by Luca Veste
The bleachers were filled with the town folk, many standing on the field opposite of us, all gawking, blowing hot breaths into the cold air. This was to be an opening ceremony of the new ball field, a celebration, but the lingering chill wasn’t the only thing that turned hearts cold. Today we were dedicating the field to US Marine Gunnery Sergeant William F. Jakes who was returned home to us a month before on an even colder, snowy February morning.
It was frigid cold that morning.
We watched the C-130 touch down on the Charleston tarmac, watched as the bundled depot crew unloaded my brother Billy like cargo. My sister Janis and Lorette, Billy’s never-to-be bride, eight months fat with their unborn child, with hot tears streaming.
Billy was due to rotate out, back to world in July where he had a job waiting, a wedding planned and a lifetime to know and grow with a son he wanted to name, Thomas, after our father. July was a long ways from that cold airfield and a time that would never come. Not for Billy. Not for Lorette or baby Thomas.
We brought Billy back home to Martinsdale, putting him in the ground. The town consoled us on our loss, told stories of Billy and Donny Jakes, the "Irish twins," a couple of baseball brothers who were going to put our little town on the map. The memories haunted me and drowned me in guilt. This had been my fault. And here we stood to commemorate this field and give it his name.
It was my fault.
Big Coop Tucker mumbled something.
“What was that?” I whispered, a tendril of white breath curled out.
“It’s not your fault.” Coop repeated.
My cold kissed cheeks tingled with shame. I had said that aloud. I looked away, towards Gus Cosgrove standing to my right. Lanky, he stood there oblivious. He hadn’t heard.
The remainder of the ceremony I said nothing, frozen in silence absorbed in what could have been.
***
Our dad died when I was thirteen, just three days after my birthday on Christmas Eve. I spent those three days unaware how sick dad was, torturing Billy because he was a kid and I was a teenager, at least for another nine and half months, when Billy caught up.
“He’s your little brother, Donny Lee. He always will be and when I’m gone I expect you to watch after Billy. Promise me you will?”
I did, but I was only twelve. No idea how sick our dad was, working nearly everyday. Mom told us later he had been going down to Charleston for treatments. He had bad lungs from years as a welder. Asbestos.
His insurance paid for the house and little else. Mom got a job down at Alco Millennium working in Bookkeeping as a file clerk. She kept us afloat and I did what dad said, I watched after Billy. And he watched me.
The one thing Dad left behind besides the insurance were a pair of mitts, a well-worn baseball, and a Louisville Slugger. He had loved baseball, but with work, traveling to his next weld, he had little time to play. We learned to love baseball anyway.
Canseco, Bonds and McGuire were our kings. The Big League hitters we wanted to be.
By the time we hit Martinsdale High School, Billy and Donny Lee Jakes were notorious on the ball field. I may have been bigger, been faster and hit farther, but together we dominated the field. Our junior year, college scouts littered the bleachers, were seen talking to Coach Jenkins, plans being made for our future.
We lead our senior team to the state playoffs, each with a letter of intent signed with USC and the promise of a full scholarship for both. A package deal.
***
I was already five beers and several shots in when Big Coop Tucker found me at Tully’s. Gus Cosgrove, Aidy White and Coach Jenkins, who insisted we call him Joe.
“Still beating yourself up, Donny?” Coop patted a big hand my shoulder and sat beside me. The others found a booth and tried to coerce Donna Goeble into coming over and taking their order, while they each took turns ogling her ass.
I rubbed my leg, the chilled pain long gone, warmed by ongoing bottles of PBR.
“It’s my fault. Always will be. My responsibility. Pop said so. I was the man of the house. Billy needed me.”
“Crap!” Coop hunkered down, eye to eye. “Billy talked about the Marines since we was kids. He played because you played. He signed because you signed. It was your dream, Donny. Not his.”
“But... but he was my brother. If...”
“Billy was my friend. He was Gus’ and Aidy’s and Bob’s friend too. That’s why we stood out there in that ridiculous cold. Nobody cares what happened ten years ago. It was an accident, you can't carry it forever.”
