by Eric Beetner
UNLOADED
Crime Writers Writing Without Guns
Eric Beetner, Editor
PRAISE FOR UNLOADED
“The 25 short stories in this thought-provoking theme anthology prove that clever crime writers can generate just as much mayhem, weirdness, and chills without the use of firearms.” —Publishers Weekly
Story Copyrights © 2016 by Individual Authors
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by Eric Beetner
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Unloaded
From the Editor
Eric Beetner
The Old Man In The Motorized Wheelchair
Joe R. Lansdale
Baby Pigeons
Reed Farrel Coleman
Swan Song
Hilary Davidson
The Starry Night
Grant Jerkins
Copper
Keith Rawson
Creampuff
Rob Hart
The Escape
Kelli Stanley
The Shy One
Alison Gaylin
Lorelei
Joyce Carol Oates
Seesaw Sally
Alec Cizak
Tattoo
Joe Clifford
The Business of Death
Eric Beetner
Ratcheting
Ryan Sayles
The Jungles of Peekskill, New York
Angel Luis Colón
The Hammer Party
Kent Gowran
Ioki And The Fat Jap
Tom Pitts
The Tip
Tim O’Mara
The Final Encore of Moody Joe Shaw
Thomas Pluck
Peep Show
Holly West
Blood Eyes
Trey R. Barker
A Feast For Hogs
Jeffery Hess
Itchy Feet
S.W. Lauden
Mysterious Ways
J.L. Abramo
Stark Raving
Patricia Abbott
Credits and Debits
Paul J. Garth
Acknowledgments
About the Contributors
The Down & Out Books Publishing Family Library of Titles
Preview from The Devil Dogs of Belleau Wood by Terrence McCauley
Preview from No Hard Feelings by Mark Coggins
Preview from The Devil’s Anvil by Matt Hilton
FROM THE EDITOR
I am a hypocrite. You see, I use guns to kill people. A lot of people. And wound them, threaten them, motivate them. I should say my characters do this because I don’t own a gun, and this is where the hypocrisy comes in. I personally think guns are too often misused, are too prevalent in American society and are too easy to get. I don’t know of any good reason for an ordinary citizen to own an assault rifle or a high capacity magazine. I believe in rigorous background checks and there should be a path to legally get guns away from those deemed unfit or unsafe to own them. I think a lot of things about guns, but it doesn’t stop me writing about them.
In the wake of so many recent mass shootings from Columbine to Sandy Hook and far beyond where any rational person would think our government would step in to address the problem, I began to feel conflicted about my writing. Did it glorify the use of guns? I’d say most of the movies I see have gun violence in them, from classic film noirs to modern day Hong Kong action films. And I make no apology for liking them.
But that’s fantasy, and so is my writing. When irresponsible gun owners cause deaths of real human beings, a line has been crossed.
I believe in responsible gun ownership. I’m not trying to take anyone’s guns away, nor is anyone in this anthology. We don’t want the abolition of gun ownership, only a reasonable conversation about how to take steps to prevent more mass killings and fewer tragic accidents.
I felt that sitting by and not saying anything wouldn’t cut it anymore, especially when the people who seemed to be dominating the conversation were doing nothing more than shouting and threatening one another. To listen to their arguments, the very fabric of America would be destroyed if we limited guns in any way, or we would be destroyed if we left things unchecked. As is always the case, the truth lies somewhere in between.
I began to notice other writers voicing their opinions about how insane the gun problem had gotten in America on social media. Some quoted facts, some voiced frustration, some pleaded for reason. I wondered if they, too, were conflicted about their writing being at odds with their personal beliefs.
And so I reached out and told them my idea. I wanted to put together an anthology of great crime fiction stories, the stories we all love to read and write, but leave out the guns. I knew we could do it. The guns weren’t the crux of the story, and if we could show how easy it was to do without for a little while, well maybe it could spark a conversation about guns. Specifically, it could—and I know it does so in a very small way—it could show that the world doesn’t end when the guns go away for a time. Maybe a citizen doesn’t need to own an assault rifle. Maybe we could all be responsible Americans and accept a limit on how many guns we could own, or how many rounds a magazine can carry. We can talk about concealment, gun locks, background checks, safety instruction and not shout about it or automatically get defensive and reach for the holster to defend our “American way of life.”
We could embrace the essence of what the founding fathers meant with the second amendment, without being so literal about it and while acknowledging that they could never have conceived of an M-16 or an AK-47.
The authors represented here responded and wanted to have that conversation. So they wrote. Original, exciting crime stories with all the thrills you’ve come to love about a great outlaw story, but without the guns. I doubt anyone will even miss them.
