine, The Internet Review of Books, Pindeldyboz and Eclectica. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.comMystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-33202813640487403372008-07-25T12:43:00.000-07:002008-07-25T12:08:53.785-07:00The Neighborhood - Kevin MichaelsTHE NEIGHBORHOOD<br /><br />Freddie Burnett died some time past midnight. He was cool in life, but dead was dead; nothing about that kept him alive. Cool didn't mean shit once somebody wanted him gone.<br /><br />His death was violent and brutal but it didn't rate much space in the late editions of the Press. Just three paragraphs in Section Four, halfway down the page, near the quarter page ads for Storybook Land and Brigantine Castle. Back then, in the summer of '77, there were more important stories than the death of a nobody black kid and his whore. Even before the first casino opened there had been a buzz in town; Atlantic City was going to be the Las Vegas of the East. Maybe bigger. Freddie's death was nothing. Even in his own neighborhood his death would soon be forgotten.<br /><br />The only person who might remember it in detail was the first cop on the scene – but only because he was left to file the incident report long after everyone else had packed up.<br /><br />"Only gonna' get worse," one of the detectives said on his way out the door. "Ain't seen nothing yet. Not once the casinos come around."<br /><br />The cop poked a shoe into one of the rigid corpses and shook his head.<br /><br />The killer had walked in, surprising Freddie and shooting him three times in the neck and throat. Death was immediate and without negotiation. His whore had tried running but barely made it out of bed before more bullets cut her down. Tall and thin, her face was streaked with blood from a small hole in her cheek. Probably caught one of the bullet fragments that had torn into Freddie, the cops figured. Another slug caught her in the back of the shoulder, spinning her around, and the next shot blew apart her chest, leaving only a gaping hole and a flap of white skin covering it. Freddie's dark hands clutched what remained of the flesh, bone, and tissue where his chin met his throat. His eyes were opened wide and his body was slumped backwards, dried blood splattered around him and smeared across the wall.<br /><br />The cop wiped a hand across his forehead and took a hard drag on his Marlboro, pissed about being left alone.<br /><br />"Always knew there'd be trouble," a lady in curlers was saying at the door. "Boy like that - always coming and going - just a matter of time before it happened."<br /><br />Her elderly neighbor nodded. "Boy was trouble."<br /><br />"Just a matter of time," the first one repeated.<br /><br />The uniform paid little attention to either of them. His eyes were cold and emotionless, as lifeless as the naked corpses on the floor. Veteran beat cops talked about the detachment that came with the job and how you'd get used to anything, no matter what it was, but it wasn't until his fourth summer in the neighborhood that he found a handle on what that meant. Now it was just another day and another body. Another shift that would go on too long. More hours that needed to be filled.<br /><br />He moved through the hallway shadows, wondering how he could stretch another hour out of the crime scene.<br /><br />"Ain't nothing to see in there," he told the crowd gathered on the downstairs steps.<br /><br />****<br /><br />Calvin Dunn watched from a cool spot on the front steps across the street as Freddie's body was taken away in the black coroner's wagon. It was morning and the neighborhood was alive with sound. Disco blasted from radios in apartment windows and from cars parked at the curb, bus engines whined as gears ground and clashed together, and a dozen voices talked trash up and down the street. Passer-bys slowed, taking quick glances through the open doorway, then continued about their business. Calvin crushed a Camel under the toe of a Converse sneaker and leaned back to watch kids dancing in the spray of an open fire hydrant.<br /><br />Booker took a hard swallow from his bottle. Tired, bloodshot eyes looked down the street. "I liked that kid, you know?"<br /><br />Calvin stared a hole into his Cons.<br /><br />"I know you and him were close. Kind of like brothers, huh?"<br /><br />Whatever Calvin could say about their friendship was kept inside. He stayed quiet.<br /><br />"Ain't no surprise, though," Booker said. "Kind of expected it."<br /><br />Calvin shrugged.<br /><br />After a while Booker said, "Things different around here. Can't get used to how this neighborhood's changed."<br /><br />You got used to anything, Calvin was thinking. It only took time.<br /><br />Every neighborhood had somebody like Booker. The mayor of the street corner – an old guy who had been around forever and had something to say about everything. He had watched the neighborhood change. Knew your mom when she was a kid and could tell you something about your daddy if you had one. Hit you up for a cigarette and loose change to help pay for the bottle he pulled on throughout the day. Hadn't held a job in twenty years and didn't know what was going on outside the neighborhood, but he was an authority on all things up and down the street.<br /><br />"A man got enemies and a price on his head, but it still takes someone to pull the trigger, don't it?" he wondered. "Who you think gonna' do that to Freddie?"<br /><br />"Enemies don't mean nothing," Calvin answered.<br /><br />There was no conviction and no emotion in his voice. "Money makes you do things you don't got the balls to do."<br /><br />****<br /><br />Hot July nights in Atlantic City were the worst. Tempers were short, tension heavy, and the heat put everyone on edge. Your face was wet with sweat, the stench of two days' worth of garbage collecting on the curb was overpowering, and there was too much time to fill. When the breeze off the ocean died the heat became unbearable. Freddie and Calvin would sit on the steps and talk, trying to hold on to the cool air when it blew down the street. Calvin never had enough money to do more than dream about what it would be like if his neighborhood was a Philadelphia suburb instead of an Atlantic City skeleton. All he could talk about was what it would be like to live someplace else.<br /><br />"You got to do more than dream and talk about what you want," Freddie used to say.<br /><br />"If you don't got dreams all you got is nightmares," Calvin answered.<br /><br />Freddie just stared at him. "You some kind of street corner philosopher?"<br /><br />"Dreams give you something," Calvin said, "if you ain't got nothing else."<br /><br />"So get a plan," Freddie said. "Make something happen."<br /><br />"What good is that?"<br /><br />"You don't go nowhere without a plan," he said. "And if you don't go nowhere, you just another part of the street. Be twenty years later and you still be talking about your dreams."<br /><br />Freddie Burnett shook another cigarette out of his pack. "Dreams don't do no good if you can't leave."<br /><br />Freddie's plan was always about an easy score. Two, sometimes three other guys would jack a car from one of the Boardwalk parking lots, clip on a set of forged plates, and cross the bridge to the mainland. Calvin would slip behind the wheel while the others jockeyed for spots in the back seat. Always in the front, Freddie would spark a joint with one hand, talking and rapping along with whatever was on the radio. The ride up the Black Horse Pike was fueled by a handful of joints, a quart of Jack Daniels, and scattered lines of coke laid out in fat lines across a mirror in the back seat.<br /><br />The whiskey was usually too warm and the coke too weak, but it was enough to crank up their courage.<br /><br />"These highways like a yellow brick road," Freddie once said, "and the suburbs be like fucking Oz."<br /><br />"And I guess we supposed to be the fucking Munchkins or those goddamned flying monkeys?" Calvin asked.<br /><br />Freddie shook his head. "Be like that lion. Just need to find your heart."<br /><br />"Thought it was courage?"<br /><br />"Whatever. You missing the point."<br /><br />Freddie's scores were always more profitable than rolling senior citizens walking the boardwalk late at night with their pockets full of change. Safer than hitting liquor stores in Ventnor or 7-11's in Margate. Driven with determination and sometimes desperation, targets were chosen randomly. Many times Freddie would steer them off the street for reasons that mattered only to him. Armed with joints and coke, thirty-eights and twenty-two's, they peeled off the road when the feeling was right.<br /><br />"Easy money," Freddie always said.<br /><br />And never any trouble, Calvin remembered.<br /><br />It got cash to buy new jewelry for their women, bottles for the guys on the street, and Cons and Nikes for the basketball courts.<br /><br />Freddie spread his take around the neighborhood. There were always a few dollars for the guy at the pool hall on Baltic Avenue, a couple of bucks for the two room apartment he called home, and the rest to spend at the liquor store. He'd leave some money with Fat Tony, placing bets and playing the dice in one of the after hours games behind Snake Alley – just pushing his luck a little while looking for a smile. Then gave his baby's momma what he could to make sure the boy he barely knew had what was needed. And sometimes Freddie would find a decent whore to spend the night with, then give her a couple of extra bucks - just because he could and not because she asked.<br /><br />"Just supporting people," he told Calvin. "You know they too proud to take charity."<br /><br />"Noticed they ain't too proud to take your fucking money with no hesitation."<br /><br />"Things like that even out in the end," Freddie said. "Got to help however you can."<br /><br />Calvin would just shrug. The man played by his own set of rules that he could never quite understand.<br /><br />The night time raids had become routine, like the walk to the Korean deli down the street or a two on two game at the courts for ten dollars a point. You knew what you wanted and there was never any second thoughts about what you were doing or how you were going to do it – you just did it. Freddie had done it more often than anyone else and that experience gave him something nobody else had. It gave him importance and made him special, especially to somebody like Calvin.<br /><br />"You guys look at him like some kind of hero," Booker once said. "Make him something different."<br /><br />Calvin thought about that for a while. "He ain't no hero who runs into a burning building and saves peoples," he finally said. "But he's got something we all want. He's cool in ways we want to be-"<br /><br />Barely out of his teens, a few years younger than Freddie, Calvin needed something and someone to believe in. There were no certainties and no guarantees but in Calvin's world Freddie was close to a sure thing.<br /><br />Tall and thin, almost gaunt, Freddie spoke in a quiet, evenly tempered voice that sometimes got lost in the sounds of the street. His afro would sway and bob as he pushed the bottle to his lips, swallowing hard. With his long braids water falling past his shoulders, swaying with vivid gestures, Freddie dominated the stairs. He didn't look out of the ordinary with the thick stubble on his chin, dark glasses hiding bloodshot eyes, or the tan, weathered chinos tucked into high top Timberland boots.<br /><br />"Conviction and belief – that's what he's got," Booker said. "Life ain't just surviving from day to day for him. It's about pushing ahead and making things better."<br /><br />Calvin popped open a Bud. "Making everything better, huh?"<br /><br />"That's what it's all about. Finding a way to make things better –"<br /><br />"All you can do is believe in yourself," Freddie once told him on the steps. "That's the most important thing in life."<br /><br />"How do I believe in myself," Calvin replied, "when I ain't done nothing yet?"<br /><br />There was a long silence.<br /><br />For a moment Calvin thought Freddie was going to backhand him across the sidewalk. There was a look in his expression – like contempt or disgust. "You're here, right?" Freddie finally spit back.<br />“I ain’t never left here. Where else would I be?"<br /><br />"In a morgue," Freddie snapped. "You made it this far, didn't you? It takes a lot of effort to stay alive in this place – that's something to build on."<br /><br />But Calvin knew there was a big difference between staying alive and getting ahead. The neighborhood was filled with people who stayed alive but had nothing else. He wanted more than that. Wanted to find a way to get ahead and matter.<br /><br />"First person you got to believe in is you," Freddie told him. "Nobody else matters but you and what you need."<br /><br />There was a lesson there. Calvin tried to remember that.<br /><br /><br />****<br /><br />It was a neighborhood of liars, braggers, and thieves – nothing that different from any other part of town. And only Boo Pittman got the same kind of respect as Freddie, although it was an uneasy respect that came from fear.<br /><br />If it was narcotics, Boo Pittman was in the middle between the Philly mobs and the local gangs who put it on the street. After hours gambling got his personal touch, just like loan sharking and numbers did. He'd give you two points less than the Guinea mobsters would, but he'd chop off your thumbs quicker then they would when you fell too far behind. If somebody wound up on a mattress in a brownstone basement with a cheap Pacific Avenue hooker, Boo figured to take twenty five out of the fifty stuffed in her panties. There were rumors that he owned a chunk of real estate near the inlet and was trying to ransom the land parcels to Harrah's for one of the first casino projects.<br /><br />The kids in the neighborhood watched from fire escapes as Boo slowly made his rounds, walking the streets fearlessly. Bulging neck, thick hands, and meaty fingers encased in gold rings that covered skin up to each knuckle. Nobody messed with Boo - not the gangs, the pimps and hustlers, or the junkies shooting smack on the corners. He had a gold capped smile that could make a dozen hearts stop beating when he looked in that direction.<br /><br />"Man got power," Booker said. "Power let's you do whatever the fuck you want. Let's you call the shots."<br /><br />It was on this last night of Freddie Burnett's life that he was with Boo Pittman's sixteen year old nephew, Sammy. Except for the new forty-five tucked in the waistband of his jeans, nothing else was different. It wasn't by choice. Freddie's prominence in the neighborhood hadn't escaped Boo's attention. With no time to teach his sister's son about life, he decided Freddie could do it for him.<br /><br />"Teach him a thing or two," Boo said. "The kid ain't never been nowhere the bus didn't take him. Show him stuff."<br /><br />"What am I supposed to show him?" Freddie wondered.<br /><br />"It don't matter," Boo shrugged. "Just give him an education."<br /><br />"I ain't much of a teacher – "<br /><br />Boo shrugged but his smile never wavered. "Teach him what you know."<br /><br />"What I know is that a sixteen year old kid shouldn't be tagging along with us," Freddie grumbled. "Ain't no place for a cherry."