I tipped up my bottle. Empty. I set it down with a clunk.
“If..." I was sobbing. There were no ifs, Billy was dead.
“Donny, I think we need to go home.”
“You don’t know anything Coop. Nothing.”
I backed off the stool and grabbed my coat. I flipped Coop and the others good-bye.
***
I stood on mound, lights cascading down from dark open sky. I looked down First, then over to Third, Billy would have my back at Second. Eyeing home, I lifted the ball to my chest, only it wasn’t a ball. It was cold and hard, smelled of gun oil.
I lowered the weapon, Billy’s 9mm Beretta, service issued. He had showed me how to load the clip, feed the chamber and discharge the gun. I wasn’t nearly the shot he was. At this distance, I doubt it would matter.
It was the last game of our high school career, a state championship on the line, it was tied at three runs each against Alamont. They had been unsuccessful in the top of the ninth and we had the bases loaded with a single out. I was up.
Coach Jenkins said all we need was a line drive, bring one home and the game was won. I couldn’t. I was a hitter so I swung hard. Miss. Again and again. Swing wild and hard, scoring a second out. It looked like extra innings for sure when Billy took the bat.
Jenkins signaled, Billy nodded, the Alamont pitcher gestured, pulled back and the ball was away. A solid crack sent the ball darting just inside the First Base line. Wally Wilton touched home before the ball hit the catcher’s mitt. In four years, that was only Wally’s second run.
A line drive, that’s all it took. We won, and I couldn’t be happy. It was stupid, I know, I did the only thing I remained good at, ran off feeling sorry for myself. I jumped in my Chevy and let the engine roar. I was so fueled with my own arrogance and misdirected anger I never even saw the tree.
Three weeks later I woke up in Memorial down in Charleston, the same hospital I spent Christmas Eve three days after my thirteenth birthday. My leg in traction, rods holding the bone in place. Billy was there, his head already shaved. While I was sleeping he’d enlisted in the Corp.
He was all smiles, excited to tell me about signing up. Billy told me how he had spoken to a recruiter last fall. He told me that dad had asked him to watch after me, that even though I was the man of the family, he had to watch my back. He said he would. Forever.
I lifted the gun at the brand new marquee, Dedicated to US Marine Gunnery Sergeant William F. Jakes.
“I’ve seen you shoot, Donny. Think you might want to step closer?”
Coach Joe Jenkins stood by the fence.
“Maybe, I should aim for something closer? You? Maybe me?”
“You do what you want, Donny Lee. You always have, just like your brother. You were good ball player once, the best I ever coached, for sure. It’s time you stop chasing what you could have been and start looking for what you want to be. I think you got something to give.”
Coach threw me a grounder and I reached for the rolling ball.
“If you're still thinking about this in the morning, why don’t you come down for a visit? I can’t coach these kids forever.”
BIO: Nestled in the foothills of West Virginia, Ron Earl Phillips lives with his wife, teen-aged daughter, and their three cats. When not attempting to keep a roof over their heads through the mundane and legal job as a web developer, Ron reads and writes crime fiction. He also acts as co-editor on the online flash fiction magazi
ne, Shotgun Honey, and for the upcoming e-book charity anthology, The Lost Children. Ron also maintains the weekly writing prompt site, Flash Fiction Friday.
You can find out more about Ron Earl Phillips at his website, www.RonEarl.com.
DETROIT ROCK CITY
By
Chris La Tray
Curly was happy his mother hadn’t lived to see how his life turned out. After all, she’d had such high hopes for him as a child.
‘You’re something special,’ she always said. ‘I just know someday you gonna be a star, child.’
Funny the things you think about, Curly thought. His mother’s predictions seemed so ludicrous to him now that he had to laugh, even when he knew he was about to die.
It wasn’t anything they had not done many times before. He and Jean -- she was Bonnie to his Clyde, she claimed -- had knocked over countless gas stations and convenience stores. Hell, they’d even stooped to cleaning out the occasional roadside fruit stand. Things had always gone smoothly, and any ensuing violence was more a matter of them choosing to spice things up than anything really going awry. Just like anyone else on a night out, they might start out with a little drink, then maybe some smoke. After that, whatever happened, happened.
