I didn’t appreciate having to wait a full minute after knocking on Frank Butler’s door. I knew he was home; the sounds of shuffling feet and creaking floor told me that. But useless threats through the door wouldn’t get me anything besides attention from nosy neighbors.
When Frank finally cracked the door, his eyes widened. He kept his head down and his mouth shut, pulling the door open with a certain urgency. I walked in and Frank stepped backwards like a dog who’d learned to fear his master. I’d never been in Frank’s apartment, but it was exactly how I imagined it: clutter across the floor, dishes piled in the kitchen sink, furniture that hadn't been cleaned in years. He kept the blinds closed like he wanted no part of the real world seeping in. I brushed loose papers off a mahogany kitchen chair and sat. Frank took the chair across the table and quietly situated himself on top of a wobbly mess of magazines. He was sweating like a pig in August. Frank said, “I’ve seen you around the club the last few weeks. You’re working for Mr. Salvatore now? “Yeah, and you know why I’m here.” He nodded so vigorously I thought his head might fly off. “Good. Then grab the five grand you owe, and I’ll be gone. I’ve been asking around and I know you’ve managed to glom onto at least that much.” “Well—” I was already bored of excuses I hadn’t even heard yet. I took the .45 from beneath my leather jacket. I didn’t need to say a word, just let him stare at the gun long enough to know he didn’t have many options. He cleared his throat. “I’ll have Salvatore’s money in two days. It’s true I’ve got the cash, but it’s tied up—” I cocked the .45’s hammer. Frank raised his hands. “I’m not trying to skip or welsh. I swear.” “Good. You wouldn’t make it far.” “I’m asking for two more days.” There was a creaking sound. We both turned to see a girl of about five with yellow pigtails and bright blue eyes standing at the edge of the kitchen. She wore Kermit the Frog pajamas and held a doll with the same blonde pigtails she had herself. I hoped I hid my surprise. Unfazed by the scene in front of her, the girl rubbed her eyes. “Daddy, you woke me up.” “I’m sorry, honey. Just go back to bed.” She moved her whole body, turning towards me. Her eyes focused on the automatic. “Daddy, is that a real gun?” Frank forced a laugh. “No, of course not. It’s a toy. My friend was just showing it to me.” Slowly, I turned the barrel towards the girl, keeping my focus on Frank. You could have heard a pin drop. Frank rose from his seat to put himself between me and his daughter. His back to me, he said, “Honey, it’s past your bedtime. I’m gonna talk to my friend for a few minutes and then I’ll read you another story, okay?” Whatever was on his face was convincing; wordlessly, she turned and left the room. “You’re a piece of shit, Frank, but that isn’t news. Do I need to tell you what happens if you keep stalling?” Frank looked at me for a long moment, saying nothing, then moved to the kitchen counter. He opened a drawer, rummaging in it. I heard silverware scraping metallically. I tensed as his hand came out slowly, but it only held an envelope, pinched between thumb and forefinger. At a snail’s pace, he pushed the drawer back in, still stalling. Feet dragging, head hanging, he inched his way to me and held out the envelope. “Sit down,” I told him, motioning with the gun. Frank sat. I counted hundred-dollar bills, watching out of the corner of my eye, wondering if Frank was dumb enough to try anything, thinking I was distracted. He sat still, arms crossed, his wrists together like they were tied—like he was trapped. He was trapped and he knew it. He owed Salvatore money. That was cleared, but now Frank would instead owe whoever he got the money from and probably piss off whoever was expecting it. Satisfied with the count, I stood, both the gun and the envelope in my jacket pocket. At the apartment door, I looked back to find Frank still in his chair, unmoving, head in his hands. “You were a terrible husband, the worst mistake of my life. I don’t know who you conned into actually procreating with you, but I’m sure you’re a terrible father, too,” I told him. “Clean up your fucking act—for her sake, if you don’t give a shit about yourself.” Frank looked up at me. There was defeat in his eyes, but maybe something else too, like he actually heard me. Whatever, it wasn’t my problem. I had a job to do and I did it. I kept thinking of that little girl though, and what might have been if I’d maybe known how to get tough with Frank all those years ago. About the authors: Patrick is a lifelong Maryland resident. He graduated from Southern New Hampshire University with an M.A. in English and Creative Writing. His short fiction has been published in Mystery Tribune and The Penmen Review. His debut novel, Pierce, was published last March. Brandon Barrows is the author of several crime and mystery novels. His most recent is And Of Course, There Was the Girl from Full Speed Publishing. He has also published over one hundred short stories and is a three-time Mustang Award finalist and a two-time Derringer Award nominee. Find more at http://www.brandonbarrowscomics.com and on Twitter @BrandonBarrows
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His finger twitched, poised on the trigger. He adjusted the rifle’s scope a couple of millimeters to the left. In complete stillness, his breathing became the only perceptible movement. He lined up the shot. Held his breath and pulled.
