The soft collar of the borrowed flight jacket cradled Gunselle’s neck as she leaned back in the truck’s cab and rolled her eyes to stare at the man who picked her up. The driver was a real wolf, Mike told her. He’d stop for any lone female with her thumb out. Especially someone as gorgeous as Gunselle.
Now he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Luckily, there was no traffic to collide with.

     “I could open up for forty bucks,” she said, pushing her hand through unbrushed auburn hair. Sometimes it was fun to play desperate. “I’m dead broke.”

     “Forty?” He guffawed. “Jesus. You’re not a movie star.”

     “I should be,” she said, motioning for him to pull over. He’d stop. She knew men.

     Slowing onto gravel, he jerked the emergency brake and shut off the engine. Gunselle could see the revolver clamped under the dash, grip out, within easy reach. Just as Mike said. A shotgun lay at the man’s feet. She noticed that as she climbed in.

     “Forty, huh?” he said, mulling over a foregone conclusion. “That’s rich, but you’re pretty enough. And I like to help a girl when I can.” He pulled his wallet and dug out a pair of double sawbucks. She could see he was flush. He was paid up front for the job.

     Gunselle opened the door. The man drew his features into a frown.

     “The cab reeks of sweat and motor fuel,” she said. “And I’m better on my back if I can stretch out and get my legs around you.” She touched his thigh. “I’ll bet there’s soft ground under those cottonwoods.”

     The man smiled and opened his door, turning his back on her as he dropped to the road. Gunselle finally jumped down as he cleared the front of the truck. The blood-red tire rims caught her eye. With an unpracticed giggle, she ran toward the trees. He followed. As they disappeared into the shadows, she turned to face him. He leered at her trim hips as she backed into the trees, farther from the road. A car sped by on the highway. His eyes traveled from the denim trousers she rarely wore to her chest in the open leather jacket, then to her face, to her perfect lips, the dimpled chin, like Ava Gardner.

     His smile flattened when he saw the pistol.

     “Is that mine?” he asked.

     “It is.”

     “Give it to me.”

     Gunselle fired one bullet into his belly. Birds ripped through leafy branches above, startled by the sound. As he crumpled to his knees and fell forward, she squeezed another round into the top of his head. She was a good shot.

     Slipping out of the leather jacket, Gunselle rolled up the sleeves of her flannel shirt, then took hold of the man’s feet and dragged him farther into the trees, where she dropped him with relief, gasping from the exertion as she sat on a log and caught her breath. After a few minutes, she got up and stripped him of his clothes, his wedding ring, and his fat wallet, then covered his naked body with branches blown down in a recent storm. She’d burn the clothes and empty wallet. The ring was gold. There was no inscription.
                                                                 *
     A few hours later, Gunselle steered the truck into a gas station in Vacaville. She hauled Douglas Aircraft parts around Clover Field in Santa Monica during the war, when the bar-girl roles dried up at Paramount. She was proud of her driving skills.

Ordering the wide-eyed kid pumping gas to fill the tank, she strode into the diner, knowing full well he was still staring at her. Inside, she made her way to a phonebooth, pulling the door closed behind her. After dropping coins into the box, she dialed the number she was given.

     “Hey,” she said to the man who answered. She didn’t recognize his voice. “Let me talk to Mike.”

     “This is Mike.”

     “Bullshit. Where is he?”

     “Who wants to know?”

     She hung up. Mike’s place was hit. He was waiting for her to call and let him know everything went according to plan, to give her final directions to the warehouse. Someone must have gotten wind of the double-cross. Gunselle’s heart beat heavily as she stared into the future. All she could see was a stolen truck and a load of top-quality furs. The furs were already stolen once. 
                                                                      *
     The following day, Gunselle settled into the soft couch at her friend’s house on Potrero Hill. He lived in the mountains most of the time, but she had a key. He’d understand. Just out of a bath, gazing at the sunset in his robe, she took a sip of good red wine. The driver paid for it.

     She left the truck unlocked in the Fillmore area, keys on the seat. It would be gone by now. Mike didn’t know her real name. He was probably dead. A hundred beaver and lynx coats hung from nails she pounded into the basement’s exposed joists. Expensive stuff in the Tuxedo style, with saddle shoulders, draped sleeves, and turned-back cuffs. It took her all night to transfer the load in darkness. Each coat would fetch two hundred dollars retail. Gunselle did a lot of modelling. She knew clothes. Maybe she’d open her own shop one day. 

