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I never liked Patsy Renzi. Always thought he was sleaze. But I had to put up with him through most of my youth. He was a friend of my uncle Santo and owned a hole-in-the-wall appliance store down the street from Santo’s Texaco station. The gas station sat on a large corner plot and did a good business while the appliance store languished just short of the dead end, so I rarely saw anybody buy even a toaster, much less a washing machine from Patsy. I liked to call him “pasty” since he was a light-skinned Italian, not swarthy like the rest of us. But Patsy, like my uncle, was connected with numbers racketeers and thieves. So, periodically, inventory got moved in and out. Still, Patsy never seemed to have any money, never seemed capable of anything more than bullshitting his way through life and asking Uncle Santo to bail him out of one mess or another.
When I was twelve, I started working weekends and school vacations pumping Texaco hi-test, changing oil, and answering the payphone when that total nutcase, Chickenhead, called in with racetrack bets and numbers. After I got my license, I’d make the occasional rounds to pick up betting slips at mom-and-pop stores and diners and such. But when I went to college, Uncle Santo told me to leave all that behind, to become something, someone he never could have become. I gave it a shot. Then LBJ escalated the war, and I got diverted. A few years later, I returned home, returned to college. I fell in love. Man, did I fall. Got engaged. Set the date. New Year’s Eve. On a Sunday afternoon, I took my fiancée, Mila, to Uncle Santo’s house to tell him the news. Patsy Renzi was there, slouching at the table behind a bottle of cheap Scotch Santo set in front of him. Patsy hadn’t aged well and looked more disreputable than ever. His skin tone has gone from pasty to ashen. Broken as he was, that didn’t stop him from eyeballing Mila. I stepped in front of him and blocked his view. I wasn’t a skinny kid anymore, and I let him know I wouldn’t put up with any shit from him. He looked down at the table and poured himself another shot. Uncle Santo turned to Mila, hugged her and said, “How are you, sweetheart?” “Look,” she said, and showed him the modest diamond on her finger. “When’s the big day?” “New Year’s Eve,” I said. To which Patsy piped up, “How’s that for starting the New Year off with a bang?” Mila, a relatively sheltered Italian Catholic girl looked puzzled. “What does that mean?” I reached across the table for Patsy Renzi, but Uncle Santo stopped me. “He didn’t mean nothin’.” “Bullshit. You gonna let this scum talk like that in front of Mila?” “I’ve got to stop you. You need to understand the guy ain’t right and let this go.” “That’s it? You defending him?” “I’m just asking not to start something here.” “I’m about to finish something.” “Mila,” Uncle Santo said. “Please take him outside and help him cool down. We’ll work this out later.” Mila, still puzzled, asked, “But what happened? What did he mean?” “He didn’t mean anything, sweetheart. Please—take this.” He put a wad of bills in Mila’s hand. “Get him out of here, go someplace nice for dinner tonight. You two kids enjoy yourselves. Get away from us old people.” Mila and I exchanged vows at 8 p.m. on New Year's Eve, then had our reception at Diamante’s Ristorante, which would have been closed for the holiday, but Dom Diamante put on a feast as a favor to Uncle Santo. We spent our wedding night in a ritzy hotel suite. I woke up early the next morning. “Where are you going?” “Business. Back to sleep.” I slid my Colt .45 ACP under my belt. I broke into Patsy Renzi’s house, found him snoring on his couch. Grabbing a hunk of hair to tilt his head, I stared into his bloodshot eyes. I jammed the Colt’s muzzle under his chin. “How’s this for starting the New Year off with a bang?” © 2025 Nick Di Carlo About the author: Nick Di Carlo has taught writing and literature in traditional and nontraditional settings, including maximum security correctional facilities where Lawrence R. Reis, author of Wolf Masks: Violence in Contemporary Poetry, noted: “Dr. Di Carlo quickly gained the respect and cooperation of the inmates. The men in his classes recognized many similarities between their experiences and his. Those experiences, often dark and sometimes violent, inform and power Dr. Di Carlo’s own writing.”
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“What happens now?” said the girl.
