Jungle Shark: Short Stories by Steven Loton

by Steven Loton

  “Say something then,” begged Harry.

  She glanced up, blinked, and said, “Harry you have been in that job for six years now. The only thing that has happened was the demotion last year. You got docked wages and then fired. I had to write a letter, pleading for your job back. I was amazed they gave it back.”

  She blew on her nails took out a soft file and lightly brushed the tips.

  “But, baby, that wasn’t my fault,” said Harry, walking toward her and sitting on the edge of the bed. “You know they were on my back. They were scared. I was moving up too fast. That’s the way it goes in the workforce. The boss man doesn’t like to see workers succeed. They don’t want us to fail either. They just want us to stay still forever. It keeps society in check. Don’t you understand that, baby?”

  Harry walked to the mirror, removed his shirt and began his flexing routine. He wasn’t much of a man, but at least he liked what he saw. He used to be muscled and tanned, but he couldn’t keep up with that game. The gym was for wimps. There was all that grunting. He got sick of it. Now he was a real man with a real job. Driving trucks. Or sometimes loading trucks. But if he had his way, it would just be driving trucks.

  Harry turned the gun toward him and peered into the barrel.

  “Baby, have you been playing with my gun? It looks like someone has been playing with it. Or maybe you were just cleaning it for me. Were you cleaning Daddy’s gun?”

  “No, Harry, I haven’t touched your gun,” she said turning another page on her Huxley book. “I don’t know why you have that thing. It doesn’t even work.”

  “Oh, it works. I can prove it. Look,” he said, pulling the trigger repeatedly. It went click, click, click.

  “Hear, baby? Hear that? That’s a real gun.”

  He was stood there pulling the trigger, grinning like a moron. Or a subnormal. A subnormal moron.

  “I could hold up a bank with this,” he said excitedly. “Or at least a small shop.”

  “Look, Harry.” She slammed Huxley down and rose up from the bed. “Why don’t you then? You’re always talking about it. But that’s all. You are the biggest chicken shit I have ever been with. Maybe I should go back to Mike. He talked big, but at least he backed it up.”

  “You think I won’t do it?” He pulled on a white T-shirt and climbed into his favourite pair of denim blue jeans. They really were disgraceful-looking jeans, thought Jessica.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll rob a bank, or a shop, or an off licence. I don’t give a damn. I’ll even rob an old lady. I’ll do it,” he said angrily.

  “You fool.”

  She slid back into bed and pulled her eye mask down. That usually meant she didn’t want to talk anymore. Then she reached and pulled the cord on the lamp. It went dark.

  That was it, Harry had enough of this. On the way out, he was sure to take his gun. No point in forgetting that. He opened the door, slipped out and sure did slam it. He had to let Jessica know how angry he was. He let the whole building know.

  His car was still parked out front, and it hadn’t been touched. Not even the thieves wanted it. Piece of crap. He got in and started ripping up the engine. A cloud of smoke poured out of the exhaust. He really had to get that seen to, thought Harry. He fiddled with his gun, twisting the barrel like they did in the movies and thought about that for a while. Few minutes passed and nothing came to him, so that was enough of that.

  Harry put it into first gear and took off. It was just him and the open road. Man was born to drive alone. He snapped on the radio. Pop music. No luck. He fiddled with the dial. It set. Rolling Stones. “Gimme Shelter.” Jagger, that skinny bastard. That’ll do, that’ll do.

  He drove it steady along the grey road. There seemed to be no one about, so Harry opened the valves up, tore along with the window down and his arm dangling out. Some breeze blew his hair around wildly, just like in the movies. He couldn’t see shit. Then he saw what he wanted in the distance. A lit-up bar. He parked it across the street and sat there for a moment. Then he turned the engine off real slow. He didn’t know what he was doing, but his palms felt sweaty. In fact, he felt very stupid just sitting there. Man spent so much of his life seeking solitude. When he finally had some he had no idea what to do with it. He should write that down, maybe. Later. He had more important things to do.

  The gun was in the glove box. Harry took it out, got out of the car and tucked the piece away, down the back of his jeans. He sprinted across the street, opened the door to the bar, walked in and sat down. He kept his head low. Finally, he looked up. Nice place, respectable people. Some were even seated at the restaurant area. He counted two waitresses, but no barman. Then he appeared. How could Harry miss him? He was about the ugliest son of a bitch Harry had ever seen. Or anyone had ever seen.

