Dark Tidings: Volumes I & II

by Gregory M. Smith

  “But, you can make them into de facto orphans,” Coombs said, sarcastically. “That’s sounds much more reasonable than you having to raise them yourself or you really, really disappointing your parents by declaring bankruptcy.”

  Leonard Carstairs said nothing. His mouth was open, but no words came out. Coombs frowned and then threw his hands up in mock surrender.

  “Okay, okay, Mr. Carstairs, I just had to be sure,” Coombs relented. “A lot of guys back out at the last minute.”

  “When do we start?” Leonard asked, relieved. “I’m a little nervous, you know. I’ve got very little that I really need to get from my house. It’s all packed in a couple of suitcases, in my closet.”

  “That’s good, Mr. Carstairs,” Coombs said. “When you pick out a new name, make sure it doesn’t start with the first initial of your current names. Nothing with L, B or C and make sure it matches ethnically. I had this guy who named himself after Patrice Lumamba, the revolutionary from Zaire, or Congo as they call it now. That was all well and good, except the guy was white and when I say white, I mean Steve Buscemi, Nicole Kidman kind of white. Cops immediately figured it was an alias.”

  “Nothing to sign?” Leonard inquired, sitting back in his chair as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Do I get to know how it’s going to happen or is it better not to ask?”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Carstairs,” Coombs replied. “There’ll be a body and everything. With today’s science, you have to have a body.”

  “I was kind of thinking about that last night,” Leonard mentioned. “I kind of feel sorry for the guy who gets to be the corpse. I know there are a lot of John Does out there, but you have to think that someone’s looking for each of them, including the one who’s going to be in my grave.”

  Coombs started to say something, but was interrupted by the muffled ring of his cell phone. He frowned, reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled the phone out. He answered, spoke briefly to someone and hung up.

  “Sorry about that,” he explained. “Just some of my co-workers, getting back from an errand. As usual, they’re running late. Sounds like they stopped for lunch and dinner on the way back. It’s hard to get good help these days. Too bad your parents couldn’t have raised them to be more responsible.”

  “Actually, to be perfectly honest, Mr. Coombs, my parents didn’t do so well with me,” Leonard admitted, sheepishly. “I threw it all away the moment I saw Francine. I wish they’d prepared me better for things like that.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s correctable, Mr. Carstairs,” Coombs said, nonchalantly, as he reached into his drawer.

  “Say, I was wondering,” Leonard started. “Will the corpse be burned? I guess it would have to be to be unidentifiable.”

  “Not really, Mr. Carstairs,” Coombs countered. “With forensics today, all you need is one minute sample of DNA to make an ID.”

  “Really?” Leonard asked, incredulously. “Then, how am I supposed to be killed?”

  “Like this.”

  Coombs pulled a gun out of the drawer and shot him twice – in the chest and then right between the eyes. Leonard had been in the process of jumping to his feet when the chest shot stopped him midway. Then, the force of his head snapping back caused him to begin to topple backwards, but the momentum wasn’t enough to spill his body to the floor. Coombs had fired the gun close to Leonard’s head and the bullet had gone straight through.

  Coombs peered over his desk to admire his handiwork. Leonard Carstairs was dead in the chair, his eyes wide open in total surprise. Coombs frowned. He still couldn’t figure out why guys always looked like that after he shot them in the head.

  A few seconds later, the office door opened and two men in blue overalls walked in. They stopped when the saw the body in the chair and the blood on the floor and the shower curtains. They then looked at Coombs, who had set the gun, silencer and all, on the desk and was removing the sterile latex surgical glove from his gun hand.

  “Geez, boss, did you have to shoot him?” the taller of the two said. “That’s a lot of blood and mess to clean up.”

  “Which is why there’s a big drain under my desk, a hose connection on the wall and bags of lime in storage, you moron,” Coombs retorted, vociferously. “Besides, after what happened with that last guy, I wanted to be sure he was dead.”

  “Hey, that guy was stronger than we thought,” the second guy, who was short and pudgy, commented. “Look at the death grip he had on your suit.”

