by John Kenyon
Hobbs snorted and turned to find his pipe.
I just smiled. Hobbs’ head was swelled enough already, so I had to be careful with compliments, but I was pretty sure Arnie was right. There had been magic at work.
The magic of Skyler Hobbs.
Interview with the Pram Driver
By B. Nagel
When I first think of fairy tales, I think of the princess stories, which have been made into cartoon movies. Then I remember the folk tale craze of the nineteenth century that brought us the Grimms Marchen. But I wanted to do something different, so I looked outside the German canon for inspiration.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
* * *
See here, young woman. Where have you been since the evening of the twenty-first of last month? Your dress is torn, you’re muddy to the knees down, and your face is tan as a nut though we’re in midwinter. Can you explain yourself?
Well, I could tell you what did me to the deep you see, but you wouldn’t believe it. Nary a word. There I am, hoping, praying, dressing out and making the rounds, looking for a bit of work to put some money by, what with my Albert blowing his down the pub ’fore he gets it. Yes, I tell the darling couple, I know a nursery like the back of my hand. Two of my own blighters at home. No truth there, but my sister had one once. What’s to know?
And what’s to happen on the first day? Not a thing, I think. We’ll stay in the room and I’ll change the nappies and straighten up the house a bit. Catch forty winks. A bite to eat for lunch. Easy as pie. Only the lady’s a liar, same as me. That’s no baby. Babies you wrap up and coo at. They sleep all day and when you put them down for the night, it’s rock-a-bye, good night, and straight on until morning.
This one, he doesn’t know naps come bigger than half an hour. If you hold him, he’s throwing his hands about like a pigeon and bragging loud as you like. If you set him down, he’s scooting away into corners and under the furniture. You’d think him Captain Cook off to discover the cannibals. I’d give my right hand to have him back though.
Hist now. Stop with the runaround and give up the details of the twenty-first.
I’m getting to the evening part, hold onto your tall round cap. It’s like I was telling you, now. The boy-child’s run me ragged all day, her Ladyship sitting at the window the whole time pretending to darn a sock. “When will he be home,” she says. Like I know. What I do know is she put the same stitch in three times and nowhere close to the hole.
When the street lighters come out, the front door opens and shuts. It’s himself come home finally. She jumps from the window and leaves the sock behind. She lights into him something fierce. I can’t say what they were on about since the walls are so thick and the baby crying, but she had a hold of the horse’s tail. Loud footsteps leave down the hall to the back of the house, so I open the door to hear better.
Now they’re in the kitchen. I don’t think they’re even screaming English anymore. Something hits the wall. It gets louder then.
If you ask me, it was another woman. Happens, ya know. I took the boy out in the pram to give the grown ones space to work things out. We went through the park and down toward the gardens. Late as it was, people were still about.
Were you attacked in the park?
No, no. Nothing like that. I think. What I know is, he was happy to be out and in the brisk air. Throwing his head round to catch the most of everything. And there I was having a good time, too, talking back, pointing out the statues. We were come up on the bridge and I stopped. The moon reflected out of the water, still and smooth. I picked him out and showed it to him, the whole scene, dark banks down to flat water, pricks of light rippling.
The boy, he’s quiet, blessed quiet, and we drink in the sight. I relax, and there’s the end of it.
Soon as he feels me loosen my grip, he takes off flapping his arms, arching his back and crowing. Catches me off my balance and throws us against the railing.
I’ll have men start dragging the river tonight. The parents are very upset.
They’re quite excitable, isn’t it. But here’s the catch. I don’t recall as we ever hit the water. And where was I for near on two weeks?
If I close my eyes and hold my breath, I hear Indian drums and smell sea salt. I can almost see this group of islands below me, like I’m a great bird, but it’s all wavery and I can’t get any closer. I try but it’s all getting farther away. The islands are pushing me back!
Officer, please, send me back to the islands.