     Letting her head roll back, she stared at the ceiling, no idea what to do tomorrow.

​About the author:
​
Russell Thayer received his BA in English from the University of Washington and worked for decades at large printing companies. He currently lives in Missoula, Montana.

     ​    Flora, of course, wanted everything perfect for the reception. 

     She only came into the ancient, colonnaded house through a legal fluke – a will invalidated by lack of witness signature, resulting in the place being put up for sale. Twenty-three years she spent envying that estate, especially the rose garden ringing it like a laurel placed on the hill’s brow; beautiful enough to ensure old Ms. Rathshin won the county’s annual Garden Parade season after season. Regardless of whatever exotic additives Flora hoed into her soil, no matter the varieties of flower she planted, how many ceaseless hours of toil she spent or who she bought compost from, her garden just couldn’t compete. Really, it was silly of her to even try.

     Beyond her perennial success in the Parade, Ms. Rathshin enjoyed a ghoulish local reputation. Some averred she died years before but crawled back out of her grave, intent on keeping her house and gardens for all eternity. Ergo, her actual death the previous year came accompanied by a sense of surreal expectation, especially since her body was interred on the premises. Surely she’d be back by Monday, tottering about the roses dead-heading, chasing off children and visitors with her pruning shears? But the old bat stayed firmly in the ground, much to Flora’s relief. She paid a substantial amount of her late husband’s fortune to acquire the old pile and, far more importantly, the grounds. 

     Now it was August, time once again for the annual Garden Parade. And Flora, of course, wanted everything perfect for the reception.

     She spent the last three days manically trimming away at the roses. Magnificent, sprawling plants, rising tall as a man; bees drowsed in their ruffled blossoms, blood reds and bile yellows and a strange kind of pinkish color, like opening lips. Flora never liked roses, preferring the mutability of marigolds, cosmos, and other annuals. Dedicating herself to tending Rathshin’s plot robbed her of the usual joy she found in gardening, but it would all be worth it when that snooty regional chapter of the American Horticultural Society finally presented her with the Green Ribbon!

     The cook helped her set up a table with refreshments, a cluster of brightly-colored balloons tethered overhead. Punch, finger foods, scones, a floral arrangement – good. Bright sun, blossoming roses–Flora felt almost sick with their scent–and the house all spic-and-span, windows polished and gleaming, granite facade scrubbed pristine. Surely she would receive the ribbon not just for appropriating Ms. Rathshin’s efforts, but for all the improvements resulting from her own hard work and sweat. Not that hard work and sweat ever got me anywhere before…

     Frowning, Flora accidentally clipped off a clump of roses. They fell and entangled in a lower bower; she swore, reaching in with one gloved hand. Overbalancing, she toppled forward, tearing up her sleeves and blouse on inch-long thorns as branches whipped across her face, leaving a trail of bloody scratches. 

     “Damn you, Rathshin!” she snarled through a huff, then scrambled backward, pulling up a root-like creeper which clung to her stocking’s hem. Something round and pale popped out of the dirt, dragged along by the green tangle, rolling into the sunlight and grinning at Flora’s bleeding face with a sense, though no conscious intent, of sardonicism.

     Flora mostly managed to avoid thinking about the clusters of metatarsals she dug up over the last few months, the pieces of finger bone and chunks of vertebrae and, at least twice, whole femurs she dismissed as leftovers from an old barbecue pit. It was all quite inconvenient, finding these bits of mortal remains, taxing Flora’s well-honed abilities of denial to their limit. She prayed her rosary and dumped the bones out back, where quite a sizable pile built up. So far, however, she hadn’t found anything obviously, absolutely, without any shadow of a doubt human. 