<br /><br />What they did took patience, timing, and a world of cool to pull off successfully. There was a certain amount of risk just cruising in the car – the word around the street was that the Boo's nephew was an animal; hot and uncontrollable. "Bringing a kid into this is asking for trouble," Freddie told Boo.<br /><br />"I know you'll do what's right," were the big man's parting words.<br /><br />The sun was setting slowly over the bay as Freddie, Calvin, Boo Pittman's nephew, and another hot-headed neighborhood kid named Trolly Long slid into a Caddy. "Feeling like a babysitter," Freddie muttered, bearing a weary smile to Calvin.<br /><br />"This ain't no fucking joyride-"<br /><br />"He wants him to see beyond Atlantic City. Guess with the casinos coming in here he thinks this'll help."<br /><br />"Everybody's out to make a score."<br /><br />"The man thinks it'll teach the kid character," Freddie said with a laugh, shaking his head as Calvin edged behind the wheel. "This tough little shit ain't gonna' learn enough tonight to help him cross the street."<br /><br />Freddie checked the clip in his forty-five, swept the braids from his eyes, and pulled a crumpled joint from his pocket. A blast of Tina Turner on the stereo greeted him as he slammed the car door shut. He tipped the Ray Bans off his nose and immediately lost himself in thought. Booker sat on the steps and watched the Caddy disappeared down the street, melting into a wall of tail lights and traffic signals.<br /><br /><br />*****<br /><br /><br />The Old Duck Inn was a crumbling cinderblock and brick building on the White Horse Pike, the last oasis in a desert of strip malls, motels, and all night gas stations. Weeds cracked through the parking lot, paint flaked off walls, cardboard covered a few broken window panes, and rust had eaten away chunks of the metal sign over the doorway. A succession of owners had done little to stimulate business, and it was only a matter of time before the Old Duck would be sold to make way for an industrial park, car lot, or another motel. The blinking neon sign still brought in a weekend customer on their way to AC, but customers were limited to a few hardcore regulars.<br /><br />"Neon. That's the problem," a guy was muttering over a bourbon. "It ain't like the old billboards. Can't tell no story with neon-"<br /><br />"Been around for thirty years. You see neon all over the place."<br /><br />"That don't mean it works," he sneered. "Know what I mean?"<br /><br />Joyce Howard nodded and sipped a Dewar's and water from her bar stool. An ex-husband had bought the Old Duck Inn years earlier and it was all she got from the divorce. Twenty miles west of Atlantic City on the outskirts of Hammonton, it was nothing more than a beer and a shot place. It didn't bring in as much anymore, but the bills got paid, and that was all that mattered to Joyce.<br /><br />"They're too bright. And they block the view. You can't see nothing with those signs cluttering the road."<br /><br />"What the hell do you want to see?" one of the other customers asked. "Ain't nothing to see but ten miles of nothing."<br /><br />"That ain't the point."<br /><br />"What can you do?" Joyce shrugged. "It's technology."<br /><br />It had been a quiet evening. She had picked up her daughter after school, gone to a ceramics class, then shared a quick meal at Burger King with a friend from class. There were only a handful of people in the bar: a young couple at the other end of the bar, two middle-aged county road workers who'd been there since four, and a long haired kid pondering life over a flat Schlitz. Barbara McCauley was her lone employee, pouring an occasional beer and flirting with the road crew guys between songs on the juke box.<br /><br />Joyce would have flirted too if she were twenty-six and needed both the tips and the thrills. But flirting didn't work for her. She was twice Barbara's age, and each morning brought new wrinkles and unexpected gray hairs. Nobody was buying her a drink and the tips didn't go as far as they once did. Not anymore.<br /><br />It was around eight when the young Black kid entered the bar, cautiously eyeing his surroundings. He was too clean shaven and too youthful, and Barbara pulled herself away from the Phillies game on TV and the idle conversation with the road crew.<br /><br />"Bud?" the kid asked. "Got Bud?"<br /><br />Barbara nodded slowly.<br /><br />"Make it a six to go," he said more confidently.<br /><br />Barbara flipped a wave of blonde hair from her eyes. "Need some ID."<br /><br />The kid placed both palms squarely on the countertop and leaned forward. "I ain't got none. I lost it."<br /><br />"I can't serve you without it."<br /><br />"That's bullshit."<br /><br />"I can't help it. That's the law."<br /><br />"I said I ain't got it."<br /><br />Joyce Howard sized up the kid from head to toe, taking in the high top Converse, faded Levi's, and sleeveless yellow t-shirt.<br /><br />"Get out of here, boy," she ordered. "Go find your ID."<br /><br />Sammy Pittman maintained a hard stare as he backed to the door while the people turned slowly on their stools. With the cool of a professional he stopped, using the time to measure the crowd like Freddie had instructed. Only the guys hunched over their beers at the bar looked mildly threatening. Nothing to worry about from any of them.<br /><br />A cinch, he told himself. In and out, just like Freddie said.<br /><br />He drew a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a shaky hand that signaled the gang in the Caddie.<br /><br />"Hey boy," one of the road crew started. "You hear the lady?"<br /><br />"I ain't deaf-"<br /><br />"Then get the fuck out."<br /><br />"This don't concern you, white man."<br /><br />Joyce Howard rose off her stool. "Out of here! Go some place else, nigger, to get your six pack!"<br /><br />Whatever else she could have said was lost when Trolly stormed into the bar behind Sammy, waving his twenty-two. Sammy pulled out his own piece and pointed it at Joyce Howard's head, stopping her in mid-sentence. In that split second she felt her heart skip a beat. Seeing both kids aiming guns, side by side in the doorway, Barbara McCauley panicked and dove for protection behind the bar. Trolly was across the room in three steps, leaping on top of the bar and pointing the gun at her.<br /><br />"Off that floor, bitch!" he yelled, baring a mouthful of yellowed, cigarette-stained teeth. "Off that fucking floor or I'll blow your brains out."<br /><br />"There's not much money," Joyce said from across the bar, shaking as she lifted her glass to her lips. "But –"<br /><br />Sammy came across the floor quickly and easily. A cruel smile crossed his face as he slapped the glass out of her hands with the butt of his gun. "Won't serve niggers, huh? Let's not serve nobody," he sneered. "Let's just kill you-"<br /><br />"Please," Joyce begged, feeling sweat on her forehead and a dryness in her mouth. "There's not much, but it's yours-"<br /><br />"Do the bitch!" Trolly yelled.<br /><br />Sammy laughed and waved the gun in her face. "You fucking right, it's mine!"<br /><br />The road worker edged off his seat. "Why don't you just haul ass out of here?"<br /><br />Trolly spun around on the bar and rammed his foot into the man's jaw, sending him reeling to the floor, while freezing the man's buddy in place with his twenty-two. The man rolled to his knees, holding a hand to his mouth while the blood spilled between his lips and broken teeth.<br /><br />"Shut the fuck up," he said.<br /><br />It was then that Freddie strode into the bar. He glanced at the couple wrapped in each other's arms, shook some braids to one side, and kept his forty-five leveled at the room. The neighborhood kids were tense and edgy, their fingers fidgeting on triggers while music pulsated from a corner juke box and the Phillies came to bat in the bottom of the third inning on a silent TV screen.<br /><br />"Let's do this quick," he said.<br /><br />"Off that fucking floor," Trolly hollered at Barbara.<br /><br />Freddie moved behind the bar, helping Barbara McCauley to her feet and said, "We ain't gonna hurt you. We only want your money."<br /><br />Her words stuck in her throat.<br /><br />"You're okay," he said reassuringly. "Don't be stupid."<br /><br />Joyce was forced to the floor, face down with her hands spread eagle on the cold linoleum. The floor was cold and dirty and smelled like stale beer and grime. She was terrified and frightened, and she could feel her heart pounding heavily in her throat as tears inched down her cheeks, streaking her mascara. I don't want to die, she was thinking. Not here and not like this.<br /><br />In that instant it all came at her. She thought about her daughter and the things she had always meant to say to her and do with her. Dreams that had died. Hope and ambition that had faded away.<br /><br />So much life unfinished.<br /><br />Sammy's voice rang out. "How's that feel, motherfucker?"<br /><br />She saw a foot lash out at the man who had been next to her, kicking his ribs twice before a pair of tan boots hurried over and pushed the high tops away. A pair of ebony hands took the wallet from the man's pocket, then his watch and rings, along with a gold cross from his neck. The boots came near, pausing for a moment at the body of the road worker who was still twitching on the floor. The man groaned, rasping out mumbled words, only to be quieted by a hand clamping loosely across his mouth.<br /><br />"You'll be fine," Freddie said matter-of-factly.<br /><br />Freddie stepped around the bodies. He took two gold rings from Joyce's fingers, a watch from one wrist and a bracelet from another, and then yanked off the heart chain she wore around her neck. As he turned away Sammy buried a foot in her ribs this time.<br /><br />"Boy, huh?" he sneered as the bolts of pain ripped through her side. "Ain't no boy does this-"<br /><br />"No!" Freddie barked. "That's not the way it's done."<br /><br />Sammy shot Freddie a stare.<br /><br />"You heard me," Freddie said, this time stronger.<br /><br />"She called me 'boy'. And 'nigger'. Ain't nobody calling me that -"<br /><br />"You gonna be called worse," Freddie said firmly. "Ain't the time or the place to deal with it."<br /><br />"I'm gonna' blow the bitch's brains out!" Sammy said, cocking his twenty-two and aiming it at Joyce.<br /><br />"Plug her," Trolly echoed from across the bar. "Do her."<br /><br />"Shut up," Freddie said to him. "Get the money from the register and keep your mouth shut."<br /><br />Freddie shook his head. "You ain't doing shit I don't tell you to do."<br /><br />Freddie shot him a glare and shook his head again.<br /><br />"Don't push me. I said no."<br /><br />Sammy's mouth was open, but Freddie's ice cold stare snuffed out his response and the words died in silence. On the floor Joyce Howard started shaking uncontrollably.<br /><br />As Freddie rifled the pockets of the couple across the bar then opened the cash register and Trolly ransacked the liquor shelves for bottles he could share with his basketball buddies, Sammy stormed around the bar. He found Barbara McCauley trembling on the floor and yanked her up. She was shaking so badly she could barely stand alone. Sammy steadied her with the butt of his gun, then dragged her into a hallway leading to the kitchen.<br /><br />"Move bitch."<br /><br />"Don't hurt me," she sobbed. "Please don't."<br /><br />"Shut up. Just shut up and move!"<br /><br />He was going to make someone pay for that, he swore, grabbing a handful of Barbara's hair and yanking her through the darkness.<br /><br />He shoved her forward, thinking that maybe he needed to flex a little muscle with Freddie Burnett when this was done. Show him that he wasn't no kid like Trolly or some of those other basketball boys from the neighborhood. Make him understand that he deserved respect. Make him see that, he thought. Get him to remember that it was his uncle who put him with Freddie, and that it was his uncle who called the shots and made things happen. Freddie was just the hired help, Sammy thought.<br /><br />Barbara's voice cracked as tears rolled down her cheeks. "Please don't hurt me."<br /><br />Sammy slammed the barrel of the gun into her temple with lightning speed. "I said, shut up, bitch," he growled.<br /><br />The blow knocked Barbara off balance. Sammy jerked her upright, this time banging the gun hard against her ear. Her knees stiffened as she lurched sideways against the wall, trying to dig her fingers into plaster and sheetrock for support. There was a gash across her forehead and the blood ran into her eyes and trickled down her face.<br /><br />"You don't want to do this," she tried again, trying to find her feet beneath her.<br /><br />"Talking won't do you no good."<br /><br />Sammy pulled her into the kitchen, using the cold steel of the gun to guide her. He shoved her against the refrigerator with a quick thrust and Barbara bounced into it and fell backwards to the floor. Sammy caught her by an elbow, spun her around, and rammed her face into the white enamel of the refrigerator again. He tried working his hand inside her blouse but she pulled away at his touch. He was clumsy and awkward and his fingers ripped through the fabric, and his nails left bloody scratches across her chest.<br /><br />"Don't say nothing," he said.<br /><br />Still holding her arm he threw her to the floor, tearing again at her blouse and then yanking at his own zipper. Barbara landed on her back. She looked up for only a second to see him straddling her, and then turned her gaze sideways to the floor. She felt him reaching beneath her skirt and grabbing for her panties, and instinctively she struggled to get free. She tried squirming away through a puddle of soapy water, thinking that if she could get out of the kitchen and make it to the parking lot she had a chance. There were cars passing on the White Horse Pike. Someone would stop if they saw her, and someone could come to help – she was sure of it.<br /><br />There was a loud snap that sounded like the kid's belt buckle unclasping and the sudden, sickening realization that she wasn't going to escape set in.<br /><br />Her body trembled and quaked. "Oh God," she wailed.<br /><br />The moment erupted in an explosion of sound.<br /><br />There were screams in the bar, and a sudden loud thud in the soapy water beside her. There was absolutely no pain; she'd always thought there would be pain but there was nothing to fill the silence from the explosion. Nothing but a numbing chill that swept quickly through her body. Trembling, she turned after a moment, slowly propping herself up on one elbow to see the crumpled body of Sammy Pittman on his knees. Behind him a solitary figure was slowly lowering a forty-five through haze of blue smoke.<br /><br />"Kid should've listened," Freddie Burnett said. His voice offered no emotion and no trace of remorse.<br /><br />The bullet had ripped through the small of Sammy's back, dropping him quickly to his knees. His pants were wrapped around his ankles, the shirt tail tangling from beneath the windbreaker in the puddle as he stared expressionlessly at Barbara. There was none of the pain that she would have expected to see etched in his expression. Just surprise. He clawed at the burning pain in his chest as the back of his shirt reddened. He opened his mouth to speak but could only manage to spit out a thick, dark clot of blood that drooled over his bottom lip.