Four Ghosts

by James Ward Fiction

  Nip’s whistling got louder, kicking into the second verse. Skynyrd would be so proud. “Come on, Key, you don’t wanna spoil the surprise, now do ya?”

  Kilo glanced out the window, talking into the glass. “Don’t really find corn, wheat and weeds all that surprising, to be honest.”

  Nip stopped whistling and drew his lips tight over his teeth. “Ah, but it’s what’s behind all that beautiful croppage that’s cool.”

  “And what’s that?”

  Nip hooked a hard right, spitting dust and gravel in a high, wide rooster tail as he thundered down a narrow gravel lane. “Your fate.”

  Kilo rolled the window down a notch. He was suddenly hot. “Nip, that’s not funny, man.”

  “It’s not meant to be.”

  Kilo reached for the door handle.

  “Wouldn’t advise bailin’ out as fast as we’re goin’. If you don’t tumble into a tree, the gravel’s gonna turn you into chopped meat.” Nip tapped the gas pedal to make his point. The car fishtailed, then straightened back out.

  Kilo began to sweat, tiny droplets at first, then bucketfuls raining down his forehead and into his bloodshot eyes. “Seriously, Nip, stop the car so we can talk this over.”

  “Oh, I intend to stop, but talk? No thanks, I’m all talked out.”

  Nip rounded another sharp curve, whipped into an empty field and stomped on the brake. Kilo’s head slammed against the dash. Nip got a fistful of his hair and dragged him out of the car. Kilo scratched and clawed, trying to get a purchase in the dry patches of sod and rocky earth with his bony fingers.

  “You scrawny little punk,” Nip shouted. “Did you really think I was gonna let you off the hook? Just let you scuff your skuzzy soles on me like I was yer own private, dope dealing doormat?

  “Naw, man, I . . . Of course I . . . Ah hell, Nip, I said I was sorry. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I just need some time.”

  “I ain’t your little dope bitch, Key. And time is the one thing you ain’t got any more.” Nip let go of Kilo’s hair, let him flop to the ground and pulled a .38 from his waistband. A wet spot formed in the crotch of Kilo’s jeans and began to expand. He rolled over to hide his shame and wept into the dirt. Nip stood over him, the pistol aimed at the back of Kilo’s head. “I almost hate doin’ this to ya, Key. Almost.”

  “Then don’t,” Kilo sobbed.

  “I don’t see as I’ve got a choice.” Nip thumbed the hammer back.

  “You do. Honest. I’ll . . . I’ll do anything.”

  Nip’s finger tightened on the trigger. “That’s nice and all, but, see, if I let you off, word’s gonna get out that I’m a push-over. If that happens, every freak and tweak in town is gonna try and play me.” He bumped the barrel into the back of Kilo’s skull, emphasizing each word. “We. Can’t. Have. That. Can. We?”

  Kilo was bawling now, a real snot-n-slobber hissy fit. Please this, and have mercy that, and I’m beggin’ ya, man. It was all the meaningless shit Nip always heard in these situations.

  “Nip, j . . . just give me another chance. I pro...promise I’ll make it right. I won’t ever say a word to nobody. I mean it.”

  Nip’s finger tensed on the trigger as he pressed the .38 into the back of Kilo’s melon. “One more last chance, huh Key?”

  “Please?”

  “Don’t think so, bro.”

  “Pleeeeease?”

  “Redemption is nigh, Key.” Nip squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flashed. Boom.

  It was a long drive back to the city.

  12

  When Arder first got the call to do Devlin Stone she resisted. She sat at her orb, staring into the portal for a full hour before turning the job down. It was a first for her. She’d never refused a redemption. Giving up was simply not her way. To her it was a form of surrender, and surrender meant defeat. Arder didn’t like being defeated.

  She felt a plump, wet tear squeeze from her left eye. It perched on her cheek before trickling all the way to her chest. She brushed a second tear away, cleared her throat and gazed into the black screen. The portal was only silent for a few minutes. The reply was short, swift and sweet: I did not say WILL you redeem Devlin Stone. I said YOU WILL redeem Devlin Stone. Malaki, her guardian, seldom minced words. Arder let it rest. Malaki had spoken. Once a guardian gave instructions there was no contesting it. The portal didn’t allow any backsides. She acknowledged the message and signed off. Nothing would be gained by arguing with Malaki and pissing him off.