The gunshot startled the deer and it fled. Birds cawed and flapped their wings furiously, flying out of the trees. He ran towards the mass slumped on the ground. He checked for a pulse. Nothing. He reached for his phone and, with trembling hands, dialed 911. “Hello. Paramedics, please,” he said, panting. “I've just shot a man… it… it was an accident.” He stumbled over his words, “I was trying to shoot a deer.” He agreed to meet the paramedics and Sheriff Hawley back at his house and lead them into the woods. They didn't try to resuscitate the man. The gaping hole in his head was the obvious indicator he couldn’t be saved. The police took the shooter into custody. He sat in a cold, sterile cell. The overpowering stench of bleach did little to mask the underlying human unpleasantness. With nothing to do, he picked his fingers raw. Why did I pull that trigger? The door creaked open, and they escorted him to the interrogation room. A mirror hung on one side, reflecting his ashen skin tone. Hitting the record button, the officer reminded him of his Miranda rights. “We've spoken to his wife,” the Sheriff said. “And apparently, you and the deceased were feuding.” Shifting in his seat, he stressed, “Yes, he kept trespassing on my land, but I'd never harm the man. You gotta believe me.” “His wife reported that you said if he kept trespassing, you’d shoot him.” “Yes, but I didn't mean it,” he said, his response quick. Sweat started to bead on his forehead and top lip; his cheeks flushed at the line of questioning. “I said that when we were arguing. It was the third time in January I’d caught him again. He didn’t even apologize. Said he’d do what he wanted. His attitude made me furious, but I wouldn't kill the man. Please, I'm telling the truth.” “She said her husband loved birdwatching. You had a problem with him documenting wildlife for conservation purposes on your property?” He hesitated. “Well… it's my property.” “And you did say you’d kill him?” “But only because I was so angry,” his voice quivered as he continued to fidget. “Please, I’m not lying. You saw him. Wearing a camouflage jacket. I literally couldn't see him for the trees.” The officer paused, observing the man’s state. “His wife also said he never leaves the house without the orange vest and cap.” “But you saw him without any reflective gear.” His hands were clammy and animated. “I told you I had a deer in line of sight, but somehow I missed. Check the area, I promise they'll be deer tracks,” he pleaded. Desperation oozed out of every pore as his eyes darted between the officers. “Yes, the trespassing incidents annoyed me, but I would never hurt him. I would never hurt anyone.” They kept him in custody for the next three days while they continued to analyze the crime scene, search for evidence, and interview those known to the pair. He cooperated throughout. Once they completed the preliminary investigations, and with no evidence of intentional harm, they let him out. Advising him they would continue to investigate. Exhausted, he thanked Sheriff Hawley, grateful to finally be leaving. Stepping out into the crisp, cool air, a weight lifted off his shoulders. Back home in his yard, he threw a few logs of chopped firewood in a barrel. He poured in gasoline and struck a match. The flames roared and cackled. He pulled out the orange vest and cap, ripped off his neighbor's body, and threw them into the fire. An acrid smell of burning fabric rose up. He watched them disintegrate as he warmed his hands and face. He let out a laugh and said, “I did warn you.” Los Angeles, 1965.
Dale knew the job was fucked from the moment he pried open the file cabinet. Breaking into the two-story office bungalow off Santa Monica had been easy enough. He sapped the overnight guard, relieved him of his keys, and waltzed right in. He left the old bull snoozing in his chair. In Dale’s experience, the older the bulls got, the less trouble they wanted. This area of Hollywood was mostly deserted at night anyway. But Dale could never be too careful. Five years in Folsom after a job went sideways taught him that. It also gave Dale a sixth sense of when a job was about to jump the rails. And right now, as Dale’s penlight washed across the contents of the pried open file cabinet, that internal klaxon was blaring like a five-alarm fire. They approached Dale at The Dirty Bird three days earlier. The Dirty Bird was a dive bar down at the end of Culver Boulevard in a gritty little beach area known as Playa del Rey. It was the kind of place where a man could hole up and never be found. It was also the closest thing Dale had to an office. There were two of them, square as the day is long, which meant they stuck out like sore thumbs in the dive. Dale was nursing his third beer of the morning, wondering how the hell he was going to make rent that month and pay for his daughter’s doctor bill, when they sat down next to him. “You Ricochet?” one of them asked. Dale stared into his beer. That was a nickname he picked up in Folsom after bouncing a mouthy punk off a cell block wall. “Who’s asking?” he replied. “Got a job for you.” Dale was a safecracker. A second-story man. One of the few professional burglars left in Los Angeles with a code. Dale was in it for the money. Nothing else. And he had one rule–no one ever got hurt. But Dale had told himself that after his last stint he was done. That he was going straight. Folsom made him come to terms with the fact that his line of work had a shelf life. That no matter how tough a man was, it would gnaw him up and spit him out. Deep freeze him for fifteen to twenty. Or worse, put him in the ground for good. Dale didn’t want to go out that way. He owed his little girl that much at least. It was an epiphany that made Dale feel something he hadn’t in years. Happiness. But happiness didn’t get an ex-con a job on the straight and the bills didn’t pay themselves. So Dale looked the two squares in the eye and said the words he’d regret for the rest of his life. “What do you need done?” Henry Townsend was not the kind of man Dale would ever knowingly fuck with. Townsend parlayed a modest Ohio manufacturing business into an empire that spanned industries. He was as powerful and connected as they come. He owned a mansion on a ten-acre lot in the Pacific Palisades that was bigger than Dale’s hometown. Townsend was a kingmaker in a town full of heavyweights. Rumor was, he was harder than half the yard at Folsom. And he wasn’t afraid to fight dirty. Yet here Dale was, standing in Townsend’s private office, his penlight washing down on a single