<br /><br />There were no final words and no last gasp for life. Just a look of surprise as his hands dropped away and Sammy fell into a crumpled heap on the floor.<br /><br />Later, Barbara would remember Freddie's expression. There was little difference between his face and the resigned looks of the road crew workers when they came in every afternoon. She searched the Ray Bans for some sign of feeling but there was nothing. He paused for a moment, looking first at Sammy Pittman's body shuddering one final time and then at Barbara.<br /><br />Calvin was still in the Caddie, nervously gunning the engine, getting edgier as the minutes ticked away. With a tired, reluctant sigh, Freddie Burnett turned and went back to finishing the rest of his business.<br /><br /><br />****<br /><br /><br />"Nothing to talk about," Freddie had said during the quiet ride home. "It's done."<br /><br />"Shit," Trolly muttered. "Wasn't no big deal. He just having fun. Besides, he's just a kid, just like me."<br /><br />"He was man enough to know what he was doing."<br /><br />"What about his uncle?"<br /><br />Freddie Burnett offered a quiet shrug and said nothing else the rest of the ride home.<br /><br />Word spread quickly about what had happened even before the Caddie's engine had cooled. As Freddie and Calvin sat quietly on the steps later that night, blood specking Freddie's tan boots, he seemed tired and resigned.<br /><br />"I did what I thought was right," he said softly. "Somebody else gonna' judge it differently. Can't change that."<br /><br />"You can try."<br /><br />"Some times it don't matter."<br /><br />"Gonna' be issues about this-"<br /><br />Freddie nodded. "Gonna' need to explain myself," he said. "Boo gonna' want answers. Even when he gets them, ain't gonna' be no guarantees about what happens next."<br /><br />"He ain't gonna' like what you got to say."<br /><br />"I'll tell him the truth," Freddie said. "That's the only thing I know. Only thing I got."<br /><br />"No time for excuses," he added. "What Boo does with it is up to him."<br /><br />"It's tough, huh?" Calvin noted grimly.<br /><br />Freddie nodded again. "You want to be a man, you got to make choices. Do what you think is the right thing," he said. "Do that, you can expect to get judged by your actions and face the consequences if someone else don't like what you did."<br /><br />"Unless you just do what you're told," Calvin said.<br /><br />Freddie looked off into the night and shrugged. "Don't think I can live like that."<br /><br />"I guess not," Calvin agreed solemnly, looking away. "Not everybody can."<br /><br /><br />****<br /><br /><br />It might have been fitting if Freddie had been killed for something others might have understood, Calvin thought the next morning. But Freddie's death was meaningless, just like his principles. He was dead, and it wouldn't mean anything more or less, no matter what his intentions were or what value he tried to place on his actions.<br /><br />Freddie screwed up and it cost him. Dead was dead. Boo Pittman didn't even give him a chance to come up with answers or explanations before sending the shooter to his apartment.<br /><br />There was a finality in death that made all the answers meaningless any way, Calvin thought. He knew some day it might happen to him, no matter how hard he tried covering the angles so he could get ahead.<br /><br />"Calvin!" a voice called from down the block. "You playing?"<br /><br />"In a minute," he returned with a wave. "Got plenty of time."<br /><br />Calvin picked up the basketball from the stoop, tied the red bandanna a little tighter around his head, and headed towards the basketball courts to finish yesterday's game of one on one. Double E. was playing him for a dollar a point – spotting his three to start. Everything had a price, Calvin thought. His had been one thousand dollars and a thirty-eight that Calvin made sure to wipe clean before dropping it down a sewer when he came out of Freddie's apartment that morning, just like Boo told him. He was about seven dollars behind to Double E, but he was going to play the game through to the end because you never know how it would end if you don't go all the way.<br /><br />Even if you couldn't win, you take what they give you and you go with it as far as you can. <em>Get what you need.<br /></em><br />Freddie had said that once, Calvin remembered as he trotted off towards the courts with the basketball tucked under his arm.<br /><br />It was a good lesson to remember.<br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Kevin Michaels is everything New Jersey (attitude -edginess - Bruce Springsteen - Tony Soprano but not Bon Jovi). He is a writer and a surfer who lives at the Jersey Shore when he's not in California. He has been previously published in Word Riot, Six Sentences, The Literary Review, and <a href="http://dogzplot.com/" target="_blank">Dogzplot.com</a>, and I can be contacted at <a href="mailto:mkdown13@prodigy.net" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" ymailto="mailto:mkdown13@prodigy.net">mkdown13@prodigy.net</a>.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-17448730289292218512008-07-24T11:58:00.000-07:002008-07-24T12:30:07.127-07:00Jack Corella - Darell M. DiedrichJack Corella awoke to the sound of his alarm. He hit the off button and rolled over to go back to sleep, but then thought better of it. He vaguely remembered hitting the snooze button once before. He looked at the time. It was seven o’clock. He sat up and swung his legs over the bed. Jack rubbed his eyes and stretched his back before reaching for a pack of smokes. He opened the flip-top box to retrieve one—it was empty. “Oh yea.” He thought. He was supposed to be quitting. He crumpled up the empty pack and threw it at the trashcan, missing it by several feet. Jack got up and went to the shower.<br /> <br />He was finally dressed and ready to go. It was a quarter to eight, he better hurry. He strapped on his gun and ran out the door and almost ran into one of his neighbors. “Oh! Sorry,” Jack said.<br /> <br />“That’s okay,” she said. It was Shawna. She lived upstairs above Jack She was a tall red head with a fabulous figure, and the tight red shirt and blue jeans only added to her appeal. Her blue eyes sparkled even in the dimmest of light. A nice woman too. <br /> <br />“Are you just getting in?” Jack said.<br /> <br />“Yes, it was a busy day at the club,” she said.<br /> <br />“Well, I uh . . . I need to go” Jack said, jabbing his thumb towards the door.<br /> <br />“Oh, I’m sorry. You must be going to work.”<br /> <br />“Yep, another day fighting crime. But I’ll see ya around.”<br /><br />She said good bye and walked up the stairs to her apartment. He watched her until she was out of sight then let out a sigh. He never knew what to say to her. One of these days he would ask her out. How is it he can chase a drug dealer down an alley, but was afraid to ask a beautiful woman to dinner? Jack shook his head. He spun on his heel and left the apartment building.<br /><br />Pulling his keys from his pocket he slid one into the door of his car, then realized the window was broken. “Crap!” he said. “Not again.” He brushed the broken glass off the seat and jumped in. The radio was missing. He started the car and sped off to work, cutting someone off. They cursed and swore at him, honking their horn. He paid no attention. Stopping at a gas station he picked up some more smokes. He was late for work.<br /><br />“Screw it. They should be used to it by now. If they fire me it will be a blessing.”<br /><br />Jack had been on the force for ten years, but lately it didn’t have the same appeal to him as it did in the beginning. He was tired of busting the same criminals over and over again just so they could be let free a few days later.<br /> <br />Jack pulled into the station and went inside.<br /> <br />“Corella! You’re late again damn it!” Said the Chief.<br /> <br />“Sorry Chief.” He really wasn’t.<br /> <br />“Sorry my ass! One more time and your on traffic duty! The FBI is here. Their gonna help with your case and they need to see your report. They’ve been waiting since seven. You got ten minutes to get it together and be in my office.” The Chief stormed back to his office and slammed the door, rattling the glass in its frame.<br /> <br />Jack went back to his desk and began gathering his reports. There had been two bank robberies in L. A. in the past week. Now the Feds were going to get involved and Corella was supposed to assist them. He cursed himself again for forgetting about the meeting.<br /> <br />“Hey, Corella, you look like shit.” Jack looked up to see Billy. He and Jack were good friends, joined the academy together. They used to be partners, but Billy took a bullet in the leg and it never healed right. He walked with a slight limp and was now stuck at a desk. Billy ran his fingers through his short brown hair, and took a seat on the corner of Jack’s desk. “And that’s a compliment.” He continued. “What the hell did you do last night anyway?”<br /> <br />“Drank myself sick,” Jack said. “I’m tired of this B.S., Billy. I gotta find a new job.”<br /> <br />“You need to get a girl friend. What happened to that red head you told me about?”<br /> <br />“Nothing, I haven’t asked her out yet.”<br /> <br />“Wuss. You better do it before someone else does. Here comes the Chief, I’ll talk to you later.” Billy hopped up and walked to his own desk.<br /> <br />“Corella! Times up, get in here!” Said the Chief.<br /> <br />Jack grabbed the rest of his stuff and went to the Chief’s office. Two Fed’s were in there waiting. They were both of average height with short brown hair, and both wore black suits. The only difference between the two was their faces. One had a round face with a slightly squished nose, the other with an oval face with a long nose and pointed chin. The Chief started as soon as Jack closed the door behind him.<br /><br />“This is agent Jefferson,” the one with a pointed chin nodded, “and agent Doyle. Gentlemen this is Jack Corella. He’s been following the case since it started. Show them what you got Corella.”<br /> <br />“Not much really. The first robbery was one week ago, the other four days ago. There are four of them, three males and one female. They wear black clothes and masks.<br />One caries a shotgun and the others carry pistols, one of which is a 9mm. We found bullet casings for the 9mm at both robberies, all came from the same weapon.”<br /> <br />“How long were they in the banks?” Doyle asked.<br /> <br />“No more than two minutes,” answered Jack. “They only robbed the tellers, leaving the vault alone.”<br /> <br />Jefferson spoke for the first time. “The FBI will take it from here. Thank you Mr. Corella that will be all for now.”<br /> <br />“Just like that I’m off the case?” Jack said.<br /> <br />“The FBI handles bank robberies, Mr. Corella. If we need your assistance we’ll ask you for it,” Jefferson said.<br /> <br />Jack was about to protest, but the look the Chief gave him made him think better of it. He turned and left the office.<br /> <br />Jack sat at his desk, going over the file of the robberies. There was no report of a getaway car. “That was strange,” he thought. “Maybe that’s how they got away so easily. There are more places to hide in this city if you’re on foot rather than in a car.” Still, it was strange. Jack decided to check back records for any similar robberies. It took most of the day and he came up with nothing.<br /> <br />“Hey, Corella?” Jack turned to see a female officer approach him. It was Joann Flemming. A great gal, but married. Her blonde hair was in a ponytail and bobbed up and down as she walked. Joann always had a bounce in her step that cheered up anyone in the room. She was taller that most women and slender. A lot of guys on the force teased her when she first arrived. They thought her slender frame would hold her back. But within her first week on the job she took down a 300-pound man by herself. The teasing stopped. “I got a report on a stolen vehicle,” she continued. “Want to go?”<br /> <br />Jack looked at the paper work on his desk, then looked back at her. “Sure, what the hell.”<br /> <br />A half -hour later they arrived at the address, an old rundown house just outside central L. A. Jack knocked on the door. The door opened a little, and a round, bearded face peered through. “Yea? What do ya want?”<br /> <br />“I’m detective Flemming and this is detective Corella from the L. A. P. D. You reported a car stolen?”<br /> <br />“It was a van. What the hell took you so long? I reported it this morning.”<br /> <br />“Sorry, but your van is not the only vehicle stolen in this city,” said Flemming. “Do you want us to come in and take a report or not?”<br /><br />“All right.” The man opened the door the rest of the way, revealing his large beer gut, covered only by a sweaty T-shirt and boxers that didn’t cover as much flesh as they should. He sat down in an old chair and finished off a beer.<br /> <br />“At what time was your vehicle stolen?” Said Flemming<br /> <br />“I think it was last night. I heard noises outside about nine-thirty, but I didn’t think anything about it. I went outside this morning to get the paper and my van was gone.” He let out a long, noisy burp then cracked open another beer.<br /> <br />“What’s the color, make and year?”<br /> <br />“It’s a blue, seventy-nine chevy. I just put new tires on the damn thing.”<br /> <br />“Is there anything else you can tell us?”<br /> <br />The man finished another beer. “No, that’s all.”<br /> <br />“We’ll keep an eye out for it and let you know if we find it.”<br /> <br />The detectives left the house. Joann asked Jack if he wanted to get something to eat, but he declined. It was five o’clock and he was tired. She dropped him off at the station so he could get his car. From there he drove to the liquor store and picked up a six pack, then drove home. He was going to lock the car door, then remembered he had no window. He went into the apartment building and stopped at the mailboxes, opening his up—all bills. The door to the apartment building opened and he turned to see Shawna coming in. Behind her walked a woman and two men. The woman was blonde and, despite wearing too much blue eye makeup, was attractive. Her shirt fit tightly, pushing her breasts up and covering very little. The first guy had long black hair that hung past his shoulders and a teardrop tattooed under his right eye. The second guy lifted his right hand and ran his fingers through his hair as he walked past, so Jack didn’t get a good look at his face. He dressed well and had short dark brown hair combed straight back. A gold ring adorned his middle finger. <br /><br />Jack said “Hi” to Shawna, but she ignored him and went up the stairs to her apartment. One of the men must be her boyfriend. “Figures,” he thought “Billy was right, I waited too long.” He went into his own apartment, a bit depressed now. Jack put the beers in the fridge and took off his firearm, hanging it on the back of a chair. He made himself a sandwich and took a beer out of the fridge, then sat in front of the television. An old movie was on. He’d seen it a million times, but figured one more time wouldn’t hurt. He finished his sandwich, then pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with a match. He was only half watching the movie. His mind was on Shawna. In all the time he had known her, he had never seen her bring a man home. It’s too bad he missed his chance. He was still thinking about her when he went to bed.