“No idea. Oh, jeez, does this mean we have to open them, Loosh? I’m sick of these people already and I didn’t even know ’em.”
“Just one,” Lucian assured him. “Then we’ll know who’s in the other one.” He tugged on the lid of one coffin. “It don’t want to open. Give me a hand here.”
Mackie did, but when it became apparent that the casket was tightly sealed, Mackie got a tire iron from the car and the two men took turns prying and bludgeoning the casket. The dam holding back Lucian’s frustration gave way, and he smashed the iron over and over against the steel box, succeeding only in scratching the glossy white finish. When he tired at last, he ceded the futility of that action and used the iron, slippery with sweat, to try prying the lid from the bottom of the casket. He gave a satisfied grunt when at last the lid popped loose with a burp and hiss of air. Peering at the contents, the moonlight revealed the remains of an elderly woman with mean lips and pink-tinted hair. “Shi –” He wiped his one hand, now shaky from ebbing adrenaline, across his sweaty features and stood up just as Mackie said, “Lucian?” in the tone of voice Lucian had learned to recognize as one which would not make him happy.
“Now what?”
He turned to see Mackie standing by the other casket, its lid wide open, no sign of damage to the box. The late Frank Murray’s head was cocked to one side, eyes wide, his fixed expression an open-mouthed sneer.
“Who’d have guessed these things aren’t self-sealing?” Mackie said mildly.
***
McCrea’s bodyguards waved the hearse into the garage just after sunrise. Mackie and Lucian emerged from the vehicle and both were relieved when they were told to wait. It was understood that McCrea’s employees, except for the bodyguards, never entered the house. There were rumors about treasonous or bungling employees being invited into the house, never to leave in the same good health with which they had entered. If they ever left at all.
McCrea appeared in the doorway, a blue terry robe cinched around his belly, a glowing cigar in his hand. Mackie eyed it warily.
“Look who the fuck’s here. Fuckin’ Abbott and Costello. Well? What the fuck have you two fucks got to say for your sorry-ass selves?”
Lucian tried to remember the speech he’d been rehearsing, but the words stumbled out.
“We fixed it, boss. We dug – we got him out of there. The place, the grave, we left it looking great, like you wouldn’t believe. Real sorry about the mix-up. Never meant no disrespect. And now we can take care of that other thing for you. The Frank Murray thing.”
“You two clowns can barely dress yourselves. How do I know you got that piece of shit out of my mother’s grave? How do I know her grave looks okay after you two assholes been busy for twenty-four hours desecrating it?” The stogie circled just a hair below Lucian’s chin. He felt the circle of heat.
Mackie jerked a thumb at the hearse. “He’s in there. Lucian said you might want proof.”
McCrea blew a noxious cloud of smoke into Mackie’s face and gestured for the bodyguards to take a look in the hearse. Mackie tried to swallow a cough, ended up choking. McCrea laughed and in a surprisingly delicate motion, barely touched his stogie to Mackie’s wrist. Mackie jerked, yelped, and choked again. The boss grinned.
McCrea got the nod from the bodyguards.
“Okay, looks like you took care of that particular screw-up, and it’s good that you did. Sure, I know you two didn’t desecrate my mother’s grave on purpose.” Lucian tried not to remember that at the very last, in a fit of cussedness, he’d spit on the old lady’s grave. Mackie hoped the memory of the beer bottles and chicken bones left in the grave didn’t show up on his face.
“I take responsibility for this mess,” McCrea spread his arms in a gesture something like a crucifixion. “I should have known better, should’ve known you’re both just natural-born fuck-up douche bags. I was wrong to think that if I just gave you the opportunity, you two could pull off a simple job without turning it into a fucking Keystone Kops movie. You ain’t bad men. You ain’t disloyal. You’re just too stupid to live.”
Lucian swallowed back a moan, felt Mackie’s paw clutch at his sleeve.
“But you ain’t worth the trouble of killing either.”
Twin gasps of relief, and Lucian’s lips twitched with a near-smile before he got himself under control. Mackie felt an urgent need to pee.
