The Scent of New Death

by Mike Monson

  THE SCENT OF NEW DEATH

  Mike Monson

  The Scent of New Death by Mike Monson

  Published by Out of the Gutter

  Copyright © 2014 by Mike Monson

  Cover photo by Tom Hawkins

  Cover and interior layout by Matthew Louis

  This is a work of fiction in which all names, characters, places and events are imaginary. Where names of actual celebrities, organizations and corporate entities are used, they’re used for fiction purposes and don’t constitute actual assertions of fact. No resemblance to anyone or anything real is intended, nor should it be inferred.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without the written consent of the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts for the purpose of review or promotion.

  THE SCENT OF NEW DEATH

  For Rebecca

  Special Thanks to Tom Pitts for his skillful copyediting.

  THE SCENT OF NEW DEATH

  1

  In one scorching hot June afternoon Phil Gaines lost his wife, his partner, and nearly eighty thousand dollars.

  He’d held-up a Wells Fargo branch in Pleasanton, an affluent suburb just east of San Francisco. His partner, Jeff, drove.

  Phil passed the teller a note and lifted up his sweatshirt to reveal the Colt .45 in his waistband. Calmly, he strode out of the bank with a bagful of money. Jeff waited out front in a stolen car. An innocuous Honda Civic.

  Phil jumped into the passenger seat and, as usual, away they went. Not too fast, not too slow. But, this time, things ended differently.

  Making two quick rights and a left, Jeff parked the Honda in front of a luxury condominium complex. They jumped into another planted stolen car: a nearly new black supercharged Camaro. This second car, with its high horsepower and sporty look, was more conspicuous than the vehicles Jeff usually stole for their getaways. He told Phil, “I saw it in the Modesto mall parking lot and I couldn’t resist. I just had to try it out.”

  Interstate 580 was two blocks away. Jeff took the freeway east. They’d timed the robbery well before the commuter rush-hour that froze traffic between four and six and crossed the Altamont pass within minutes.

  As Jeff drove, Phil split the money, but kept the teller’s bag for himself. He put Jeff’s share in a black leather satchel. They travelled southeast, onto the flat San Joaquin Valley, then drove Highway 132’s two-lane blacktop into the tiny town of Vernalis.

  Phil’s wife sat in their beat-up yellow Jeep Cherokee in front of the little store adjacent to a trailer park, waiting in the passenger seat with the engine running. Including Paige in the getaway was a new twist that Jeff had thought up after Phil insisted they find a way to involve his new wife in the robberies.

  Phil jumped out with his share of the haul. More than seven grand. He handed the cash to Paige and got behind the wheel, ready to drive east to their apartment in Modesto.

  Jeff was supposed to find a back road, ditch the Camaro, and then go back to his place.

  Phil reached down to shift the Cherokee into drive.

  Paige dropped the money into a large gym bag that sat open between her legs. Then, she grabbed the bag and jumped out of the Cherokee and into the Camaro.

  Confused and momentarily frozen with shock, Phil watched his wife and partner lean toward each other for a quick kiss.

  Jeff peeled out, heading west.

  Phil pulled his handgun out of his waistband and set it on the passenger seat. He shifted into drive and tried to follow, but his old Jeep was no match for Jeff’s skillful driving and the powerful Camaro. He didn’t even get a chance to see whether they went south on the 5, in the direction of LA, or north toward San Francisco or Sacramento.

  Within hours they could be anywhere.

  After less than a mile he saw his tank was nearly empty. He searched for a station and stopped for gas. With no cash in his pockets, he was forced to break one of his many rules and use plastic after a heist. His bank card was refused at the pumps. He tried the station’s ATM and the card was again denied. At a Bank of America branch, he checked the accounts he shared with Paige. Savings balance: zero. Checking account overdrawn by more than one-hundred dollars. That morning, he’d had at least twenty thousand in the bank. Paige had siphoned his accounts as well as his gas tank.