<br /> <br />Jack entered the station at seven o’clock the next morning. The Chief threatening to put him on traffic duty worked. He went straight to his desk to finish the paper work from the night before. He wanted to get everything out of the way in case some leads came in about the robberies. Just before lunch he got his check, it’s a good thing, his rent was due. He decided to stop at the bank and cash his check before getting something to eat.<br /> <br />The line in front of the teller was long and he hoped he would have time to get some lunch before he went back to the station. He thought about coming back later and turned to leave. As he turned around four people dressed in black and wearing masks entered the bank.<br /> <br />“This is a robbery! Everyone on the floor!” One of them said, firing two shots into the air.<br /><br />Everyone lay flat on the ground, including Jack. There were too many people in<br />the bank for him to draw his weapon, someone might get hurt. Two of the robbers were men and the other two were women. One of the women and one of the men jumped behind the counter, instructing the tellers to open the drawers. The remaining two watched over the rest of the people in the bank. Jack was looking at the woman. He could tell she was nervous. When she looked back at him, her eyes widened ever so slightly. She stared at him for just a moment, then turned her attention back to the other two robbers. They got their loot and were heading for the door. “Let’s go!” shouted one of the men. They all backed out of the bank. As soon as they were out the door Jack jumped to his feet and drew his gun. He ran out the door after them. Just down the street they were running for a van.<br /> <br />“Police, stop or I’ll shoot!” shouted Jack<br /> <br />One of the robbers turned and started shooting. Jack flung the door of the nearest car open and jumped inside it. Bullets slammed into the car’s door and hood and shattered the windshield. Jack returned fire, hitting the robber in the chest. He fell to the ground, letting off two more shots into the air as he fell. The other crooks jumped into the van and sped off. Several seconds later the police showed up. Jack went over to the crook he shot and pulled off the mask. He jumped back at seeing who it was. The man had long black hair and a teardrop tattoo under his right eye. He thought back to last night, when Shawna came home. This man was with her. Could she be involved? No, that had to be a coincidence.<br /> <br />“You know this man?” Agent Jefferson had come up behind him.<br /> <br />“Uh, no . . .no I don’t,” said Jack. “I haven’t checked for ID.”<br /> <br />Jefferson stared at him for a moment. Then said, “I want a report about what happened here in one hour.”<br /> <br />Jack nodded his head and turned back to the bank. There was a man yelling about his car. Jack looked at the car he had dove into during the shoot out. What once was a beautiful red corvette was now littered with bullet holes and had a shattered windshield. Jack turned to go back to his car when he kicked something. Looking down he saw a book of matches. The front cover was facing up and read: “Kitty Cat Club” in bright pink letters. Jack picked it up with a tissue. Under the cover was written a phone number.<br /> <br />“What’s that?” asked Jefferson<br /> <br />“A book of matches. It may have fallen from the dead guy.”<br /> <br />“That’s ridiculous. This man doesn’t smoke.”<br /> <br />“How do you know?”<br /> <br />“He doesn’t have any cigarettes. Why would he carry matches if he doesn’t smoke?”<br /> <br />“It was laying right next to him it may…”<br /> <br />“Corella, this is not your investigation.” Jefferson snatched the matches from Jack with a gloved hand. “Quit screwing around and get me that report I asked for. And get out of the way before I tell your chief your hindering an investigation!” Jefferson stalked off, throwing the matches into a trashcan.<br /><br />“What’s wrong with that bastard?” thought Jack. He waited until the agent wasn’t looking and retrieved the matches from the trash, putting them into his pocket. A report came back that the getaway vehicle had been found abandoned several blocks away in an<br />alley. Jack went to confirm that it was the same van. Sure enough, it was. The van matched the description of the stolen van given to him and Joann the night before. An officer was checking the plates to be sure.<br /> <br />The robbers had gotten away so there was nothing else for Jack to do but go back to the station and make out his report. He made sure it was complete, leaving out the part about the woman robber looking at and him recognizing the dead guy, and turned it in to the Chief.<br /> <br />He had enough for one day. It was late and he wanted to go home, but he had to do one more thing. He took the matches out of his pocket and wrote down the number off the inside cover. Then he took it to the crime lab to have it tested for prints. It was a long shot, but you never knew what could happen. He left the station and hopped into his car. He decided to make a stop before going home.<br /> <br />The Kitty Cat Club was a strip joint on the west side of L. A. The same place where Shawna worked. It was ten o’clock when he pulled into the parking lot. He paid the cover charge and went in, taking a seat towards the back near the bar. The place was pretty crowded and it took a while for his drink to arrive. About that time Shawna was up on stage. She was a good dancer and Jack was mesmerized by her. “Damn she’s incredible.” He thought. Apparently everyone else did too, when she was done she got a standing ovation. Jack thought he might buy her a drink as soon as she came out to mingle with the customers. He spotted her a few minutes later, but she was talking to some guy at the other end of the room. He sat and watched them. The conversation was getting very heated. He couldn’t hear what they said, but the guy had a hold of her arm and she was shaking her head. Jack recognized the man as one of the two he saw last<br />night with Shawna. She nodded her head once and yanked her arm away from him, then turned and stormed out of the room.<br /> <br />Jack waited a couple more hours, but she never came back. He was tired so he left, thinking he would ask her some questions later. Jack got back into his car and headed home.<br /> <br />The next morning Jack was late again. But the chief must not have noticed because he didn’t say anything. A set of fingerprints was found in the van from the robbery last night. The Fed’s were nowhere to be found so Jack decided to follow up on the lead. The prints belonged to a woman named Salena Jackson. As of yet she wasn’t a suspect, just wanted for questioning. Jack got her address from the police files and went to her last known address. She lived about three blocks away from where the van was stolen.<br /> <br />Jack walked up to the door and knocked, the door opened a little at the force from his knuckles. “Hello? Anybody home?” He asked. No answer, he pushed the door open the rest of the way so he could see inside. The house looked ransacked. Jack drew his weapon. “Hello?” he shouted. “L. A. P. D. anybody home?” Jack went in. The house was trashed, the table was turned over, pictures on the floor and cushions torn open. He checked each room, finding them empty, then moved to the master bedroom. The door was open only a crack and it looked like it had been kicked in. Jack took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. This room was trashed too and on the bed lay a woman, the sheets stained red. Her blonde hair was soaked red and her blue eye makeup was smudged, as if she had cried and wiped her eyes. He checked her pulse even though he knew she was dead. Jack went into the living room and called the station. Homicide arrived in minutes, along with the Feds.<br /> <br />“What the hell are you doing here, Corella?” Said Jefferson. “This is a federal case, your not supposed to be here.”<br /> <br />“I got the report about the prints and you weren’t around so I came to ask her a few questions,” said Jack.<br /> <br />“Why didn’t you call for back up?” asked Jefferson<br /> <br />“I don’t need back up to ask a woman questions.”<br /> <br />“From what I been hearing about you, I think you do.”<br /> <br />“You son of a…!” Jack punched Jefferson in the jaw, knocking him to the ground. A couple officers grabbed Jack and pulled him back.<br /> <br />“Back off Corella!” shouted agent Doyle.<br /> <br />“Your in a heap of shit now, Corella!” shouted Jefferson, getting up off the floor holding his sore jaw. “You can be sure your Chief is going to hear about this! Kiss your job goodbye!”<br /> <br />Jack turned and left the house. He was right; the Chief would probably suspend him. Maybe he could get out of here before the Chief got word. It would buy him some time on the case. He pulled his keys from his pocket, and just as he slid the key into the ignition an officer stepped out of his vehicle, radio still in his hand. <br /> <br />“Hey, Corella!” shouted an officer. “The Chief wants you back at the station, pronto!”<br /> <br />Jack started his car and went back to the station. The Chief was waiting for him. “In my office, Corella.” Once in his office the Chief slammed the door shut behind them. The glass rattled in its frame.<br /><br />“One of these days that glass is going to fall out,” said Jack.<br /> <br />The Chief got right to the point. “What the hell gives you the right to strike another officer, and not just an officer, a federal agent!”<br /> <br />“He deserved it, Chief. The guy’s a jerk.”<br /> <br />“So are you, Corella. But nobody has knocked you on your ass—yet! As of now you are on suspension until further notice. Turn over your badge and side arm and get the hell out of my office.”<br /> <br />Jack placed his pistol and badge on the Chiefs desk and left. He could use the time off, but now wasn’t the right time. He had to find out how Shawna was mixed up in this whole mess. He stopped at his locker and got his spare pistol, a .45 magnum, and left the station. He was going to visit Shawna; it was time he asked her some questions.<br /> <br />Jack arrived at his apartment building and went straight to Shawna’s door. He was about to knock when he noticed that the door had been forced open. His heart pounded in his chest. He pulled out his pistol and loaded a bullet in the chamber, then put his ear to the door and listened. He could hear sounds coming from inside. Slowly he pushed the door open. The noise was coming from a back bedroom. Jack quietly walked over to the doorway and peeked in. He could see a figure moving around. “Don’t move, police!” he shouted, pointing his gun at the intruder. The intruder shot a few rounds as Jack jumped behind a wall. Plaster scattered with each hit. Jack returned fire at the intruder, but missed. The intruder jumped out the window onto the fire escape, firing at Jack again. The bullets slammed into the wall again. Jack ran to the fire escape. The intruder was nowhere to be seen. Jack cursed himself for letting him get away. He looked<br />around the apartment. Shawna wasn’t there. That was a relief, he was afraid he would find her dead.<br /> <br />Jack went back to his own apartment to think things through. There was no point in calling the police, he would just get into more trouble. He pulled his keys from his pocket and slid one into the lock. The door opened without much force. Someone was in his apartment too! He slowly pushed the door open and listened, nothing. He slowly walked over to the bedroom and when he got closer he could hear someone in his bathroom. He stood next to the door against the wall. Suddenly the door flung open and someone stepped out. “Freeze!” shouted Jack, pointing his gut at their head. The woman screamed and leaped back. Jack quickly put down his weapon when he saw who it was. Shawna stood against the wall in a towel, her hair dripping wet. “Shawna! What are you doing here?”<br /> <br />“I’m sorry Jack, I had nowhere else to go.” She put her face in her hands and began to sob. “Please help me, Jack.”<br /> <br />“All right, all right. I will, just calm down. Come sit down and I’ll get you some thing to drink.” After a few minutes, and a few drinks, he got her to calm down. Then she told him her story.<br /> <br />“It started about three months ago. A friend and I borrowed some money from this guy, Greg Wellings. He’s the owner of the Kitty Cat Club. We needed it for a real-estate deal.”<br /> <br />“How much did you barrow?” Said Jack.<br /> <br />“One hundred and fifty thousand. But the deal fell through and we couldn’t pay it back. Greg let us dance at the club to pay it off, that’s why I was dancing there. But apparently Greg borrowed the money from someone else and that guy wanted his money back. Greg thought of a plan to get the money.”<br /> <br />“Robbing banks.”<br /> <br />“Right. Greg said he would kill us if we didn’t help. I swear we had no choice. When the third robbery went bad and Tony got killed…”<br /> <br />“Tony?” Said Jack.<br /> <br />“Yea. Tony was the one you shot. He was a friend of Greg’s. After he got killed, Salena and I told Greg we weren’t going to help him rob banks anymore. He said he would kill us but we didn’t care, we could get killed anyway. Salena and I split. It was getting way too crazy. I think she is dead, because I can’t get a hold of her, and when I got home someone was in my apartment. This was the only place I could think to hide.”<br /> <br />“Salena is dead,” said Jack. “I found her earlier today.”<br /> <br />“Oh God.” Shawna buried her face in her palms and cried again. Jack gave her a few minutes before continuing. He felt for Shawna, but had to get some answers if he was going to help her.<br /> <br />“Who was this friend of Greg’s that loaned him the money?”<br /> <br />“I don’t know, I never saw him, but Greg said he must be some kind of government employee. He told Greg what banks to hit and when to do it.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Now that I think of it, I remember Greg talking to him on the phone once. He called the guy “Jay”. I think it was a nickname.”<br /> <br />Jack thought for a moment, trying to think of anybody it might be. How could this guy know where to strike? Unless he was an employee of one of the banks, but then how did he get information about the other banks? The only agency that had anything to do with all the banks was the FBI, and that was only …robberies! It hit Jack all at once, he knew who Greg’s connection was. It was Jefferson! That’s why Jefferson had an attitude about Jack being on the case. Without Jack snooping around he could control every aspect of the investigation. He could get any information on any bank he wanted. Jay was actually “J” for Jefferson. “I think I know who Greg’s connection is,” said Jack. “You stay here, I gotta go back to the station.” Jack got up and walked to the door.<br /> <br />“Jack?” said Shawna. Jack turned around. “Thanks, I owe you one.”<br /> <br />“How about dinner when this is all over?” <br /><br />Shawna smiled. “I thought you would never ask.” Jack smiled back at her and went out the door.