Trouble & Strife

by Simon Wood

  Bochner’s eyes fogged over as if he were counting.

  Grant kept him off balance. He brought his fists up like a boxer bringing up his guard. Bochner stepped away from his barstool into the mouth of the passageway, relaxing his knees and shaking out his hands. Ready to move. Grant gave a little nod towards the back door.

  “No, these aren’t Trouble and Strife. They are.”

  The two cops came out of the shadows and snapped the cuffs on Bochner so fast the actor didn’t know what happened. He thought about struggling but realized he’d been outmaneuvered.

  Grant lowered his hands and the smile returned. “The Sweeney you say? You’ll have heard this before then. You’re nicked.”

  Being arrested outside the toilets wasn’t the coup de grace; that came when the uniformed cops walked Bochner out the front door. The thudding helicopter blades were deafening as they hovered over Vine Street, drifting south so the news crew could get the disgraced celebrity and the Capitol Records building in the same shot. A bit like always filming MacArthur Park facing the Westlake Theatre. You could film a wife beater anywhere.

  To add insult to injury, the beaten wife was standing outside O’Neil’s with a female officer, her swollen face turned towards the camera. A 24-hour news not only had the hulking actor but his diminutive wife in the same shot. It couldn’t have been any worse if he’d been caught with his pants down getting Brahms and Liszt while falling down the Apples and Pears. A touch of creative license there if you like, but this was Hollywood. Grant was sure the news would come up with something equally cheesy.

  The helicopter came around for the frontal angle as Grant followed the cops out of the bar. Bochner didn’t struggle. He didn’t give his wife a hard stare because he was too busy trying to keep his head down and save his career. Grant watched the arresting officers duck Bochner into the backseat of a marked unit then glanced across the street where two more cops were holding back a small crowd.

  Grant nodded at the man standing to one side behind the police line. Tanburro nodded back. The helicopter stayed low just long enough for Grant to smile at Robin Citrin and wave at the woman who had tried to make him a reality TV star during the Montecito Heights incident. Bochner didn’t notice that the helicopter wasn’t 24-hour news. He didn’t wonder about the cops looking like they were past retirement age either.

  The next time Grant talked with Lizzie Bochner, formerly Bourdon, her face was clear and she looked a lot happier. It was two weeks later on a bench at Griffith Observatory with all of Los Angeles laid out below. The Hollywood sign looked in need of some paint but Grant reckoned that was L.A. all over, faded and past its prime. The sun was warm but hadn’t burned off the smog that turned downtown L.A. into a Michael Bay filter shot.

  Grant sat beside Lizzie and gave her an ice cream from the vendor. He tried not to let his drip on his trousers in the California heat. “He giving you any trouble?”

  “You know he isn’t.”

  “But you’re still with him.”

  “You know that too.”

  “Yes. I bet it’s hard to turn down the perks of Hollywood life.”

  Lizzie nibbled the soft bits around the edge of the cone. “He’s just happy you managed to get them to shelve the news footage. I guess being The Resurrection Man has its perks as well.”

  “It’s not what you know it’s who you know.”

  “But shelved can become un-shelved. Is that the deal?”

  Grant licked his ice cream. When he was sure he’d beaten the drip factor he turned to face her. “Your choices are your business. Stay or go. It’s up to you. But just remember this.”

  A piece of ice cream he’d missed plopped onto his trouser leg.

  “You don’t need a string vest in Hollywood.”

  Back to TOC

  Lady from Bristol

  Inspired by the Rhyming Slang for Pistol

  Sam Wiebe

  Just their luck: a woman collapsed before takeoff. The plane was held for two hours, first waiting for the paramedics and their narrow wheelchair, then waiting for an opening on the runway. Jamie was pissed. Barry kept his headphones on, listening to some podcast, what did it matter being his approach to things.

  As a consequence, they were late landing in Glasgow and barely caught the last train to Stirling. They’d missed their meeting with the Poet. It wasn’t a lock that they’d be able to schedule another.

  After another hour spent by the phone in their hotel room, near the university, they were told to head to the Wallace Pub. If the Poet could make it, he would.