  “Whadyah want, friend? Want food? I’m the chef too. Name’s Bill,” he said, jamming out his hand for a shake.

  Jesus, thought Harry.

  “No thanks, Bill.” Harry nodded. “Just a beer please. Maybe in a glass, if it’s no bother.”

  He poured it from the tap and set it down. Harry grabbed the handle, bought it up and took a large gulp.

  “Drinking alone?” Bill asked. “Had a fight with the lady? Or you got no lady?”

  He released a laugh, and all of his body parts wobbled and continued to wobble.

  “Oh, he’s a ladies’ man,” said the old guy two stools up. “I can tell. Isn’t that right, Rich?”

  Then Rich joined in. Another loner.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t had a woman in years. I can never tell. I’m sure he does better than me, but that won’t make him a ladies’ man. Ah hell, I need another piss.”

  Bill hammered his palm down on the wood. The ashtray bounced up, and everyone at the bar became silent or twitched.

  “Piss or shit, Rich?” asked Bill. “You already clogged that toilet up once. You don’t wanna have to clean it up again now. DO YOU?”

  Rich just sat there staring into his drink and blinking. Bill wiped along the wood until he reached Harry. Harry raised his beer, and Bill wiped under it.

  “Another one?”

  Harry nodded.

  “You a sports man, friend? We love sports here. That’s all we talk about,” said Bill, smiling.

  “Women too,” said Rich enthusiastically. “We talk about women.”

  Just then door flew open. Two men ran in. They wore all black and had stockings covering their heads. Both were holding guns. They were flashing them too. Every one hit the deck, but Harry was last to.

  “WE WANT THE CASH. ALL OF IT. NOW EMPTY THE TILL, FAT BOY.”

  He was talking to Bill, but Bill had trouble getting to his feet. Finally, he did and opened the till. Bill was clawing at the notes. He was sweating, scared. The taller man hopped over the bar, pushed Bill over and started to empty the cash drawer. He was shoving all the notes into his pockets. Didn’t look like much, and Bill was on the floor, breathing heavily.

  “YOU LOOKING AT SOMETHING, OLD MAN? I MEAN, VERY OLD MAN?”

  The shorter of the two was talking to Rich. Rich looked up, damn near shit himself, said, “No, sir, no I swear I’m not.”

  “Good.” He adjusted the stocking on his head. That was better. “NOW EVERYONE THROW THEIR WALLETS AND PURSES AND ANY OTHER VALUABLES ONTO THE FLOOR. DON’T BE SHY.”

  Nobody moved.

  “NOW!” he screamed.

  Everybody moved. All the wallets and purses were out. There was even some jewellery thrown down.

  One fat balding lady began the family talk.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” she begged. “I got a son. A handsome son, look.”

  She flashed a photo of her six-year-old boy, and he was an ugly looking thing.

  “Please. And here’s my husband. A great man. Look.”

  She had a photo of him too. She held it up and showed all of us. Pops was no looker. The kid had no hope.

  “Marlon,” said the short one, “come and look at this one. She’s just
how you like ‘em. Fat.”

  Marlon raised his head, stood up, kicked somebody in the gut, jumped the bar and walked over, slowly.

  “Did you say my name?”

  “I’m sorry, Marlon, I’m sorry. I get nervous.”

  “Relax. Where’s this bitch?”

  “There. Look.” He pointed to the fat lady. She was really weeping, but now she had all the family photos out, flashing them around.

  Marlon eyed her. He liked it. Then he rolled her onto her back and mounted her. She put up little resistance and just grieved quietly. He used his hands to work her legs open, and he managed to get his pants down. She didn’t even struggle.

  Harry saw it happening, and he had a raging feeling inside of him. Guess it was anger. Or maybe hunger. No, it was definitely anger. He hadn’t felt it in years. He felt alive. Like a powerful creature. He couldn’t stand for this. Jesus, he couldn’t stand for this. He stood up and walked toward the bar, stepping over people. A half-drunk beer was sitting there on a table. He picked it up and belted it back.