file in the file cabinet he had just pried open. And Dale knew he was fucked. The Two Squares told him they were digging up dirt on a business rival to take him out. They lied. Because the classified documents stamped in faded red ink across the jacket of the file meant this was heavier than any weight Dale had ever lifted. This was the kind of weight that got men killed. And as Dale stared at it, wondering how he was going to dig himself out of this hole, he knew in his bones there were only two ways it could go. The Two Squares waited for Dale in an idling sedan. The driver held a Browning Hi-Power out of view. “Think he knows?” the Passenger asked. “Men like Dale Barnes exist for one reason,” the Driver replied. “They’re means to an end. Nothing more. I doubt he’s even aware enough to know that.” The Driver scoffed. “It’s like asking if a gnat knows it’s about to be swatted.” The Passenger chewed on that as he peered back out his window. “Here he comes.” The Two Squares watched Dale exit the building and hurry towards them, holding the file. They were distracted by the slight smile on his face. Which meant they didn’t see the .38 coming up in Dale’s other hand. It was only after, when Dale rifled through their pockets, that he found their badges. Dale rocketed away into the night after dumping the Feds’ bodies, a single question burning a hole in his head. Who threw the fix on him? Dale had a pretty good idea. Even thinking about the man made something terrible rise in Dale’s chest. A rage that threatened to incinerate him. Dale told Sonny Palmisano that he was hanging it up. That he wanted to do something different with his life. Now Dale was barreling towards some unknown future because Sonny had other ideas. Dale’s headlights sliced through the night, navigating the windy road over the hill towards Sonny’s hideout in Burbank. He knew any hope he had for a quiet existence with his little girl was as dead and gone as those two he dumped in the Hollywood reservoir. Because he could never go straight again. Well, Sonny was about to meet a man who’d broken his one rule. Dale would figure out the rest afterwards. But that was the life Dale chose, ricocheting between happiness and despair. About the author: Woody Strassner is a screenwriter based in Los Angeles. Most recently, he was on the writing staff of the hit crime procedural STUMPTOWN for ABC Studios, where he co-wrote two episodes. Currently, Woody is writing a crime audiodrama for Echoverse, as well as co-writing a feature script. He’s a graduate of UCLA and is represented by UTA. The cow was standing on the side of the hill behind Mr. O’Leary’s house, and we thought if we ran down the hill and rammed it, we could tip it. We were right. The problem was, when we hit the cow, Cody slipped underneath so the cow landed on top of him, which was sort of like a brick landing on a tube of toothpaste. The cow acted just like a brick too, laying there like it was knocked out or maybe dead–though I was pretty sure the dead one was Cody.
Sometimes panic is smart. I started to run away, which would have been the smart kind of panic. If I’d done it right then, everything would’ve turned out just fine. Cody would’ve died and nobody would’ve known what happened. I would’ve been in the clear. It’s not like somebody was going to get my fingerprints off a dead cow. But I froze. And then, right when I was ready to run, damn Cody if he didn’t ask me for help. Sort of. The moonlight was shining on his face, and he looked at me bug-eyed with blood bubbling out of his mouth. He started making this raspy sound, which made it seem like he wanted me to do something. I tried to push the cow off him, but it was like trying to push your house down the street. There was only one other thing to try. I grabbed Cody’s head, which was the only part of him sticking out from under the cow, and I yanked as hard as I could. Cody didn’t react any way at all, and after a second yank, I knew I was wasting my time, so I stopped. Now the bad panic hit. I knew I couldn’t save Cody, and even though it was an accident, I thought people would blame me for what happened, so how could I make sure I didn’t get into trouble? The smart answer hadn’t changed. I needed to run. But I was thinking so hard that I forgot how to be smart. I thought I had to make it look like something had happened other than the truth, something nobody would think I had anything to do with. I thought I would make it look like some kind of real crime had happened. Like some kind of gangsters had been here or something. There’s not much crime around here to the point that people leave their houses unlocked, so I walked right through Mr. O’Leary’s back door without making a sound. It was late enough that everyone was in bed and the lights were out, but there were night lights around so I could see where I was going. I’d been in Mr. O’Leary’s house once before when I was selling light-bulbs to raise money for Cub Scouts, and I remembered that his gun cabinet was in the den. It wasn’t locked either. I took his 12-gauge and a box of cartridges. I went back to Cody and the cow and got to work. The cow still looked to be dead, and Cody looked the same, which made me feel a lot better about doing this. I wasn’t going to kill anything. I was just going to re-kill some things to confuse people about how they got killed in the first place. No idiot cow-tippers here. This was the work of some stone-cold killers. I used up all the cartridges. It was a whole lot of racket, but I was too busy to think about that. I made the cow look like a burger you’d never want to eat, and I made Cody look like he’d never had a head in the first place. I was wiping my fingerprints off the gun and looking around for some place to stash it when I saw Mr. O’Leary coming down the hill from the farmhouse to see what all the noise was, yelling my name and asking me what I thought I was doing. If I hadn’t used up all the cartridges, I might have shot him too, but now I couldn’t think of anything else to do other than what I should’ve done in the first place. I ran. About the author: David Rachels is co-editor of the publishing imprint Staccato Crime, which resurrects forgotten noir and true crime from 1899-1939. As well, he has edited four volumes of short stories by the classic noir writer Gil Brewer. Sam fiddled with the cuffs of his flannel, unsure if he should unbutton them, roll them up, or leave them be. It’s not that Amy Chandler made him nervous, though he hadn’t been on a date in ages. He was, however, bored out of his fucking mind.