  “Wait how long?” Jamie asked.

  “Even if ah knew ah wouldnae tell,” was the reply.

  The pub was a half-hour walk. Rain was light but persistent. It felt different than American rain. Clingier, more insinuating, Jamie thought.

  It was dark but they could make out the spire of the Wallace monument. The pub was close to its base.

  “Kind of effect you think it has, growing up near a thing like this?” Barry asked.

  “Whole country’s full of monuments and ruins. We had another day I’d take you to my family’s castle.”

  “The Lord ancestral home?”

  “Laird, but it’s still us. I guess.”

  Barry had worn sneakers and they squelched as he walked. Jamie’s Doc Martens were holding up better. At the door of the pub they knocked water from their shoes by kicking the door and siding.

  Inside was small and well-heated. A few tables. Board games and books on a shelf. A bar, three old men sitting along its corner, talking to the bartender.

  “An old person pub,” Barry said with some delight.

  They ordered pints of Deucher’s, shepherd’s pie and cottage pie, and took a table in the corner, Jamie sitting with his back to the wall. Barry pulled the table out and struggled into his seat, but found it comfortable once he was in.

  “Funny thinking this is where our fortune could be made,” he said.

  My fortune, Jamie silently corrected. Barry worked for him. A friend from high school and a good head for numbers, but not worldly or ambitious. Smart but not street smart. Not wise. Not that Jamie saw himself as wise—but at twenty-six, poised to take over the Syracuse market, he must be doing something right.

  It all depended on the Poet, if what they’d heard was true about him.

  “Should we ask them?” Barry said, pointing over his shoulder at the old men at the bar.

  “Nah. When he wants, he’ll show himself.”

  “Just, we don’t know what he looks like. Could be one of them, all we know.”

  “The Poet is young. Our generation or close to it. Darren McCousland Junior, remember?”

  “Junior by itself doesn’t mean young, Jamie.”

  “But you remember the story. How he was in school. Dropped out to take over for his father. That was, what, four years ago? So he’s our age, ’less he was a mature student.”

  Barry gave up, turned his attention to the décor on the walls. William Wallace paraphernalia. The monument was lit up like a gold-tipped sword.

  After a while the door opened. A young woman, pregnant, told one of the old men it was time. Her father, Jamie supposed. On their way out she got caught up talking to the bartender. Fifteen minutes later they took their leave.

  A nice way to live, Jamie thought. Hang with your friends till your daughter comes to collect you. Football games and church socials. Your kids doing fine. Their kids developing. Jamie had two of his own. He’d done things to keep them safe and keep himself in their lives. If his plans with the Poet worked out, he’d never have to worry about them.

  The Poet didn’t have children. From what Jamie had heard, the Poet was gay. He’d been at Trinity studying literature when his father had been killed. Darren McCousland, Sr. was a feared man, who’d run a razor gang in Glasgow before taking over Northeast England. A drunken collision and a heart attack had put McCousland Sr.’s rackets up for grabs,
with two of his older lieutenants vying for control.

  The Poet had grown up away from the business. His father had wanted him separate from the gangster life, and his own inclinations seemed to recommend it. His aptitude bent towards poetry. He’d had his work published in several prestigious but unread journals. Jamie had thought of tracking one down, bringing it with him, but thought that was too kiss-ass.

  The Poet had taken a ferry back from Dublin for his father’s funeral. He’d stayed. Within three months he’d quelled the gang war and brought his father’s people to heel. More than that—he’d expanded into both Irelands, into Wales, and was looking for partners overseas.

  It made sense. Syracuse wouldn’t be a large market for the Poet, but it would be one more stream of income. With Brexit and everything else going on, it made sense to explore all the markets you could.

  Their food arrived. They ordered another round. Jamie salted and peppered his pie before stirring part of the crust into the glop below.

  “Goddamn that’s good,” Barry said. “So far, I gotta say I like this country better than England.”

  “’Cause they make a better meat pie?”

  “The food’s only part of it. The English, they have a weird hate-on for fat people.”