“We wait,” Mickey told her. Francine had gone off to make the call to the mother, leaving Mickey alone with the girl for the first time since the kidnapping. She’d chosen a public callbox a good thirty miles away, just to cover herself—Francine was smart like that, Mickey thought, always planning ahead—so it was going to be a good hour or two before she was back. “These are really painful,” said the girl, nodding down to where the zip-ties bound her hands, “Can’t you loosen them a bit?” Francine had warned Mickey about this. “The minute I’m gone, the very minute it’s just the two of you in there, that little bitch is going to try it on,” she’d said. “She’s going to see you as the weak link—because you are—and she’s going to try and get you to put your guard down and then she’s going to kick you in the throat or break your nose with her elbow and then she’s going to make a run for it.” At this point Francine had put her hands either side of Mickey’s face, holding him like sandwich meat. She’d looked him straight in the eyes, the way she always did when she was trying to get something to stick. “Don’t fall for it,” she’d told him. “Nothing doing,” Mickey told the girl, “You’ll just have to put up with it.” The girl let herself slump back against the wall. She was twelve years old and small for her age, but something about her face made her look older, as though Mickey could see in her bones the woman she might become. He had the same look about him when he was a kid—like childhood was just an ill-fitting coat you had to wear until you grew into it. “She won’t pay,” the girl said. “I’m telling you. She doesn’t give a shit about me, never has. I’m just in the way.” Mickey wanted to say something, to reassure the girl—it was just his natural instinct; Francine always said it was his best trait, empathy—but then he remembered Francine’s words, her hands on his face, so he kept his mouth shut. The girl went on. “She only had a kid because she wanted a little doll to dress up and be like her. The second I started having my own opinion about things, it was like all the shine came off. I don’t even see her much anymore. It’s just tutors and nannies and housekeeping staff, and maybe on my birthday she gets her assistant to buy me something, like a phone or a Playstation or some jewelry I don’t ever wear. The only time we ever hang out is when they do a profile on her and the PR people tell her that she needs me to be in the photos. Apart from that, she doesn’t care that I’m alive.” She looked up, and Mickey could see that she was near to crying. “You know what that feels like? To know that you’re not wanted?” Her voice cracked on the last word and a sob came out of her. She put her bound hands up, hiding her face, but Mickey could see the heave and fall of her chest as she sobbed. The thing was, he did know. He’d been fourth of seven, all boys, but even sitting in the middle he was still the runt. No good for farm work, he’d been relegated to helping out round the house–but even that was never good enough. He had the shit beaten out of him every week for six years until, at age fifteen, he met Francine and they left it all behind. If Francine hadn’t found him that day at the grocery store, he didn’t know what he’d have done. So many nights he lay in bed after a beating and just wished he was dead. Then Francine came along and it was like the giant hand of God had reached down and plucked him out of his life and set him on another path. Not everyone had a Francine. The girl had stopped sobbing now, and was just staring straight ahead. Mickey recognised that look, had seen it before in the mirror. The look that said there was no point in hoping anymore. It was like he was seeing himself ten years ago, with all the pain and despair and desperation that entailed. “Even if she does pay,” said the girl. “What kind of life am I going to go back to? She’ll blame me for all this, I know she will. She’ll tell me that I owe her, that I’m going to have to spend the rest of my life paying her back, that I’d have been better off if you’d kept me.” Her blue eyes, reddened, looked up at Mickey. “I’m going to be trapped with her forever, with no way out.” A pang went through Mickey, reactivating an ache that had sat in his soul since he was nine years old. This girl had no Francine, but maybe he could be her hand of God. He walked over to the bed, sat down beside her, “There’s always a way,” he said, and he reached up his hands and tenderly, but surely, gripped her throat. ***** Francine came back an hour later. Mickey met her at the door. Her face was alive with anticipation, like she could smell success in the air. “She’s gonna pay,” she said. “The whole amount, no haggling. All we need to do is show her proof of life.” “Francine,” said Mickey, “We might have a little bit of a problem there.” © 2025 Steven Sheil About the author: Steven Sheil is a writer of crime, horror, and weird fiction. His work has previously been published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Black Static and The Ghastling. His short story The Art Of Cruel Embroidery was nominated for Best Short Story at the 2025 Edgar Awards. He lives in Nottingham, UK. I knocked on Jessie’s door at exactly two in the morning, ready to propose some bad business. It took him a while to answer. He didn’t ask who it was, just opened the door and asked what was up.
