Fast Crimes

by Simon Wood

  FAST CRIMES

  A Collection of Short Crime Stories

  By Simon Wood

  This book is comprised of works of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are factiously used. Any semblance to actual persons, living or dead, real events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  © 2019 Simon Wood. All rights reserved.

  About the Author:

  Simon Wood is a California transplant from England. He's a former competitive racecar driver, a licensed pilot, an endurance cyclist and an occasional PI. He shares his world with his American wife, Julie. Their lives are dominated by a menagerie of rescue animals. He's the Anthony Award winning author of Accidents Waiting to Happen, Paying the Piper, Terminated, The One That Got Away, Deceptive Practices and the Aidy Westlake series. His latest thriller is Saving Grace. He also writes horror under the pen name of Simon Janus. Curious people can learn more at: http://www.simonwood.net.

  FAST CRIMES

  Crime happens in a moment and so do the stories in Fast Crimes. These short mysteries start in the moment and build to a climax in a snap. Murders are plotted and carried out. Heists are planned and foiled. Investigators hunt and apprehend criminals. And it all happens in a handful of pages. It’s a smash and grab experience…so strap in.

  Honor

  Marco stood in front of the estate’s iron gates. He never liked these kinds of hits. Okay, if a rival was muscling in on the Family’s business or some street grunts were lining their pockets, fine, he was happy to liquidate them—literally. It was in the Family’s interest to send a message to transgressors—in big, bold, bloody letters. But, rubbing out one of their own…well, that never sat right in his gut.

  Other enforcers would disagree. They liked taking care of squealers. It was an easy kill. Nobody got in your way. You knew the rat personally. You knew where the rat lived. Someone even slipped you the keys to the door. It was one job where coming home alive was guaranteed.

  But none of that was important to Marco. When he killed a snitch, it never felt like cleaning house. It felt like the Family was feeding on itself. But regardless of his convictions, he lived by the Family’s code and when he was told to do something, he did it. He checked his watch. Midnight. It was time.

  Marco followed the driveway he knew so well. Alfredo was a man he respected and loved. Christ, Alfredo had given him his start. But that meant nothing now. Alfredo had broken the code. He’d talked to the feds. Scratch that, he had squealed to the feds.

  The Dons knew this hit would be hard for Marco and that was why he had been given it. Marco had his own mistakes to account for. A year ago, he had allowed himself to be duped by an undercover cop. He had fallen for her smooth talk and even smoother legs. He had said things he shouldn’t have. Luckily, he hadn’t said enough to get him clipped. Just enough to have his reputation brought down a peg or two. Obviously, he had redeemed himself. He had blown the bitch’s face off—no open casket for her family.

  Nevertheless, he still had a long way to go to make up for his indiscretion—hence, Alfredo. There were still doubts though. Just in case his trigger finger got stiff, a babysitter had been provided for the hits on Alfredo’s two brothers and sister last week. The code could be cruel. The price for Alfredo’s betrayal was vast. His bloodline had to be eradicated without exception. His siblings, children and grandchildren had to pay for his disgrace. It was wholesale slaughter. Everyone had to go. But Marco didn’t have a babysitter tonight. He had convinced the Dons that Alfredo’s hit was personal and he wanted to take care of it in a personal manner.

  On the porch, Marco readied his Beretta. He didn’t expect any trouble from Alfredo. An old-fashioned guy, Alfredo never invested in bodyguards. He believed in doing things himself. With the deaths of his brothers and sister, the old man knew his life was finished. There was no point in running. It was all a matter of time. Marco put the key in the door and unlocked it.

  He eased the door back. For once, life was good. It didn’t creak. The house was in darkness. But the combination of moonlight filtering through the windows and his knowledge of Alfredo’s house meant he didn’t need a flashlight. He closed the door.

  He was screwing the silencer onto the pistol when he heard movement. It came from the kitchen. He was totally exposed in the hallway and there was no time to hide. Marco cursed under his breath.