<br /> <br />Jack arrived at the station and went over to Billy’s desk. Billy was sitting there as usual. “Billy, I need you to do me a favor,” said Jack.<br /> <br />“Hey, Jack, I heard you got suspended?” asked Billy.<br /> <br />“Yea, I did, that’s why I need a favor.”<br /> <br />“Sure, anything to get away from this desk.”<br /> <br />“Go down to the lab and pick-up the results on a match book, I had it tested for prints, and meet me at the chiefs office.”<br /> <br />“You got it.” Billy left for the lab and Jack went to the Chief’s office.<br /> <br />Jack knocked on the Chief’s door and walked in. The Chief looked up. “Jack, I was just getting ready to call you. Billy tells me you have a neighbor who dances at the Kitty Cat Club. It turns out the dead dancer is a friend of hers. We tried to call her but there was no answer. Do you know where she might be?”<br /> <br />“She’s at my place, chief, but she’s not the one you want. She told me everything she knew and I know who is behind the robberies. It’s agent Jefferson.”<br /> <br />“What the hell are you talking about?”<br /> <br />“Shawna told me that her boss, Greg, threatened to kill her and Salena Jackson if they didn’t help him get the money. He owed the money to some other guy who told him what banks to hit and when. Who else could know that but a federal agent.”<br /> <br />“How can you prove this?”<br /> <br />“Billy is bringing me a report on a set of prints. I found a book of matches by the bank robber I shot. Agent Jefferson didn’t want me to have those matches, he threw them away. This explains why he has been pushing me out of this case.”<br /> <br />“Jack, agent Jefferson didn’t push you off the case, it was agent Doyle. And he couldn’t have been apart of the robberies. He has been a guest at my house since he arrived. And, furthermore, he’s not here anymore. He flew back to Washington this after noon to begin work on another case.”<br /> <br />“Shawna told me this guy goes by the nickname “Jay”. It’s the first letter of Jefferson’s name. It has to be him.”<br /> <br />Billy came in the office and handed Jack the report. Jack opened it up and looked at it.<br /><br />“Well, who’s prints are they?” asked the chief, impatiently. “Are they Jefferson’s?”<br /> <br />“No,” said Jack. “They belong to a J. S. Doyle. The photo is screwed up. What’s agent Doyle’s first name?”<br /> <br />The Chief searched threw the pile of papers on his desk until he found the one he was looking for. “His first name is Jason. Jay is short for Jason.”<br /> <br />“Where is agent Doyle now?” asked Jack.<br /> <br />“He went over to the Kitty Cat Club to look for your dancer,” said the Chief. “Billy, get a couple black-and-whites over to the Kitty Cat Club and meet me out front, we’re gon'na have a talk with agent Doyle.”<br /> <br />“You got it Chief.” Billy left to do as he was ordered, excited to do some real police work for a change.<br /> <br />“Jack, get back to your apartment and keep an eye on that dancer of yours. We may need her as a witness.” The Chief went to meet Billy out front and Jack went back to his apartment.<br /> <br />He walked in and closed the door behind him. “Shawna, are you still here?” he yelled.<br /> <br />“I’m right here, Jack.” Shawna stood in the kitchen doorway. There was fear in her eyes.<br /> <br />“What’s wrong?” said Jack.<br /> <br />Shawna was pushed forward and Doyle stepped out of the kitchen, a gun at Shawna’s back. Jack reached for his gun.<br /> <br />“Don’t even think about it, Jack! Throw your gun to the floor,” said Doyle.<br /> <br />Jack paused for a moment, not wanting to give up his weapon.<br /> <br />“Do it and I put a bullet into her back!” He shoved the muzzle of the pistol in Shawna’s back and she winced in pain. Jack threw his gun down and kicked it across the floor.<br /> <br />“So, how much did she tell you, Jack? Did she tell you everything? I was this close to being rich, but you couldn’t keep your nose out of federal business. No, you had to keep prying.”<br /> <br />The phone rang and everyone jumped. It rang three times, then the answering machine picked it up. A voice came over the speaker. “Jack, it’s the chief. We just found Greg Wellings dead. Doyle is nowhere to be found. You better bring Shawna to the station as soon as you get in.” The chief hung up.<br /> <br />“Everyone’s on to you, Doyle. Give it up,” said Jack.<br /> <br />Doyle laughed. “They don’t know where I am. Now I just get rid of you two and they won’t have a case.” Doyle pulled back the hammer on his pistol and pointed it at Jack. “Good-bye, sucker.”<br /> <br />Shawna grabbed a hold of Doyle’s arm and bit into it. Doyle screamed and dropped the pistol. He grabbed her hair with his other hand yanked her back, then smacked her across the face, knocking her to the ground. He bent down to pick up his gun, but Jack was already there. He kicked the gun away and kneed Doyle in the face. He tried to punch him in the gut, but Doyle blocked it and punched Jack instead. Jack keeled over and Doyle kicked him. Jack caught his foot and tripped Doyle. Doyle kicked Jack, knocking him into a chair, and got to his feet. Jack ran over and tackled him. They both fell to the floor. They exchanged a few punches, and then Doyle kneed Jack in the groin and pushed him off of him. Doyle searched on the floor for his gun. Both men got to their feet at the same time. When Doyle turned to face Jack he was holding his revolver.<br /><br />“It’s all over, Jack!”<br /> <br />Jack jumped behind his couch just as Doyle pulled the trigger. The bullet struck Jack in the left shoulder and he hit the floor hard. Jack pulled himself across the floor to get to where he last saw his gun, between the couch and the chair. He got there just as Doyle moved around the couch. The gun was gone!<br /><br />“Tough break, Corella.” Mocked Doyle.<br /><br />He pointed his gun at Jack. A shot rang out and Doyle flew back against the wall. Another shot and Doyle slid to the floor. Jack turned too see Shawna lowering the gun. She dropped it and ran to Jack.<br /><br />“Are you O.K.?” Shawna said.<br /><br />Jack winced as Shawna helped him sit up.<br /> <br />“Yea, I’m O.K.” Jack couldn’t help but glance at Doyle, half expecting him to get up again like in a movie. But Doyle lay against the wall not breathing and Jack relaxed.<br /> <br />“You better be all right, now you owe me dinner,” said Shawna.<br /><br />She kissed him before he could reply.<br /><br />The door slammed open. Billy stood in the doorway, his gun pointed in front of him.<br /><br />“Just us three,” said Jack. “I think he is dead.”<br /><br />Billy walked over to Doyle and checked his pulse. The Chief and several other officers walked in behind him.<br /><br />“He’s gone.” Said Billy. He looked back at Doyle. “Nice shooting, Jack.”<br /><br />“It wasn’t me. Shawna shot him,” said Jack. “She saved my life.”<br /><br />“Send the paramedics up,” said the Chief. “Ma’am, you’re going to have to come down to the station to make a statement. Just to fill in some gaps.”<br /><br />“Am I going to jail for the robberies?” Said Shawna.<br /><br />“I don’t think so. You were an unwilling participant. I am sure the Feds will cut you a deal.”<br /><br />The paramedics came in and put Jack on a stretcher. The Chief stopped them before they could take him out.<br /><br />“Good work, Jack. I’ve reinstated you. As soon as you are released from the hospital you can get your badge and sidearm back.”<br /><br />“Thanks, Chief, but as soon as I get out I have a date . . . then I’m taking a vacation.”<br /><br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Darell Diedrich is a graduate student at Northern Arizona University, where he instructs students in English and Creative Writing courses.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-35049588127500326842008-07-22T10:41:00.000-07:002008-07-22T13:46:33.169-07:00The Cochran Resolve - Tom SheehanClosing on forty-five years on the Saugus Police Department, all of it on the street it seemed except for the last few years of count-down to his retirement, Silas Tully owned up to a few things. If he were asked to give a thumbnail sketch of himself he would have replied simply, but very graphically, as follows: God-fearing, American to the absolute and final core, stiff believer in the Marine Corps and its heady history, a cop every day until his last day, and a detailer. That he loved, and lived by, details, was a paramount importance in all he did. So it was not odd in 1990, late in the year, leaves crisp and yellow as butter or red as lava flow, the stadium a full bandbox of sounds on Saturdays, dates and anniversaries and common events came piling across the back of his mind like some inner movie being run for the hundredth time.<br /><br />Silas Tully always paid heed to such home movies. Now the old headlines grabbed at him, tossed their thick and tall blackness and page-wide shrieks into his mind, their gripping attention reaching out to him. <em>MURDER</em> they had screamed, <em>VIOLENT MURDER, a girl, a nice neighborhood girl, some fifty years ago, garroted and strangled and fiercely and barbarously treated and then dumped off the side of a lonely road</em>.<br /><br />He’d been just a spanking brand new fifteen year older when the murder had taken place, and even now, after all the years on the force, after all he had seen and wished he hadn’t seen at times, the newer murders, the later crimes, the heinous deeds he had been sometimes witness to, it still came at him as if it had happened only yesterday.<br /><br />It had happened almost fifty years ago, and Silas Tully found an old reproduction of a <em>LYNN DAILY EVENING ITEM</em>, one he had finally Xeroxed before it gave up the ghost, the cream of wheat texture of it, the aging yellowness falling away to near dust. He read again the lead paragraph, a paragraph some reporter had written when Silas was a mere fifteen years old, a paragraph hard enough to make any man sit up, even today: <em>Twenty-four hours after the mutilated body of attractive Frances Cochran, nineteen year old bookkeeper, of 54 Water Street, was found in a thicket near the Salem-Lynn-Swampscott line police were seeking the driver of a ‘34 or ‘35 Chevie with yellow trimmings</em>. The Chief of Police had reported that a mysterious caller to a local radio station had advised that a body could be found off Danvers Road. Frances Cochran had disappeared on July 17 and was the object of an intense search for three days before her body was discovered. After the tipster called, two Swampscott patrolmen had found her body.<br /><br />Silas Tully could still feel the taste in his mouth, all these years later, which the story had induced. He found nothing as despicable as hurting the fair sex, and knew that much of his character and all of his police life had been painted by that distaste. Now and then he shook in anger at such doings. It made him work much harder than the guy next to him.<br /><br /><em>The girl’s body was found with her face and head bludgeoned into a pulp, her skull crushed and parts of her shoulders and torso burned in a crude attempt to burn the body. Her teeth were broken and her entire body maltreated. Her clothing was torn to shreds. “Absolute barbarism and the work of a crazed fiend or a maniac,” said the chief. A tree twig, about an inch in thickness, was found lodged deeply in Miss Cochran’s throat. The body was sprawled in a tangle of brush about thirty-five feet from the road.<br /></em><br /><br />The beastliness of it all came full charge at him, a horrible sense of the deed working on him as strong as it had when he was that mere boy. Over and over again he read the story, assimilating every detail, categorizing and filing each little item, each entity or bit of information, and slowly and surely, the way a glacier makes its way out of the mountains, a matter of resolve began to fill him. From every known source he gathered additional details, taking Xeroxes of everything in the files of <em>THE LYNN DAILY EVENING ITEM</em> and <em>THE SALEM EVENING NEWS</em>. In turn he was lead on to clippings from a number of Boston papers, the <em>GLOBE</em> and the <em>HERALD</em> and <em>TRAVELER</em> and the <em>RECORD</em> and <em>AMERICAN </em>and the old <em>POST</em>, and subsequently to an innumerable number of magazine articles and specialty features on one of the most brutal of crimes. Certainly, for those along the North Shore, from tightly-packed Winthrop under the sound of aircraft popping in and out of Boston’s Logan Airport to the water-world that was Gloucester and Rockport and Manchester-by-the-Sea, the crime was one for the century.<br /><br />And for the fact that half of that century was about to pass, Officer Silas Tully, God-fearing, American, Corps’ man, cop forever, detailer (<em>Ars Punctilio</em>, as Chief Noel Rebenkern had so<br /><br />often referred to him), sitting daily now in the soft chair easing him down the road to retirement, decided to <em>have a go at it himself!<br /></em><br />The chief wondered what the hell was keeping Silas so busy, reading and poring over notes and literature, copying newspaper and magazine clippings, burning both ends of the candle with retirement just over the hill. But he knew his man as well as any man, and if this bulldog of a cop had got his bite onto something, then someone someplace or somewhere should be wary. In his own way he pictured Si a long time in the past working behind the Japanese lines a mere two hundred yards off the beach of some now-quieted but memorable Pacific island. It could make the most alert man nervous.<br /><br />“Si,’ he said, one day late in October, coming into work and the crisp air of the outside a cool and vivid memory on his face as he passed by Silas, “What the hell’s got you perked up? You’ve been poring over that material for a week now.” He hitched his belt up and pulled at it, as if to redistribute his bodily matter and to make himself taller, the textbook stuff. Halfheartedly he coughed and muffled it with an open hand, but felt clumsy and so readable. It was obvious to both of them he was about to make a dictate. With a shrug of the shoulder that said, <em>Hell, you know what I’m up to</em>, to Si, he offered the dictate: “Take it easy. You’ve earned your time. I don’t know of anything so goddamn important you’ve got to get all involved in it now. You must be driving Phyllis absolutely nuts. And she thought it was going to be easy!” An image of Si’s wife floated to him from a distant corner of the station. He could see her pale blue eyes looking inquisitively at both of them, her head shaking in either frustration or impatience, and finally, as it always had come about, the relenting smile which had become part of her make-up, had become part of her life as the wife of <em>Ars Punctilio</em>. It had to go with the territory.