“So you’re fired, the pair of you. Today I’m Donald fucking Trump and you’re lousy, and I mean lousy, fucking apprentices. So I got to fire you. Donald wouldn’t kill you and neither will I – today. But you’re fired. You morons got ’til tomorrow to get your lame asses out of this town. If you ain’t gone by then, you’ll have made it worth my trouble to spend some lead on you. Are we clear on this? Tomorrow. You’re gone. Or – you’re fucking gone. Questions from you, Mackie?”
“No, sir. Gone tomorrow. I can do that.” His head worked up and down like a bobblehead doll.
“I wonder?” McCrea raised a dubious eyebrow, and rolled the cigar between his fingers. He turned to Lucian. “You understand me? No more second chances.”
“You don’t want us to get Frank Murray?”
“It’s a little late for that. My boys here will take care of that matter. The way you two work, you’d just fuck it up bad enough to send me to jail. So are we through here?”
“Then Mackie and me’ll just get rid of this Frank Murray –”
“No! No, I think we’ve already seen that you two can’t even manage something as simple as getting rid of a body. My boys will take care of that, too. Just leave the car.”
“Are we supposed to walk?” asked Mackie. “They ain’t no buses run out this way.”
“You can walk,” McCrea said softly, snapping his fingers at one of the bodyguards, who handed him a Baretta. He smiled as he racked the slide. “Or you can run.”
***
Lucian had sore feet, the sulks, and a suitcase in the trunk of his El Dorado, when he went to pick up Mackie that night. Mackie opened the door, his face lit with excitement, and waved Lucian in.
“Loosh, man, Jimmy the Skunk called me, and man, it’s all over the news. You shoulda seen it. They had McCrea doing the perp walk and everything. This is unfuckingbelievable!”
“What the hell –”
“No shit, Loosh. The feds raided McCrea’s place right after we left. I don’t know they found much but they nailed him on our stolen hearse, not to mention a certain corpse who shall be nameless. They busted him, bigger’n shit. Are you ready for this? For receiving stolen property and abuse of a corpse.” Mackie paused to think over that last phrase. “Does that mean what I think it does?”
Lucian tried to absorb the news. Couldn’t. Could only say, “Feds?”
“Yeah, feds. And that ain’t the half of it. After we left the cemetery, some assholes must have dug up McCrea’s dear old mother and left her sitting in a lawn chair down by the main gate.”
“What?” Lucian was stunned.
“And that ain’t the half of it either,” said Mackie.
“Well, what the fuck is the other half of it? Stop dragging it out,” snapped Lucian.
The animation vanished from Mackie’s face. Lucian thought he even looked a little pale.
“She wasn’t wearing nothing but a g-string and pasties,” Mackie whispered.
“Mackie, you asshole! How the fuck –”
“Swear to God it wasn’t me, Loosh. I know I said it would be funny, but man, it would make me sick to undress a woman that old. And dead, too. Talk about gross.”
Lucian gave Mackie his meanest “you’d best not be fucking with me” look until he was sure Mackie was telling the truth. Then he sighed and rubbed a weary hand over his face.
“Man, we are in some deep, deep shit. McCrea’s gon’ think we did that to his mother, you know he is.”
The phone rang and the two men stared at it. Mackie said, “You think he made bail already?”
They let the phone ring three mo
re times, then Mackie answered gingerly, as if he thought the receiver would explode in his hand. He thought he could smell cigar smoke as a gravelly voice said, “You’re dead, you fucking asswipe. You’re so fucking dead you should fall down right now.”
Mackie hung up, wiped a shaky hand on his shirt. “I guess I’m packed,” he said. “Where we gonna go, Loosh?”
“How does the West Coast sound?”
“Like it ought to be far enough. We get settled, maybe we can find a fixer, start to iron things out with McCrea.”
“Oh, sure,” sneered Lucian. “We’ll do that. Put all them worms right back in the can, no problem. Get that horse back in the barn. Put the tiger back in the old cage.” He shook his head at Mackie’s optimism.
Mackie’s equanimity restored, he grabbed his suitcase and said with a sly grin, “Yeah, put old Pandora back in her box.”