“He actually had the balls to tell me I couldn’t return it,” Amy said. “The stitching was frayed! You should have been there. At Saks of all places. It took every ounce of my patience not to raise my voice. We’re not talking about a cheap knock off purse. This is a Moynat Rejane. What am I saying? You already know, you asked me to bring it!” “Got into designer purses thanks to my ex.” “Divorce? I’m so sorry. Wondered why you asked about purses on the dating app.” Sam pinched himself for some excitement. He did it out of Amy’s sight on the other side of their wine glasses. Gave him something to focus on. “Can tell a lot about a lady by the type of arm candy they carry. Must have been terrible dealing with that return,” he said. Amy had carrot-colored hair tied in a ponytail and wore a pair of dark cat’s eye glasses. Dating profile said she liked reading and hiking, one of which interested Sam. Her info failed to mention the boredom. “You have no idea,” she said. “I nearly pulled a Karen and asked for the manager. Terrance, that was the clerk’s name, knew enough not to provoke me that way. Not at Saks. Not after I’d spent thousands!” “Smart man,” Sam said. For the date, he’d donned a black flannel with gray stripes and a pair of black corduroys, with a black JanSport backpack parked near his feet. Figured he didn’t need to dress to the nines. Place told him otherwise. One of the fancy joints downtown. La Ciccia on 30th Street. “Avoid the world, it’s just a lot of dust and drag and means nothing in the end,” Sam quoted his favorite author. “Kerouac wrote that line. Kind of seemed appropriate to your situation.” Amy leaned closer. “Oh, the name rings a bell. Does he write YA fantasy?” “Stream of consciousness stuff.” Sam sipped his wine. Couldn’t tell if it was worth forty bucks a glass. Amy seemed to notice him for the first time. Made duck lips and ran her eyes across his chest. She found the view either savory or unsavory. Sam couldn’t tell which. “I love reading,” she said. “I’m big into the Percy Jackson books.” “My kid loved them.” Sam turned his attention to the compact lavender purse on the back of her chair. “Never finished your story. Did you get to return it?” Her eyes rolled up into the top of her glasses. She took a deep breath. Words spewed forth. Sam didn’t listen but stared at her anyway. With his wine on the table, he pinched himself again. The homemade bread and butter, for now, provided the only sustenance. He knew she’d returned the purse. The waiter, a savior who told them about grad school, appeared with his pad in hand and jotted down their dinner order. Amy barked out her request for baked salmon. Sam asked for the chicken parm. The waiter sauntered off looking just as bored. Amy winked and made the duck lips again. “Where was I?” she asked. “The smell outside the place. Bad enough I had to return a designer bag, right? But that stench.” “City’s like a rotten corpse some days,” Sam said. “Right? Sometimes I think I’d be better off in Santa Cruz where things are a little slower. Did I tell you my sister lives there?” “Jesus,” Sam said. He caught himself. “I don’t think so. A sister you say?” She was mid-sip when he asked the question. She held up a finger. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back from the powder room. She had such a year. Runs a Montessori School near the Beach Boardwalk.” “Familiar with the Boardwalk.” “Back in a jiff,” she said. He watched her stroll in and out of the pricey mood lighting. Once out of his view, he grabbed the backpack and pulled it into his lap. Unzipped it. Pulled out an eggplant purple knockoff that looked identical in every way. Grabbed her purse and exchanged it with the fake. Dropped the backpack to his feet. An empty wine glass greeted Amy when she returned to the table. Sam was gone. Outside, in an alley off Cheney Street, he met up with Terrance. He’d been waiting since Sam and Amy sat down and looked pleased to see Sam so soon. Sam handed him the backpack. Terrance handed over an envelope of cash. “Your cut, lady-killer.” “Got another two dates tomorrow. Have more of those fakes ready?” “People flaunt wealth like I flaunt desperation. Course I’ll have them ready. You’ll get tonight’s cut times two. What happened in there, by the way? Why’d the date end so soon?” “You met her when she returned the first bag to you. Went like that,” Sam said. “Same bad taste in women as when we worked at The Chronicle?” “Two ex-journalists and both single. Might need to work on our tastes,” Sam said. “Designer black market pays well, Sam.” “Don’t know shit about purses or women, but I do know how to be an asshole. Look for my text tomorrow.” Sam walked a block to Randall, hoping he wouldn’t bump into the angry date. Shame he had to leave La Ciccia so soon. Hadn’t had chicken parm in ages. About the author: Patrick Whitehurst writes from the sweaty, cactus-ridden dustiness of Tucson, Arizona. Marcus Jackson said he was called "Juke" on account he was born in a juke joint outside Clarksville, Mississippi. The way he told it, his mamma went into labor at the beginning of a twelve-bar blues riff and spit him out before the turnaround. He said he was born in a hurry cuz he had stuff to do. Well, he didn't have much to do now—but die. Like everything else though, he was better at talking about it than actually doing it.