The writers who have contributed include gun owners. They come from all over the country and from both political parties. The unifying factor is a desire for reasoned, sensible change. Anyone who looks at the yearly body count in this nation as a result of gun violence wants the same thing. I don’t know anyone, gun enthusiast or not, who wants another school shooting or another rampage where survivors are left asking why and how, never to receive an answer to either.
It is a sad fact that during the time it took to put this book together, more than a dozen more mass shootings took place including killings in schools, churches and movie theaters. The problem isn’t going away on its own. Our legislators need to step in, and since they aren’t doing so, the people need to speak out.
In addition to being a writer, a father and a non-gun owner, I was almost a statistic. When I was in the second grade—I’ll pause to let that sink in: second grade—my friend Danny and I raided his father’s unlocked gun cabinet and took a revolver out for a day in the woods. We went around suburban Connecticut shooting at things like tree stumps, frogs we pulled out of the pond and bee hives. It may be obvious that if I were not to meet my demise by a tragic gun accident, then surely
I would do something stupid to do myself in, but somehow I’ve made it this far.
At one point Danny held the gun and had shot a frog we fished out onto the bank of the pond. Why we thought this was a good idea I still don’t know. Seeing the frog obliterated I figured Danny’s work was done, so I moved on ahead of him. He wasn’t done shooting. He took one more shot with me in his path and I felt the earth near my foot shake with the bullet’s impact. We laughed about it.
I could have easily been one of the many accidental deaths by children wielding guns without knowing their full power.
We weren’t imitating video games, I lived in a Pac Man world back then. We weren’t emulating something we saw on TV, it was a Brady Bunch and Mork & Mindy landscape for me. We were just kids playing with what was available. For us, and for too many kids today, the gun was a toy.
Like I said, I know this is a small gesture. I don’t expect to change policy or spark a revolution. But when we are confronted with armed gunmen killing children, gunning down innocent movie-goers, stalking high school hallways, seeking revenge on co-workers, attacking our military bases all with increasing numbers—staying silent wasn’t an option for me. And this is how I, and everyone included here, express ourselves: on the page.
Guns have been a part of America since its birth and expansion. Citizen on citizen gun violence is not new. Mass killings are not new. From the shootout at the O.K. Corral to Dillinger and Bonnie & Clyde, gun violence has been present in our society. That doesn’t make it acceptable. There are more guns in America now than at any time in history and, after declining in the 1990s, deaths and violence from guns are on the rise again.
So for a time, let’s remove them from the equation and enjoy a good story. For a time, let’s do without and I guarantee you America and the American way of life will still be here when you are finished with this book.
We will all go back to writing about guns, I’m sure. They are a fact of life, especially the criminal life we all write about. But I know we can take steps to prevent more tragedies from happening. I know we can let reason win the day. I know we can separate fact from fiction. I know we can listen to each other.
So I thank you for listening, and for reading.
—Eric Beetner
Proceeds from this collection are being donated to States United to Prevent Gun Violence. We felt their reasoned and impassioned approach to sensible gun laws made them exactly in line for the changes we wish to see. Please visit their website http://ceasefireusa.org/ for more information and to make up your own mind on the issues.
Back to TOC
“You can have my gun, but you’ll take my book
when you pry my cold, dead fingers off the binding.”
—Stephen King
THE OLD MAN IN THE MOTORIZED CHAIR
Joe R. Lansdale
My grandfather, Stubble Fine, used to work for the cops, but he didn’t get along with them so he quit. He opened a detective agency, but he didn’t much care for that, even though he was good at it. Well, to be honest, he was great at it. But he didn’t care. At heart, he’s lazy.
No man in my memory has more looked forward to retirement than my grandpa. And as it turned out, he pretty much had to retire. His legs played out and he spent his days in a motorized chair, in front of the television set. His wife, my grandma, left him early on, well before he retired, and she died of some kind of disease somewhere in Florida. We never met.
On the day I’m telling you about, I was visiting his house, which is a three-bedroom that looks a lot like the three bedrooms along his street and across from it. He and I get along well enough, considering he doesn’t really like much of anyone, and hates the human race in general.
But, I get my fill of him plenty quick, and I think the feeling is mutual, though it’s more about his personality than about anything I might do or say.
I was pretty close to making my escape, as it was a Saturday, and I wanted to have a nice day on the town, maybe go to the mall, see if any good-looking women were hanging around, but fate took a hand.