They were both sniggering as they left the apartment. “That’s terrible.” Lucian pronounced it turrible. “No wonder he thinks we’re morons. You probably want to send him a postcard, too.”
Mackie tossed the case in the back seat of the El Dorado and climbed in the front. “Why not? Having wonderful time. Wish you were here.”
“Picture of Alcatraz on it,” Lucian joked.
They laughed for thirty miles. By the time they reached San Francisco, Mackie had forgotten why it was so funny. In fact, it seemed like a pretty good way to start smoothing things over, so he went out and bought a postcard. Picture of Alcatraz on it.
-
Naomi Johnson pounds out book reviews and tortures her writing comrades by running the Watery Grave Invitational Short Story Contest at her blog, The Drowning Machine. Her short stories have been published at A Twist of Noir, Crimefactory, Southern Cross Review, and Powder Burn Flash. She made her first sale to a print publication last year but denies all responsibility for the subsequent demise of that publication.
Surf Rider
By Ian Ayris
The Surf Rider’s mind blew in April ’73. The Surf Rider, he didn’t feel a thing – five Strawberry Fields and a staple diet of Mandrax and Lebanese Gold does that to a man.
The doctors called it a “drug-induced psychosis.”
Nearly forty years on, the Surf Rider stands at a bar in Huntington Beach, what remains of his dignity covered by an Afghan coat and knee-length Bermuda shorts. His voluminous gut pushes out a faded Grateful Dead t-shirt, his sun-brown hands clutch a bright yellow Lightning Bolt surfboard closer to him than the dreams of a shattered childhood. His silver-grey hair hangs past his shoulders, and his eyes stare wide, wide to a world beyond words.
Two men stagger into the bar. Strangers in this town. Foreigners. London boys on the holiday of a lifetime.
“Look at that cunt,” one of them says, pointing at the man in the Afghan coat and the Bermuda shorts. “Thinks he’s on Hawaii fuckin’ Five-O.”
The other man, the man with him, laughs. Laughs too loud. And the vibrations cut through the smoke and the chatter and land at the edge of the Surf Rider’s perception. Two shadows, that’s all they are. Two shadows. Melting.
“What you havin’, Steve? Some of that Yankee piss lager?”
“Look at his eyes,” Steve says, “it’s like they’re gonna fuckin’ explode. Geezer’s gotta be fuckin’ on a fuckin’ world of shit.”
The other one nods, one shattered soul to another.
“But look at that fuckin’ surfboard,” Steve says. “That’s a fuckin’ original Lightnin’ Bolt, that is.”
“What the fuck’s a Lightnin’ Bolt?”
“It’s an old surfboard. Collector’s item, you know. Me dad had one when we used to live down the coast. Probably worth a fuckin’ fortune nowadays.”
“Best we take a closer look then.”
And the two Londoners move along the bar, punters at a Victorian Freak Show. Businessmen of the New Millenium.
The colors change, the beat slows. The edges become sharp and the shadows become fiery demons, eyes aflame.
The bartender steps in, slows time. He asks the boys if he can get them something to drink.
“What? Yeah. Couple of lagers, mate.”
“Are you boys from England?” the bartender says.
“That’s right, fella. London.”
Two bottles of Yankee piss lager land on the bar.
The bartender says his wife is from England, and says the beers are on the house.
“That geezer with the surfboard, what’s his story?”
The bartender’s jaw tightens. The friendly smile sets in concrete, eyes fixed on the two strangers. He leans on the bar. Lowers his voice. Confidential. And tells them he’s always been here, the Surf Rider. Stands in the corner, holding his board, he says. That’s all he does. Just stares off into nowhere with them big round eyes. He never buys more than a couple of drinks. The Boss says he’s good for business. A local attraction.
Steve fumbles in the front of his jeans for his camera, wanting to get a closer look at the surfboard. He scythes through the crowd till he’s within a couple of feet of the Surf Rider.
Blood and brains and walls too thin. The flowers are shouting and the blue devil eats the elephant’s ears.
“Gi’s a smile, mate.”
Flash.
The Surf Rider, he don’t even blink.
Steve returns to the bar and his Yankee piss lager. The bartender glares at him, grave and disapproving, and casts a wary eye along the bar to where the Surf Rider stands.