<br /><br />“She still doesn’t like my truck, Noel. Thinks I think I’m still a kid.” The big red F350, a massive ball of power that Phyllis at times thought was right at the cutting edge of senility and a thought which she invariably let go from whence it came, was parked right outside the window of the office where Silas was working his way through the Cochran case for the umpteenth time. He held up the old ITEM headline and the chief had instant memory of the case, the classic and perfect crime of the century, still unsolved after fifty years. A flicker of passionate disgust passed through him as a few of the old details came into his mind. Most of all, as a man first, and then as a cop, it was the garroting that had inflamed him long ago, which came back on him so quickly and just as strong as it had previously been. The evil was liquid on him, crawling on his skin, his mouth foul and dry. He wished he could see into Silas’ head, to see how things stacked up in that fertile mind, to mark what he had marked, even so early in the game. They’d been through so much crap together, but the garroting was something by itself. He thought, as he had before, it was a maniac leaving some kind of clue to his identity, an aberrant signature of an aberrant mind. Silas nodded when the chief made that thought verbal; it registered with a big check mark because he too had had that same intuition. The cut of the cloth was evident in each.<br /><br />“So,” continued the chief, “what are you up to?”<br /><br />Silas looked up at his old partner. The jaw of Noel Rebenkern was still square, but the neck was thicker and somewhat softer, the hair thinner on top, and the steel blue of his eyes had watered a bit. Their thoughts could have been in unison: he’d been through a number of hells with this man, starting way out in the islands of the Pacific almost half a century ago when each was a mere boy, through the silent agonies and noisy carnage that had spawned themselves off Route One and its fast world, the speed lane that halved Saugus. Silas thought, <em>My old pal won’t be long behind me when I leave this post.<br /></em><br />“I’m going to give it a whirl, Noel,” he said, “one last swing through the hinterlands as they might say. There’s got to be something they didn’t pay attention to, some little idiosyncrasy left untouched , smoldering all these years, perhaps a piece of matter so small or so insignificant it didn’t appear to matter at all.”<br /><br />His forehead V’d itself as if pointing right down his distinguished Roman nose, the flesh of his inquisitiveness furrowed deeply. It was evident to the chief that his old comrade was <em>poring over</em> every detail with the same old determination his whole career had been marked with, for he was a computer in himself, a forty-five year old filing system, and was possessed of a filter that caught at the most minute bit of slag and slush one could imagine. <em>Whoever you are, my weird soul of souls, beware if you’re not dead, if you didn’t die out on the islands when we were there, if you didn’t join up after killing that poor girl and get wasted in the hell of Europe, if you’re still kicking around Lynn all these years later, I don’t give a shit how old you are now, you better beware!<br /></em><br />Silas’ eyes had darkened, the skin on the lower part of his face tighter than it had been minutes ago, still wearing the russet cordage of the weather and the years, almost a sandpaper quality to<br />that organ. There was a <em>lock</em> about him, a fusion of all his parts coming into one feeling, one sense, one duty. He’d been that way ever since the chief had known him, a determination that seemed to take over every facet of his being, the bulldog cop taking a grip and never letting go until some kind of accomplishment had been made.<br /><br />“Do you want some time away from here, Si?<br /><br />“Don’t treat me special, Noel. I didn’t ask for that.” They were eye to eye, superior to subordinate, friend to friend.<br /><br />The chief reddened a bit. “For Christ’s sake, Si, you are special! You’ve done your damn job better than any man could have, better than I could have. We both know that. I just got through the paper work a little easier, so don’t give me any of this happy horseshit you appear to be swinging around here. Take all the time you want. Take off the blue if you want. Go plain. Go where you want. Dig in where you want. We both know the cut-off date. So does Phyllis. If you<br />got to do this, do it.” He let his stomach sag back against his belt and let out a mouthful of breath, unmistakably a period at the end of a sentence.<br /><br />It was settled then, cut and pasted; Silas Tully set about to solve a nearly fifty year old murder. The distaste was still in his mouth as he thought about the golden anniversary coming up in 1991. Frances Cochran, nineteen, pretty dark-haired bookkeeper from Lynn, bludgeoned, burned, beat to absolute hell by a fiendish madman, garroted finally in some grotesque measure he could not fathom in all of human kind, lay dead almost fifty years, and his own marker, his forty-fifth and final year on the Saugus Police Department, was also coming to its own celebration.<br /><br />Time and duty of the most inordinate order came at him and took hold of him. Into overdrive he went, calling on adrenaline when he needed it, rarely resting, and testing Phyllis to the limit. Through every resource available, he went back through the case. Police files, through a compassionate network of the brotherhood, found their way to him from Lynn and Swampscott and Salem, and from departments as far west as Idaho where one suspect had been apprehended, and Ohio where another man was once questioned, and also there came files from the district attorney’s office, and musty documentation from the coroners’ offices, for poor Frances had been exhumed and a second autopsy performed on August 8 of that eventful year of 1941. All the suspects, and there were a lot who had been questioned, were re-studied. He pored over those who had been recently released from prisons and were known to have been around the area at the time of Frances’ death. And there were musicians and cooks and students and street people and acquaintances and neighbors and cabbies that had been queried. There was the car, a square backed car spotted by at least two witnesses who had seen Frances get into it on a side street off Eastern Avenue....square-backed Chevie, ‘31-’35, with yellow wooden spokes on its wheels, perhaps with yellow trimming, and driven by a male whom she had obviously known.<br /><br />In the first twenty-five years after the murder there had been more than twenty confessions, all fizzling out, falling off into the dream world that some people have to inhabit, or have to cook up for themselves. Rewards had been offered over the years, lots of them, from a variety of sources and for a variety of reasons. Silas was quite sure some of them had been offered because there really appeared to be no chance to solve the case. That disturbed him also. He could not stomach anybody making points on somebody else’s pain, let alone most atrocious murder. When the image of the garrote came on him again, he determined to find out what kind of a man would do that kind of act. Whenever he went away from the act, something brought him back to it. He paid attention to that fact, much as he did everything else. Nothing was going to escape him. Nothing at all!<br /><br />An inch wide the stick had been. And lethal in its own right! It made him shiver. He remembered Joe Dixon and Joe Ditson long ago after the war and after they had come out of a Japanese POW camp. Their stories had made him shiver, too. Every now and then he’d catch himself in a weird and frightful reverie of their plight and of Frances’ plight. His skin would crawl with the known terrors. His resolve grew in proportion.<br /><br />Phyllis began to relent. Her smile came up more readily.<br /><br />December eventually came howling down out of the Maritimes, the snow drifting at times nearly five feet high across schoolyards and playgrounds and at other times shutting Route One down to a minor crawl. Silas Tully was like a ship on the lone sea of a month of storms, moving anywhere and everywhere in that redoubtable red truck of his, high slung, ground-clearing, ominous in its<br />power, red as a fire bomb, taking winter head on, as it had not been taken on before by a proximal retiree. On his way at times he remembered the awesome and orange Walter<br />Snowfighters of the Eastern Mass. Bus Company and how they had kept much of the North Shore roads clear of snow back there in the days when Frances could have seen them. He passed by places where clear-cut and exact pictures came back to him, full of details and all the background in place, places he had known, obviously places that Frances had known too. He felt driven. His recall was working in top order and damned if he wouldn’t show retirement itself a thing or two, if he had to die trying.<br /><br />Before long every cop in Lynn and Salem intimately knew of him and his mission, and when he passed by their beats or their stations or dropped in again to get the name of a still-living retired cop who might have heard a word or two, they smiled and muttered small asides about senility and Alzheimer’s disease, but still held out one last long and thin line of hope for him. They shared the blue charge, and though he may have been against the windmills, they quietly acknowledged his mission and his drive.<br /><br />One of them was a bright young cop from Lynn who had graduated from Salem State. His name was Rick Sanborn and he had read about the case and let much of it filter through his mind. Nothing showed itself to him, nothing that held any light, but after much thought, he came to a conclusion and called Silas Tully about it. What he offered was nothing more than what Noel Rebenkern had offered...the fact of the garroting.<br /><br />“I know it might sound odd to you, Mr. Tully, but that thing with the stick really bothers me. I think it’s the most interesting thing there is to discuss. Nothing I can add, or discuss any more than this, but I swear it talks to me when I think about it. Something so apparent about it we can’t see it. I feel it in my bones. It’s dark and unnatural, as if the devil himself was in on it. You might think I’m crazy or something, but it really hangs on me. I know I’ve only been around a short time and you’re an old hand at all of this, but I just had to tell you how it bugs me all the time. Even when I was in school at Salem State, and I’d be thinking of old cases or tough cases you kind of hear about, this one kept coming at me.”<br /><br />They had had a number of discussions about the case. The youngster was adamant, though quite unsure why he was so homed in on the awful stick. Silas Tully kept a track record of the garrote image. The way it continually reared its ugly head did not go unnoticed.<br /><br />When the preponderance of his gathered facts began to tip itself sideways, threatened to spill itself all over itself, he plotted and laid out a graph. Everything he knew he put onto that graph, and after a hundred attempts of making verticals and horizontals show some attachment or connection, revising the very structure with each attempt, every revision becoming a little clearer, he began to see all the tangibles and intangibles in a different light. No one, he knew, had ever seen what he had seen; at least, not from this perspective. That it was merely a different view, a different focus, was not lost on him at first, because somewhere under his eyes, somewhere on the spread of the page, a single clue might leap out of darkness, one lone bulb or candle glow in the utter darkness of the mystery, one fallible and untested little item would come forward that would unscrew a murder now fifty years unsolved and still counting.<br /><br />In January of that extra tough winter both Phyllis and the chief were on him to slow down, not to quit outright, but to slow down. “Fat chance I’ll have at Florida!” Phyllis said when he came late for supper for the third day in a row. “It’ll close on empty before we know it. You’ll fall over at that damn desk of yours or behind the wheel of that truck and it’ll be all over.” But even as she<br />said it, she tempered it and laid a soft hand across his shoulder, tapping home her love. One thing Silas Tully always noticed were the small signals left out in the air or in the corner of a room for the taking, a sigh, a tap, a look another soul might never catch a glimpse of, the huge and ponderous world and all of life beating its way at the smallest edge. He heard the microwave’s new-tech signal, electronic, radar-related, almost mystic in its new-age music, sounding as if something had been decoded, broken down, realized; she’d been watching for him all the while, as she always did. The warmth of the house slid around him like a favorite jacket taken down from an old nail in the back hallway.<br /><br />Neil Rebenkern, always from some distance watching his old comrade and compatriot, at least understood the drive and the compulsion targeting Silas Tully. He’d spoken once to Reed Clanberry, as Reed rolled himself out from under a cruiser whose transmission had pissed the bed, hydraulic fluid a red stain over a good portion of his shirt and his hands as black as baked potatoes in a camp fire. “What the hell I’m afraid of is that he won’t get to his friggin’ retirement at all. He’ll just close shop one day and check his badge. It’ll be all done, and Phyllis will come down here and we’ll have a nice chat and she’ll go away from here red-eyed and he’ll be gone off with all the others.” Talking to Reed always helped him, for Reed was always on his back or on his butt while working on one of the cruisers in the police garage, down and dirty in his support<br />of brother officers, though his bent was machines, how they ran, what the theories said they should do.<br /><br />“He’s a big boy, chief,” said the elongated and prone Reed, still laid back on the roller, the near seven feet of him hanging over the small roller like one of the Three Stooges on a child’s bed. “So let him have his way at this latest escapade. He ain’t been wrong but once I know of, and we didn’t want to celebrate that one too much. Just let old Jarhead go his way. If it’s there, if anything’s there, he’ll bring it home.”<br /><br />Noel Rebenkern nodded and walked off. It was cut and pasted. Even the damn mechanic had the good-to-the-bone feeling about Silas. He walked off, pulling at his belt line for the second serious time in one day. The skinny, overly long mechanic had unsettled him. Damn<em>, I ought to know better that that!</em> In the corridor between the garage and his office his words had no hollowness to them. From then on he would keep his mouth shut. What the hell! His own retirement was not that far off either. Either one of them, Silas or him, could slide into oblivion on the greased skids, as long as nothing came out of the woodwork to scald the town manager or the board of selectmen, as long as nothing could screw up the works. Saugus was, normally, a quiet town split by the pike, having its own brand of politics, its own nirvana this side of Boston and that side of Manchester-by-the-sea and Prides Crossing and the dollar signs sitting behind stone walled estates.<br /><br />The reveries were coming on him again. They were rather serious now, full-blown pictures of those other times, and the feelings that went with them. Such moments might have frightened<br />him if the anchor of Silas was not always a part of those reveries; good old Silas, jawed-down Silas, bulldog Silas, comrade. The old sentiments piled on top of one another and he realized Silas had made life most interesting, had colored it for him, and had drawn from him the highest comparisons every step of the way. Even as he walked away from the long mechanic those thoughts came on him again; he pictured Silas, for the umpteenth thousandth time, poring over details, his mind locked down to one microbial trail, pulling straight with him an array of genes and DNA’s, and the chief thought of being in the fourth row of Dodger Stadium the year before and Pavarotti, alone even with the other two tenors, locking on, getting ready to sing <em>Nessum Dorma.