Grandpa was watching his favorite channel, one about reptiles and insects and animals. He loved the episodes with alligators and lions, and especially snakes. The ones where adventurers went out and showed off poisonous snakes and told you about them and handled them in precarious and irresponsible ways to show you how knowledgeable they were. Grandpa watched primarily in hopes of seeing someone bit.
So he’s settled in with a snake program, waiting on another, cause it’s some kind of all-day snake marathon or such, and just as I’m about to put on my coat and go out into the winter cold, the doorbell rang.
Grandpa said, “Damn it.”
I went over to the kitchen window for a look. The Sheriff’s car was parked at the curb, and behind it was a big black SUV splattered on the sides and all over the tires with red mud. I went to the door and opened it.
Standing there beside Jim was a young woman, who was, to put it mildly, a stunner. She looked like a movie star to me, even though her hair was a little tussled, like she had just gotten out of bed. She was wearing jeans and those tall boots with the white fluff around the tops, and she had on a well-fitting dark jacket with the same white fluff around the collar.
I invited them into the house, said, “Grandpa, it’s the Sheriff.”
“Oh, hell,” Grandpa said.
Jim looked at me. “Cranky today?”
“Everyday,” I said.
“I heard that,” Grandpa said. “I got my hearing aid in.”
We went over to his chair. Grandpa said, “Today is the all-day snake marathon, and I don’t want to miss it.”
“This is kind of important,” Jim said.
“So’s the snake marathon,” Grandpa said. “It shows next time six months from now. I may not be here then.”
I thought: Now that’s silly. If you’re not here, you’re not gonna miss not seeing it.
Grandpa turned his head slightly, looked at me, and said, “I still want to see it.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I said.
“Yeah, but you were smiling, like what I said was silly.”
“It is,” I said. “Why don’t you just record it and watch it when you want?”
“Don’t have a recorder.”
“I bought you one for Christmas.”
“That’s what’s in the box?”
“That would be it. I’ll hook it up.”
“Not today you won’t.”
“Well, it’s still silly,” I said.
“Not to me,” Grandpa said. He put the TV on mute, looked at Jim, said, “Well, get on with it.”
“Mr. Fine. Good to see you,” Jim said, reaching out to shake hands. As he did, Grandpa sniffed, and smiled.
“Call me Stubble or Stubbs. It’s not that I feel all that close to you, but Mr. Fine makes me feel more senior than I like. Besides, I see you from time to time. So we know one another.”
“Very well, Stubbs—”
“Wait a minute,” Grandpa said. “Never mind. Call me Mr. Fine. It sounds better coming out of your mouth.”
“Okay, Mr. Fine.”
“What’s the problem,” Grandpa said. He said it like a man who might already know the problem. But that’s how he was, a know-it-all, who, much of the time, seemed in fact to actually know it all.
“This is Cindy Cornbluth,” Jim said. “Her husband is missing. I had her follow me here to see if you could help us out. I know how you can figure things, how you can notice things the rest of us don’t…Like…Well, you know, there was that time with the murders in the old theater.”
“And all those other times,” Grandpa said.
“Yes,” Jim said, “and all those other times.”
Cindy leaned forward and smiled a smile that would have knocked a bird out of a tree, and shook hands with Grandpa. I thought he held her hand a little too long. Before he let it go, he gave her face a good look,
and when she stepped back, he gave her a good once-over. If he thought what I thought, that she was as fine a looking woman as had ever walked the earth, he didn’t let on. His face looked as sour as ever.
“Give me the facts, and make it short,” Grandpa said. “They got a round-up of the top ten most poisonous snakes coming on next, in about fifteen minutes”
“Jimmy…Sheriff. He can’t possibly help us in fifteen minutes,” Cindy said.
“That’s how much time you got,” Grandpa said. “You already made me miss the part about where one of the snake wranglers gets bit in the face.”
“You’ve seen this before?” Jim asked.
“He has,” I said. “But he never tapes it. Won’t hook up the machine. He likes to symbolically capture the program in the wild.”
“They got this one snake,” Grandpa said, “bites this fool messin’ with it, and they can’t get its teeth out. It won’t let go. The guy is going green, even as you watch.”
“You enjoy that?” Jim said.
“Oh yeah,” Grandpa said. “Rule of thumb. Don’t mess with venomous snakes. Okay now, tell me what happened. Chop, chop.”
“I woke up this morning,” Cindy said, “and Bert was gone. That’s my husband. I don’t know where. I didn’t think much of it. I thought he might be surprising me with doughnuts.”
“Doughnuts?”
She nodded.
“He do that often?” Grandpa asked.
“Now and again,” she said.
“So, Saturday, that’s his day off?”
