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.
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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. Will swung the gun toward the crowd as he backed, leaving employees and patrons face down on the floor. It was the eighth bank he’d robbed, and a similar exit each time.
In and out in less than three minutes. Sprint around the corner to your ride. Remove mask. Drive the limit to the safe house. This time, though, it was different. He had an inside woman with access to the vault, and in his possession was more than two-hundred grand. He had to get gone. Not later. Now. But what about Tommy? His son needed life experience, and Will often wondered if he’d been too easy on the boy. The original plan was to leave him, fuck it, with his ex-wife, but turning onto the highway now, he couldn’t do it. Will sighed. “Shit…” He banged a U-y, conscious not to squeal the tires, and headed for Tommy’s school. When he pulled into the school’s pickup circle, Tommy was waiting. The kid hopped in, and they merged into traffic. As Will drove, Tommy stared silently out the side window like he always did. “How was school?” Will asked. “All right.” “How’re your classes?” “Pretty good.” “Exams coming up?” “Yup, in January.” “How are your marks?” “Good.” “Got plans for tonight? It’s Friiiiiiday,” Will sang, laughing. “Nah.” Will wished Tommy had something to do. A date, a party, anything other than studying alone in his room. But with an average in the high nineties in courses that Will had never heard of, Will couldn’t give Tommy a hard time. He spent his high school years drinking beer and chatting up girls, ripping ass on dirt bikes in the summer, and sledding in the winter. He liked to joke that he graduated with an A in living. What’s my plan here? Will thinks. I can’t take him with me. But I can say goodbye. “Listen,” Will said. “I’m going out of town for a while.” Tommy turned. “Who’d you rob this time?” The kid was smart, and Tommy chuckled. “I didn’t rob anyone.” Technically, that was true. “I just want to get away… for a while.” Cold, dry air hammered the truck as Will did the limit on the narrow, single lane road, one of the overused routes now that the city had grown. Snow covered the fields that surrounded the highway, and the sun hid behind gray clouds and a darkening sky. Will saw their turn in the distance when a brown blur flashed in his periphery. WHAM! Glass flooded the cab and snow plastered their faces. Will fought to keep the vehicle from rolling and they hit the bank hard, coming to a complete stop. His head bounced up and down like a bobblehead, the engine hissed, and he drifted into unconsciousness. In the dream, Will trampled through tall, summer grass, finding himself walking beyond the wooded area that marked the outline of his property. He looked down, realizing he held a child. Tommy. Will sat under a tree and rocked Tommy back and forth. A soft breeze mussed his hair, and the sun cast a glow on his forehead. “Dad! Wake up!” Will opened his eyes. How long was I out? Tommy hovered over him, talking. “Dad, you all right?” Blood leaked from Will’s forehead as he checked himself for broken bones. Seeing none, he fumbled for the seatbelt and clicked the button. “We hit something,” Tommy said. “It’s—it’s over there.” Will wrenched open the driver’s side door, and an ache gnawed behind his eyes. He followed his son to the shoulder of the highway. The deer couldn’t stand. It tried, but fell, moaning something awful. Will knew right away the animal would die, but Tommy didn’t know about that kind of thing. Will put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “You okay?” Tommy flinched. “Y—yeah, I think so. She’s dying.” “I know.” Blood trickled from the deer’s nostril. “What should we do?” Tommy said. “It’s suffering. Only one thing to do.” Will unsheathed a knife from his hip, flicked it open, and knelt. “No,” Tommy said, tugging on Will’s arm. “I’ll do it.” Will froze, shocked. Tommy had spent his life avoiding conflict. I don’t think he’s got the stomach for this. “You up for it?” Will said. “You treat me like a baby!” Tommy said with force. “I’m not weak. Give me that—” “Okay,” Will said, passing his son the knife. “Here you go.” Tommy gripped the knife with his right hand, knelt, and Will knelt beside him. “The jugular is here. Drag the knife across like this…” Will said, motioning with his empty hand. “There’ll be blood.” “I know,” Tommy said. Tommy’s lips moved slowly. Was he praying? And then he did what his father showed him. The blood poured forth, steaming in the frigid cold. It looked like reddish tar. They both stood, inert, and Will shuffled, nervous. They stayed like that for thirty seconds, staring into each other’s eyes, waiting. It felt confrontational, and that’s when Will saw it, the darkness in Tommy’s eyes. He still held the knife. “Take me with you,” Tommy said. “I—” Will began. “I can’t take you.” “You’ve never been much of a father,” Tommy said, letting the sentence fade. Tommy was right. Will spent half of the boy’s life in prison, absent for most of the rest. “Sometimes I do things I know are wrong. I can’t help myself.” Tommy said, “I saw the bags in the back of the truck. I know one’s full of cash.” He paused. “Take me with you.” Tommy flinched and Will readied for a blow. That’s when Tommy reached out and hugged him. A good, solid embrace. After Tommy let go, Will looked off into the distance. “You sure?” he said. Tommy nodded. “All right then.” Neither spoke as they headed toward the truck. Tommy checked his phone and Will gawked at his son, seeing him for the first time, and wondering how he got so lucky. About the author: Joel Nedecky is a writer and teacher from Winnipeg. His first novel, The Broken Detective, was shortlisted for an Arthur Ellis Award in 2023. Jerome crouched between a row of shrubs and trained his binoculars on a house across the street in a residential San Francisco neighborhood. The last light went off about an hour before; plenty of time for the old biddy to have fallen asleep. He stuffed the binoculars into his shoulder bag, slipped on a pair of gloves, pulled the sweatshirt hood over his head, and headed toward the place.