“What’s up with this cunt?” Steve says. “I only took a fuckin’ picture.”
The two lads take their bottles of Yankee piss lager and find a place to hide in the crowd.
“So, what do you reckon? The real deal?”
“Yeah, mate. It’s the real fuckin’ deal all right. A one hundred fuckin’ percent original Lightnin’ Bolt. Gonna be like takin’ candy off a fuckin’ baby.”
Edges sharp as razors now. Sharp as razors.
***
Closing time. The bartender is waiting for the Surf Rider to exit the building so he can lock up for the night. The Surf Rider. One heavy step after the other. Like he’s walking on the moon. He nears the exit as the doorway gets smaller and smaller, narrowing, shrinking. He squeezes through the rabbit hole and into the Wonderland night, and he paints the darkness with gold and silver and blue broken diamonds.
Just because he can.
And waiting in the darkness, hiding in shadows, the two strangers watch with dollar-sign eyes, just like in the cartoons.
The Surf Rider rounds the corner. The two strangers emerge from the dark, and waste no time. One jumps the Surf Rider from behind whilst the other tries to wrest the board from his grip. But the board, it is a part of him. Don’t they know that? Can’t they see?
With a twist of might, one assailant is hurled against the wall, and slides down like vomit. The other, the other is having his face caved in with the top edge of the surfboard.
And deep in the darkness to a Beach Boy rhythm, the Surf Rider rides… the waves of oblivion… pounding… pounding… pounding…
-
Ian Ayris has had nearly forty stories published online and in print over the last couple of years. His debut novel, Abide With Me, is due to be published by Caffeine Nights Publishing in late 2011, and one of his short stories, “Small Print,” has been accepted for next year's edition of Maxim Jakubowski's Mammoth Book of Best British Crime. Ian lives in London, England, with his wife and three children.
The Slicers’ Serenade of Steel
By Gary Phillips
Rudy Canary wasn’t much for jogging. His knees hurt and it seemed as if invisible pins were pricking his lower legs as he ran down the street. It was going on eleven o’clock on a moonless night. In this part of town, only the working girls and potential johns cruising by getting an eye and earful were out.
“Come on, stud muffin, forty for a date,” a big-boned gal spilling out of a too-small outfit blared at a mortgage slave rollin
g slow on the street in a sedan. She made a fist near her mouth, working it back and forth as she rhythmically poked her tongue inside her cheek.
Rudy Canary collided with the woman. Given she was sturdy, his average-sized frame was knocked back several steps.
“Watch it, asshole,” biggie growled as her would-be customer drove on. She put her vermilion-nailed hands on her substantial breasts in its straining top, did a quick adjustment, then resumed scanning the avenue like a grizzly hunting salmon.
He mumbled something and went on, looking for a bar, a motel, hell even a dice game, just some place with other bodies for protection. But to what avail? The denizens of the Rust Valley area knew better than to interfere with another’s business, especially if there were guns involved. Rudy Canary had a sweet little Glock his dear mother, currently doing two to five for receiving stolen goods, had given him several birthdays ago. Yet what good were bullets against a relentless pursuer said to be dead already?
Under its buzzing neon sign, Canary bore into a bar he’d been in many a time, the Cobra Tap. The usuals were about, planning petty scores and lamenting the previous ones that had gone sour. He careened to the bar, gesturing hurriedly at the bartender called Torchy for his unruly head of red hair. The bartender had various tats and piercings, including a tiny crucifix that dangled from a ring sunk in his soul patch.
“Torchy, Torchy, let me use the spidey hole.” There was a section of false floor in the storage room over a hidden sunken cavity. There for a price, an individual in possession of material the law might have an interest in could secret such away for a set time.
“Sure, Rudy,” Torchy said while he dried a glass. “Four hundred for four hours. Night-time rates.” His smile was like that of an adder.
“I don’t have that kind of scratch on me. I might have forty, forty-five. That ought to get me like, what, half hour, something like that?”
“Hundred an hour. No halvsies.”
“What the fuck, man?”
Torchy had already moved on.
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