Grimm Tales

by John Kenyon

  “Okay,” she maybe says. It could also be a grunt.

  With the little glow from my lighter, I search for Bruno’s goodies. He makes his patrons wait in the front room. The storing, cutting and cooking goes on elsewhere. The kitchen yields nada. All those cupboards and drawers hide nothing but plates, cups, cans, breadcrumbs and a few stray chicken bones. The bathroom counters and cabinets provide only grime and sticky bits I hope are candy.

  I push open a door into what’s likely a bedroom. There’s a dresser by the bare window and, I think, a bed in the corner. My lighter’s flickering, so I turn it off and explore the drawers by hand. One gives up a few baggies that sound off with the crunch of old dry weed. I pocket them and kick around for the bed. The mattress is topped by a damp blanket. I flip the whole works off, click my lighter and behold the mother lode.

  Bags of snowy powder, vials of crystal shards, neat stacks of cold hard cash. I stuff the pockets of my jeans and jacket. Some creaks and a muffled moan emanate from the kitchen. “Pigeon, hold on. You’re gonna be one very happy woman.”

  When I run out of pockets, I cram what I can under my T-shirt and tuck the worn cotton into my belt. I click the lighter again for one last glance at all the sweet things remaining on the springs, but I got all the rock. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Brightness flows out of the kitchen doorway. My stomach clenches, the sour rises up my throat. My feet anchor to the floor. I force them to shuffle forward.

  “Hey, Chief.” Bruno grins at me, gold tooth and steel pistol reflecting the fluorescent light. “Is that my product under your shirt or are you just glad to see me?” He laughs, harsh, sharp, jamming the gun into Pigeon’s neck. One of his henchmen fills in the back door. Others must be close by. Bruno travels in a pack.

  “Hey, Bruno.” I stand there seeking words to talk my way out of this, but the only thing that percolates in my brain is the thought I only used alcohol before I met her. Booze, hooch, rotgut, firewater, all safe as babies.

  I don’t need an invitation. I clear my pockets and shirt of all the treats. Pigeon watches the mound grow on the table, desire rising in eyes that lay dead seconds before.

  Bruno snorts through his long nose and follows my every move like he’s counting the bills, bags and vials. “Where’s the rest?”

  “In the bedroom. I didn’t take it all.”

  “Well, isn’t that kindhearted of you, leaving a bit for me.” He yanks Pigeon to her feet. “Show me.”

  He shadows me to the bedroom, his goon in his wake, and flips on the light to scan the remains littering the box springs. “Seems all here. If not, Kemosabe, you’re easy to find.”

  I must have let a hopeful look glide over my face because he laughs again before gesturing me back into the kitchen.

  He sits, balancing Pigeon on his knee. His scrawny whiskers brush her neck, the gun now caresses the side of her breast. “You aren’t treating her right. She used to be such a pretty thing. Now she’s all skin and bones.”

  I clear my throat.

  “I’m talking. You’re listening.” Bruno pushes the barrel in hard enough to make Pigeon sob. “I hate blood on my floor so I’m thinking kindly of making a deal. I’ll keep her, fatten her up, put her back on the streets where she belongs. You can go.”

  “You can’t—”

  “I see the gun in my hand, so I believe I may do whatever I wish. You should be grateful to have your lives.” He nods his narrow head and the goon steps toward me.

  “Pigeon, baby.” When she doesn’t respond, I raise my voice. “Baby.”

  Bruno slips a vial into her hand. She stares at it like it’s the love of her life.

  Goon grabs my arm. I’m big. He’s bigger, double my weight, all muscle. He drags me through the door. I shout back over my shoulder. “I’ll be back for you.”

  * * *

  I raise my head and watch the last of the cop cars leave the scene. The girl, who is not Pigeon, is taking that final ride to the morgue.

  The little crack house burned down a few days after I left. I don’t know if Bruno was there. I heard he relocated his business to Seattle. Somebody said they saw Pigeon in Tacoma, god knows why, but I hope it’s true. Me? I spent a good twenty-five years gazing into the bottom of a bottle before I finally climbed out.