  Maybe Alfredo wasn’t going to go quietly, with dignity. Maybe, he wanted to go to hell with a shitstorm raining down. Well if he wanted it that way, he could have it. Marco cocked the hammer back.

  The kitchen door edged open. Marco was cool. He didn’t flinch.

  His adversary oozed into the hallway. Marco exhaled and relaxed from his shooter’s stance. Alfredo’s retriever, Roma, slid through the doorway and padded over, tail wagging.

  “Hey, Roma,” Marco whispered. “Good to see you, boy.”

  He waited for the dog to get close enough before he shot him in the head. Felled in his tracks, the poor bastard didn’t know what had hit him. Roma twitched once before relaxing. Blood spilled from the head wound and traveled swiftly across the tiled floor. In the moonlight, the blood was one shade from black. Marco bent and patted the dog on its rump.

  “Sorry, Roma. The hit included you, too.”

  Marco climbed the stairs. He couldn’t help feeling the Family had failed Alfredo. They hadn’t looked after their own. The man was old. His methods had worked in his day but not anymore. Business had to be conducted in a subtle manner. The feds knew this and like any wild animal, they always preyed on the weak. And whether Alfredo or anyone else cared to admit it, Alfredo was weak. The Family either should have protected him or eliminated him long before it got to this stage. At the top of the stairs, Marco pulled out his switchblade.

  He balanced the blade on his gloved palm. Betrayers had to be dealt with in a particular way. First, their dicks were cut off and shoved down their lying throats because they were rats and rats fed on themselves. Second, they were shot in the head because they had no brain if they thought they could sell out the Family. And third, they were shot in the heart because they had no love for the Family. He entered Alfredo’s bedroom.

  Keeping the Beretta trained on Alfredo, Marco took a seat opposite the old man’s bed. Alfredo didn’t stir. He slept the sleep of the innocent.

  Marco released the switchblade. It snicked into place, sounding like an arm being broken. Alfredo leapt into action. He was expecting trouble. He dived under his pillow and jerked out a .32. The old man still had the moves.

  Marco blinded the old man. He switched on the lights, using his blade. The automatic remained pointed at Alfredo’s head.

  Alfredo relaxed. “So, it’s to be you.”

  “Toss the .32.”

  Alfredo flung the gun over the end of the bed. “One of my own. I can see why they did it.”

  “You know why I’m here?”

  “Of course, I’m not fucking senile.” Alfredo stretched for his glasses and slipped them on. “When your brothers and sister are executed without mercy, it won’t be long before the same cruel wind will be blowing down your neck.” He positioned a cushion behind his back.

  “It’s not personal.”

  “But you’re going to do it anyway.”

  “Yes. You betrayed the Family. I have no choice.”

  “We all have choices. You don’t have to do this.”

  “Choices! You had a choice when the Feds lifted you.”

  Alfredo flared, but in the same instant, bit back his reply. “Maybe we don’t have choices. You’re a good boy. Loyal. The Family appreciates that. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

  “So
do I.”

  Both men lapsed into silence, awkward, clunky and louder than a stoolpigeon’s scream, but what was there to be said?

  “If it hadn’t been me who came through that door,” Marco said, jumpstarting proceedings, “Would you have fired?”

  “Probably.”

  “You weren’t very prepared. They could have shot and killed you.”

  “Better that than choking on my own dick.”

  It was a hard point to argue.

  Silence intervened again. Marco was finding it hard to say something that made their situation civilized. Maybe he shouldn’t try. This wasn’t a debutante’s ball—it was an execution. He should treat it as such.

  But Alfredo deserved respect, even though the man in the bed lacked the sparkle of the Alfredo he knew as a child. Whether he knew it or not, he had death in his eyes, the same nothingness a dying pet shows before being put to sleep. It was time to put Alfredo to sleep.

  The old man must have picked up on Marco’s vibe.

  “You really don’t have to do this,” Alfredo said, then excitedly. “I can get us a flight out tonight and we can be in the old country before you know it. You’ve never been. It’ll do you good.”