“I need a favor,” I said. “Now? Christ, it’s the middle of the night.” “I know. But it’s important.” He stood there in the doorway, his thick arms crossed, belly pushed hard against his cut-off T-shirt. He was a good few inches taller than me. I realized he could kick the hell out of me if he felt like it. Right there on his dirty front porch. “Well, spit it out, dumbass,” he said. “Or I’m going back to sleep.” I swallowed and said, “I need your help.” “Doing what?” “Burying a body.” He rubbed his unruly beard and looked me in the eye for a good twenty seconds before he said, “Come inside.” I went in, and he closed the door behind us. ***** I got this problem; I’ve had it my whole life. I have no idea if people are lying to me or not. In fact, I have zero sense of what anyone thinks of me at all. Playing with other kids when I was little, I would think they were my friends. One time I got home and my dad asked why I was all scuffed up. I told him me and some kids were playing, and he realized they were beating me up. And I just took it cuz I thought that’s what friends did. My dad was pissed, but not at them. He beat me with a belt, saying the world was a tough place and I had to get my act together if I wanted to make it on my own someday. I tried not to cry and told him I’d do my best. Next day, I beat those kids up and got expelled. I never did learn how to figure out who my friends are. I met Jessie a few years back shooting pool in this dive bar near the freeway. We’ve had beers since then. Boosted a couple of cars for fun and profit. Shot guns late at night under the overpass where the sound of big-rigs above us drowned out the noise. I was starting to think he was my friend, a good friend. But I didn’t know for sure. And it was bugging me. So I asked Jessie’s roommate, who tends bar at this place I like, for some advice. He sells pills out of the bar bathroom on busy nights, and I’d seen him and Jessie fighting over money. I guessed they were tight, but I wasn’t really sure. I waited until the place was nearly empty one night and beckoned from my stool. Jessie’s roommate leaned across the bar, turned his ear toward me. “How do you know if someone’s a real friend?” I asked him. He sighed, poured us a couple of shots of whiskey, and said, “If you can call up someone at two in the morning and they agree to help you bury a body, that’s a real friend.” Sounded easy enough to me. ***** I’d been in Jessie’s place before. It was pretty messy, with a lot of empty beer bottles and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts. He offered me a cigarette, and after I said no thanks, he lit one for himself. “So who’s the body?” There was no body. I just wanted to know if Jessie was a real friend or not. But I knew he’d have some questions. I’m not good at making up stuff on the spot so I had my story all planned out. “I was walking home from the bar and some guy was following me. When I asked him what his problem was, he pulled out a knife, told me to give him my wallet. I wasn’t giving my wallet to no one, so we wrestled over the knife and he fell on it and died.” Jessie nodded. “Why bury him?” “I’m on parole.” This was true. “Cops catch me with a dead body, I’m going back to prison for sure.” Also true, but not really a concern since there was no dead body. Jessie exhaled some smoke. “Yeah, I can help you bury him. But I’m gonna need a favor in return.” I shrugged and said sure. Why wouldn’t I? I was feeling pretty good as he led me through his grimy kitchen, out a side door, and into his garage. I had a real friend, something I’d never had before. Now I just had to tell him the truth and everything would be okay. He opened up one of those big chest freezers. I looked inside and saw his roommate, eyes wide, frozen stiff. “I got a body to bury, too,” said Jessie. “We can do ‘em both together.” I stared at his dead roommate for a bit and thought, what would a real friend do here? Which is how I ended up helping Jessie bury a frozen body in the middle of nowhere. I never did fess up about my little lie. And Jessie never even asked me about the other body, like maybe he knew it was bullshit. All that matters is I know Jessie’s a good friend, and he knows the same thing about me. I’d thank his roommate for the advice, but too late for that I guess. © 2025 Bob DeRosa About the author: Where Bob DeRosa comes from, nice guys finish first. His screenwriting credits include Classified, Killers, and White Collar. His short fiction has appeared in Escape Pod, Every Day Fiction, and 365 Tomorrows. When he’s not writing, Bob studies Kenpo karate and keeps his Little Free Library filled with good stuff. Come say hi at bobderosa.com |
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