     Now the skull grinned up at her, empty sockets clogged with soil and rose roots, crown showing where the victim’s head was split open by multiple blows of some sharp implement. Irrefutable proof of murder, discovered just before the board arrived with dour faces and clicking pens, truffle-hunting for any imperfection in the garden Rathshin maintained to sumptuous supremacy! At last, Flora knew her secret. 
​
     “Oh no,” she said, seemingly speaking to the skull, “you’re not robbing me of that ribbon again, you bitch!” Grabbing her trowel, she hastily covered up the grisly find, tamping down the earth just as five neutral-colored cars pulled up the long driveway, sunlight glinting from their tinted windows.
                                                                *
     “Really, Flora, I have to say you’ve done wonders. The grounds look splendid, that’s always a given. But the house! Why, you wouldn’t think it was the same place at all. Wide open to the world, not shut up and cramped, with every window shade rolled down… All it did was make people talk, spreading those vicious rumors about visitors who came and never left. Such poppycock! Ms. Rathshin must be rolling in her grave out of gratitude. I’ve heard she was buried on the property, only clause of the will they honored – but as far from the rose garden as possible, what a queer choice! You’d think… ah, but who knows what went on in that mind of hers? Of course there’s no question as to your receiving the Green Ribbon.”
​
About the author:

Scott J. Couturier is a poet & prose writer of the Weird, macabre, & darkly fantastic. Currently he works as a copy & content editor for Mission Point Press, living an obscure reverie in the wilds of northern Michigan with his partner/live-in editor & two cats.

     “Wave goodbye,” she said.
     “I’m not going anywhere.”
     “Oh, yeah, you are. You just don’t know it yet.”
     She rolled over, one voluptuous hip emerging from the covers like a sleek fish. She took a swig from the bottle by the bed, held it out to him. He chugged, as much for the taste of her lips as for the burn of the bourbon. She gave him a little shove.
     “Damn it, Stella, why do you have to be so cold?”
     She laughed. “You knew what you were getting into the first time we got together.”
     He shifted, heaved himself off the mattress. “What does someone have to do to get through to you?”
     “You really want to know?”
     “Yeah, of course I do.” 
     “Bring me the head of John the Baptist.”
     “What the—?”
     He watched her lovely throat ripple with laughter. He reached out. She pushed his hand away. 
     “Okay, but seriously,” she said.
     “Seriously.” He knelt by the side of the bed, gripped those lovely shoulders, felt her heat, fell into her eyes. Just touching her like this, he was hard again. She was the most fascinating woman. 
     “Seriously. I’d do anything.”
                                                               

     That was why, two weeks later, he was running out of oxygen, eighteen feet underwater near Key Largo, drilling a hole into the hull of a yacht. Could he break through the hull before he had to come up for air again? Doubtful. If only he learned to scuba dive. 
     The drill kicked back and bit his hand. Blood spumed in the water. He breached, sputtered, went down again. Another forty seconds, and he was in. He set the explosive and kicked hard for the shore.
     Stars painted the night sky silver. He lay in the shallows, catching his breath and listening to the cicadas cree. Then the night exploded, and rubble rained down.
                                                             

     It was just his bad luck that his rental car blew a rim on the rutted sand track leading away from the inlet. Worse luck that the fire-truck chose that same rutted route to catch the blaze.
     Better luck that lazy police work and Florida’s lax lawmaking landed him just nine years for involuntary manslaughter.

     She was long gone when he got out. But he was too far gone to let it slide. 
     He found her, finally. Living in luxurious squalor in Bimini. She was asleep when he broke in, sprawled on satin sheets, her skin tanned the color of wheat toast except where the white bikini lines cradled her breasts and the honeypot between her legs.
     “I never loved you,” he told her.
     “Oh, yeah, you did,” she snarled. 
     She was right. Another thing he hated her for.
     “It’s not too late,” she said.
     “It was too late for me the minute I met you. “
     He lay on top of her, licked that cinnamon throat. Then bit it with his knife. Blood soaked the sheets. Like blood drifting in water. Like the bitter end of his life, flooding away from him. 
​
About the author:

Susan Kuchinskas mashes genres with impunity in the San Francisco Bay Area. She’s the author of two science fiction/detective novels, Chimera Catalyst and Singularity Syndrome. Her crime, science fiction and erotica has appeared in a variety of journals and zines, including Shotgun Honey, Rock and a Hard Place, Terror House and the Sisters in Crime anthology Fault Lines. Find out more at kuchinskas.com or follow her on Twitter.
 

     Denny and Sam hated each other with the passion reserved only for terrible roommates. 

     Sam hated that Denny ate his food even when Sam wrote his name on containers or put leftovers in his own unique purple plastic storage-wear. How many times did he ask, beg, and threaten the younger man hoping that one day his wishes would be at least considered, if not honored? So far, no dice.

     Denny, for his part, believed that Sam might be the devil. Not in a Biblical way, of course, but he went on and on about how the carpet needed vacuuming and the fridge needed cleaning, how Denny’s laundry emitted the particularly musty odor of stale sweat and athleticism.
 