  She knew the rules of redemption, that’s what would make this one so complicated. Malaki cared not a whit about complications. He had chosen her because she was the best. His expectations for Arder were high, usually much higher than the others under his guardian wings. Still, Arder did not complain. If she did her job well, eventually it would pay dividends, maybe even lead to her own wings.

  Fear was to be her primary tool for redeeming Devlin Stone. How she went about it was up to her. She could assume whatever forms she desired, be it ugly, beastly, seductive or destructive. There was a vast catalog of identities available and she had access to all of them. One thing had been made clear by Malaki, violence would only be invoked as a last resort. After all, a dead redemption wasn’t worth spit. Arder also knew sometimes the best way to get a rodent’s attention was to snatch it up by the tail. It was time to catch a rat.

  13

  Arder could never quite explain it, but she liked being a redeemer. Part of it was the thrill of the hunt. Tracking down a subject could be a pain in the ass and Arder’d had her share of wild goose chases. And, on more than one occasion, fate had stepped in. That never fazed her. She got a certain rush from the unknown. Little shreds of detail and shards of mysterious evidence challenged her by forcing her to utilize all her faculties. Stone’s party pal, Nip, was just such a challenge. To get to Stone, she’d have to go through Nip.

  With a little supernatural digging and some good old fashioned nosing around, she was able to track Nip to a dump called The Sidewinder—draft beer, busted jukebox, ancient billiard table with extra cue sticks for those sudden gaming disagreements—a dyed-in-the-wool hole in the wall. There was some cry-in-your beer love song playing on a single speaker boom box. Arder drifted through the doorway unnoticed, scanning the room for threats. There was a couple seated at a dark corner table sharing a pitcher of draft and chain smoking filter less cigarettes. No problem. A shaggy headed punk wearing a Sonic Youth shirt and doing tequila shooters was whooping it up with a sixty-something blonde leaning on her walker. She had her hair in a bun and was struggling to keep her balance while chugging a can of suds. No problem. A guy in construction overalls and muddy boots was passed out under the billiard table. No problem. At the bar, a human cement truck eyed her suspiciously while he stabbed a steak knife into the bar top. Big problem.

  She approached the bar. The bartender gave her the what’ll-you-have look. She waived him off. She didn’t consume spirits. The Neanderthal with the steak knife began slurping his beer and telling fart jokes to the empty stool next to him. She waited till his mug was empty and he’d palmed the foam from his upper lip. “You know a guy named Nip?”

  He let out a loud, caveman’s belch and waved his empty mug for a refill. “Maybe. Who’s askin’?”

  “A friend,” said Arder.

  “You don’t look much like somebody Nip would call a friend.”

  Arder leaned in close, catching a whiff of pot and something that resembled cat urine. “So, you know him, then?”

  Monkeyboy waited for his beer, took a long, slow, steady gulp and sat the mug down between them. “Didn’t say I knew him.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  He inched his fingers closer to the steak knife. “Yer crowdin’ me. Don’t much like bein’ crowded.”

  Arder caught a pair of goons at the billiard table sizing her up. She hadn’t seen them before. They started towards her, cuesticks cocked and locked. Her eyes glowed red, then green as she bared a set of jagged, razor sharp
teeth. A gray-green vapor floated around them, clogging their lungs and burning their eyes. They dropped the sticks and melted into a dark corner. Arder snapped her fingers and the vapor disappeared. She returned her attention to monkeyboy, who was now gripping the steak knife. “Tell you what, you ditch the knife, clue me in on Nip and the beer’s on me.”

  Monkeyboy snorted. “Don’t need nobody buyin’ my brews for me. Buzz off.”

  Arder took a long, patient breath. “Look, it’s important I find this guy, see? It’s sort of a life-and-death kind of deal.”

  “Tough shit. Life’s a bitch.”

  Arder clenched her fist into a hard, tight ball. Monkeyboy began to choke, coughing beer, suds and spittle out over the bar top. She squeezed her fist tighter. He yelped and dropped the steak knife to the floor with a clatter. She squeezed again and leaned in closer as monkeyboy’s throat began to close. “Life ain’t a bitch, pal. I’m a bitch. Now, tell me what I need to know.”