“You motherless cocksucker. You son of a whore, motherfucker,” Juke said. I guess if I had shot him in the head I wouldn’t have had to listen to it, but I figured it would be more fun watching him bleed out. “Well, which is it, Juke? Am I motherless, or is my mother a whore? You gotta make up your mind at some point.” I pressed the heel of my boot into his side just above where the bullet went in. He howled like a coyote. “You’re a backstabbing, bushwhacking, son of a bitch, Titus. I'm gonna rip your head off and shit down your throat.” “You got nobody to blame for this but yourself. We could've got away from that bank quick and easy. But you had to go and shoot that little girl. Now we got the whole county on our tail." “Come here… bend down here so I can get my hands around that pencil neck of yours. I'll snap it off like a chicken!” “All you’re gonna do is die, Juke. You know it, and I know it.” I had seen a lot of people die. Sometimes I was doin' the killing, sometimes it was others. But what always got me was the way that innocent people die so easy. Like they don't mind, like it's as easy for them as breathing. Sure, they whine plenty, if you give them the chance, but when that hammer cocks back they just sorta shut their eyes and whisper a little prayer, then they're gone. It's the sinners, the bad ones, the ones who deserve to die, that die hard. Spit flying off their tongues like venom, cursing the whole world before the darkness sets in. It might have been easier on the ears, but still, I never liked killing anyone that didn't have it coming. Juke Jackson had it coming. I did too I suppose.... I met Juke on March 18th, 1957. I remember the date because it was one year to the day after I arrived at Parchman Farm, the infamous Mississippi State Penitentiary that was run more like a plantation than a prison. Juke was a talker. The way he flapped his gums I thought it was more likely he was born in a whorehouse than a juke joint. There is nothing that likes to talk more than a Mississippi strumpet whore. But I guess his love of talking, and my not liking to say much, evened us out and we became friends. Juke and I roamed the roads together after we got out like a pair of rabid road dogs. We went from place to place, robbing and killing, banks and gas stations mostly. If the people wouldn't give us their money we would take it, their lives too if they tried to stop us. I thought we were unstoppable… until today. "What did ya have to shoot that little girl for, Juke? Don’t you know we was all done for after that. Those townfolk might have chased us a little ways for the money, but the way you shot that girl in the face, in front of all those people... Christ, I almost cried myself. " "I told that lil' hussy to shut up—but she wouldn't stop screaming!" I leapt off the hood of the car and brought the heel of my boot down on Juke's ribs. Stomping his chest over and over until I could hear the bones cracking. "Like that? Huh, you son of a bitch? Was that how she was screaming!" "Aaaah!" Juke wailed in pain. I didn't stop until blood began to spurt out of his mouth. "You bastard… ain't you got any decency in you at all?" I could still see the bullet leaving the barrel of Juke's .38 Special. I never seen nothing like that before, it was as if the earth stopped spinning for a few seconds and everything slowed way down. The bullet hit the girl just above the corner of her right eye next to her nose. The bones in the front of her skull burst apart and ripped the skin from her face as brains shot out the back of her head and painted the bank walls a gruesome, runny gray. We both knew an unspoken line had been crossed and bolted out of that bank so fast we even forgot to grab the money. We jumped in the stolen Chevy parked outside and tore out of that town like we were being chased by the devil himself–and maybe we were. We raced down the back country roads along the river. We might have even had a decent chance of getting away, until the tire blew. The car careened wildly off the road and into an empty field. When the dust cleared, I knew our lives were over. I don't think Juke realized it though. He stepped quickly out of the car and went to the back to grab the jack out of the trunk. I grabbed my .45 and stepped out the other side. I walked up behind him and shot him in the liver—there's no coming back from that—and waited I could see the dust rising from the long line of vehicles coming fast down the road toward us. Juke had his bullet, and soon, I would have my rope. I hoped I would die easy, but I knew better. About the author: John Kojak is a Navy Veteran and Graduate of the University of Texas who grew up in oily little towns around Houston Texas. He still lives there with a nice woman and a mean cat. His poetry and shorties have been published in a variety of book and magazines, mostly of an independent and dubious nature. Nineteen is there in black on white, the license as fake as everything else about me. But I’ve found that when you’re small, female and Asian, exchanging the school uniform for a hoodie can be all that stands between fifteen and thirty. At least after dark.