     Sam complained about Denny’s girlfriends spending the night, and yeah, maybe they got a little loud, but it wasn’t Denny’s fault that Sam was too worried about cleaning and eating sweets to ever get laid.
 
     Besides all of that, Sam was also just downright mean to Denny, calling him lunkhead and moron, telling him he was a waste of space and water. “You’ll never be anything, Denny-boy! You’re too fucking stupid!” That rightly smarted, and Denny, usually very mild and passive for all his supposed obnoxious behavior, got mad.
 
     The day Denny drank some of Sam’s chocolate milk right out of the carton, Sam watched from the living room with a scowl as Denny chugged then wiped his mouth clean. Denny then picked up a small bag of powdered doughnuts from the counter and tossed the bag to Sam. If Sam saw Denny’s grin, as the milk carton crumpled in his hand, Sam might not have eaten any.

        But Sam didn’t see it and only smiled back.
 
     “What are these for?” he asked as he pulled the first doughnut from the bag. His joy was almost creepy, making Denny more scornful than usual.

     “Just because. I get it now, that I shouldn’t eat your food.” He shook the crumpled chocolate milk container. “Sorry about this. I promise to be better.”

     ​“No reason to bother,” said Sam through a mouth of doughnut. “I actually got that for you. I don’t mind if you eat some of my food. I’ll just tack the cost onto your rent and shop accordingly.”

     “Really?” said Denny, feeling bad for the first time since he devised his plan.
 
     “Yeah, I feel like all of our problems with each other are going to be over real soon.”

     “I guess so.” Denny wore a hangdog look. Too late to turn back. Maybe he should’ve thought this through a little longer. His mouth went dry, and he took another big swig of chocolate milk, feeling suddenly and strangely tired.

     ​“So, um, I lied…” Sam said. He began coughing. It turned to choking. Piece of doughnut must’ve gotten lodged, he thought, clutching at his throat.
 
     “Sorry, man,” Denny said. Sam started turning blue. “You aren’t choking, your throat is closing up because of the--”

     Denny cut off as the room began to pulse and spin. He looked at the half-empty milk carton, as Sam, through his gagging, expelled a single rusty hinge giggle before he began thrashing in his chair.

     Denny dropped the carton to the floor, lost his footing and crashed forward, landing in Sam’s lap. Before Sam’s world went black, one more dry, grating, airless chuckle escaped his throat as Denny’s body relaxed. In death’s final convulsion, Sam’s arms dropped from his throat, his right hand landing on Denny’s head. 

     “In an apparent double suicide, two men, living as roommates, were found dead in their midtown apartment. Suspected of ingesting poison, leaving friends and relatives shocked and confused, Denny Riggs and Sam Hendricks died holding each other. Sandy Riggs, Denny’s sister, has stated that the tragedy was preventable, as both the Riggs and Hendricks families would have shown support for the men’s relationship had they known about it.”

​About the author:
​
Shayne K. Keen lives in Northern Michigan with his boyfriend and their two cats. His work has appeared recently in the anthology "A Walk in a Darker Wood" published by Oxygen Man Books and in the "Weirdbook Zombie Annual."

     The man in the black baseball hat nodded. “Sam.”

     The man in the green flannel and gray Dockers nodded back. “Sam.”

     Brief and weird, their mid-morning salutations ended. Sam walked into the Halloween shop and out of the sun.

     The other Sam, eyes probing his surroundings from under the shadow of his baseball cap, sauntered into the sporting goods store. 

     The cell in Sam’s Dockers buzzed as he entered. Spider-webs and ghouls hung from the ceiling tiles. Haunting music full of groans and terrified screams gurgled out of the store’s shitty sound system. It wasn’t often he ran into other thugs. Occasionally sure. One of the top Yakuza guys had a thing for City Lights. He saw the guy there a few times. 

     This was the first time he saw Sam Hamilton. Both worked the streets: hired muscle, theft, you name it. Hamilton, the other Sam, worked mostly for the Gianni family now, but still did odd jobs when the bills got too high. In San Francisco, everything was too high.

     He answered the call as he passed a vampire display. Thing had everything from graveyard cookie-jars and fang mugs to Bela Lugosi tank tops and plastic capes. A pair of shadows followed him. Two big guys with slicked black hair, black polo shirts, and gold chains.