He halted, frozen for a moment, when a motion detector triggered a set of floodlights as he crossed the lawn. He scampered to the dark side of the house, jimmied open a window with a small crowbar, and crawled through. Inside, he detected faint, tinny sounds of music and crept toward a room with the glow from a TV screen. She was lying in bed watching a black-and-white movie. She turned to him when he entered and opened her mouth to scream, eyes shocked and bulging. He pinned her down and pressed a pillow over her head. She struggled a little, but quickly went limp. Afterward, he ransacked the room and others in the house to make it look like a robbery. He felt no remorse whatsoever as he walked toward his car, parked about a mile away. She’d lived long enough and he sure as hell didn’t want to wait another five or ten years for her to die of natural causes, since he was already forty—especially because longevity ran in the family on his mother’s side. No, he needed the money now, as the sole living beneficiary of the property—worth close to $700k based on his market research. He’d been working dead-end shit jobs for way too long and deserved a better life. He checked his watch after he settled in the car. There was more than enough time for him to get to his warehouse job. Everything went off without a hitch. He listened to first his favorite country western music and, later, sports-talk radio along the way. Two weeks passed. Jerome’s illusion of well-being received a jolt when he got a call from the SFPD, requesting that he come to the station and answer a few “routine questions” concerning the death of his aunt. He reluctantly complied, not wanting to arouse any more suspicions than they already might have. He didn’t sleep well that night. He sat in a downtown police station interrogation room, facing Detective Al Faraday, heavy set, square-jawed, with a military-style buzz cut, and Vivian Wu, a young woman with a severe gaze. At first, the questions were easy-going and covered general personal stuff. Later they asked him when he saw his aunt last and how her death affected him. He responded that he last saw her at his mother’s funeral five years before, and only found out that she died from the executor of her estate, informing him of his beneficiary status. With a tightened expression, Faraday leaned closer and asked him if he knew whether his aunt had any enemies. The question caught Jerome off guard. “Ah, no. Like I said, I haven’t seen her in years.” “The trouble is,” Faraday said, “there were some rather suspicious circumstances surrounding her death.” Jerome felt a tightening in his gut. “What do you mean?” “She had deep bruises around her nose. Someone pushed a pillow down on her face.” “With blood traces on the pillowcase,” Vivian added. “She'd been taking blood thinners," Faraday said, "according to the hospice nurse who found her the next day. It often causes such bruising.” The tightening in his gut became more acute. “So… you think someone murdered her?” he asked in a raspy voice. “And tried to make it look like a robbery. A lot of valuable stuff was left. Things thieves usually take like jewelry and expensive vases." “But who—” “Someone with a motive,” Vivian answered, staring intently at him. The pressure in his gut. Like he was ready to explode. “And then there’s the pictures the camera took after the motion detector lights went on,” Faraday said. A person creeping across the lawn. Couldn’t quite make out a face but our digital team are aces. They should come up with something soon.” Jerome began to feel faint. “Would you like some water?” Vivian asked. That evening, Faraday and Vivian sat in a bar and clinked shot glasses together. “So that’s how you run a bluff,” Faraday said. “But let me tell you, they aren’t all this easy.” “I could tell he was going to crack as soon as you shifted the line of questioning,” she said. “He was putty in my hands.” “The camera bluff broke him.” “Yeah, but all he had to do was lawyer up at that point and he’d be a free man now. Since there was no camera.” “He was too far gone,” she said. “Couldn’t do anything but confess.” “Some folks just aren’t fit for a life of crime.” “Such a waste though—huh?” “What do you mean?” he asked. “Haven’t you read the coroner’s report?” “Not yet.” “He would’ve gotten the inheritance in another month or two at the most. She had terminal cancer. Stage Five Pancreatic.” Faraday shook his head and signaled the barkeep for another round. About the author: A.R. Bender's short stories, flash fiction, and poetry have been published in numerous literary journals. He's also in the process of self-publishing his historical novel. In his spare time, he enjoys hiking off the grid and coaching youth soccer. Luna glided into the boutique hotel. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the lobby mirrors. Everything was perfectly in place: hair in a tight bun, cinched waist in her qipao dress, Louboutins accentuating her long legs.