  Marco already had a hand raised. “You know I can’t let you do that.”

  Alfredo sagged. “No. No, you can’t. Silly of me to think you would. You’re a good boy. You have honor.”

  “We live by a code.”

  “That’s right. A code I broke. And I must pay the price.”

  “I wish it could be different.”

  Alfredo nodded, not looking at Marco. “Time for one more drink?”

  Marco shook his head. “No time.”

  “No time,” agreed Alfredo.

  Marco leveled the pistol at Alfredo’s heart. “I’m going to do it, but not in the right order. Because it’s you, I’ll save you the embarrassment.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” Alfredo spat. “I don’t need your charity. Do it right. I can take it.”

  “Don’t make this any harder than it already is, papa.”

  Alfredo sighed. “Thank God, your mother isn’t alive to see you.”

  “Sorry, papa.”

  Marco shot his father in the heart. Alfredo stiffened and his powder blue pajama shirt darkened. As he toppled backwards, Marco got his headshot. Alfredo’s head snapped back and crimson blossomed across the headboard. Marco put away the Beretta and picked up the switchblade.

  ***

  Marco closed his apartment door with the weight of his body. He was relieved to have the hit out of the way. The Dons knew and all he had to do now was live with the consequences of his father’s murder. But he had restored his reputation with the Family. Who could question his devotion now?

  A metallic click sounded and a gun barrel pressed against the base of his skull. “You did it, Marco. Well done.”

  “It had to be done.”

  “Some had their doubts. Christ, I had my doubts. Not sure I could whack my pop.” The assassin whistled. “You’re the man.”

  “It was a job, like any other.”

  “Not like any other. You knew that. You had to know it would come to this.”

  He did. Alfredo was dead and as eldest son, he was next. He would die—but with honor.

  “Sorry, Marco.”

  The assassin pulled the trigger.

  The Scrimshaw Man

  "You've seen it?" Kelso asked.

  "Every day," Faulks replied.

  Kelso looked over at Henderson, his associate in these matters. Henderson shrugged as if to say Faulks was on the up and up.

  "Describe it."

  "It's a skull. What can I say?"

  "Hopefully more than that if you want to be paid."

  Faulks shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Okay. It's an engraved skull. Every square inch of it is covered with words and pictures."

  Kelso fought to keep his excitement contained. This idiot was talking about the fabled Scrimshaw Man. But it was no fable. He existed. Kelso knew this because he possessed every part of the Scrimshaw Man except for the skull. He'd spent twenty years tracking down the pieces. He should have known Canchelskis would have the last and most vital piece. Canchelskis routinely ridiculed Kelso for his belief in the Scrimshaw Man, both privately and publicly. Only last April, after Kelso had written a feature article in Fine Arts magazine about the Scrimshaw Man, Canchelskis had followed up with a rebuttal piece, describing the Scrimshaw Man as “an art world legend of the P.T. Barnum variety.” Kelso would enjoy rubbing the hypocrite’s nose in it.

  Essentially, the engraved skeleton was an elaborate map leading to a lost Spanish treasure belonging to the galleon, Libertad. In 1811, the last survivor of the wreck, a midshipman, requested that after his death, his skeleton be used to tell the story of the ship’s loss and its location. He left elaborate instructions for Franklin Weir, an American scrimshaw artist. It took Weir five years to complete the work. It was the stuff of legends for over a hundred years until the pieces began appearing in the 1940s. Nothing would keep Kelso from obtaining the final piece.

  "If it weren't so damn creepy, it would be a piece of art,” Faulks said.

  It is a piece of art, you moron, Kelso thought. "And you can get me into Canchelskis' home?"

  "Sure, no problem."

  "Even though he fired you?"

  Faulks’ face crumpled into a sneer. "Because Canchelskis fired me, I can get you in."