It’s Thursday, a school night, but Mom is already too strung out to notice me missing. If all goes right, I’ll be long gone by the time she does. The cars stand bumper-to-bumper outside, people hip-to-hip inside, skin and floor sticky with things I blank out. The walls are paneled wood though, hanging lamps like something out of the last century. They tell me they’ve seen thousands such as I—desperate fools risking it all on impossible odds. I can trick the people, but not those bright lights. Luckily, the shadows are deep enough. A bell clangs further in. I’m almost too late. The crowd surges into the main hall, the ring in the center breaking the illusion of an old-world gentlemen’s club. Two fighters stand confidently in the light, though one smiles wider than the other. His grin is too familiar, twisting my pain and the old longing to belong. I pull my hood up, hiding the swollen jaw, and turn to the betting table. The MC announces the fighters. Connolly is up there, worshiped like at school, feared like on the estate, but the name the crowd shouts is as fake as mine. He’s bragged for years—as he used me as a punching bag, telling me to take my best shot—that the fighting will be his ticket out of the crappy ride life handed to kids like us. Now, it’ll be mine as well. “10k on the challenger,” I say as I pull the envelope from my pocket. Money I stole, pawned and borrowed from Mom and her friends who say they want to be my friends. Something that others might call conscience twists inside me. I could still warn Conolly. Tell the bookie. Like so much else, I swallow it down. The prize is in sight. I can taste its iron tang—like blood and prison bars. After tonight, I’ll wash the taste of both away. The show is starting, pulling me closer. I’d learned to avoid him on fight days—to subconsciously track his movements. It was impossible not to as he grew up in the apartment next to ours, the slaps on my side and curses on his piercing the paper-thin walls. The fighters circle each other. I check the wall clock. Check again. Sweat gathers at the base of my neck. I pull the hood tighter. A minute in, I know the challenger wouldn’t stand a chance if I hadn’t taken mine. Two minutes, Connolly wobbles. I didn’t avoid him this afternoon. Didn’t run as we both exited our apartments at the same time. As our eyes met—prey and predator. Afterward, I didn’t crawl away when I dropped next to his sports bag. He laughed with his friends while I bled, while I slipped the swiped drugs into the sports drink he always chugs before the fight. His mind will be swimming by now. Psychedelics aren’t bad, but in a bareknuckle, underground boxing ring, they’re deadly. What does he see? When panic crosses his face, when I collect my winnings and leave it all behind, I want to laugh, but cry. About the author: Liv Strom is a Swiss-Swedish writer of short stories and novels featuring strong women. You can find her writing on https://www.livstromwrites.com/ Faro was over eight thousand feet above sea level when it truly struck him. The air was thin and crisp with the wintry breeze of the German alps flowing against the cable car. There was only one other man in the car, some lonely, bitter rich man who probably got too big for his britches. Faro wasn’t thinking about that man. He was thinking about Singapore.
Faro was never the type of man to let things bother him, but it had been a few days since Singapore and it stuck in his mind like a wound. The neon lights and foggy waterfronts of the Asian city-state felt as if they were a premonition, some sort of apocalyptic vision given to Faro alone, only it was in the past. He felt the cold steel in his pocket. It reminded him of where he was. Far above the ground in a cable car between two destinations. Big mountains— not exactly the most unusual thing in Germany. The awareness of the dichotomy between his mind and his body sent a chill up Faro’s spine. He was meant to be doing a job right about then. But Singapore kept creeping up on him like some horrible unknown disease. The man across from Faro coughed and sniffled. He wiped his nose with a handkerchief. Who carries handkerchiefs anymore? Sad old men, Faro thought. Sad old men like himself. Faro pulled back the metal slide in his pocket, clicking it into place. He stood and looked at the other man. The man looked back, curious. Faro felt compelled to turn around and look out the window into the snow and clouds and whiteness and Singapore. That’s just what he did. Taking a cigarette from his other pocket, Faro lit it, clumsily dropping his lighter after doing so. He bent over and picked it up. The cigarette burnt away quickly as Faro breathed unsteadily. Singapore. She had done it in a nightclub, some place where only the most high-class prostitutes denied their Western punters. He knew she was a slut. No, he didn’t know any such thing. The feelings were natural, she was no monster. He could understand where she was coming from. He was never around. But why then? Why Singapore? Why on vacation? Why in the nightclub, having to shout above the blaring electronic dance music and bathed in neon blue light? Suddenly Faro realized that his cigarette was completely burnt out, and he was just sucking on the end of it like some sort of Freudian coping mechanism. He took it out of his mouth and stamped it out with his foot like no one did on German cable cars. The other man must have been laughing at how inept Faro had become. A dirty approximation of a human procedural. How had he become such a laughing stock in his own mind? It seemed that overnight his life turned into some sick clown show and he was the only one who didn’t know how funny it was. What could possibly be more important than getting his job done? He felt the cold steel in his pocket again. Suddenly he realized that he wasn’t wearing his gloves like he was supposed to. He sighed. Such a joke. Faro stood once again. He walked over to the other man, who looked up from his book, a copy of some obscure modern German novel set in the alps— or perhaps Faro only thought so because of the deceptive front cover depicting the alps. This man really wanted to be immersed in the experience of riding a cable car, didn’t he? Well, he was more well-coordinated than Faro, that was for sure. Faro put on his gloves. He was cold all right. Faro felt like screaming. It got caught in his throat as he came over to the other man. “Can I help you?” The man asked in German. Could he help him. Faro cursed himself internally, how weak his mind had become because of those terrible words spoken in that nightclub in Singapore. Faro ignored the man and walked to the cable car’s door, situated right beside the man’s seat. He gripped the edges of it tightly as he used all of his strength to pull it open. “What in God’s name are you doing!?” the other man shouted above the biting, snowy winds slicing through the car. Faro took out his tool as the cable car halted. The jerk loosened his grip on the makeshift pistol and it flew out of the open doorway, almost taking Faro with it. Faro realized suddenly that the cable car stopped because of the broken door. Must have been some emergency system. He couldn’t believe he forgot that. But he knew that he was still in the clear; it was all a part of the plan. Perhaps the pistol left his hand slightly too soon, but he could still do what he had to do. If only he could forget Singapore for a minute. The other man stood and backed away. Faro rushed towards him and struggled to pull him towards the doorway. “No! I have a family!” the other man shrieked. Faro dragged the other man, marching towards the open car door. The man grabbed a pole in the middle of the car and hung on for dear life. Faro growled. He pictured Ingrid in his mind for the first time since Singapore. She was moving her lips, a dire look in her eyes. He stomped on the man’s wrist, causing him to howl in pain and open his hand. Finally Faro was able to pull the man past him, sliding him off the car and down into the obstruction of the snow. Soon the only thing that was left was the scream of the wind. Faro heard nothing but the words of his wife, coming from in between her lips: “I think we should get a divorce.” About the author: Jessica Minster is a transgender author and poet based out of Arizona who has written many short stories, poetry collections, and novels in the ten years she has been writing creatively. She tends to stick to darker, more dramatic, and subversive types of projects. Ducky had survived a lot of shit jobs when the street didn’t provide, but this seasonal work was going to finally whack him out. He’d endured fifty years of bloody mob wars, restaurant massacres and even a prosecutor with a raging hard-on, but never had the old wiseguy faced the shit waiting for him at the Philadelphia Macys in December. He wouldn’t have taken the job if he’d realized the horror, but he had no choice now. So he sighed, took a Leuprolide with a half-a-glass of Puni to wrench shut his leaky pipes then put on the ridiculous disguise. The damn thing reeked of wet dog and pot, but he suffered the indignity, checked the sack to ensure easy access, then made the sign of the cross before exiting his dressing room into a plastic crap winter wonderland.