     Sam turned his attention to his call. “Think I’m in the right row. Which is it?” He examined one of the costumes on the display wall. Sexy nurse? “Hell, no.” Sam dropped the sultry costume as if it were on fire. “No daughter of mine is going out dressed like this. It’s fucking Halloween, not Las Vegas. Pick something else.”

     He listened. Nearby, the goons in polo shirts tried on various rubber masks. Full of Covid, Sam figured. Shots or no shots, they had to be breathing that shit in. They settled on poop emoji masks. Whimsical, cute in its grossness, and not a bad choice. Had a bit of character, these guys, if not a lot of brains. 
“Not discussing this. Why not a zombie?” he asked. “Because I said so. Not old enough.”

     The lights went out. Sam tensed. A woman’s scream erupted from the opposite side of the store. Much louder than the canned screams in the speakers. Must have been a third goon he didn’t see. One to hit the lights.
 
     Place still had power. Animatronic displays kept moving, casting red and blue lights over his face. Strobe-lights flashed from robotic monsters to his right. Sam whispered into his phone. “Not even when you’re sixteen. Not having this conversation. Listen, gotta call you back. Love you.”

     The masked thugs were like oncoming mountains. 

     “You’re Sam, right?” one asked.

     They’d get him long before the virus got them. 

     Sam threw himself toward the strobing lights just as one produced a firearm. By the time the guy popped off the first shot, Sam was gone. The bullet exploded into a ceramic haunted house, raining jagged bits of October fun onto the floor. The goons ambled forward as the store erupted into pandemonium. 

     Sam heard screams, desperate calls for calm, but focused on his own safety. A fire exit glowed against the far wall. He doubted he’d get there before the poop emojis got another bead on him. The hell did he do to these guys?
 
     A strobe light nearby provided brief flashes of visibility. They didn’t appear around the corner. Probably thought he had a gun of his own. 

     Sam heard a cannon blast and felt the divider burst behind him. They blasted through the display. One shot, two shots, three. Rubber masks and twisted metal filled the air. He dropped to his knees, adrenaline thudding in his veins. Halloween debris fell around him. He’d have to bolt for the exit.
 
     Sam was guilty of a lot of things, but nothing he could think of brought hired killers into the equation. He beat up a lawyer. Nearly drowned on a job, but that guy died. Sure, he was guilty of a lot, but…

     His cell buzzed in his Dockers. He ignored it and started army-crawling for the exit. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Fucking Halloween. Wasn’t what it used to be. 

     The shooters weren’t looking for him. Thought they hit him square in the throat. Gold chains, brawn, and hip-rockets?
 
     These were Mafia men. 

     “Christ, idiots followed the wrong Sam.” He said it louder so they could hear. “You got the wrong fucking Sam!”

     Shitheads emerged from either end of the aisle. Sam knew he was done. He flopped over on his back and propped himself on his elbows. Both carried gats, he saw.
 
     “You expect us to believe that, buddy?”

     “Know the cameras got you? Should have worn the masks when you came in.”

     The poop to his right took aim.
 
     “Look, there’s another Sam around. Works for the Giannis. Bet you want that guy. I’m small potatoes.”

     The hitman’s chest blew out before he could fire. The force threw him against a mannequin dolled up in a unicorn jumper. A red mist choked the air over his shoulder. The second emoji turned just in time to take a hit in the arm. Bullet chewed a bite off his elbow. He backed off and found cover. Looking up, Sam saw the other Sam step around an animatronic version of the Exorcist girl. 

     The newcomer walked past him, gun raised. “Sam.”

     Sam nodded and started getting to his feet. “Mr. Hamilton.”

     “Better get out of here. I’ll handle this guy. Family business.”

     Sam made his way to the exit. “They got a guy at the lights, too. Suppose you knew that.”

     “Already got him.”
 
     Sam hit the street without hearing another shot. His pants buzzed again. This time he answered.
 
     “Gotta find another store. This one’s closed. While I look for another place, you look up something PG-rated. Why did I say I love you? I’m your father. Not having this conversation…”

About the author:

Patrick Whitehurst writes from Tucson, Arizona, usually with a chihuahua in his lap. He's the author of five nonfiction books for Arcadia Publishing and the novellas “Monterey Noir” and “Monterey Pulp”. His short stories have appeared on the Punk Noir website, in the anthology “Shotgun Honey Presents: Recoil,” in Pulp Modern magazine, and elsewhere.