* * *
Mr. and Mrs. Brody, I can’t tell you there is much hope. The railing on the bridge was broken, so we will search the river and the park, but with the time we’ve lost… Don’t think of him as dead, but remember him the way he was, in the flower of his youth.
She may not get the gallows, but I’ll see she doesn’t see the outside of Bedlam for years.
Divided We Stand
By Sean Patrick Reardon
I chose “Rumpelstiltskin” right away and knew it was going to have an Irish theme running throughout the story. I had just finished a crime short titled “United We Fall” for a Do Some Damage Christmas-themed contest, and knew I wanted to write another one called “Divided We Stand.” So, it was a case of already having a title, and I basically had to figure out how to make the story match up with the title.
Melvin Miller figured he could get by as a lefty if they broke his right arm or maybe took a couple fingers, but the thumb, Christ, a monkey with two good hands would be considered twice as civilized as him. Better than a kneecap or tibia. Now that would be some serious, long-lasting pain.
Given the choice, Curious George’s evolutionary inferior sounded better than walking around Lowell, Massachusetts, looking like a Morgan Freeman version of Verbal Kint.
Mel didn’t really give a shit. As it was, he’d been considering cashing himself out, but knew it wasn’t an option. Lawyers and banks weren’t in the habit of having dead guys sign over mortgages, especially when the new home owner was William “King Billy” McGowan.
Screw him and his fifty large. The bastard offering to help out, loan him the money to keep his wife in the upscale nursing home for the extra six months it took her brain to seize up. And not in some state run Medicaid shit-hole, Mel’s only option after his savings and retirement nest egg were sucked drier than 007’s martini. She died with dignity, in a proper place. Didn’t know it, but she did, and Mel had kept his promise to her. He swallowed the last mouthful of Cutty Sark, knowing McGowan would be there in ten minutes, and thinking about yesterday.
* * *
Mel wished he could have popped the lid off the coffin and jumped in when McGowan showed up at Dorothy’s funeral, two of his goons from the Old Country flanking him, while he back patted, offered condolences. Whispering to Mel as they hugged, “We need to think about getting your obligations sorted out.”
Mel watched Tenaya, cringing, ashamed, feeling guilty for lying to her about how Dorothy’s last days were financed. His only child, home on two weeks’ leave from her job with Pharmesco in North Carolina, looking at McGowan like he was some kind of saint. Tenaya thinking the silver-haired hood helped out his old Lowell Catholic basketball teammate from the goodness of his black heart.
The team was still legend, forty years after going undefeated and taking the state championship. Mel, the star player, only colored kid on the squad. Billy, still talking with a brogue, leading the league in assists. Both made the All-State team, first string.
Now, McGowan was playing for the name on the back of the jersey. The shanty Irish turncoat wanted what was coming to him. Tomorrow at twelve noon he’d be paying Mel a courtesy call.
* * *
McGowan patted Mel on the knee as the Lincoln cruised through downtown, the two of them sitting in the back, behind window tint, a Johnny Shamrock type driving.
“So, what are we going to do about this, Mel? You know as well as I do, there’s no
room for sentimentality here. I wish there was, but…you understand.”
“I know, Billy, and I’m not asking for any. I have options, I have the house. But with the way the real estate market is, it’s going to take time.”
“What are you talking about? Do you think I would do that to you? Leave you homeless? Jesus, Mel, it pains me to be in this position, but things need to be settled, and in an expedient manner.”
“The house is the only thing I have. I’ve got nothing else.”
McGowan stared out his window. “I’ve given this matter some serious thought. And I think there’s a way it can be worked out. Your daughter’s a lovely girl.”
Mel played the sympathy card, bowed his head for effect. “Takes after her mother. At least the best parts of her do.”
“Yes, little Tenaya has turned into quite a young lady. You’ve done well by her, Mel. She went to MIT, isn’t that right?”
Mel started to answer. McGowan put up a hand. “Hear me out. She’s a scientist, chemistry, I hear, a big position, too. Lots of notoriety. I bet you’re proud of her, Mel.”