</em> In a quick moment of change he then compared his old friend to Denver’s John Elway<br />stepping up to the line, down six points, thirty-eight seconds to go, the ball on his own 38 yard line. <em>Piece of cake!</em><br /><br />Clarity and reality hit him as he thought of Frances Cochran and her crushed head and battered face and immolated body. An utter helplessness came over him. He thought all there was left for her was Silas Tully, like Pavarotti getting ready, Elway about to make something happen. A jolt of unnerving energy flushed through his body, carrying him away from comparisons. <em>All there was left for her was Silas Tully!<br /></em><br />Silas Tully, for all the thoughts and considerations and condemnations of his task, for all the small asides strewn in his path or beside it, for all the occasional almost-suppressed laughter that trickled in his passing wake like weak-kneed commentaries, kept at it. Again and again and again, for long days on end and weeks on end, he kept at it. And the terribly long winter passed and spring seeped onto the land. Freshness and a new eagerness not thought possible came on him just as the land swelled with newness of its own. On him had also come a few clarifications expressing themselves with all their own vigor: (1) whoever that foul murderer was, he must have at one time been in the wide and circuitous net which the police had cast out after the discovery of poor Frances’ body, a net which swung as wide as Idaho and Ohio, a net which had caught up fellow students and neighbors and itinerants and those usual suspects who had records or who had been recently released from prison and he had been let out of that net because of a perfected alibi or other reason; and (2) the act of the garroting itself which he could not shake. No matter how hard he tried, he could not dissuade himself that there was nothing insignificant about the employment of the horrible stick. If the stick had been used before she had been bludgeoned, he surmised, she would have been dead anyway, or close to it, and there would have been no reason for smashing her head open. If her head had been smashed first, there would have been no reason to garrote her. He made it that simple to himself. That the killer was maniacal did not say he was stupid, for he had eluded the police for half a century…if he was not dead…if he had not died out there on a Pacific beach…<em>if he had not died in Marine garb in a Marine firefight. No way! Never a Marine!<br /></em><br />Late April had come and the new smells were everywhere, and the chief’s boat, <em>Just Too Blue</em>, was in the water of the Saugus River, right near the penciled memorial stone erected for another police officer downed in his tracks. Silas had spent a lot of time over the years fishing on the craft with Noel or just beering-out out there on the Atlantic, away from phones and the traffic and the mayhem, aging themselves on the ageless sea. Now retirement was rearing its head for good and the dreadful punches of time came at him, coming brutal and bony and downhill all the way, punching their way into his abrupt consciousness at times, walking him to the edge. Retirement might be like a death sign.<br /><br />Frances, gasping for air, choking, pain riding her body like a malevolent lover, was with him every second of his wakeful hours and had obviously been with him as he slept. Her grip was frightful and grew more ominous. Phyllis felt it, he felt it. Unknown sources in his body made demands on him, sometimes twisted him and he fought to maintain his equilibrium, his sense of purpose, his life-long effort of trying to be personally uninvolved with crime and its victims. In this case it did not work. There was something else.... he did not feel blameless and that bothered him.<br /><br />Wanting a new perspective, a new lift to go along with new raw feelings, he borrowed <em>Just Too Blue</em> for a day and sat, anchor down, out near Egg Rock, the mound of granite rising from the bay off King’s Beach where he could look back at Lynn. The tide rolled under him. Time rolled<br />under him. The agony was no less and no clearer out on the cool surface. He wished he could look back omnisciently at one piece of a clue, a small piece of any clue...the single strand of red hair found on her body, the car with the yellow wheel spokes, a tire track left undetected, a footprint, a thumb print. If only he could look into the minds of the suspects, still believing that he had once been in the net.<br /><br />And the garrote came back to him there on the wide sea.<br /><br />Visibly, willfully, he turned from it, shunting it aside. His graph was spread out on the deck, the awfully intricate grid of lines seeming to go unconnected and crazily in every direction. But somehow the lines came plotted to him and a number of variables of their connections appeared readable. He wanted to tighten some screws, but futility came at him. On the high sea, the endless water spreading behind him as if going on to infinity, chances were slim to none at catching that blackguard murderer. They were like the chances of finding one wave in the unending series of waves rolling under him to be a special wave. Here Silas knew himself to be a very minor drop of matter in this vastness, as well as in the matter of this business of solution. For a moment he felt overwhelmed by his own tininess, one small wave among the thousands and thousands of waves, until the thought came to him that for Frances Cochran, fifty years dead, forgotten by so many, so many of her peers gone, her parents long gone, he was the only hope, the last hope of resolve.<br /><br />From there on the face of the Atlantic, the continuity of life itself rising and falling underneath him, underneath the keel, he looked back over Lynn and the death of the girl and all the information which he had come across and which now lay in turmoil in his mind, though sketched and gridded on his pad of paper. He saw himself back at the station going over the matter, and at home probably driving poor Phyllis nuts, and plying his way through snow and rain and hail to get more information and wearing his welcome thin no matter where he went. He saw his tracks crossing and crisscrossing all the North Shore and points beyond. He saw the exodus of thousands of young men for the war of wars, and, unknown to him at the moment, with that exodus he would come to see one strange-eyed young man in the act of escape.<br /><br />He saw the enormity of the sea and the task.<br /><br />And he came back to the garrote again! Or it came to him! It would not go away.<br /><br />The grid lines of his graph fell under his eyes. All the names of all the suspects fell under his eyes. Poring over each one, each one became a personality, and he sought a chink in the armor.<br />Then, on that wide and limitless sea, on that great expanse, like he was a thimble afloat on<br />eternity, he had a new idea. It burst upon him!<br /><br />The engine cranked into life and the sound immediately seemed to be swallowed up by the enormity about him. But he headed for the Saugus River and Noel’s slip at the yacht club.<br /><br />Mere hours later he was poring over old issues of the <em>LYNN ITEM</em> looking for photos. A few came to light of the type he was searching for. Here and there, at that time with war starting shortly after Frances’ death, lots of young men enlisted and photos were shown of neighborhood friends and teammates and other groups going off to war together. In one small photo of a dozen men, all of them exuberant and smiling in ignorance at the adventure waiting on them, one face was downcast, averting that intimate exchange of gazes that’s called for by the photographer. The young man could not have made himself any smaller, any darker, any more secretive.... and any more obvious! His name was not given, but that would pose no great problem, thought Silas. Most of them were French Basque. The Raiders from Boston Street where it abruptly found Flax Pond.<br /><br />Whatever took him to the Boston Public Library to search for information on Basque witchcraft, until this day he cannot fully explain, except that the boy with the averted look, and the very act of garroting itself, had somehow been grounded in the reach of the Basque as it touched on him.<br /><br />In his studied research he read about the <em>bruxos</em> and the <em>xorguinos</em>, Basque men and women who practiced witchcraft and black magic in the Province of Gupuzcoa along the Bay of Biscay, and in the mountain range of Amboto where they still talk about the Lady of the Caves, and her ointments of pulverized toads and a Basque herb called <em>usainbelar</em>. All about the witches he read, immersed for hours and hours in the spread of Iberia, the bays, the mountains, and he almost leapt up from his seat at a description of a Basque witch being killed. It was a vivid description of how she was first strangled with a stick thrust down her throat and then she was burned at the stake or thrust into a barrel of tar or pitch and if she got loose from the stake or got out the barrel, she was thrust back into the fire. And he found an old passage, so shockingly similar, about witches’ executions in the highlands of Scotland which made him leap once again in his seat...<em>and thay was sticket in the throte with a garruote and thay wer brunt quick eftir sic<br />ane crewell maner, than sum of thame deit in desspair, renunce and blaspheme and; and utheris half brunt brake out of the fyre and wes cast quick in it agane, quhill thay wer brunt all thay daith.</em><br /><br />Silas could picture all of it, and its horror charged over him. So many innocents had been executed this way in countless villages and towns of the Old World. And it had come to America, it had come to Salem right down the street, and, he was further convinced, it had come just down the road in Lynn to poor Frances Cochran.<br /><br />The Red Raider with the averted eyes was not difficult to identify, nor was his military history, and three weeks later, after Silas’ request for information about the young man‘s basic outfit was printed in the <em>LEGIONNAIRE’S MAGAZINE</em>, he had a damn good picture of what Lamon L’Supprenant was all about. And he was still living. In Salem. A Basque. Into, well into, the occult, into sorcery, into black magic, and the <em>bruxos</em>, and the <em>xorguinos</em>. He wondered about the <em>garrote</em>. But, furthermore, L’Supprenant had been a redhead in his early days, and one of three redheads who were questioned.<br /><br />His uncle, he also found out, had been a cop.<br /><br />In the service, in a Division Headquarters Company of the U.S. 7th Infantry Division, a vital force in the Pacific war, a long time in the islands, brought out of there to Korea later on, L’Supprenant’d been a strange chicken, full of wild and woolly things, and he was remembered for his strangeness by some old comrades. Of the three who wrote back to Silas, not one questioned why information was being sought, and Silas interpreted that to mean each one of them might have thought, even after all these years, that Lamon L’Supprenant needed explaining.<br /><br />Only one person could be approached with all this information, flimsy and outrageous as it was, and that was Noel Rebenkern, chief, comrade, and friend, though the last qualifier could certainly be strained by something as touchy as this case and the parameters it was at, fifty years of grayness and obliquiness. But chinks appearing!<br /><br /><br />He told Noel all he knew, all of the Basque’s history, as it had come revealed to him, and brought it right down to the single strand of red hair, and the picture of the Red Raiders going off to war.<br /><br />Noel might have leaped on him. “You got to be crazy, Si! You can’t go anyplace with all that crap. Jesus, man, if Danvers State Hospital was still open you’d be there on the hill before you could blow your nose. They’d put you in a white jacket and take you down a long corridor. And they’d throw the friggin’ key away!” He kept shaking his head as if disbelief was all around him, and his eyes went opaque and then a queasy gray. More of his age showed, more than he wanted to show.<br /><br />Gathering himself, he added, “There’s no legitimate way to present any of it. All the work you’ve done could go right down the tube. No!” he added vociferously, slamming his fist on the desk, “you haven’t got a chance in hell!” He looked at Silas’ face. It was not unnerved, not upset, not in any sort of quandary. His lifetime fiend, Silas Tully, was a kid again. “What the hell are you going to do with all of this?”<br /><br />The soon-to-be-gone policeman looked him in the eye. “I’m going to smoke him out!” Something beyond affirmation was in his voice, beyond definition. By God, he had become younger! A sparkle was in his eyes. His skin had a tingle and a shine to it. His mouth was as firm as he could ever remember it.<br /><br />“Si, he’s got to be about seventy years old now. He’ll probably have a heart attack if you go right at him. If he’s the right guy, that is. That’s like fish in the barrel.”<br /><br />“You mean you don’t think we should go after him, that we shouldn’t have gone after the German war criminals no matter how old they were, time served being enough for killing six million Jews. You got to be kidding me, Noel!”<br /><br />“What I mean, Si, is you can’t go lambasting after him with no hard proof. You’d get killed in court. He’s got rights and the burden’s on us.” He said us the only way he could, being a party to the whole thing. “One thing else I’ll say. There are a lot of guys our age who’ve been obsessed with this murder, who’ve been obsessed since the day it happened. It grates on them as much as anything else, and I’ll tell you why I think that’s so.”<br /><br />Pausing, knowing the value of the caesura, trying to provide room for everything to sink into his determined, and obviously obsessed, comrade, he continued, his hair a bit grayer, his neck a bit thicker, his belt line, too: “You’ve got to look at the time period, Si. It was just before Pearl Harbor, and things were calm somewhat, even though Europe was in turmoil. It was a special time, especially for women, with things on the upswing all around; Prohibition gone, the New Deal at work, things getting better for the house. It was a special time indeed. Why, I’ve known a bunch of guys, a lot of them from the Brickyard in Lynn, who said their doors were never locked at night before the war. You just didn’t worry. All the big brothers were around and girls didn’t worry so much. When the war started, they tell me, especially the guys from the Brickyard, with all the big brothers off to war and a bunch of creeps around, they began to lock their doors. They had to. Times began to change. Right after Pearl Harbor, times began to change. All those guys from around here thought about Frances Cochran for a long time, out on the islands, in Europe, under the frigging waters of both oceans, like somebody had cut into their space and violated one of their own. It really pissed them off, like their kid sister had been grabbed. A lot of them told me, with all the advanced training they got, bayonet drills and all that stuff, they’d’ve killed the son of a bitch in a second if they’d’ve caught him. Even old Teddie BB in Cliftondale told me<br />once he couldn’t remember how many times he thought about Frances when he was alone on<br />guard duty way the hell up there in the goddamn Aleutians. He used to talk about it with Dashiel Hammet who was in his outfit, on Sitka I think. Said they used to come up with some great stories about it and how the son of a bitch could be caught and strung up by his you-know-whats. You know what, every now and then when we take a ride after church on Sunday or on the way to a ball game down that way, he’ll drive by the place. He still gets pissed, I tell you!”