     "So," he began, tapping manicured fingers on my freshly polished desk. "I hope I'm in the right place. I need some help."

     I went through the motions and pulled out a pen and memo pad, keeping a close eye on him. I've been in this business over ten years and never yet made a bad judgment call. He looked genuine enough; the balding pate, tanned face and flashy tie, probably from his latest gal. All my business was word of mouth. He was referred by a satisfied former client.

     I pointed to the sign, scripted in small brass letters, on the wall above my head: Discreet Services, Ltd. "That's what I'm here for."

     "She does a lot of volunteer work. She plans charity balls and the like. The hospital benefit is coming up this weekend. I was thinking maybe a robbery when we get home. There's a struggle, I get hurt somewhat but she, uh..." His voice faltered for the first time, "She passes away."

     “Passes away”! I resisted the urge to snicker--not good for client relations--but the way men reached for euphemisms in my office never ceased to amaze me. I shook my head. "Won't work."

     His broad shoulders sagged slightly. “Why not?”

     I sat straight in my leather chair, ticking off reasons on my fingers. "Husband's always the first suspect; you must know that. That's why you came to me. Besides, a robber isn’t going to brutally attack the weaker target and leave the stronger one alone. Any criminal in his right mind would go after you first and hardest. In any real robbery, the odds are you'd be the one to go.  Cops would see through it in a minute."

     "Oh, but I thought if I could describe the thief..."

     "A Black man in his thirties wearing a knit cap?" I couldn't keep the sarcasm completely out of my voice.

     "Something like that."

     "That card's been played out," I said.

     "So what's left?" he asked, a little hostile now. I probably pushed him far enough. I couldn't help it; it was one of the few non-monetary perks of the job.

     "I'll take care of it. That's why you're here."

     "How much?" He pulled out his checkbook.

     I put up one hand like a stop sign. Some men were brain-dead when it came to murder.  No wonder business was booming. "My bank account's on Grand Cayman. When I get confirmation of the wire, I get cracking."

     He blanched when I named my price. I shrugged my shoulders. 

     "I never said altering your marital status would be cheap."

     "I guess it's cheaper than divorce," he grumbled, tucking his checkbook back in his suit jacket. "What's next?"

     "The day the money's wired, spend the night in the city. You have a corporate condo there, don't you?" He nodded. "Schedule an early breakfast meeting the next day. Go out that night to dinner, to a ballgame, something with a friend, not a girlfriend," I warned. His eyes flickered but he kept quiet. "Make yourself visible and then change your mind about staying overnight. Tell your friend, the bartender, whoever, and come home at midnight. Not a minute before and not a minute after."

     "Aren't you going to tell me more?" He was the typical client: a man used to being in control.

     "The less you know, the better. You don't want any details."

     "You're the boss." It probably was the first time he ever uttered those words.

     The money came through a few days later. At precisely midnight my client cautiously opened the front door of his house and stepped into the darkened marble foyer.

     His wife shot him right through the heart.

     I flicked on the chandelier with gloved fingers, and gave her an approving nod. "When the cops come, you tell them the story we went over. You were sleeping, your husband was spending the night in the city, you heard someone downstairs. You thought he was a burglar."

     She dropped the gun and clasped my hands. "I can't thank you enough."

     I gently freed myself. "Call the police. Don't waste any more time."

     I slipped out through the solarium as she picked up the phone. She'd do fine; she was a smart woman. Smart enough to offer double my fee when I called her. They don't all do that. Most of them don't believe me. But that was their problem, not mine. This job would finance some serious R & R for a good, long while. I've heard the Dutch West Indies are lovely this time of year.    
​
About the author:

Christine Eskilson received honorable mentions in the 2012 Al Blanchard Short Crime Fiction Contest and the 2012 Women’s National Book Association (WNBA) Annual Writing Contest, third place in the 2017 WNBA Annual Writing Contest, and first place in the 2018 Bethlehem Writers Roundtable Short Story Contest.  Her stories have appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies.

     The body lay in the trash-strewn alley as if it was just another broken thing someone tossed away. Like a shroud, my shadow fell across the man’s face, cast by the forensic techs’ floodlights. I knelt on the cracked blacktop to get a better look. He was about my age, pushing fifty, but more powerfully built and wearing a suit that probably cost what I made in a month – at least before the blood ruined it. ID gave him the name Ken Wallace and his expression was strangely composed, as if death brought some peace he always longed for. I hoped that was true, because two bullets to the chest was a high price to pay for it.

