by Simon Wood
“I’ll be out of your hair soon,” Dicky said. “Just got to find a place to stay.”
“Don’t you got a place?”
“Not no more. Long story. Roommate disagreement. Kicked me out the night I saw you. I was fixing on sleeping in some patch of the desert. Getting drunk enough to put up with the coyotes and scorps. Then Craig showed up.”
“Sucks.”
“Terry wouldn’t even let me take my stuff.”
Ross started to worry that Dicky Dirt would never leave. It was one thing to help a guy who just got his ass handed to him, but he didn’t want this gross dude fusing to his couch. He’d already ruined his good towel.
“My sister said she knew a guy that had a room. I’m going to call him.”
Ross felt some relief, but wanted a sure thing.
“Won’t do much good,” Dicky said, “unless I can get my stuff. My money is with my stuff.”
“I can go by and get it.”
“It’s trickier than that. My old roommate is a dick of historic proportions. Terry wouldn’t give just hand you my stuff. I’ll have to get my money some other way. Maybe borrow a gun.”
“How much money are you talking about?” Ross said.
“Don’t know. Whatever I made in the last month selling weed. A couple grand. I don’t really count it until I need to.”
Ross never ignored an opportunity. He could definitely skim some off the top or better yet, tell Dicky that there was no money. Dicky would still have his clothes and toothbrush. Everyone would win.
“What’s the address?” Ross said. “I can break in when this dude Terry is out.”
“You would do that?” Dicky smiled. It made the corners of his mouth bleed. “I’ll pay you like a commission or a finder’s fee. Ten percent sound fair?
“Absolutely.” Ross gave him a pat on the shoulder. “More than fair.”
Dicky winced.
The house was the same as the others on the block, a stucco job with a terra cotta tile roof. The backyard fence was wood, not chain link, which meant that if Ross got back there, he could operate unseen from the street.
Ross parked just around the corner. Dicky fidgeted in the passenger seat trying to get comfortable.
“Terry’s car is in the driveway, but he’ll take off in the next hour. He always gets his dinner at that taco place where the Naugles used to be. The one off the freeway.”
“It’s been like twenty different things since the Naugles closed. Location is cursed.”
“No point in remembering the name.”
“What’s that? About eight, ten miles away?”
“Something like that. It’ll give you a half hour and change.”
“Should be plenty,” Ross said. He was getting excited. He hadn’t broken into a house since he was a teenager. And that hadn’t been to steal, but to watch people sleep. He was not proud of that creepy chapter in his life, but teenagers were morons, so also not unexpected.
“There’s a key in a fake rock near the back door. If it’s not there, you’ll need to bust a window. There’s no alarm though.”
“What all am I getting?”
“When you get inside, you’ll be in the kitchen. Go straight. There will be a hall to your right. Second door on the left. Two big duffel bags on the top shelf of the closet. Shouldn’t be heavy.”
“Do I got to worry about neighbors? Anyone going to call the cops?”
“It ain’t that kind of neighborhood.”
They stared straight ahead at the Ford F-150 in the driveway.
“Why did you give me your shirt at Boog’s?” Dicky asked.
“Hunh?” Ross turned to him. “I don’t know. I was leaving. It was a luau. I didn’t want you to look like a dick. Remembered all the shit you got in high school.”
“You were thinking of when we were kids?”
Ross shrugged, but movement in the driveway caught his attention.
The guy that walked out of the front door did not look like a Terry. He looked like a guy with a nickname. The Beast or Skullcrusher, if you were going right at it. Tiny or Peewee, if you were being ironic. A big Mexican dude in a wife beater, tattoo sleeves down both arms and trapezius muscles that connected his ears to his shoulders. Ross wasn’t convinced that the gargantuan could turn his head.
“That’s Terry?”
“That’s why I can’t just walk in and get my stuff.”
“He looks like a criminal. Or a monster. He looks like a monster criminal.”
“He’s a florist.”