  The Master Cat

  By John Kenyon

  In a way, this is the story that started it all. Reading “Puss in Boots” to my three-year-old for the umpteenth time, my mind wandered. How could I recast this as crime fiction? I wondered.

  Ronnie slammed the bottle of Beam down on the bar, sending a fountain of whiskey shooting from the neck and onto his shirt and the floor. “Goddammit! I’m sick of this!” he shouted.

  Catherine, a lanky, angular girl with long raven hair, stopped swinging on the pole and stood looking at him. “What’s your problem?” she shouted over Motley Crue’s “Girls, Girls, Girls” blaring from the club’s speakers.

  “What’s my problem?” Ronnie asked. “Did you happen to notice that you’re dancing for one person?” He gestured to Toothless Chuck, who sat with his head down on folded arms, dozing, oblivious to the music, the commotion or the naked woman in worn thigh-high black leather boots gyrating a few feet away.

  “So? He’s all we get at five on a Thursday. It’ll pick up,” Catherine said.

  “Sure, pick up to where we have five guys in here buying the cheapest beers they can to meet the minimum so they can stay long enough to get a nice image or maybe even cop a feel to fuel their jerk-off session back at the dorm later. This is ridiculous. I oughta have more to show for my life by now,” he said, slumping against the back of the bar.

  “You got me, sugar,” she said, stepping off the stage. She slid behind the bar, threw her arms around Ronnie’s shoulders and raised one leg up to rub her thigh against his crotch. He reached down and grabbed under her leg and pulled her close.

  “OK, so I got a washed-up lesbian stripper for a best friend who splits the profits with me when she takes a customer back for a handjob,” he said. “Can’t wait to go to the high school reunion and watch everyone turn green with envy over the way my life has turned out.”

  “You know what? Fuck you. That’s uncalled for. I’m an exotic dancer, not a stripper,” she said, smiling. She went around to the front of the bar, pulled out a stool and sat down. The scrape of the metal legs against the floor roused Chuck for a moment, but he looked around, seemed unimpressed by what he saw and settled back down to continue his nap.

  “Don’t you think I’m tired of this, too?” Catherine said. “But I’m also tired of you bellyaching about it. It’s obvious you’re not going to do anything for yourself, so I’m going to do it for you. Give me two weeks and promise me a new pair of boots, and I’ll make you the king of this town.”

  Ronnie raised his eyebrows and gave her a smirk. “Really? You’re kingmaker now? This I gotta see.” He opened the cash register and made a sweeping gesture across the till. “It’s all yours.”

  Daylight spilled through the club’s front door as two young men in khakis and pastel button-down shirts entered. Catherine clambered back onto the stage, grabbed the pole and began a slow hip shake to “Superfly.” “Two-drink minimum, gentlemen,” Ronnie said to the customers. “Let me see some ID and we’ll get you something to drink while you watch the lovely Puss in Boots do her thing.”

  * * *

  Catherine came out of the apartment at the same time as her neighbor. He was dressed all in black, his hair exquisitely coiffed, sunglasses perched atop his head. He gave her an appraising up-and-down look and whistled. “You the new tenant?” he said as he pulled his door shut.

  “I am,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “I figure a mover like you would pay better attention. I’ve been here for a few weeks now.”

  “Well, I’m noticing now, sugar,” he said. “I’m Tony.”

  “Catherine,” she said. “You can call me Cat.”

  “So, what’s your story?”<
br />
  “I’m Ronnie Miller’s girl,” she said, walking away from him down the hall.

  “Miller?” he asked, hurrying now to follow. “Should I know him?”

  “If you’re at all connected in this town, you should be ashamed if you don’t. He’s an important man, has his finger in many pies,” she said with a smirk. “So, what’s your story? You look like a player, but if you don’t even know Ronnie…”

  “I run a couple of clubs for Mark Carabas,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

  “Rings a bell,” she said as they stepped out into the street. “Street thug or something?”

  He laughed. “That’s maybe how he got his start, but Mr. Carabas is a diversified businessman now. Of course, I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side. He may be more Wall Street than backstreet, but he takes care of business.”

  A long, black limo pulled to the curb in front of the building. “That’s my ride,” Catherine said. “Be seeing you.” She stepped in and the car sped away, a puzzled Tony watching it weave through traffic.