The pair never planned much.
Jean was usually the instigator, though. Curly liked having a good time as much as the next guy, but generally preferred, particularly when things were flush, to keep things nice and mellow. Maybe a couple cocktails, followed with a bowl or two of dope, and he was content to spend the rest of the night as a space man.
‘That shit doesn’t do it like that for me, baby,’ Jean said. ‘It’s like there’s a demon in me, and it gets out if I’m loaded.’
Problem was she liked to get loaded. A lot.
They hit the road around ten o’clock, just cruising, digging on the radio, driving faster and faster. One town in the rear-view mirror and who could say what would be coming next. By midnight, what started as a round glow in the distance became a blinding light in the windshield.
A casino. One of those big Indian ones that spring from the earth on the edges of nowhere. Neon, flashing lights, and false promises.
‘It’s our destiny!’ Jean shouted, flinging an empty bottle out her window, her auburn hair streaming in the wind. ‘It’s like the universe itself telling us what we got to do!’
Curly wasn’t really into it . . . but Jean was flying. There’d be no stopping her. He screeched the tires of their IROC-Z pulling into the lot.
Jean was out of the car and headed toward the front door as soon as Curly reached the curb; he had to run to catch up to her. She went straight up the front steps to a hulking, rectangle-shaped bouncer with a long braid, pulled her pistol from behind her back and jabbed him in the gut. ‘Take us to the fuckin’ money or you’ll never smoke a peace pipe again,’ she said.
Startled, the man’s eyes fell on Curly, who shrugged, smiled, and opened his denim jacket enough to show his pistol as well.
If it all seems too easy, it’s because it was.
The bouncer led them around the edge of the casino’s main floor, down a long hallway, a short flight of stairs, and through a set of double doors. Another hallway ended at a simple door that could have been the entrance to a broom closet, except for the intercom on the wall beside it. Jean jabbed the barrel of her weapon into the bouncer’s back when he hesitated, then he pushed a button and grunted into the speaker, ‘It’s Jay-Jay, open up.’
A buzzer sounded, the door opened, and Jean shoved her hostage through. ‘Face down on the fucking floor, chief!’ she said.
Three women and a man were seated at a long table, sorting and counting stacks of cash. Four jaws dropped, and two of the women made to stand. ‘Get down!’ Jean said, her glock steady in their direction. ‘Get up and you’re dead. You so much as move your feet, you’re dead.’
Jean gestured with her gun. ‘You got these, baby?’
‘I got ‘em, Pussy Cat,’ Curly said, training his .45 on the four.
Another woman stood frozen at the back of the room, her wide, dark face draining to pale. ‘You, Pocahontas, start piling all that money there in a bag and then everything will be over.’
The woman started to tremble. ‘I ain’t got any bags here,’ she said.
‘Then use a fucking garbage can or something!’ Jean said.
Curly smiled. He loved Jean’s fearlessness, her ability to think on her feet.
Things might have turned out differently if Curly and Jean had had just one more set of eyes to watch the doorway, because they never heard, let alone saw, the six burly guards who burst in behind them. A heavy caliber revolver barked and Jean was down in a mess of her own skull before she even knew to turn.
Curly joined her on the floor moments later, his left shoulder crushed by a slug, another lodged somewhere in the muscles of his back.
Sprawled half on his side, Curly recognized he’d made a mistake humoring Jean and her demon. Then he wished his mother could have met her, then he thought of his mother’s high hopes for her son. He started to laugh, glimpsed his .45 on the floor beside him and lunged for it.
A heavy work boot intercepted his effort, crunching hard through the bones of his wrist. Curly swore, turned his head, and sneered into the barrel of a shotgun.
‘Not today, Ace,’ the guard said, his long hair framing his face as he leaned forward.