  The short fat one saw. “Marlon, look,” he pointed at Harry. Marlon hadn’t even started working away yet, so he climbed off, fuming.

  “What’s this shit, tough boy? You wanna get blown away, eh?” He pointed his gun at Harry. “Like bye bye?”

  Marlon waved.

  Then Harry took his glass, stretched over the bar, grabbed the beer tap and pulled it. Beer poured out, and Harry filled up the glass with foamy beer. He took a good gulp then nodded to the lady.

  “Get up.”

  She gathered up her family photos, her bag, her fake pearls, her life, everything. She was up on her feet, shaking.

  “That’s a silly mistake,” said Marlon as he leveled his pistol at Harry. The shorter crook didn’t know what the hell was happening.

  “Don’t be stupid, man,” said the short guy. “We got the money and wallets. Let’s get the hell outer here.”

  “Shut up, Geoffrey.”

  “Oh shit, oh shit, you said my name. I don’t wanna go to jail, man.”

  Harry finished his drink. He put the glass down then slowly reached. He pulled his gun out and let it hang to one side of his body. It felt good that way. Nonchalant. Like in the movies.

  “Look, Marlon, he has a gun. Oh shit, we’re in trouble now. He looks nuts too. Maybe he’s police. You police, sir?”

  Marlon belted Geoffrey across the face.

  “I said shut your hole,” demanded Marlon.

  Then he ripped Geoffrey’s stocking off and threw it to the ground. Geoff dived for it. Too late.

  “Oh shit, oh shit,” he said, standing up. “They saw my face.”

  It was true. Everyone did. And it really shook up the old couple huddled in the corner. Geoffrey had red hair, slim lips, only a few teeth and the palest blue eyes. His facial features indicated that he had never had a woman in his whole life. Or even a man. He quickly pulled the stocking back on.

  “Now, I’m going to count to three,” said Harry. “If you’re still standing there, I’ll have to let off a few rounds. But I’m a kind man so I’ll count slowly. One….”

  Marlon laughed. Geoffrey panicked. People on the floor were deathly silent.

  “Come on, Marlon,” pleaded Geoffrey. “We got the cash and wallets. Let’s go.”

  “Two…”

  “All right, tough guy,” said Marlon lowering his gun. “We’ll go. But I’m taking her with me.” He pointed out fatso. She began screaming loudly.

  “No can do, Marlon,” said Harry. “Now, scram, before I reach three.”

  Geoffrey backed out first. He kept waving his piece in the air. Marlon followed, slowly clutching some wallets. Then they were gone.

  Harry went to the tap and poured another beer as people started to stand up. Some people got up slowly, still in shock. Some people helped the elderly folk to their feet. There were hugs and handshakes going on. Suddenly, everyone was smiling, and there was a sense of relief in the air. They had dodged a bullet. They all felt alive again. Some of them would go home and make drastic plans to change their lives. But nothing would ever come of it. Tomorrow would just be another day. Harry drank his beer off. Then he heard the police sirens in the distance. They cops were too late as usual. Fatso approached Harry with her hand out.

  “Thank you, sir,” she feverishly shook Harry’s hand.

  “Harry,” said Harry.

  “Thanks, Harry. My son thanks you too. Here, look.”

  She flashed the picture of her son at Harry.

  “Yeah, yeah okay, lady, put it away now,” he said brushing the photo down.

  “Listen,” said Bill, “police are here. You got a gun too. You better get the hell out of here. Go.”

  Harry looked around, and everyone was nodding. Some of them all had tears in their eyes, and a few were nodding in appreciation. Then Rich pointed to the back.

  “Go that way,” he said, hurriedly.

  Harry finished his beer, and walked toward the exit. Then he stopped, turned and looked at the gun. It was sitting on the bar. He blinked, turned and was gone. Gun in hand.

  Harry got into his car and sat there. He wasn’t in shock. He didn’t actually feel anything. His heart wasn’t even beating fast. He put the key in and jacked up the engine, slipped it into first gear and drove off slowly. Two police cars came racing toward him, and then they flew past his side window. He checked the rearview mirror, and their flashing lights disappeared into the night. Harry drove along like a good citizen, keeping to the speed limit.