  He’d stored enough quarters in the dash for gas to get home to the one-bedroom apartment he’d shared with Paige on Tully Road. He raced home, dreading what he’d find next.

  The first thing he did was go to the closet to check his stash of cash. Hidden in the crawlspace below the closet floor should’ve been nearly fifty thousand dollars in tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds wrapped in tight bundles. His chest tightened. He opened the trap door.

  Empty.

  Intensely loyal, Phil demanded the same from everyone around him. No exceptions. Everyone knew this, which made Phil wonder how Paige and Jeff got the nerve. They had to know Phil wouldn’t stop until he found and killed them both.

  Phil Gaines met Paige a month earlier at the supermarket, noticing her first in the produce section as she absentmindedly squeezed overripe fruit. He was struck by her long red hair and lovely legs. She wore extremely short cut-off jeans and a tiny black halter-top. He could see freckles on her shoulders, arms, and all down her bare white back.

  He was too old for her, he knew that, but he couldn’t stop looking. He didn’t want to be rude or call attention to himself. Still, he followed her all over the store, from produce to dairy to the meat section.

  Phil sensed that she noticed him and he grew more and more embarrassed as he fumbled around, looking at products he had no intention of buying. He followed her to the check-out in an effort to get closer, possibly catch the scent of whatever shampoo made her hair so thick and shiny. He couldn’t remember what he came to buy. His cart was empty except for a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

  As she paid her bill, she watched him place the case of Pabst on the conveyor belt.

  He felt her watching. Their eyes met.

  “Looks like we have the same taste in beer,” she said.

  Phil tried to relax and pretend he’d just noticed her standing next to him. Up close, he saw her incredible and seemingly flawless beauty: perfect skin, high cheek bones, brilliant green eyes that pulled him in with an irresistible force.

  “Oh, right,” he said and sensed his face reddening. He felt both thrilled and totally miserable. “It’s the only beer I drink. Hate all those fancy brews.”

  “A man of simple taste. I like that.”

  Groceries rung up, paid for and bagged, Paige waited while Phil paid for the beer. He snuck a shy glance her way.

  She stood very still, staring—those incredible eyes pulling him in from five feet away. She didn’t speak, giving him only a faint smile, but she waited and walked with him out to the parking lot, surprising Phil.

  “My name is Paige,” she said when they got to her car. She took his hand.

  “I’m Phil. Nice to meet you, Paige.”

  Phil tried to take his hand back. Paige held tight. Still smiling.

  “Where’s your car, Phil?”

  “I walked. I live across the street, there.” He nodded toward the large apartment complex across Tully Road.

  “Get in,” she said, pointing to the passenger side of her Mazda. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  After she parked, Paige surprised him again by following him up the stairs and into his apartment.

  “Aren’t you going to offer me a beer?” Paige said.

  She leaned back against his kitchen counter and stifled a giggle as Phil struggled to pull a can from the cardboard case.

  Phil handed
her a beer and took one for himself.

  “How old are you?”

  “Don’t worry, Phil, I’m legal. Want to see my ID?”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “I’m twenty-six, dude. I’m a bartender at the Red Devil Lounge. You know the place? Creepy little dive out on Yosemite near Gallo Winery? Usually has a bunch of Harleys parked outside?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t get out much, do you Phil?”

  “Not really, no.”

  Phil looked at the beautiful young woman in his kitchen and didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t used to feeling so flustered. He didn’t like it.

  Paige set down her can, walked up close to Phil, took the beer out of his hand and placed it on the counter. She put her left hand behind his head and stroked the back of his neck, smiled, and moved even closer.

  He breathed in the wonderful herbal scent of her hair. Felt dizzy. He was five-foot-eight and could see she was maybe an inch taller.

  She put her right hand just below his belt and ran her long nails up and down his growing erection.

  Her green eyes sparkled. Phil felt thrilled and confused. Paige leaned in and kissed him long and hard. He kissed her back.