BIO: Chris La Tray is a rocker, a writer, a lifelong KISS fan and a wannabe adventurer. His nonfiction writing has appeared in the Missoula Independent, Vintage Guitar magazine, and World Explorer magazine. His short fiction has appeared at Beat to a Pulp, Pulp Modern, the Crimefactory Kung Fu Factory special edition, and Noir at the Bar. His story ‘Run for the Roses’ was the winner of the 2011 Watery Graves Invitational story competition. He can be stalked at http://www.chrislatray.com.
SUPER TROUPER
By
Nigel Bird
I don’t step on the cracks.
I’m not the only one.
Watch kids on the pavement and they know, too, short steps and long to stay on the stones.
I have the time to notice these things, see. All the time in the world.
The High Street’s empty. Better that way. It’s why I get in early. No distractions.
Straight down the middle is my line, a metre from the walls and one from the road.
Oncoming vehicle, Ford Mondeo. One passenger, male, shouting at the driver. One driver, female, focusing on the road and wiping away tears.
Clear.
Opposite side, old lady (clear), two power cleaners taking a smoke between stripping gum from the stones (clear), group of students (just out of bed, lazy fuckers, clear).
Baby’s buggy ahead. No baby. Stop. Look for wires, lumps, anything out of the ordinary. Clear.
Check back down at the cracks. Step carefully. There’s a speck of something on my boot. Stop. Bend. Wipe. Stand. Look ahead. Step.
St Georges Shopping Centre. Turn right.
Automatic doors slide open. My mind whirrs with the stimulus of change. Settle. Take it slowly. Deep breaths. Easy does it.
Two security, too fat for ex-forces, playing with their walkie-talkies. Mothers and toddlers.
Nothing to see here.
Too early for the hoodies. Too late for the business rush.
Pulse slows. 90, 80, 70, 60. Clear.
Todd’s Sports on the right. Turn right. Onto carpet. Relax.
Heaven, this place. All the trainers you could want in the one shop. Smells new and shines white.
I’m straight round the back to the classy stock. The imports. The must be seen in. Kept round there just in case anyone daft enough rips the chain from the wall to run off with a left shoe.
There’s a soft-topped box by the rack. I sit on it and just look at them all. Reminds me of the time I went into an art gallery. People there did the same.
This is my safe place. I come here often. Never buy. Never talk. Just feel the peac
e inside.
Maybe I drift off, but the voice is a shock.
‘Sir,’ someone says. ‘Sir. Are you all right, sir?’ The voice is high for a man. Probably a teenager.
I’m all eyes and ears soon as. Bright and ready for action.
Looks like the old guys sent the new, young buck over to sort things. Reminds me of my first days.
‘I’m thinking about getting a pair,’ I tell him.
The boy straightens. Squares the shoulders inside the shell-suit. Trying to be a man.
I’d tell him that men don’t need the tramlines in their hair, but what’d be the point?
‘They’re beauties, aren’t they? You won’t see a better selection outside of London.’
He goes over and handles one of them from the top row, the Gold Nike, Super-Soles range. Way he’s taken control impresses me. Sort of guy my unit’s always looking for.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I’m thinking about the Silver Puma retro. Two-twenty-nine-ninety-nine.’ It’s like my serial number.
‘Top of the range, brother.’ He picks it from the stand. Rubs the leather uppers with the right amount of respect. ‘Want to try them on?’
‘Size 13,’ I nod. Reckon he’s impressed.
I set to unlacing my boots. Check my reflection in the toe. Beaut.
When the kid returns, he’s got the box, lid open.
Reflex kicks in. I look it over. Tissue. Shoe. Clear.
He hands to me. I take it. Bend and smell the thing before putting it on. There’s nothing like the whiff of new kit.
‘Oh yeah,’ the kid says. ‘Nobody’s going to miss you in these. You know your footwear, sir.’
‘I know my footwear all right.’ I’ve seen all kinds. ‘Came across something like this in Afghanistan.’ It all flows back. The heat and the glare of the sun from the dirt. The kids watching like we’re the entertainment. ‘Didn’t need the metal detector or a dog to tell me that one was a wrong-un.’