“I’ll see you in five minutes,” read the text that popped up on her phone from an anonymous number. To think: they had once been neighbours, but he never gave her the time of day, back when she went by her birth name of Xiao Chen. Xiao Chen wasn’t like Xiao Hua, her prettier, docile sister who did what was expected of her. After school, Xiao Chen worked as a cashier and stripper. She partly did it to spite her mother. But at least Xiao Chen wasn’t sleeping with the dean of her medical school to maintain good grades on paper. Things began to change with a customer’s casual remark about how Xiao Chen could rake in more money with a couple of tweaks. The customer was a talent agent and handed her a plastic surgeon’s business card. “I send my influencers there all the time,” the customer explained. “They’ve got to look good from all angles on social media.” Xiao Chen figured she didn’t have much to lose. Her own mother and classmates had always bullied her over her nose. Dr. Wu, the plastic surgeon, walked Xiao Chen through her options. She chose an installment plan for a rhinoplasty and double eyelid surgery. “How do you feel?” Dr. Wu asked at her follow-up appointment. “My friend said I now look chic,” replied Xiao Chen. Dr. Wu beamed with pride. “I’m sure your quality of life will improve.” They shook hands after she signed up for future sessions of Skin Botox to get the glass skin of her dreams. Thus, Luna was born. The way people treated her pre- and post-surgery was like night and day. The new name commenced her new look and new life. No pain, no gain, was her mantra. Her satisfaction swiftly turned into grief when she learned how deadly the quest for beauty could be. Xiao Hua had always loathed the deep frown lines between her eyebrows. “They make me look so old and angry!” she wailed. “Just get some botox,” said The Dean. “It’s an easy treatment. I can do it for you the next time we’re together.” Xiao Hua dutifully trusted and followed his advice like a good student, but ended up being one of the rare cases of sudden death after the injections. The Dean was responsible for what happened, but had friends in the right places to make sure it didn’t end his career. It was almost comical how he didn’t recognize Luna when she rang the doorbell. They exchanged a smile as he led her to the jet black dining table where her body was to serve as a plate. One of his young guests, already in the room, set up the sushi on Luna’s body. She watched as the girl carefully laid out the pieces, carefully positioning a couple of unagi nigiri in the middle of her chest. Luna knew those were his favorite. She quickly unlocked one of the tiny charms on her bracelet when everyone turned their backs. A drop or two of flavorless, odorless tetrodotoxin landed on the unagi sushi. Tetrodotoxin came from the pufferfish, which required a licensed fugu chef to prepare. It paid to have friends in all the right places. It wasn’t long before The Dean started complaining about numbness in his lips and tongue. The guests freaked out when he collapsed and stopped breathing. Luna joined in the commotion before heading to the bathroom to calmly wash her hands and put on her qipao. She’d tell the police why she was there—“for business”—and in a few hours, she’d step out free as a bird into the glitzy nightlife outside. If only people could see beneath her pretty face. About the author: Jess Chua is a writer with a Venus in Scorpio and a little bit of a book hoarding problem. Her website is jesschua.com |
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