A wall of holiday lights blinded him, and he tripped over the clunky boots, nearly crashing into the faux Victorian cottages of the Dickens Village. Spoiled kids howled. The entitled adults bickered. And the cranky seasonal staff who worked twenty-hour days for chicken shit tried to prevent a riot—everyone just going through the motions year after year even though it made them miserable. “Dead Santa walking,” one of the seasonals yelled then guided him over to his throne on the bright red stage. The first little shit jumped on Santa’s lap hard enough to break a hip, and the seasonal stiffs ushered the parents in front of a cardboard candy forest where they’d try to upsell them a family photo for sixty bucks. A concealed monitor built into the podium of a train set displayed the kid’s registration information—an address in Chestnut Hill. He shook his head. Townhouses there went for ten million easy. “You’re not from the North Pole.” “I’m from South Street, you little . . .” Ducky muttered and scratched the rash from the scraggily beard glued to his fucking rosy cheeks. “And what is your holiday wish?” he read off the monitor. “New water skis cause we’re spending Christmas at our house in Key West. You’re probably spending it in jail being someone’s old bitch.” “How egg-noggy exciting!” he recited, keeping his cool, then adlibbed. “Going to be there for winter vacation?” “For a whole month, even longer than that loser Billy Watson’s family.” “A whole month! San-tacular! Does daddy press numbers by the door when you go away? Santa needs to know these things so he can deliver presents and crap.” “What’s in the sack?” “Your ass if you touch it,” Ducky said, pulling the sack close. At noon, they stopped for lunch, and Ducky comforted himself with another Gino’s cheese steak—sorely missed in Florida—and considered quitting. He’d been counting on this holiday insanity—people going through the motions and reenacting banal childhood traditions that never made them happy—but he didn’t think he could handle it for another three weeks. After twenty years of failing his own family, he’d given up trying to celebrate, and since retiring from the life, he sailed every Christmas day on his Bertram 31, fishing for tuna and sipping from a jug of eggnog and rum. You had to make this shit your own. Another miserable crowd waited, and Ducky was about to rip off his beard when, after five days of playing Santa, he spotted Joey Domino Jr. with his son, Little Luke, at the back of the line. Junior was still going through the motions, following the same tradition his father, Joey Sr., had done with him every year back in the eighties. Ducky’s hunch had paid off. This shit was ingrained, and you passed the damage onto the next generation. Joey Jr. had probably made it part of his deal with the feds that they let him out of whatever shithole hick town where they stashed him before trial so he could enact this fond family tradition. And there they were: he made two U.S. Marshals with the telling bulges under their arms over at the toy department counter. Ducky took the next kid and the next and the next, playing the role with new enthusiasm. All the while, the toy train kept spinning ‘round and ‘round, never arriving anywhere. “Santa and his elves have been working really hard making toys and shit and candy canes for you little jerks . . .” Finally, Little Luke sat on his lap while Luke's clueless father stood in front of the candy forest. No one ever suspected Santa Claus. “And what is your Christmas wish?” “For my dad to drop dead so he’ll stop making me do this shit.” Ducky cracked up and pissed his suit a little—damn prostate. “I’m almost ten here. Fucking embarrassing.” “Santa loves granting wishes,” Ducky said, then he slid the kid off his lap, grabbed the .38 from his red velvet sack and put a bullet through Joey Jr.’s throat. The capo grabbed at his neck, fumbling at the gushing blood then collapsed into a gumdrop tree just as the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies reached its last crescendo. Parents screamed. Staff fled. And Little Luke laughed at his dad’s body then grabbed his wallet and ran to the toy department. What a great kid, Ducky thought, then ran out through a staff door before the marshals could get through the crowd. He descended the private stairs and left through the staff entrance—an entrance that lacked any metal detectors—and shed his costume, dropping it onto Market Street in front of the Christmas tree rising in front of City Hall. PPD cruisers pulled up to Macys, but he danced down the cement stairs to the MFL to catch the subway to the airport, whistling the Nutcracker all the way to the platform. “Happy holidays!” he wished a rotund Septa technician with a limp coming off the train. “Make this holiday shit your own!” Ducky had to do this again next year. About the author: T. Fox Dunham lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania with his wife, Allison. He’s a cancer survivor, disabled author, modern bard, herbalist, baker and historian. His first book, The Street Martyr in production by Throughline Films. He’s a well-published crime, horror and Sci-fi author and an active member of the Horror Writers Association. Fox is proud to have also contributed to official Stargate canon with a story published in the Stargate Anthology Points of Origin from Fandemonium Books, telling the last story of the Asgard. More information at tfoxdunham.com. I tipped the glass and downed the last swallow. Ice brushed my lips. A splash of bourbon laced with cherry hit the back of my throat like hot oil. The floral tang of the bitters lingered.