  “Do they,” Jamie said, thinking Christ. Barry’s woman had introduced him to the concept of fat activism. Should’ve introduced him to a fucking elliptical, Jamie thought. Or maybe a muzzle.

  “You think about the English,” Barry said, “the debt they owe fat people. Their best-known king. Best-known prime minister. All their best writers, like the dictionary guy. And the hatred they feel to us! Jenn and me were watching this comedy special, that guy from their version of The Office. Bit after bit about how evil it is to be a different size—and from a Lorax-looking motherfucker like him. But that’s who those people are. Hate their own kind. Hate anything different. The Scottish are more accepting.”

  “Let’s hope the Poet is,” Jamie said. “None of that nonsense when he shows.”

  “It’s not nonsense, Jamie, it’s what’s called microaggressions.”

  “Whatever it is, keep quiet about his people when he comes. Understand?”

  Barry wound down. They finished their meal. Ordered a third and then a fourth. One of the other old men left, and the bartender began wiping things down.

  “Y’know William Wallace had a belt made out of the skin of his enemy?” Barry said. “Had lots of stuff made out of skin, what I read.”

  “Mel Gibson left that out of the film,” Jamie said.

  “I don’t think it was historically accurate.”

  “Great fight scenes, though.”

  “The battlefield over there, Stirling? ’Parently it was some guy’s farm till the movie came out. All this—the monument—it’s all on account of the film.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Jamie said. “Scots love history.”

  “Well, Mel didn’t. That scene where he’s rushing towards the English, and he’s got nothing in his hands, then suddenly he’s got this big-ass sword?”

  “Continuity error, probably,” Jamie said.

  “He’s holding an axe at one point, too, right? Some sort of club?”

  “Well he probably ditched that, then started running, then picked up the sword when he found it.”

  “From the middle of a battlefield before the battle starts?”

  “Maybe one of his guys planted it there. Or passed it to him.” Jamie was tired, a little drunk. “Maybe Mel didn’t know so he shot it all three ways and it’s like use your own judgment.”

  “People here probably get asked this shit all the time, right?”

  Barry turned in his chair and waited till the bartender was near the end closest to them. “’Scuse me, ma’am? What was William Wallace carrying at the Battle of Stirling? Like what kind of weapon?”

  “Ha’n’t the foggiest.” The bartender was maybe fifty, pretty, hair gone to silver and steel. She pointed at the window in the rough direction of the monument. “His sword’s in there. Ah hadtae guess it’d be that.”

  “You’ve seen Braveheart?” Barry asked. “What’d you think?”

  She shrugged. “It’s nae Lethal Weapon.”

  “Hey, you ladies from Bristol?” It was the lone man left at the bar. At least seventy, his chin a sagging, receding cliff face ending in a jowly neck. Bald with a dark pencil moustache that might’ve been dyed that color. His accent sounded English, slurred with drink.

  The man stood, unsteady, and asked the question again. “You ladies from Bristol? How ’bout you, big boy?”

  “Leave ’em be, Tommy,” the bartender said.

  “Just being friendly. Big boy doesn’t mind.”

  “Actually,” Barry said, “it’s not appreciated.”

  “Wha? Being called Big Boy? It’s a term of affection for husky fellas like yourself.”

  “Fat,” Barry said. “You can say fat. There’s no shame attached to that word.”

  “Whitever ye say, fat fuckin’ bastard.”

  The old man launched his drink at Barry, half a pint slapping against his face and stomach.

  Barry reached for him, Jamie on his feet now, not sure to interject or help, or if the booze would let him do either. The bartender had seized Tom’s shoulder and was rushing him to the door. Apologizing on his behalf, telling Barry he could wash up in the sink. “Bog’s behind ye, and last round’s on me.”

  “And mine’s on him,” the man said gleefully. Then the door shut. The bartender stood there, waiting till Barry stalked off towards the washroom.

  “Tommy’s no usetae new faces,” she said to Jamie. “He figgered ye for tourists.”

  “You get a lot of tourists?” Jamie asked. He handed her currency to pay the bill.

  “Some,” she said. “More in the summer.”

  “On account of the history of this place, or on account of the movie?”