  * * *

  “You heard of Ronnie Miller?” Tony asked as Lamar unloaded cases of expensive whiskey in the back room of the Marquee Club.

  “Sure,” he said. “Who ain’t heard a Ronnie?”

  “Seriously?” Tony said, idly counting a stack of bills and sliding it into a bank bag. “What’s he do?”

  “What doesn’t he do?” Lamar said. “Seems like he’s into a little bit of everything.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Tony said. “Just checking. You know, gotta protect Mr. Carabas’ interests.”

  Lamar settled into the driver’s seat of his truck, then pulled out his cell phone. He called the number on the back of a business card tucked in his visor. “Hey, I was just in there and asked about that Ronnie guy,” he said. “Fifty bucks, right? That was the deal.” He listened, then hung up and drove away.

  * * *

  “Go buy yourself a really nice suit,” Catherine said.

  Ronnie, who was washing glasses behind the bar, looked up at her with a frown. “Why the hell would I do that? I hardly make enough to keep this place open and keep you in boots.”

  “Just do it. Armani or something. I need you looking good.”

  “Are clothing stores open on Sunday? I could go tomorrow.”

  “If you’re gonna drop a couple grand on a suit, they’ll be open,” she said.

  “A couple grand! Remind me why I’m doing this again?”

  “How would you like to get out of this dump and start earning some serious money?”

  “What? I think you know the answer to that one, Cat,” he said. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

  * * *

  Catherine and Tony were again standing on the curb in front of their building.

  “You need a ride?” she asked. “I’m going to run by Ronnie’s and do some errands, but I could have the driver take you wherever.”

  “That would be great,” Tony said, looking at his watch. The limo pulled up again, and Catherine stepped in. She looked back at Tony. “You coming?”

  He climbed in and sat across from her, rubbing his hands slowly across the soft leather seats. “Nice ride. This his?”

  Before she could answer, the driver lowered the divider between the front and back. “Where to today, Miz Catherine?”

  “Four hundred Castillo, Phillipe,” she said. “We’re having an event tonight.”

  “Of course, Miss,” he replied, raising the divider.

  “An event, huh?” Tony said. “A little dinner party or something?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘little,’” Catherine said. “Unless you think four hundred guests is little.”

  Tony whistled, then sat back, admiring the interior of the car and his fellow passenger, who slowly crossed one long bare leg over the other. This dame was smokin’ hot, he thought. This Miller guy’s gotta be doing all right if he can afford to keep a piece of tail like that happy.

  The divider lowered. “We’re here, Miz Catherine,” said the driver. Tony glanced up and saw what could only be described as a mansion. It was gated, of course, with ornate brickwork everywhere he looked.

  “This is Miller’s place?”

  “Just tell Phillipe where you need to go, and he’ll take you there,” she said as she opened the door to get out. “Phillipe, I’ll need you back here in an hour.”

  Tony nodded at the door as it slammed closed. He saw Catherine give a little wave to the car as it pulled away.

  * * *

  “Are you sure this is kosher?” Ronnie asked as he nervously straightened his tie. “I mean, these are some high rollers. They’re not going to want to rub shoulders with a strip club manager.”

  “That’s why you’re not a strip club manager tonight,” she said, brushing his hands away to fit the dark tie. “Tonight, you’re Ronnie Miller, successful businessman. You don’t need to say what you do. You just need to insinuate that you’re involved in a lot of things, some of them a bit unsavory. These fat, pink stuffed suits will love the idea of having a drink with a mobster and they’ll never question you.”

  “But I’m no mobster!”

  “Exactly!” she said. “You deny it, of course. Every legit businessman envies those on the other side of the law, and every crook aspires to legitimacy. Just wing it and have fun. I’ll grab you when the time comes.”

  Catherine was right, Ronnie thought later. No one wanted specifics. As long as he had a drink in his hands and whispered about his, um, diverse interests, while giving a knowing wink, no one questioned him. In fact, they would offer their own sly signal—a raised eyebrow, smirk or thoughtful “hmmm”—to indicate that they knew what he was.