  “Yeah, well, when I tell you to give him a love tap, I don’t mean to actually tap him,” Coombs snorted. “I mean to brain him. Thanks to you mooks, I got my suit all messed up. I wouldn’t be shocked if Carstairs here thought I’d slept in the damn thing. Good thing that other guy got my dander up. Wanted me to get him out from under a crushing loan shark debt and then tells me he didn’t spend one single red cent of that money to pay off his overdue child support. He’s lucky I only strangled him with his tie.

  “Oh and thanks for taking so long to get back that I had to stall with Leonard here. Five more minutes and I’d have been his personal psychiatrist and marriage counselor rolled into one. Now, is everything else set up?”

  “Yes, sir,” the tall one replied. “I got that bug in Lawrence Googily’s car. Got him and Francine Carstairs on tape saying they was looking for a way to get Leonard here out of the way, permanently. But, they didn’t say nothing about no murder. Sounds more like a divorce.”

  “That’s for the cops to figure out,” Coombs replied. “But, it’s so easy, even those idiots can follow the trail. Wife makes hubby take out huge life insurance policy and waits a while. In the meantime, she continues the affair with Lawrence. They plot together, Leonard is then shot to death in an attempted robbery. They dump his body where they think it won’t be found, not knowing as we do, that the local conservation society is planning to use the spot for an ecological scavenger hunt. A few Eco nuts will stumble on Leonard’s body and call the cops.

  “But, lo and behold, the cops get curious since muggers don’t generally shoot people between the eyes. Then, they get an anonymous tip to look in Lawrence’s car and they find the murder weapon underneath the spare tire in the trunk, without the silencer, of course. The gun has only his prints on it, since it’s his gun, borrowed temporarily by me from his glove compartment, while he was getting it on with Francine at Leonard’s house last night. The nerve of some people. A man’s home should be sacred.”

  “Anyway,” Coombs continued, “the incriminating tape made from our listening device is under the seat. It’ll look like Lawrence was holding onto it as leverage in case Francine tried to put the blame on him. The cops will see Leonard’s worldly possessions packed up and hidden in the closet in his house, as if his wife and her lover were trying to fake his disappearance, but didn’t have time to do it because the body was found too soon.

  “Francine and Lawrence are arrested and tried for murder. The insurance money goes into a trust fund, managed by Leonard’s parents, who vow not to make the same mistakes with their grandkids as they did with Leonard. Not exactly neat and tidy, but neat enough for anyone not named Perry Mason to believe it.”

  “Sounds good to me,” the pudgy man said. “Whatever it was you said, boss.”

  The two men pulled down two shower curtain sheets that had taken the brunt of the brains, blood and bone matter. They took two other curtains and laid them on the floor and then, after donning surgical gloves, moved Leonard’s body onto them. Coombs, having donned fresh gloves himself, retrieved the chair Coombs had been sitting in and put into onto two shower curtains he’d pulled down.

  “Funny thing about all of this is I wasn’t even going to go through with it,” Coombs said, with a weak laugh, as he wrapped Leonard’s chair in the curtains. “I was really starting to feel for this guy. If they could do a spinal transplant or something, I’d have paid for it. But, this schmuck was abso-freakin’-lutely pathetic.”

  “Say, b
oss, I been wondering,” the tall guy said. “You’re already loaded with money and you get nothing out of your plans. So, why do you do it?”

  “Because, I was a kid once,” Coombs replied, slowly. “I had parents just like him and Francine and that last guy and his wife and like all the others. Weak, pathetic, lousy parents. See how I turned out? Yeah? Well, I don’t want it to happen to other kids.”

  “Hey, look on the bright side, boss,” the pudgy one remarked. “At least he got out of debt. For good.”

  “As soon as you’re finished playing for your audience of one, get back to work,” Coombs snapped. “The business isn’t meant to get guys like him out of debt. It’s for his kids and that’s all that counts.”

  Both of Coombs’ men shrugged their shoulders, then set about moving Carstairs’ wrapped body over to the side of the room. Their boss pulled a thin fire hose out of one of the desk drawers, unspooled it and attached it to the fire hose connection on the wall. A moment later, Coombs washed the remnants of Leonard Carstairs’ life down the drain.

  Feedin’ the Fishes

  “My God, would you look at this, Jimmy.”

