From across the street, I heard, "Hey! You stawp that! I'm cawlin' the cawps!"
Housecoat was back.
"Better move, brudda," yelled Junior. "I think she means it this time."
I was too out of breath to answer, but figured we had a few minutes until the cops could respond, blizzard and all.
I pulled myself up and opened the window wide enough to climb into. One leg was in before my other foot slipped in the snow. I toppled through the opening and landed in a heap onto the floor, the wind knocked out of me on impact.
I lay in that heap wheezing for a few seconds, staring at the wall of the room that I'd belly-flopped into.
Unless Mrs. O'Malley hung a decades-old Jim Rice poster in her bedroom, I'd climbed right into Ralphie's room. With more effort than I thought would be necessary, I managed to get to my feet. All things considered, I was feeling pretty good about my athletic abilities when I saw what was on the bed.
"Aw, hell no," I whispered to the nobody else in the room.
Junior's teeth chattered ferociously when I opened the front door for him. "The fuck, Malone? You stop to take a shit?" Then he got a look at my face. "What? What is it?"
I led him up the stairs into Ralphie's room.
Ralphie lay on the bed. A black garbage bag, just like the one Junior had on his nose earlier, was still pressed to his head. The draping plastic looked as though the legendary Great Black Cloud of Ralphie O'Malley had descended right onto his face. As I pulled the bag away, the condensation from the melting ice rained down his face like tears.
"Fuuuuuuuck… He's dead, isn't he?"
"Yeah." I said.
"Those motherfuckers..."
Ralphie had been worked over pretty hard. His eye was swollen shut and crusted blood still clung in his nostrils.
But they didn't kill him.
I turned Ralphie's head so Junior could see what I'd already seen.
Caked blood had trickled out his ear and matted into the ratty pillowcase. The left side of his face was dented deep, a clear indentation on his temple.
An indentation that was the same size and shape of an orthopedic shoe heel.
"Fuck me with a chainsaw," Junior said, as sadly as a man can say 'fuck me with a chainsaw.'
The sound of locks tumbling snapped us both back to attention. We heard the front door open.
"Ralphie? I'm home. They were out of Devil Dogs, but I got you some Ring Dings."
Junior and I just stood there looking at one another, as frozen and silent as Ralphie.
"Ralphie?" she called again. I could hear tears in her voice. "I'm sorry, honey. Please talk to me. I'm sorry I hit you." The tears turned into guilt-ridden wails. "We'll get the money somehow. Please, Ralphie. You gotta stop gambling." Deep, wracking sobs echoed up the stairwell at us. "Ralphie, please talk to me..."
My heart broke on her every word. Junior bit his lower lip and shook his head. We'd heard enough. I unlocked the deadbolt on Ralphie's door and opened it. "Mrs. O'Malley?" I yelled.
"Who is that?" Fear overtook her sorrow for the moment.
"It's Boo and Junior, ma'am. You have to call a doctor. I think Ralphie's really hurt."
Junior punched me on the arm. "What are you saying to her, Boo? He ain't hurt, he's fuckin' dead."
"You want to tell her?" I hissed.
He bit his lip again.
"What's wrong with Ralphie?" Panic edged her voice.
"Mrs. O'Malley?" I said, as I descended the stairs. She stood shaking in the foyer, looking very small and very cold. "He needs an ambulance," was all I could say.
We sat with her and held her hand until the police arrived.
Acknowledgements, Thank-Yous and a Bunch of Bullshit That Nobody Really Reads Except For People Trying to Find Their Own Name
First of all, thanks to the magazines and anthologies that have published my fiction over the years. You would be: Plots With Guns, Needle Magazine, Shotgun Honey, Strange, Weird, and Wonderful, Out of the Gutter, Pulp Pusher, Grift, Demolition Magazine and CrimeFactory. You guys have great taste.
Then there's my agent, Stacia Decker. She's the agent we all hope to get someday when we type our first words onto paper. You kill it, even though I haven't earned you a red goddamn cent yet. Soon. I promise (wink).
To my family. I love you, but you have no one to blame but yourselves. You made me this way.
My wife and son; Allison? Sam? You guys are why I do it all.
And in case you enjoyed the stories here, follow me on Twitter @bigdaddythug for insane ramblings, new short story updates and my opinions an all kinds of bullshit.
Till next time…Todd Robinson 04/23/2012
Table of Contents
Copyright
An Introduction, George Lucas-ing, and a Confession…
So Long, Johnnie Scumbag
The Biggest Dick In Brooklyn
Roses At His Feet
The Long Count
Dirty Laundry
Last Call
Hot Enough For Ya?
Angelo Death
Delivery
The Saint of Gunners
The Legendary Great Black Cloud of Ralphie O'Malley
Acknowledgements, Thank-Yous and a Bunch of Bullshit That Nobody Really Reads Except For People Trying to Find Their Own Name
Dirty Words Page 15