  When Harry got home, Jessica was sleeping in her white night gown. Harry took off his T-Shirt, those jeans and climbed in, slowly, so as not to wake her.

  Then Harry wrapped his arm around her, pulled her in close and smelled her hair. Like strawberries, it was. They slept deeply.

  No Ordinary Man

  Harry Devine considered himself an ordinary man. His only extravagance was a shot of brandy in the evening while watching the 10 o’clock news. He rode the tube into work every morning, and he had a yearly oyster card. He arrived at the office at 8:25 a.m. five days per week. The management even trusted Harry with the keys. He opened the doors to the office in the morning, hurried in and deactivated the alarm.

  Harry Devine lived alone in a single bed, a rented flat. His walls were off vanilla, and his bathroom always had toilet roll. He made all payments on time and even kept good relations with the landlord. He ate breakfast at the Organic Eggs on the corner of Vine Avenue, and he usually ate dinner at The Seafood Grill.

  Harry Devine was also a serial killer.

  He was sat in his room, sipping tea while reading Don Quixote when there was a heavy knock at the door. Someone was really pummeling the wood. Harry stood up, tied his night gown at the waist and answered. A man was leaning up against the door frame.

  “How may I help you?” politely asked Harry.

  “Police,” said the man flashing a badge.

  “Oh,” said Harry, feeling embarrassed about his clothing.

  “Detective Inspector Ray Raymondo.”

  Harry had a closer look at the badge and smiled.

  “Hello, Detective. How can I help?”

  Detective Raymondo was wearing a black trench, grey creased trousers, open-neck shirt and a couple days’ worth of beard. His hair was dark and thick with gel, and it was swept back, emphasizing his prominent forehead. He had a scar running across his chin, and his eyeballs looked like two dead bugs. Ray Raymondo fucked twelve times a week and had a blade strapped into his boot.

  “Mind if I come in?” he askd, pushing past Harry. “Need a piss. Where’s the crapper?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s fine, Detective. You have to excuse me, I wasn’t expecting visitors. The bathroom is through there.” Harry pointed to the back of the flat.

  “’Bathroom.’ Ha, that’s cute. ‘Bathroom.’ I’ll be back. Make me a drink.”

  Ray Raymondo slammed the bathroom door behind him. Harry listened intently and then heard the t
oilet seat go down. Then he heard a zipper and some loud grunts. Harry went to the kitchen and poured a tall cool glass of water from the filter. He set it down on the dining room table.

  Few minutes passed then Detective Raymondo walked out fanning a newspaper in front of his face.

  “Give it a few minutes. That my drink?”

  He grabbed the glass and took a huge gulp.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s water,” replied Harry, slightly confused.

  “Thought so,” said the detective, slamming the water on the table. “Got anything stronger?”

  Harry Devine left the glass on the table and crossed his arms.

  “What can I do for you detective?”

  “Need you to come in, sir.”

  Harry walked to the window and peered through the curtains. Two policemen were standing by a police car, puffing on cigarettes.

  “Really,” asked Harry. “What for?”

  “’Fraid I can’t disclose that info here. Need you in, son. Getchya coat.”

  Harry didn’t object. Instead, he calmly nodded and went into the bedroom to get changed. When he was fully clothed, he grabbed his house keys and let the detective leave before he double locked his front door.

  They loaded Harry Devine into the back seat of the squad car. One policeman was driving, and Detective Ray Raymondo was in the passenger’s seat. Harry had never been in a police car. He found it exhilarating. His heart began to race, his palms became sweaty and he was becoming very hot and clammy.

  They stopped at a red light, and a little blonde, about five-four, wearing leggings, heels, a belly top, was standing at the crossing. Harry noticed that her face was done up like a circus performer. She was wearing too much lipstick and too much rouge. She went trotting along the crossing slowly.

  Harry Devine couldn’t help but stare. His fingertips were tingling, and he became sexually aroused. Something moved in his pants. His breathing became like a pant, and he found himself licking and biting his lower lip. He liked her. He really liked her. She fit his…MO.

  “Pretty young thing, isn’t she?” asked Detective Ray Raymondo, turning around and smiling at Harry.

  “Oh yes,” said Harry, composing himself. “I’m sure she’s a lovely young lady.”