  14

  Stone got to VFFP early, hoping to avoid Fredrico Verigini. No such luck. Mr. ‘V’ was leaning on the delivery van next to Stone’s, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, arms crossed, chewing on the barrel of a cheap ink pen. The pen had been his constant companion since he’d given up smokes, sort of a struggling smoker’s security blanket. Stone wished Mr. ‘V’ was still a three-pack-a-day man, since nicotine withdrawal had turned him into a perpetual prick.

  “Morning Mr. Verigini.” Stone never called him Mr. ‘V’ to his face.

  “Devlin.”

  “What’s up?” asked Stone.

  “I was about to ask you that very thing,” said Verigini.

  Stone popped the back doors on the van, pretending to check the load. “Got a big day. Thought I’d get an early start.”

  “That’s good. I admire your enthusiasm.” Mr. ‘V’ straightened his cuffs and crossed his arms back over his chest. “Before you leave, though, I’d like to have a word with you.”

  Stone faked a smile. “Sure thing. I’m all ears.”

  “Not out here, in my office.” Mr.’V’ headed for the back door to VFFP, expecting Stone to follow. He did. Once inside, Mr. ‘V’ pointed to a folding metal chair in the corner of the room before flopping down in the thick leather chair behind his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  Stone could remember being in Mr. ‘V’s office one other time—the day he was hired. The room was just as he’d remembered it during the interview. The desk was an old oak monstrosity with deep cigarette burns marring the top. There was a set of heavy metal file cabinets in one corner and a broken-down mahogany coat rack in the other. The leather chair Mr. ‘V’ was sitting in hadn’t given up the ghost yet either. The brown leather was faded and cracked. A wad of stuffing peeked out of a jagged rip next to Mr. ‘V’s head. Although he’d quit smoking nearly six months ago, there was still an ashtray on the desk overflowing with crushed, dead butts. The odor of fresh cigarette smoke still hung heavy in the air. Stone wondered if Mr. ‘V’ had been sneaking cheater puffs.

  “So,” began Stone, “what can I do you for?”

  Mr. ‘V’ leaned back in his chair, pulled the ink pen from his mouth and let out a heavy sigh. “Well, it seems we have a stocking problem here at VFFP.”

  Stone gave him a perplexed look. “Stocking? Wow, I hate to hear that, but I’m a delivery driver. I don’t stock the shelves.”

  Mr. ‘V’ reached for his shirt pocket as if fishing for a cigarette, caught himself and crossed his arms. “Perhaps I should explain. Actually, my problem is with the stock, not the stocking.”

  Stone shrugged. “Hey, I just deliver the stuff, you know?”

  Mr. ‘V’ frowned.

  “I mean, I just provide the finest customer service by assuring our products and supplies are delivered in an efficient, timely and friendly manner.”

  Mr. ‘V’ gave him a look that said, ‘What a wiseass.’ He almost regretted making his employees memorize the mantra line of shit Stone had just recited. Still, it seemed to please the customers and after all, that’s where the money is. “Devlin Stone, I’m going to cut right to the heart of the beast here.”

  Stone straightened his posture, pretending to listen.

  “Some of our stock is missing.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Indeed, I am not joking.”

  “But how?” asked Stone, acting as if he gave a good shit.

  Mr. ‘V’s frowned deepened. “Theft, Mr. Stone. Someone has been pilfering prescriptions.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Even more unbelievable,” said Mr. ‘V’, “is the fact that I suspect it is one of our own.”

  Stone felt his stomach begin to roll. “Our own?”

  “An VFFP employee. It’s what they call an . . . an . . . oh, what is it called? An—.”

  “An inside job?” injected Stone.

  Mr. ‘V’ slapped the top of the oak desk. “Exactly! An inside job.”

  Stone shook his head.

  “Granted, it’s not entire bottles or boxes, just a pill or two here, half a dozen capsules there. Still, theft is theft, no matter the amount. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Stone clammed up. He had to play this cool, act shocked and appalled that anyone would have the unmitigated gall to steal from Fredrico Verigini and the VFFP family and actually think they could get away with it.

  “What’s worse,” Mr. ‘V’ continued, “I have it on good authority that the thief is a delivery driver.”