“Of course I am.” Mel’s stomach dropped. “But please, let’s not talk about her. She’s just lost her mother and, you saw her, expecting her first baby. In three months.”
“I did notice that and it’s all the more reason why we need to put this behind us. Don’t you agree…grandpa?”
“What do you want me to do? What can I do?”
The driver stopped the Lincoln in a parking space behind the Owl Diner, turned around in the seat and pointed the gun barrel at Mel’s head.
McGowan looked at Mel, his trademark blue eyes fixed on him. “You’re already doing what needs to be done. You see, I’ve taken the liberty of coming up with a solution for you. You’re going to be my guest for a few days, while Tenaya tends to something for me.”
“You bastard.” Mel grabbed the door handle, trying to bail out. No dice, childproofed.
The driver made a move to clock him in the head with the gun. McGowan intercepted it, deflecting his arm. Mel froze, eyes bulging, feeling like a rhinoceros just sat on his ribcage, lightning bolts shooting down his arm. He gasped for air as his eyes met McGowan’s. “What have you done with her, Billy?”
“Calm down, Mel,” McGowan said, thinking Mel didn’t look so good, telling the driver to step on it. “It will be okay. I assure you of that. In three days’ time, everything will be fine. I promise you.”
* * *
Tenaya walked through the abandoned mill, the blunt end of a machete poking her in the back, while she processed all the bullshit McGowan had told her over the speaker phone when she was in the van, arms and legs secured, bag over her head.
Ronald “Ronny Tats” Stillman gave her a slight jab on the spine, enjoying being in control.
She played mind games to stay cool. Imagining Tats in green knickers, matching jacket, black buckle shoes, thinking he’d make a good leprechaun. The short, red-haired man-child, acting like a tough guy, thinking he’s more than McGowan’s flunky. She noticed the tattoo on his forearm, Brando’s likeness from Apocalypse Now, crossed machetes blessing the throat. Tats’ way of showing the world what he’s all about.
They stopped when they reached the end of the fourth-floor space. Tats reversed the blade, pointed the business end at the door in front of them. “Let’s see what’s behind door number one.”
“You’ll never pull this off. No fucking way in hell.”
Tats pulled out a set of keys, unlocked the door and pushed Tenaya through the threshold.
“Listen up, missy. That’s the last I want to hear of your mouth. I got no problem slicing that bump off you like it was a block of cheese at the deli. And I’ll feed what falls out to one of King Billy’s mutts. You been warned. I am not a person to be fucked with.”
Tats slammed the door closed, locked it down. Tenaya scanned the room, realizing she was in what looked like an elaborate chemistry lab.
* * *
“It’ll go by quicker if you think of it as seventy-two hours. Three days seems longer. It’s, you know, like a psychological thing.” Tats shook his wrist, the loose Rolex falling into position, so Tenaya could get a good look at it. “Already down to seventy-one and change. See what I mean?”
“I don’t see the logic,” Tenaya said. “That’s four thousand, three hundred and twenty minutes.” Tats thinking the way she said it reminded him of that play about the fags living in the apartment building. Same one his old girlfriend had wanted them to go see at the Colonial last year.
“Deal with it however you want. You don’t want to listen, fine with me.”
The ring tone of Tats’ cell went off. He flipped it open, staring at Tenaya as he answered.
“Hey, King.”
“Are you there?”
“Yeah, ready to get this show on the road.”
“How’s things on your end?” McGowan asked.
“I want to talk to my father,” Tenaya yelled, toning it down when Tats’ eyes widened and he raised the machete.
McGowan continued, “The plan has changed, something’s happened. He had a heart attack right in the fucking car. He’s dead.”
“No shit.” Tats laughed, shook his head. “Well, that really sucks.” He winked at Tenaya. “Some guys have all the luck.”
“Do not tell her. She can’t know about this. I’ll call you later.”
The line dropped. Tats pocketed the phone, told Tenaya it was time to get down to business, start day one.