     “Sergeant Malone!”

     I turned at my name and struggled back to my feet, knees popping and protesting. The job got harder every year, but not in the ways I imagined when I was a rookie.

     A uniformed officer named Kemp, about the same age as my son, pushed a medium-sized, nervous-looking man towards me. His hairline was in full retreat and sweat sheened the bare skin. Like Wallace, his suit was also better than mine. “Sergeant Malone, this guy was with the vic when he was shot.”

     “He tell you that?” I asked Kemp, intentionally ignoring the third man.

     “Yessir. Folks in the bar pointed him out and he told me himself afterwards. Says his name’s Bryce Heisner.”

     I looked at Heisner. His gaze shifted downward.

     “Okay, Kemp,” I told the uni. “Leave Mr. Heisner with me, but don’t go too far.” Kemp nodded and backed off several paces, keeping his eye on the two of us.

     I said, “You seem awfully nervous, Mr. Heisner.”

     “Wouldn’t you be?” he snapped. “I witnessed a murder, for God’s sake.”

     “Did you?” One of my eyebrows rose with the question.

     “What are you implying? You think that I'd lie about-" He broke off and looked me directly in the eye. “Ken and I have been friends since college, officer. Believe me, I want the animal that did this caught." He made a noise in his throat. "Shot down in a filthy alley. It's horrible. Disgusting. I can't stand guns. They terrify me – and with good reason. To think I was so close to... My God, you can’t go anywhere in this city anymore.”

     Heisner was talking a lot, but not really saying anything.

     “Let’s hear what happened then.”

     “Like I said,” Heisner began, “Ken and I have known each other since college. He went into law, I went into finance. I’ve been his broker for years, but aside from business now and then, we hardly see each other anymore. He suggested we get a drink.”

     “He pick this place?” I asked, thinking that Marky’s Bar wasn’t exactly where you’d expect a lawyer and his broker to meet. It wasn’t quite a dive, but it was about as far from class as you could get without being one.

     Heisner nodded. “We used to drink here when we were in school. It’s… changed more than we realized.”

     “Sure. Go on.”

     “Well, we had our drink, caught each other up, and talked a little business. About nine, I guess it was, I said I better call it a night. Ken offered to share a cab uptown. We left through the bar’s side-door, out into the alley here. A man down at the far end stepped out of the shadows, pointing a gun at us. It was one of those cheap little Freedom .380s, the kind you can get used for fifty or sixty dollars. He demanded we toss him our wallets and Ken just sort of…” He shrugged and shook his head. “Lost it, I guess. He charged right at the mugger, making for the gun, I suppose. The man fired twice, watched Ken fall, and then turned and ran. It all happened so fast, I could hardly take it in.” He shook his head again. “You know the rest. A crowd of people came out of the bar and I guess someone called 911.”

     “Uh huh,” I said, noncommittally. “Anything else you can tell me?”

     Heisner squared his jaw and clenched his fist. “Just that I’ll never forget the face of that… that murderer. It’s burned into my memory. I’d recognize him anywhere.”

     “Sure,” I told Heisner. “Most people can recognize their own reflections in a mirror.” I gestured towards Kemp. “Cuff Mr. Heisner, will you?”

     “Wha, wha, what?” Heisner stammered. He tried to shake Kemp’s hands off, but the young officer had no problem controlling him. “What’s the meaning of this? You think I killed Ken?”

     I nodded. “I’m all but sure of it. We’ll get the rest of it later, motive and so forth, once you feel like telling the whole story, but you’ve practically already confessed.”

     “How?” Heisner demanded, his voice shrill. “What do you mean? What makes you think I killed Ken? We were friends for God’s sake! Why would I kill him?”

     “You’re his broker, so I’m guessing it’s about money,” I ventured. “As for the how, you know an awful lot about what kind of gun this supposed mugger used for a man who says he hates guns and wants nothing to do with ‘em. You identified the make from a glance, in a dark alley, something even an expert might not have been able to do, and knew how much a used one runs. You stashed that gun around here someplace, and once we locate it, I’m sure forensics will find your prints on it. Even if you wiped the outside or wore gloves, you probably forgot the cartridges.”