I caught the bartender's eye and clinked my wedding ring on the rim of the lowball. "Another." He nodded. The bar was a shithole steeped in backwoods charm. The lights were dimmed, and sawdust spattered the floor like buckshot. The jukebox blasted new country. The smell of fried beer-batter permeated the air. Off in the corner, behind me, sat a cowboy with arms like legs. He wore a Stetson. Seriously. A Stetson. He was arguing with a hot blonde. Either his wife or a girlfriend, I couldn’t tell which. What I could tell was that she needed help. The purple scar under her left eye, caked in makeup, screamed abuse. I had ached for a drink, so I stopped. Dalton’s Place. I should’ve filled up the tank and kept driving. The last thing I needed was trouble. Or to play the hero. Even over the din of the music, their words filtered through to me. “Let go,” said Hot Blonde, pulling her arm away. “I thought you liked it rough,” said Stetson. Her eyes narrowed. She stood to leave. He pulled her back without much effort. “You’re such an ass,” she said. “One more drink.” “I wanna go!” I shook my head and turned back towards the bar. “Enjoying the show?” asked the bartender. He placed my fresh drink in front of me. I pulled the brim of my ball-cap down. “Are they a regular attraction?” “Unfortunately.” “What’s their story?” “Locals. Married. They go at it all the time.” “She’s taking a beating.” He nodded. “And then some.” “You should report it.” He laughed. “Welcome to Freemont. Our little slice of Texas heaven.” And with that, he made his way to the end of the bar. The place was crowded. Several couples line-danced by the jukebox. A group of old-timers played darts. Two oversized flatscreens aired a rodeo competition. Apparently, there wasn’t much to do on a Friday night except drink. And maybe cause mischief. I took a swig of the old fashioned and contemplated the latter. I glanced over my shoulder again. Stetson and Hot Blonde were headed for the exit. He held her arm like a vise as he navigated her out the door. I slammed back my drink, dropped a twenty on the bar and followed them. In the parking lot, my rusted Mustang was an island in a sea of Ford F150s. It looked like a dealership. I spotted Stetson forcing Hot Blonde into his vehicle as I slid into mine. Twenty minutes later, I sat parked less than a hundred feet from their driveway. I doused the lights and shut off the engine. After a few moments, the place lit up like a kid’s fun house, their silhouettes darting back and forth across the shades. No doubt, they were at it again. Apparently, they never stopped. I opened the glove box and pulled out the Glock. I’d run into domestic violence before. Too often. First with my parents, then during my ten years on the force in New Hampshire. Live Free or Die, right? The truth was that people were shit. A disappointment. Violence and betrayal were their default modes. At some point, you had to stop the pattern of abuse—or you’d wind up dead. At some point, you had to say, “I won’t be a victim anymore.” By the time I reached their doublewide, a hard drizzle had started. I jimmied the back door and slipped into the kitchen. In the living room, Hot Blonde lay knocked out on a loveseat, her chest heaving with each breath. Crimson trickled from her nose. From the sound of it, Stetson was down the hall. I found him singing on the shitter. I kicked in the door. He was a beast. Six foot four and over two hundred pounds of naked flesh. But size didn’t matter. It didn’t even come into play. Hell, he was still seated when five bullets ripped through his chest. His body plastered itself against the upright of the tank. He’d never hurt anyone again. Numb with violence, I blew out of there fast. But not before I tossed the place and emptied their wallets. I also took some cheap jewelry off the dresser and the Mossberg shotgun I found stashed under their bed. With Hot Blonde out cold, and Stetson out for good, the scene depicted a home invasion gone bad. Hopefully, the local police agreed. If not, I’d done all I could to set things right. Who knows? Maybe Hot Blonde would have a promising future after all. Maybe she’d even get married again. Be happy. Who was I kidding? Hope was for dreamers and the innocent. Not the lost and the fallen. Three hours from Freemont, my cell phone buzzed. A text. I slowed the car and pulled off the highway to read it. Click link below. I did. A headline from the Concord Herald popped open. A follow-up to one from two weeks prior: Manhunt for Jilted Police Officer Continues: Prime Suspect in Murders of Wife & Lover I closed the link and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. I’d have to ditch it and the guns before crossing into Mexico. I rubbed my cheek with the back of my hand. The scruff was thick as thatch. Soon, I’d be unrecognizable. I turned up the radio. Johnny Cash crooned “Down in the Valley.” A ballad in three-quarter time. My finger tapped out the beat on the edge of the steering wheel. His soulful voice burrowed deep into my shattered heart. In a few more hours, it would be sun-up. A new day. I pulled onto the dark, lonely road and headed for the horizon. About the author: James Patrick Focarile resides in the Northwest. He holds an undergraduate degree from Rutgers University and an M.F.A. from Brooklyn College. His literary work has appeared in the following: Mystery Tribune, Shotgun Honey, Close To The Bone, Kings River Life, Pulp Modern Flash and more. |
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