“That guy arranges flowers for a living?”
“If you’re scared,” Dicky said, “you don’t have to do this.”
Of course Ross was scared, but he wasn’t about to let Dicky Dirt know that. He was the alpha in this equation.
He would use that fear. It was the adrenaline boost that he needed. He could still remember the buzz when he perved out as a teenager. The anticipation of breaking into someone else’s home was exhilarating. He had been a creepy little bastard.
Crossing the street in a crouch, he looked back at Dicky who gave him a smile and a thumbs-up.
Ross gave the street a quick look to the left and right. Clear. He climbed the wooden fence. Climb was generous. He lifted himself up to about half a chin-up, tried to swing up his leg, failed, started to pendulum back and forth until he finally hooked his ankle on the top of the fence. He stayed frozen in that position for a moment, not sure what was next. He wiggled his foot until it was over the fence more and eventually straddled it, splinters digging through his jeans into his balls. He hopped off the top and landed on his knees in the backyard. They didn’t make a comforting sound.
Dicky hadn’t said anything about a dog.
To be fair, Corgis weren’t traditional guard dogs, so maybe Dicky didn’t think the creature warranted a mention. A German Shepherd or a Rottweiler, sure, that would have come up. Adorably goofy didn’t mean that the damn thing didn’t have teeth.
Ross laughed at first as the tube of dog ran at him on its stubby legs. It stopped being funny when it grabbed his pant leg and pulled. The dog nicked his ankle with surprisingly sharp teeth. He kicked at it, but it was alarmingly agile for an animal with no knees.
“Screw it.” Ross stood up, pretending like the dog wasn’t there. He walked to the backdoor with the tenacious beast attached to his leg.
The bowl next to the door said “Lucky.” Ever the optimist, Ross took it as a good sign that the animal trying to sever his ankle arteries was his good luck charm.
That optimism lasted up until Lucky bit his hand when he lifted a rock to look for the key. The backyard was almost entirely rocks and every time he reached for one, Lucky snapped at him.
“That’s it,” Ross said, pointing at the dog. “Me and you, we got a problem.”
Ross picked up the dog. It squirmed in his arms and snapped at him. His first instinct was to throw it over the fence or onto the roof, but he didn’t believe in hurting animals. Except for geese, but they suck.
He looked around the backyard. There was a weight bench and a doghouse. That would do. He grabbed a twenty-five-pound plate with one hand, still holding the growling dog in the other. Ross chucked the dog into the doghouse and blocked the door with the plate, digging it into the ground, but making sure there was a small opening at the top so the dog could breathe.
He didn’t bother with finding the key. Ross chucked a twenty-pound dumbbell through the backdoor window and reached inside to unlock the door.
The kitchen was a kitchen. Who gives a shit about kitchens. He stubbed his toe and tripped on the dumbbell that he had thrown through the window. When he put his hand to the ground to catch his balance, he caught some broken glass.
“Damn it.”
His hand bled in a pour. He grabbed the dish towel that hung from the refrigerator door and quickly wrapped his hand. The towel smelled like parmesan cheese and dry salami. It immediately became s
aturated with blood.
Leaving a drip down the hallway, Ross walked to the second door on the left. It opened into a bedroom furnished with a mattress, a massive TV, and a game console of some kind. Ross had never gotten into gaming. He had gotten the Tempest high score at the 7-Eleven when he was fifteen and decided to retire on top. He never looked back.
It was pretty much how he pictured Dicky Dirt’s bedroom. The guy was such a loser. He didn’t know if he should take the console too, but Dicky had only said the two duffels. If there was room, he would throw it inside.
The closet door was locked, which Ross found strange. The closet doors at his place didn’t have locks. It would have been easier if Dicky had told him about it and given him a key, but there were a lot of ways to open a locked door.
Ross walked back to the kitchen, picked up the dumbbell, cut himself again, swore all the swears that he knew, and returned to the bedroom.