     I looked at Kemp over Heisner’s head. “They always forget the magazine and the cartridges. We get a lot of good thumb-prints off them.” I took a last look at Heisner. “I hope Ken Wallace wasn’t your lawyer. You’re gonna need a good one.

     “Read him his rights and get him out of here,” I told Kemp.

     Looking back at Wallace, I sighed. Some days, the job was rough, but it’s not actually the work. Not usually. It’s the people. Even when they make it this easy, it’s always hard to take.

About the author:

Brandon Barrows is the author of the novels STRANGERS' KINGDOM, BURN ME OUT and THIS ROUGH OLD WORLD. He has published over seventy stories, selected of which are collected in the books THE ALTAR IN THE HILLS and THE CASTLE-TOWN TRAGEDY. He is an active member of Private Eye Writers of America and International Thriller Writers and lives in Vermont by a big lake with a patient wife and two impatient cats. http://www.brandonbarrowscomics.com

     Jack Becker, owner and CEO of PESTS IN PERIL, learned he was allergic to bee stings the hard way. He did an overnight hospital stay after being thrice stung at age six. Since then, his hatred wasn’t limited to flying creatures. He despised all insects, butterflies, moths, rodents, caterpillars, you name it. 

     Founding his own exterminating business gave him great pleasure on a professional and personal basis. He struggled in the beginning, but after five years, managed to keep the business afloat. Things went smoothly enough, until two big, national extermination companies nearly put him out of business. 

       That’s when Becker decided he needed to do something different. 

     Inspiration finally slapped his face in the form of one Mrs. Ellsworth, the elderly widow on Wilderness Circle. She came from money, old money. Becker just landed her as a customer. Her basement was huge, smelly, damp, and unused. Becker found no evidence of infestation of any kind, but Mrs. Ellsworth didn’t have to know that. He brought a dead mouse with him, came up the stairs to confront the homeowner.

     “I’m afraid you have a problem, ma’am,” he said in his professional voice.

     “Oh?” she responded, coughing into a frilly handkerchief.

     “Mice. Plenty of them.” He produced the dead rodent.

     “Oh my! Please, get that creature out of my sight. Do what you have to do, but please dispose of them. Quickly!”

     That’s all Becker had to hear. He spent every week in the Wilderness Circle basement, hanging out for at least an hour, emerging with a report. Each time, he told Mrs. Ellsworth he was making progress, but the problem was a serious one, and that with continued, regular visits, he would be able to eradicate her problem. Becker billed her monthly at exorbitant rates. She didn’t seem to care as long as the mice were taken care of. Over time, Becker raised her rates, sucking more money from her. 

     “They’re raising the price of the really good chemicals,” he’d tell her. “I hate to pass the cost on to you, but I have no choice,” he’d say.

     “That’s quite all right,” came the reply. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

     Becker’s only concern at this point was Mrs. Ellsworth’s health. It seemed to deteriorate each time he saw her. The coughing became worse. Week after week she looked paler.

     “Maybe you should see a doctor,” Becker said, a year after first concocting the scam. Not that he had any feelings one way or the other for the old woman, but he feared if she died, that would be the end of his meal ticket. She helped keep PESTS IN PERIL in the black.

     “Nonsense,” she’d snap back. “What do doctors know? They only take your money. They string you along. I don’t trust the best of them,” she said. “My money isn’t going to be spent on tomfoolery. Not at my age.” 

     ​“Still, Mrs. Ellsworth, it might be wise if you at least–”

     “I’ll hear nothing more about it,” she said between hacks. 

     A week later, Becker’s gravy train ended. Mrs. Ellsworth died. He coughed when he heard the news.

                                                                  ***

     The heavy construction equipment assembled on Wilderness Circle. Becker pulled his car over and got out.

     “What’s going on?” he asked what appeared to be the crew chief.

     The man pushed back his hard hat. “We’re razing the house. Place is condemned.”

     “Why?” asked Becker, coughing.

     “Some sort of black mold. I can’t pronounce what it is. Starts with an ess. Started in the basement and extended all over the house. Shame. It’s a beautiful place.”

       Becker whipped a handkerchief out of his pocket and coughed up blood.

     “Hey, you might want to see a doctor about that,” the construction worker said.

About the author:

Bruce Harris writes crime and mystery stories. He is the author of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson: ABout Type (2006) and Anticipations in D. Martin Dakin's A Sherlock Holmes Commentary (2021).