  Stone’s insides began to churn. Mr. ‘V’ was tightening the screws, trying to test him, maybe get him to crack. It wouldn’t work. Stone had been careful. He never got sticky fingers while the stuff was in the warehouse, only after it was loaded in the van and he was well out of view from prying eyes. And the patients he targeted were well researched, the kind who scarcely knew what day it was, leave alone how many doses were left in each bottle.

  Mr. ‘V’ cleared his throat. “Thievery, how it sickens me.”

  “As well it should,” piped Stone, hoping to shift his suspicions.

  Mr. ‘V’ leaned closer to Stone, making the chair groan and the aging leather screech. “The thief—it’s you isn’t it?

  Stone his hands up. “Me? No way!”

  “Devlin Stone, don’t you lie to me. I’ve been hearing the stories floating around about you.”

  “Well they’re bullshit, total bullshit.”

  Mr. ‘V’ leaned closer, locking eyes with Stone. “You’re a thief, Stone. It is what it is.”

  Stone felt the hairs on his neck prickle. ‘It is what it is.’ Another one of Mr. ‘V’s pet phrases. The man was a regular factory of pet phrases. ‘Work smart not hard. I’m not a happy camper. I’m out of the loop. I can’t win for losing. It’s’ six of one, half a dozen of the other.’ Stone suddenly wanted to strangle him. ‘It is what it is.’ Stone shook his head. What the fuck did that even mean, anyway? Why not just say, ‘It is’ and be done with it?

  “You devious little punk, did you really think you could get away with it?”

  Mr. ‘V’s breath was sour, curling the hairs in Stone’s nose and making him gag. He couldn’t go to jail. He couldn’t. It would ruin him. He didn’t think Mr. ‘V’ would understand. Why would he considering what Stone had been up to? Still he had to try and reason with him, maybe settle things man to man. “Can’t we work something out?”

  Mr. ‘V’ was silent.

  “What I took, it wasn’t all that much.”

  Mr. ‘V’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not the point. The point is it wasn’t yours to take. It’s lost product and lost product is lost money. Understood?”

  “But, I—“

  “I said, understood?”

  Stone wasn’t getting through. He had to convince Mr. ‘V’ to cut him some slack, maybe let him work it off under the radar. The greedy bastard only cared about the money. Stone wanted to grab him up by the shirt collar, maybe shake some sense into him, shake him until his teeth rattled.

&nb
sp; Mr. ‘V’ beat him to the punch. He was on Stone in a flash, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and dragging him across the desk. Stone had never seen him so angry. “You scummy little twerp, you dare to steal from me and then expect forgiveness?”

  Stone’s face was covered in Mr.’V’s hot, smelly spittle. Stone had never seen this side of him before. The old man had gone into a full blown, high octane rage. His hands were tightening around Stone’s neck, choking off his air and sending a rush of blood from his nostrils. Stone thrashed his arms and kicked his legs. He finally connected with a firm blow to Mr. ‘V’s temple. There was a low, painful grunt, then Mr. ‘V’s grip went rubbery and he toppled over the desk and collapsed on the floor.

  Stone sucked in a lungful of air, feeling the warm rush fill his chest cavity. He wiped his bloody nose on his shirt and waited. Nothing. He crept around the corner of the desk, expecting Mr. ‘V’ to pounce at any moment. There was no movement in his arms or legs, no rising or falling of the chest. Stone moved closer, hovering over Mr. ‘V’s slumped form.

  He felt for a pulse.

  There was none.

  15

  Monkeyboy had told Arder where Nip lived, just before he flopped over in a puddle of foam at The Sidewinder. She dropped the bartender a wrinkled stack of fifties and told him to keep his trap shut. The bartender surveyed the mess on the barroom floor, pocketed the cash and gave her a wink. The hunt continued.

  Arder wasn’t surprised by the neighborhood Nip called home. Most of the houses were two weeks from having a condemned sign tacked to the front door. Nip’s street, Bardner Street, was lined with rows of cookie cutter houses, all of the cookies looking like they’d spent too much time in the oven. Windows were patched with tape and plastic, or boarded shut. Lawns were no longer turf, they had long since been choked out by bags of garbage, junk cars, stacks of broken toys and discarded beer cans. Some of the houses had been gutted, stripped of anything worth selling. Rotted roofs and hanging gutters, long past being salvaged, were left to die a slow death from the elements.