  Vinnie took a deep breath and then swept a hand up and away from his body. Next to him, Jimmy looked up and shrugged at his buddy’s grandiose gesture. Vinnie gave him a frown.

  “Just look at Mother Nature, will ya’, Jimmy,” Vinnie said, scornfully. “The dark misty waters, light wisps of early mornin’ fog drifting across still waters. Overcast skies casting promising shadows across that spit of land in the distance. Ah, the wonder of it all.”

  “Since when did you become a nature lover?” Jimmy asked, as he stooped to attach a lengthy iron chain to the large boat anchor he’d set on the end of the dock.

  He looked out over the dark blue waters and was forced to agree that Vinnie might be on to something. The early morning fog did add an air of mystique to the eerily quiet lake. The gray clouds overhead made it seem much earlier in the morning than it really was. The water barely moved and seemed to go on forever, only to be broken up by the silhouetted hilly landscape of the land that bordered it. Jimmy didn’t know if the other side of the lake was as heavily wooded as the section by the beginning of the dock, but he didn’t want to be around to find out when the sun came up.

  “Hey, you spend as much time around rivers, lakes and oceans like I do, you develop a real appreciation,” Vinnie said with a haughty laugh. “Course, this one don’t smell like those others. Don’t you agree, William?”

  Vinnie glanced over his shoulder as much as his immense girth would allow. Behind him, William Glickman fervently nodded. He wanted to speak, but couldn’t. He had duct tape over his mouth. And around his wrists. And his ankles.

  “Any specific reason you picked this place for Mister Big Mouth here to take a long walk off a not so short pier?” Jimmy asked. “The way this thing sticks out in the lake, anybody can see us.”

  “Aw, keep your panties on,” Vinnie admonished. “Ain’t no one gonna’ see us feedin’ the fishes.”

  “I sure hope not,” Jimmy added. “Sign at the beginning of the pier says ‘Don’t Feed the Fish.’ Wouldn’t want to get a ticket, now would we?”

  He looked back at Glickman and laughed.

  “You sure no one’ll see us?” Jimmie asked, glancing around nervously. “This place gives me the creeps. How’d you find this lake in the first place?”

  “You remember Debbie?” Vinnie explained. “Works for my wife. She’s datin’ this government guy. He and this other guy are supposed to be patrolling this place, but he spends the time doin’ Debbie. Back a while ago, the lake had some big chemical spill or something. Really messed up the fishin’ and the feds sealed it off. No nothin’.”

  He looked at Glickman and smiled, watching his victim perspire even more. He liked watching people squirm.

  “No one comes up here, which is too bad for you, William,” Vinnie taunted, as he turned to look at his partner. “And even if they did, this so-called serene water probably has so many chemicals in it that no one’ll even think about diving in and findin’ William here. Right, Jimmy? Now, come on, we’re wasting’ time. Put that chain around his ankles.”

  “Hang on a sec, Vin,” Jimmy said, dropping the small cast-iron anchor into the water and letting the long length of chain play out. “Gotta' see if this spot is deep enough first. Oh, yeah, this is more than deep enough. The lake bed must drop off a lot.”

  “Okay, then, pull it up and give me a hand with William,” Vinnie remarked. "Sorry I can't call ya 'Billy,' but I ain't known ya long enough."

  “Give him a break,” Jimmy muttered. “You keep switching viewpoints so much, the poor guy’s probably got a migraine.”

  “Viewpoints?”

  “Yeah,” Jimmy answered. “You know. Points of view. Who you’re talkin’ to at a particular moment. You say one thing to William and then direct the next sentence at me, but while you’re still looking at William. We don’t know who you’re referring to.”

  “I’ll try to be more precise,” Vinnie remarked, with a roll of his eyes. “That okay, Professor?”

  The portly Italian turned around, reached into the pocket of his windbreaker and pulled out a large folding knife. He flicked the blade open and held it up to William’s face. He smiled, assaulting the man with the after effects of the pastrami sandwich he’d eaten for breakfast.