  Catherine came around from time to time to check on him, but Ronnie still had no idea what was going on. Her only advice? Be yourself.

  About an hour into the party, there was a commotion by the front door. Cat swept by, gathering Ronnie by the lapel as she went. They went to the door and Cat, whispering something to a couple of beefy security-looking guys, pushed through the door and onto the expansive front porch, Ronnie trailing behind.

  “Hello, Tony,” she said to the man who wasn’t Mark Carabas. Ronnie recognized the crime boss; it would be hard not to, what with his mug in the newspapers and television reports on a regular basis.

  “Hey, Cat. You made it sound like this was the place to be tonight, so I figured you wouldn’t mind if Mr. Carabas and I came to Mr. Miller’s party.”

  “My party?” Ronnie said. “Cat, what’s going on?”

  “I believe there’s been some mistake, Tony. I never said this was Mr. Miller’s party. You misconstrued,” Catherine said. She turned to Carabas. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. I’m just the event planner for this symphony fundraiser. Mr. Miller here,” she turned to gesture to Ronnie, “is my guest.”

  Carabas appeared to be chewing something, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He grabbed Tony by the arm. “This is what I get from my number one guy? You have me on some blueblood’s front stoop begging to get into some fundraiser? You outta your mind?”

  “But boss, you said I should keep my eye open for new talent, and I thought…”

  “Actually, the talent here is pretty obvious,” he said, wagging his chin at Catherine. “This young lady has obviously got it together. Maybe I should hire her.”

  “Oh, Mr. Carabas, I’m afraid I’m not on the market. Mr. Miller, however, has considerable management experience, and as you can see, he is obviously quite successful,” Catherine said.

  “Oh yeah?” Carabas said, turning to Ronnie. “You ever run a club?”

  “I have, sir,” he said.

  “Sir? I like this guy!” Carabas said. “Listen, Tony, you dumb ogre, why don’t you take a hike. You’ve embarrassed me one time too many.”

  “But sir, there’s some mistake,” Tony sputtered.

  “Now he makes with the ‘sir’ stuff,” Carabas said.

  Just then, as if silently
summoned, the two beefy security guys stepped onto the porch. Tony looked up at the wall of muscled flesh in front of him, ducked his head and turned to walk away. Carabas threw an arm around Ronnie’s shoulder and let out a laugh.

  “How would you like to come work for me, kid? You could start by running the Marquee, and we’ll see where things go from there.”

  * * *

  Ronnie leaned back against the bar, a glass of Glenlivet on ice in his hand. He looked up to see the door to the Marquee open as Cat walked in, weaving her way through the after-five crowd of stockbrokers and hedge-fund managers to get to the bar.

  “How’s it goin’, King?” she said. “You liking your new gig?”

  “Loving it,” Ronnie said. “I don’t know how you did it, but somehow this all worked out.”

  “Ah, that’s what I was waiting to hear,” she said. “I believe you owe me a pair of boots.”

  The Bacon Blues

  By BV Lawson

  Thanks to some motherly inspiration and a damnedly catchy “Lay’s Three Little Pigs” TV jingle for sausage that haunted BV’s childhood, she hopes “The Bacon Blues” will provide the writing and pork-product catharsis she’s been dreaming of.

  Mike took one look at his younger brother passed out on the futon surrounded by beer cans, then ambled to the refrigerator and grabbed a malt. He shook up the can for a full minute, pulled the tab and sprayed the brown liquid all over Mr. Sleeping Beauty. Chet jumped up with a yelp, grabbed the TV remote and swung it around blindly like a gun.

  “Serves you right, bro.” Mike tossed the can onto the futon to join its aluminum brethren.

  Chet wiped his eyes with the tail of his shirt, the only part that was still dry. “What the hell you do that for?”

  “You’re staying in my house, you play by my rules.”

  Chet examined the futon, which had yellow, red and black stains older than he was. “You worried about that sack of shit? Then why’d you just spray it with barley pop?”

  “Naw, that thing’s seen worse.” Mike nodded at the handcuffs hanging down from the railings at the end. “I’m talking about rule number one, to wit, thou shalt not smoke in my pad. I don’t want a repeat of what happened at your flimsy shack going down here.”