  The bartender smiled. “Ah havnae taken a poll,” she said. “Wi’ the Americans, ah expect, it’s more fae the film.”

  “That bother you?”

  “Havnae thought aboot it much, tae be honest. Did that lassie leave the kitchen light on? Silly cow.”

  She headed towards the Staff Only door, brushing past Barry coming out of the washroom.

  “You ready?” Jamie asked. He wanted a cigarette and sleep. Then a shower and a nice breakfast with lots of eggs.

  He was facing the door, then spun, sinking. Confused.

  Barry fired again, his second shot driving a small hole through Jamie’s nose that broke through his skull and tunneled into brain matter, coming to a stop close to where the first one rested after drilling through his temple.

  There was no need for a third, Jamie hadn’t seen or felt the second, but once he was face down on the floor Barry pulled the trigger of the .22 again. He could see blood matted in his friend’s hair. Such a small amount, he thought.

  “All good?” he called.

  The bartender came back from the kitchen, pushing a steel cart. Together they got Jamie’s body on it.

  “Ter clock what kind of people I’m ter do business wif,” the Poet had told him. “Fin’ ya can ’andle a Lady from Bristol?”

  “A lady from Bristol?”

  “A pistol, son. A pistol.”

  “Yeah, I can handle a gun.”

  It was less about Jamie being a possible snitch—these days, who wasn’t?—and more about a demonstration of character. Barry assumed he’d passed.

  If not, he thought, this wasn’t a bad country to go out in.

  Back to TOC

  Pleasure and Pain

  Inspired by the Rhyming Slang for Rain

  Robert Dugoni

  I didn’t plan to spend my European honeymoon alone, but when you’re fiancée doesn’t show up for the wedding, you have non-refundable airline tickets, and you’ve already had your two-week vacation request approved at work, well, you
make lemonade out of lemons, as my mother would say. My father was never so diplomatic.

  “Cowboy up and leave your panties at home,” he told me in the alcove of the church when Anna’s father called to say his daughter had had a change of heart—a profoundly interesting way to put it.

  “No sense wasting a perfectly good trip,” my father continued, meaning well. “What else are you going to do, sit at home and mope? Her loss. Your gain. See the world, have an adventure.”

  And so, the morning after what should have been my wedding night, I boarded a flight from Seattle to Frankfurt alone—more leg room for me—and, as Dierks Bentely recommended, I got drunk on the plane. Actually, I was drunk when I got on the plane. I just got more drunk. It wasn’t exactly Mari Gras up in the clouds as Bentely sang—I eventually passed out, and when I did come down I had the mother of all headaches, and an attitude so sour I could have been sucking on those lemons my mother had talked about.

  My plan that morning had been to pick up a rental car in Frankfurt and drive roughly four hours to Hohenschwangaue, Germany. It might sound a bit ambitious for two newly married honeymooners, but I had an ulterior motive. Hohenschwangaue was where King Ludwig II of Bavaria commissioned the Cliffside castle, Neuschwanstein, in 1868. With its towers, turrets, frescoes and throne hall, Neuschwanstein looks like it was plucked straight from your favorite fairy tale. In fact, the opposite is true. Walt Disney modeled Cinderella’s castle at his iconic theme park after Neuschwanstein. A hopeless romantic, I had intended to surprise Anna with a trip to the castle from her favorite fairy tale.

  Turned out the surprise was on me.

  Maybe my choice of Neuschwanstein was more apropos of my situation than I cared to admit. It seems old King Ludwig never actually got to live his fairy-tale. He got his ass kicked in the 1866 Prussian war and died under mysterious circumstances weeks before the castle’s completion. Rumors also circulated that he was insane. The same could be said for a twenty-four-year-old man traveling Germany alone on his honeymoon.

  I lifted the bottle of German beer I’d bought at a gas station along the drive. “Here’s to fairytales that don’t come true, Ludwig,” I said and took a pull, draining the bottle. “I’m on my Goddamn honeymoon,” I shouted in the empty Volvo. “I’m making lemonade out of lemons. I’m pulling up my panties and Cowboying up…ping. So giddy-Goddamned up!”