  “No funny stuff, you hear, William?” Vinnie threatened. “I’d tell ya’ not to run, but I seen you run before and I don’t think you could beat me in a race. You know, Jimmy, I think our friend here is gonna’ stand there and do nothin' and make us work harder. Whoops, sorry, Jimmy. I did it again. Guess I ain’t got that viewpoint thing down yet.”

  Jimmy looked up and smirked. He then returned to hauling the anchor back up. Just then, it stopped and he struggled to pull it. It was snagged on something.

  “Geez, Vinnie, the anchor’s stuck,” he snorted. “Gimme a hand, will ya’?”

  “What, I gotta' do everything?” Vinnie protested. “Just bring it up. It ain’t that big, ya’ know.”

  “Ah, Vinnie, it’s supposed to be heavy enough to hold William here, in case you forgot,” Jimmy shot back. “It’s gotta' be caught on something.”

  “Yeah, like some other mook’s anchor,” Vinnie joked. “Let the chain play out, move it around to loosen it and then try again. How much simpler can it be?”

  Jimmy let the chain play out a bit. After several feet, he rippled the water as he moved it around and then began pulling it up again. This time, he met no obstruction and he let Vinnie know.

  “Okay, William, time for a swim,” Vinnie said, menacingly.

  A loud splash made Vinnie turn around again. He started to admonish Jimmy for letting the anchor drop in again when he saw there was no Jimmy. Even the anchor chain was gone. Vinnie cursed loudly in Italian after realizing his friend must have fallen into the lake, the lake with all the chemicals, the one the feds had sealed off. Don Maggi would feed him to the fishes if he let anything happen to Jimmy.

  “Don’t you move, William, don’t you move,” Vinnie warned, hurriedly, as he rushed to the edge of the pier and dropped to his knees.

  He stared down into the water but saw only blackness. He kept trying to look for any sign of Jimmy while also turning back to look at William, to make sure the victim didn’t try to knock him into the water, too. Vinnie could only dog paddle. William didn’t make any moves, so Vinnie leaned out further over the water.

  And that’s when Vinnie fed the fishes. The fat man never got a good look at his killer; he just saw an incredibly large throat and some rather sharp teeth. Farther back, though, William got a real good look. It looked like a trout – a trout the size of his aunt’s old Pinto!

  Williams’s eyes went wide when he saw the fish come up out of the water and clamp down on the surprised Vinnie. The trout’s mouth was so big it was able to get all of Vinnie’s head and shoulders into its gaping maw. It fell back into the water with
a huge splash, taking William’s would-be executioner with it.

  For several moments, William just stood and stared at the end of the dock. His mind, already beleaguered by the thoughts of his impending death, had trouble grasping what he had just seen. Something disturbed the water to the left of the dock and he snapped back to reality. Maybe it was Vinnie or Jimmy; maybe it wasn’t, but he wasn’t going to wait around to find out.

  Looking down, he saw a knife just a few feet away. He realized it was the one Vinnie had been holding. He hopped over to it, hastily stooped down and picked it up with his hands. The cutting wasn’t pretty and he sliced himself three times because it was awkward with his hands behind his back, but finally got the tape off his ankles and wrists. He stifled a scream when he ripped the piece from over his lips, but it was a small price to pay to be free.

  He got up and staggered back down the pier slowly, still unable to comprehend what he’d just witnessed. Somewhere, deep down, he thought maybe it was the chemical spill Vinnie had talked about earlier, but he really didn’t care what created the monstrous trout.

  About halfway down the pier, he stopped and looked back, out over the water. He figured he was close enough to shore and the water too shallow for the monster to get to him.

  “Don't feed the fish,” he muttered, remembering the sign Jimmy had mentioned. "I’ll say."

  Something splashed near the pier and Jimmy broke out into the full run the mobsters didn’t think he had in him.

  Red Herring

  Clyde Gaudin wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead and then went back to typing on his computer. Man, what is with this weather, he said to himself. The exhaust fan in the attic was working overtime trying to draw out the oppressive heat that had settled into his house while he’d been away at work.

  For more than a month, it had been hotter than normal in the Atlanta area. Humidity had been high, resulting in powerful thunderstorms that had pummeled most of the northern half of Georgia. Even worse, after those same storms had passed, it had grown uncomfortably muggy.