<br /><br />Eventually, near talked out, both sides presented, they could have drawn a line in the sand, if there had been any sand in the chief’s office. Peace was made and Si was going to do it his way. He had bit it off and chewed it up.<br /><br /><em>Smoking him out</em>, to Silas Tully, was not a strange and roundabout approach. First, for a few months, he got to know Lamon L’Supprenant from behind the windshield of the big red truck and now and then the little car he had got for Phyllis. Everywhere L’Supprenant went, Silas was right behind him; and sometimes, knowing the routine so well, he was in front of him. A smoky<br />and dark side of L’Supprenant became obvious. Not much of what he did was done openly, much of it behind locked doors in the company of likewise dark and furtive friends. That they practiced some kind of witchcraft or sorcery or black magic was evident, and that they took great profits in it showed as well, too. To Silas’ trained eye the access to any of the half dozen places where things happened, were strictly controlled and under guard. He could only hazard guesses as to what might take place behind such cover.<br /><br />But guesswork did not have to wait long. On July 18, 1991, fifty years almost to the day that Frances Cochran was killed, the body of a girl was found in the tall grass alongside the Happy Valley Golf Course in Lynn. Her head had been crushed, her jaw smashed, her clothing torn from her mutilated body. Also, a small wooden stick similar to a tent peg had been stuck down her throat. She too had been garroted! And a single strand of red hair was found on her body. Laboratory DNA tests showed that it matched the strand of red hair found on Frances Cochran’s body fifty years earlier.<br /><br />The city of Lynn went berserk. Police said there was not a single clue besides the strand of red hair; no witnesses to the deed, no sounds in the night, no suspicious activities along Lynnfield Street, and, this time, no car with yellow wheels. The connections were obvious and a sweeping terror started throughout the city.<br /><br />Noel Rebenkern, in his office, faced Silas. “If you get him on this one, you’ve got him on the first. There’ll be no question. I just wished we’d’ve done something sooner. Now, don’t you feel<br />bad. I’m the one who put the reins on you.”<br /><br />“I’m willing to bet that that poor kid knew this son of a bitch from some place. Maybe from one of those damn places I couldn’t get into. Or if she didn’t know him, she knew one of his young friends.”<br /><br />“You mean like an acolyte or an apprentice getting some OJT! Jayzuz, what the hell have they got going?”<br /><br />His head shook back and forth in disbelief. He felt a lot older than he had earlier in the day. “Well, Si, I guess it has to be your shot. How you want to call it. You know those guys from Lynn will be calling you, not a bit of doubt about that. They won’t have those silly little grins on their kissers now.” His face lit up a bit as he added, “Unless they think you’ve got something to do with it.” His guffaw filled the room.<br /><br />“Thanks for the memories,” answered Si. Then he nodded, and looked a poser for a short time, then looked at the chief and said, “Some more smoking out, but this time with contact. “ And he explained what he was going to do to loosen Lamon L’Supprenant from his hold on life.<br /><br />For four days in a row after the discovery of Angel Corkery’s body at the Happy Valley Golf Course, and after the Lynn chief asked him to come down to see him sometime, the following typewritten notes, each one on successive days, were mailed by Silas Tully to Lamon L’Supprenant at his Salem address:<br /><br /><em>1. I used to think Frances was the only one.<br />2. When you find out who I am, I’ll be waiting for you, but not at all as innocent as Frances or Angel. I’ll be a lot stronger and a lot meaner.<br />3. You ever try that stick on me, that sick garrote, I’ll put it to you where the sun don’t shine.<br />4. I don’t care how old you are, you are going to pay! Nothing is going to help you now, not the Lady of the Caves or your crushed toad skins or your usainbelar or any of your acolytes or apprentices. You, my evil one, are due, and Frances and Angel, God rest their sweet souls, may have some peace once again.<br /></em><br />When Lamon L’Supprenant tried to bolt, in the middle of the night, a young man with him, and bags of mysterious goods piled onto the back seat and into the trunk, Silas Tully and Lynn police officer Rick Sanborn and two Salem cops were there to grab them. In one of the parcels confiscated from the L’Supprenant car, police found a decorative box with two <em>X’s cut</em> into the cover and eight more strands of red hair gathered inside, all the same source, all from Lamon L’Supprenant. They also found a ritual of avenge which detailed the garroting and murder of a L’Supprenant relative which had happened a hundred and fifty years earlier in France. Lila of the Caves had gotten the promise of revenge from her sons, from her descendants.<br /><br />It was only a Saugus cop who had stood in the way of another four hundred years of sacrifices, one every fifty years. <strong><br /><br /></strong><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Tom Sheehan’s Epic Cures (short stories), won a 2006 IPPY Award. A Collection of Friends, Pocol Press, was nominated for Albrend Memoir Award. He has nine Pushcart and three Million Writer nominations, a Noted Story nomination, a Silver Rose Award from ART and the Georges Simenon Award for Excellence in Fiction. He served in the 31st Infantry Regiment, Korea, 1951-52. He has published four novels, four books of poetry. In publication process are two short story collections, Brief Cases, Short Spans (due fall 2008,Press 53) and From the Quickening (due spring 2009, Pocol Press). He meets again soon for a lunch/gab session with pals, the ROMEOs, Retired Old Men Eating Out, (92/80/79/78). They’ve co-edited two books on their hometown of Saugus, MA, sold 3500 to date of 4500 printed and he can hardly wait to see them. His pals will each have one martini, he’ll have three beers, and the waitress will shine on them.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5904750645510371265.post-10528638067928972892008-07-21T15:20:00.000-07:002008-07-21T15:33:29.754-07:00Carnival Time - Michael A. KechulaI turned up the lights in the briefing room, and looked at Carter, Pierce, and Toliver, the latest crop of Group-5 assassin interns. They were mean looking bastards. I pitied the poor sonovabitches who might have to face them in close combat. <br /><br />“OK, we just watched the movie, <em>La Femme Nikita</em>,” I said. “Any thoughts?”<br /><br />Toliver’s hand shot up. “Entertaining, but stupid.”<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“French Intelligence used a very unstable woman as an assassin. I can’t imagine any spook agency doing that. I figure that her downfall started when she fell in love after her training. From a Freudian point of view, I’d say her baby-producing instincts went ballistic. Screwed up her emotions, royally. Not that they weren’t to begin with. Unconsciously she wanted to give life. Instead, she was taking it quite regularly. After a while, I think she began to see her targets as her babies.”<br /><br />“Interesting perspective. How about you, Pierce?”<br /><br />“She was too good-looking. Plus she had a nice ass. Made it impossible for her to blend with the masses. Somebody’d remember her, and she’d be liquidated in no time. Considering her erratic, criminal background, she wasn’t reliable to begin with. Plus, she went berserk during the final assassination, which I thought was very predictable. I wonder why her controllers didn’t figure that one out well in advance and put a bullet in her brain.” <br /><br />“Yes, she really came apart,” I said. “Dangerous behavior for a professional killer.” <br /><br />“What’s your opinion, Carter?”<br /><br />“She did a few things right. For one, she didn’t ask questions, or didn’t question authority. She reacted like a robot, did her job, and moved on. At least she did in the beginning. But, I agree with Toliver and Pierce. She was too attractive and extremely unstable. They shouldn’t have allowed her to fall for the guy in the supermarket. Unless of course, he worked for them, and could somehow manipulate her intense love feelings to sharpen her killer instincts.”<br /><br />“Okay. I think we all agree that none of us would ever use a woman with her personality profile for such critical assignments. Actually, Group-5 doesn’t use women for wet work. Nor will they ever. That’s politically incorrect these days, but who’s going to protest? Few know of our existence.” <br /><br />“If they knew my ex-wife, they might change their minds,” Toliver said, chuckling. <br /><br />“No matter how vicious some women are,” I said, “none of our clients wants us to use them to fulfill contracts. So we don’t. It’s that simple. Now, before we break for lunch, I want to remind you that your term papers on Best Places to Kill are due the day after tomorrow. Though none of you have actually assassinated anyone before, I can’t stress strongly enough the importance of this academic exercise. There’s one more thing: tomorrow night is your first wet exercise.”<br /><br />The interns yelped, shook hands, patted each other on the back.<br /><br />After a lunch break, Carter, Pierce, and Toliver returned to the underground classroom. As they came through the door, were arguing about the merits of Winchester sniper rifles.<br /><br />I tapped my desk with a silenced pistol to get their attention. <br /><br />“Tomorrow’s exercise is structured similar to those you just saw in La Femme Nikita,” I said. “You’ll be assigned separate hotel rooms in the seediest parts of the city. The envelope I’m handing each of you gives all the fine details. Don’t break the seal until midnight, tonight.”<br /><br />“Can we choose our weapons?” Pierce asked.<br /><br />“No, we’ve already selected them and placed them in hotel rooms. However, unlike what you saw in the movie, we won’t choose your targets. This is a free option exercise. You get to pick your target. The only rules that apply are: One, no children. Two, no young teens. Three, no pregnant women. Otherwise, you’ll enjoy complete freedom of choice. And here in Rio during Carnival, the pickings are unlimited.”<br /><br />“Sounds great!” Carter said. “I’m going to keep my eye out for somebody really soused. I figure I’ll be giving the guy a break by sending him to eternity while he’s happy.”<br /><br />“I’ll keep my eyes open for dregs,” Toliver said. “The kind that society would kiss my feet for eliminating.”<br /><br />“I go along with Toliver,” Pierce said. “Brazil is teeming with human garbage. Too bad nobody will know we did it. The mayor of Rio de Janeiro would probably give us the key to the city for weeding out some chaff.” <br /><br />“By the way, before you get over-enthusiastic about cleaning up Rio, you are authorized to kill only one person during this exercise.”<br /><br />They looked disappointed. <br /><br />“Let’s discuss our observation system,” I said. “Your rifle scopes will contain nano gun cameras. The moment you turn on the scope’s power, it will be automatically connected via satellite to a central control center. I’ll be at the center monitoring you real-time. Everything you see through the scope, I’ll also see.”<br /><br />Pierce asked about scoring.<br /><br />“That’s detailed in your packets. One hundred is the ultimate, but only one person has ever achieved it. Me. Right here in Rio during Carnival. Group-5 would be delighted if you equal my score. In fact, they’ll make it worth you while.” <br /><br />Toliver asked about achievement bonuses.<br /><br />“For a minimum score of ninety, $20,000 will be deposited your Zurich accounts. Add $1,000 for each tick up to one hundred percent.”<br /><br />“How long will it take before we know our scores?”<br /><br /> “Your individual scores will appear in your scopes the instant you fire.” <br /><br />“Nice touch,” Pierce said.<br /><br />“OK. We’ll have a post mortem meeting here, at 10:00 sharp, the morning after your adventure. We’ll review the gun camera tapes and examine all the positives and negatives. Good hunting!” <br /><br />I knew they’d have a ball. I certainly did my first trip out. Deep inside, I wished I could join them. Nothing warms my heart better than a clean kill, even when I hire somebody else to do it.<br /><br />Two days later at 10:00 AM, Carter and Pierce were in their seats babbling excitedly about their adventure. Carter had scored 92. Pierce, 93.<br /><br />We waited for Toliver, but he never showed.<br /><br />Then word came. Toliver had been sent back to the US, because his father had died. At least that’s what Group-5 told Carter and Pierce. I assured them he’d return to Rio after the funeral, and he’d pick up where he left off.<br /><br />It was a lie.<br /><br />Toliver did everything wrong from the moment he powered on his scope. His pulse rate was unacceptable, his blink rate was off the charts. He kept muttering something unintelligible in a shaky voice. Nearing panic, he acted much like the hapless female assassin he’d seen in the movie. <br /><br />I pressed the CANCEL button on my console. He never knew what hit him when a nano rocket, launched from within the scope pierced his right eye and burst his brain. <br /><br />When a recruit joins Group-5, he signs the contract in his own blood. His acceptance is conditional, pending intensive vetting. Toliver passed all tests, except the last.<br /><br />He knew the risks. He accepted them. <br /><br />He’s better off dead.<br /><br />The End<br /><br /><strong>BIO:</strong> Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in seven contests and second and third place in five others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 107 magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at <a href="http://www.booksforabuck.com/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">www.BooksForABuck.com</a> and <a href="http://www.fictionwise.com/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">www.fictionwise.com</a> Paperback available at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">www.amazon.com</a>.Mystery Dawghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14810382773710059763noreply@blogger.com0