It took about a dozen sharp blows, one bruised thumb, and a torn-off fingernail, but he managed to get the door open.
There were clothes in the closet, but that wasn’t what caught his eye. The duffel bags were on the top shelf. But again, not what he was focused on. He was far more interested in the firearms. All of them. Three assault rifles and three shotguns sat propped against the back wall.
He grabbed the duffels from the shelf. One heavy, one lighter.
Dicky had not been straight with him, that’s for sure. Something strange was going on. Ross had felt a little bad that he was going to steal the guy’s money, but now he wasn’t so sure that Dicky didn’t need to be robbed.
Ross opened the first bag. It was packed with weed. The second bag was full of money. Like a lot of money. More than two grand. Too much money.
Weed, money, guns.
That’s when he heard the front door close.
Ross spun around in a circle, looking for a hiding place that wasn’t there. He considered diving under the mattress. If he made his body really flat, it could work. Except that his body couldn’t do flat. It was too round in the center.
He attempted to open the window, but it was painted shut. He heard footsteps coming closer. He lifted again, feeling a sharp pain running from his shoulder into his lower back. He managed to get the window open enough to squeeze through. Then he saw the metal bars. It really wasn’t his day.
He ran into the closet, closing the door behind him all but a crack. He waited and listened. Footsteps. A door. Some grunting and swearing. A flushing toilet.
The bedroom door opened. Ross watched Terry pass through the sliver of light from the door. He sunk back further into the closet. He heard Terry plop onto the mattress, relieved that he had aborted the mattress plan.
Ross only saw two options. He could wait it out. Or he could grab the shotgun sitting next to him and kamikaze it. He knew which was the more manly choice.
He decided to wait it out. He could be a man later. Men could be reasonable and slightly cowardly and still be men.
A half hour later, Terry was snoring and Ross saw his chance. He texted Dicky that he would be coming out the front door fast. He put a duffel bag on each arm and grabbed the shotgun.
Ross pushed open the closet door. It creaked loudly. Ross stopped and waited. Nothing. He pushed it a little more. Same thing. Ross paused again. He poked his head around the edge of the doorway. Terry was immobile.
Ross counted to three, and then rushed to the door. Unfortunately he held the shotgun across his body. It hit the door jamb and slammed against his belly. He oofed, but that wasn’t the noise that woke up Terry. It was the shotgun blast from accidentally pulling the trigger.
“Of course,” Ross said. He dropped the shotgun and ran for the front door, a duffel bag draped over each shoulder.
He didn’t know what Terry said behind him. It was more of a roar. It definitely wasn’t a friendly greeting.
The moment Ross stepped out the front door, he was greeted with a fist. It felt like someone squashed a tomato against his face, but that had been his nose. He dropped to the porch and looked up at Dicky Dirt who smiled back at him, busted lip and missing tooth and all.
“What the hell, Dicky Dirt?” Ross said.
Terry appeared in the doorway above him, growling. The two men looked down at Ross and the duffel bags.
“Hey, Punishment,” Dicky said. “I saw this guy running out of your house.”
Ross didn’t know what was happening, but Punishment definitely fit the man better than Terry. Even in the present circumstance, he could acknowledge a badass sobriquet.
“Thanks,” Punishment said to Dicky. “What’s your name again?”
“Richard. I buy weed from you now and again. Deal a little. We played some Madden a few months ago.”
“I remember. You kicked my ass.”
Dicky laughed. “I was passing by. Saw this loser.”
“I owe you, man.”
“Dicky Dirt set me up,” Ross said, but knew that sounded stupid.
“Don’t rough the guy up too much,” Dicky said. “Probably a desperate junkie.”
“Watch him for a second.” Punishment grabbed the duffel bags and walked back in the house. Ross thought he heard him say to himself, “Where did I put those tin snips?”
Ross tried to stand, but Dicky kicked his arm, knocking him back down.