  Kelso didn't like inside men. They were first people the cops came after, but it couldn't be helped in this case. The cops could come after Faulks all they liked but they wouldn’t find him. He’d be long gone, out of the country with more money than his feeble mind could imagine.

  "Okay," Kelso said. "Security—how do I get past it?"

  Faulks produced an untidily folded sheet of paper covered with crude diagrams and security system passwords and slid it across Kelso’s desk. Deciphering the scrawl, Kelso decided he had everything he needed.

  "These passwords would have been changed the moment you were fired."

  Faulks grinned. "True, but those aren’t my passwords. They belong to a groundsman. The guy can’t remember his name without someone telling him. He gave me his codes so he wouldn't lock himself out. Trust me, that information is golden."

  And Kelso was going to have to trust Faulks. He was taking a risk, but with the Scrimshaw Man so close to completion, he'd chance it. He pushed seventy-five thousand in cash across the desk. Faulks snatched it up and stuffed it in his pockets.

  "Get him out of the country," Kelso instructed Henderson.

  ***

  Although it ate Kelso up, he bided his time before breaking in. He waited until Canchelskis left for a vacation to Europe, taking his staff with him. A security firm protected the house. Now Kelso and Henderson were waiting for the security detail to complete its hourly sweep of the grounds before moving in.

  When the security detail’s van was distant taillights in the night, Henderson worked the lock with his picks. He was a good lock pick. Kelso had called on Henderson's talents on many occasions when more legal approaches had failed to secure the objects he desired. Truth be told, Kelso liked it when he couldn't get his way. He preferred going outside of the law to get what he wanted. He was a hunter, and hunters never paid for their trophies. Henderson gave the pick a final flick of the wrist and the lock popped open. Kelso dashed through the door and over to the security panel. He punched in the passwords before the alarm system automatically activated itself. The telltale beep-beep-beep warning ceased.

  "Faulks is proving to be worth every penny," Kelso remarked with a smile.

  "So far."

  They proceeded to what Faulks called the Antiquities Room. Essentially, Canchelskis had created a museum within his home. Extravagant, yes, but no less extravagant than the one in his own home. Not only was the Antiquities Room a museum, it was also as impregnable as a bank vault
. The room was at basement level. A smart move. Below ground meant no soft entry points, like windows. The only way in was through the door or with a backhoe and it would take a backhoe and then some to get inside. According to Faulks, a steel sheath encased the room. Kelso wished he'd invested in this same kind of security for himself. The moment he possessed the Scrimshaw Man's skull, he would. He'd already commissioned a contractor. Work would start in the morning.

  Understandably, getting into the Antiquities Room proved tougher than getting into the house. They needed thumbprint verification and they had gotten it. Earlier in the week, Kelso had orchestrated for Canchelskis to appear at a luncheon to discuss legends of the art world. After the event, Kelso had a cast of Canchelskis' thumbprint made from one he'd left on a water glass. Henderson pressed the rubber thumb cast against the scanner when requested. The doors unlocked.

  "Almost there," Kelso said.

  Henderson cracked smile. Finally, a sign of belief.

  Kelso found the bank of light switches and flicked them on. Canchelskis' art collection appeared from the darkness. His taste for every art discipline was breathtaking. He lived up to his reputation as a premier collector. If Kelso shared Canchelskis’ tastes for all things art, he would have wiped the man out, but he loved only the Scrimshaw Man and the treasures it could unlock.

  The skull wasn't the collection's main feature. Henderson discovered it tucked away in one corner. It wasn't even protected by a secondary alarm system. Canchelskis didn't deserve to own such a prize. Kelso hesitated picking it up. He just wanted to admire it. The intricate engravings were as he imagined. The Spanish, when translated, would explain everything and unlock the Scrimshaw Man's two hundred year old secret. It was finally his. He lifted the skull off its pedestal. The euphoria of finally owning the complete Scrimshaw Man passed as swiftly as it’d come.

  "What's wrong?" Henderson asked.

  “It's a fake." He tossed the skull to Henderson. "It's a damn fake."