* * *
Day three and Tenaya’s telling Tats things are done, mission accomplished. The new, more powerful form of meth is ready for prime time. They can start killing people and taking their souls. Tats thinking Tenaya’s not so bad, he’d like to get his hands on the fucker who knocked her up and decided to lease, not buy. You learn a lot about a person spending three straight days with them.
Tats even told her his real name, how he used to get shit from the other school kids back in Ireland, always calling him that stupid fucking nickname. How the last kid that did it, twenty years ago, ended up with his hands covered in lighter fluid and set on fire. He found out Tenaya wasn’t exactly an angel back in the day either. Mel and Dorothy, seeing all the warning signs, sent her to Notre Dame Academy. She met new friends, white friends, and started getting her shit together.
You can really open up to someone, Tats thought, when you know they’re going to die.
The whole time Tats is yapping, Tenaya’s pretending to listen, making her plan, waiting to strike. Tats fast-tracked the process, telling her Mel’s been dead two days now. Treating it like some big joke, telling her “you need to get on with your life,” but saying it like he was trying out his Dr. Phil impression on her.
Tenaya, lightning fast, hurled a beaker of muriatic acid at his head, the glass breaking on impact. Tats’ face started burning, smoking…melting. Tenaya pulled the machete from the sheath hanging off his belt. She wound up baseball style, the Brando tattoo motivating her. Tats isn’t human, he’s a water buffalo.
The first swing opened Tats’ left side. He dropped to the floor, rolled on to his stomach. The machete became a golf club, blazing a path through Tats’ right side.
Tenaya took a few steps back, raised the machete overhead like an axe.
“This is for my father.” She slammed the blade down on his spine, cutting Tats in half. “Rumpel…fucking…stiltskin.”
Taking Back
By Sandra Seamans
“Taking Back” is based on the Grimm’s fairy tale “The Blue Light.” The story was one I remembered reading as a child and the premise was a perfect setup for a crime story. A soldier who had spent his entire life serving in the king’s army was released from duty because the soldier’s wounds prevented him from doing what the job called for. Left with no money, the soldier chanced upon a magical blue light and plotted revenge against the king.
Once upon a time if you needed a job done you enlisted Soldier. His name w
as legend through the dark trenches of the dimly lit bars and bedbug-infested hotels inhabited by the underworld. When men and situations got out of line, you could trust Soldier to set them right. Permanently. The one-man army that was Soldier worked steadily until the day Simon King passed the word that Soldier had let a hit walk.
With the work dried up, his forced retirement found Soldier biding his time at the Black Dwarf Café. He was nursing a second cup of coffee one morning when two ogres lumbered in, eyeballing the small diner for trouble spots. With no danger lurking among the tables, a petite woman stepped out from behind the human wall. She walked toward Soldier’s table, waving her bodyguards outside where they took up positions on either side of the door. Soldier had seen her around before, and the café wasn’t her usual breakfast stop. Ruby Wishbone conducted her business out of the Mickey D’s on Wells Street over in the East Witch District of Grimm City.
Ruby worked the walk toward his table, sex and power oozing with every step. “May I sit down?” she purred.
Soldier pushed the chair out with his toe. As she eased her slender body into the chair, the waitress slid a cup of coffee on the table in front of her and asked if she’d care for anything else. Ruby shook her head, her dreadlocks free-flying around her ebony face. Soldier shook out a cigarette and Ruby leaned across the table, a long flame stretching from her blue Bic.
Soldier leaned into the flame until the end of his cigarette glowed red. He took a deep drag and blew smoke rings into the air above his head. “Business or pleasure?” he asked.
Ruby smiled. “I’ve heard you’re a strictly business kind of guy.”
“Yeah, but business has been slow lately.”
“I’d like to hire you for a job, if you’re not enjoying retirement too much.”
“Before we discuss business, you need to know that I have three rules. No women. No children. And no cops. If you can work with those rules, then you can lay out the job, otherwise, just walk away.”
“You’re pretty choosy for a man with no prospects.”