“If you run,” Dicky said, “Punishment will make it worse.”
“What the hell, Dicky?”
“I saw an opportunity and I took it. A chance for revenge.”
“What did I ever do to you?”
“Come on. You know.”
“All of this because I tricked Craig Morgan into kicking the shit out of you? I didn’t know he was going to pummel you so hard.”
“Not that. You gave me the name Dicky Dirt. I came to school one day and was wearing—wait a minute. What did you just say? Oh, hell no. That shit with Craig was your fault? Now I don’t feel bad at all about what Punishment is going to do. You’re still a dick. This was about the past. You making up that damn name. Everyone calling me Dicky Dirt from then on out.”
“Did I?” Ross asked. “I don’t even remember doing that.”
Punishment returned. He grabbed Ross by the back of the shirt and dragged him into the house. The last thing Ross saw before Punishment kicked the door shut was Dicky Dirt licking his finger, trying to get some of Ross’s blood off his shirt.
Back to TOC
Mr. Kipper
Inspired by the Rhyming Slang for Jack the Ripper
Paul Finch
Pamela supposed she ought to be happy that a man was coming to work with her. Okay, she wouldn’t know him, and it would be an awkward first couple of days but at least it would afford her an extra degree of security. That was what she hoped. If he turned out to be an oddball, she didn’t think she’d be able to cope, but even in her most anxiety-filled moments, she couldn’t picture a loutish type wanting to take up a post at Book-a-Thon.
Apart from anything else, it was completely unpaid. The only thing you got here was coffee, assuming you remembered to pick some up yourself when the tin ran out. On top of that, the hours were quite long—it was open nine-till-five Monday to Friday, but also on Saturdays from ten in the morning until three in the afternoon. In addition, the work was boring. All you did most of the day was stand behind the front counter, say hello to people when they came in, collect their contributions, keep half an eye on them as they browsed the shelves looking to take something away in return, and then insert the new acquisitions into the appropriate gaps after they’d gone.
Pamela just couldn’t see some hooligan or degenerate wanting a deal like that.
In any case, in reflection of most of their customers, this new chap would likely be somewhere between middle-aged and old. She sipped her coffee and glanced at her watch. It was just after 1:30 p.m. on a Tuesday, and there were only three people present: herself and Mrs. Brody, who was busying hersel
f in their small kitchen, and their sole customer of the day, old Mr. Banks.
It wasn’t as if they could fit lots of people in anyway.
Five yards in front of the counter was the glass front door. To the right, an internal door stood open on what they called ‘the Library’. It wasn’t a real library; just a room about the size of a classroom, its walls lined with shelves, its central area divided up into avenues by long, library-type bookcases. Despite that, they had near enough everything in there, from thrillers to romance, from horror to history. In those terms it was near enough the equivalent of a library—they’d done very well considering that everything was donated.
Even so, at present a single person was availing himself of it: Mr. Banks, who only came in to read the newspapers. A small coffee table sat in the centre of the Library, with three armchairs around it. Mr. Banks occupied the one facing away. Those dailies he’d already read lay discarded on the table, and he was now buried in a broadsheet. This was his usual ritual. He’d come in here just before noon and would be out again at around two. Though Heaven knew, there was enough in the papers today, even the local rag, an ad-filled freesheet called the Brookshaw Courier, to keep a hundred readers glued to their pages for the rest of the day.
Its headline that morning read: NUMBER FOUR!
The story told how the body of a young woman found two days ago half-submerged in the filthy waters of the Leeds/Liverpool Canal, shredded beyond recognition, was thought to be Sarah Galloway, a Manchester University student who’d disappeared on her way home from college. Under pressure, a police spokesman had now admitted the strong possibility that she was the fourth victim of an unknown assailant who’d already struck three times since the previous June. The first two had been sex workers, but the third had been a nurse coming off shift, and now there was this one. All four of them had been found stabbed and mutilated in isolated spots across Greater Manchester.