  She said, “Where’s your fucking bedroom?”

  “You don’t know who you’re messing with,” Paige said.

  “Is that right?”

  They were lying naked in Phil’s bed just past midnight.

  “Yeah, I’m a pretty fucked up bitch, dude. No, actually, I’m a totally fucked up bitch. Friendly warning.”

  Phil propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Paige.

  She lay flat on her back, gently rubbing her nipple with the fingers of her left hand. Her right hand clasped her vagina, middle finger pressed hard on her clit. She stared at the ceiling. Her eyes, while still that bright vivid green, appeared oddly blank. If she blinked at all, Phil couldn’t see it.

  “I don’t believe that. How bad could you possibly be?”

  “You’ve got no idea, man. Not in your wildest dreams. Or nightmares.”

  Phil laughed. “You should see some of my nightmares.”

  “I just might give you some new ones.”

  Phil couldn’t keep his eyes off Paige, couldn’t imagine ever being away from her and her crazed beauty. He was in big trouble.

  “What, did you have some kind of fucked-up childhood?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Join the club."

  “My dad died a couple of years ago of cirrhosis. Dude was only fifty-two.”

  “That must’ve been hard to go through.”

  “I didn’t give a shit. Such a total asshole. My mother’s bi-polar. Fucking insane. You’ve probably seen her out on Standiford Avenue. Walking up and down the sidewalk talking to herself. You know? The lady with crazy orange hair and the blue house coat?”

  Phil nodded. He saw the woman all the time. She was part of the Modesto landscape.

  “God, I can’t stand her. I’m sure she’s the reason I’m such a total slut. I get an idea in my head, an idea like ‘I wonder what it would be like to fuck that cute little guy in the supermarket with the case of Pabst Blue Ribbon that keeps following me around?’ and I just can’t stop myself.”

  “Okay. That does sound maybe a little fucked up.”

  “No shit, right?” She climbed on top of Phil and began grinding. “But, it’s working out pretty good for you, don’t you think?”

  Afterwards, Phil went to the kitchen to get more beer.

  Paige pulled a tiny brown leather pouch from deep within her purse and took out a thick joint wrapped in pink paper. She dug farther but couldn’t find her lighter, so she opened up the drawer of Phil’s nightstand to check in there.

  Phil came back from the kitchen and saw her sitting on the bed with his Colt .45 automatic in her lap.

  “Oh … my … God,” she said. “This is so … totally cool.”

  “Careful. It’s loaded.”

  He took the heavy gun out of her lap, deftly extracted the clip and ejected the shell from the chamber, then handed it back to Paige. Grip first.

  Paige looked at the gun in her hand. She looked up at Phil.

  “What kind of work do you do, Phil?”

  Phil stood staring down at the naked Paige.

  She sat cross-legged, stroking the barrel of the Colt. She had just brushed her hair. It looked straight and shiny. So long the ends touched the bed.

  Normally, Phil avoided the subject of how he made a living.

  “I rob banks.”

  “No shit? Really?”

  Phil nodded.

  “That’s so completely awesome. When I was in third grade I had to do this project where we talked about what we wanted to do when we grew up? I said ‘bank robber.’ I’d just seen Bonnie and Clyde on TCM. That’s such a great movie. I wanted to be Faye Dunaway.”

  Paige pointed the pistol at the window, took aim, and pretended to shoot.

  “As you can imagine, being a barmaid doesn’t cut it. So totally not the way I imagined my life going.”

  Phil reached under the bed and pulled out a canvas bag. He emptied the contents onto Paige’s lap. Rubber-banded piles of fives, tens and twenties.

  “My partner Jeff and I hit a bank in Sacramento this morning. This is my share, just under eleven thousand. We had a good day.”

  Phil watched as Paige looked at the gun, and the money, before her gaze turned back to him. She stared intently at his naked body. He was 45, short and thin, and his brown hair was flecked with grey. The way she looked him up and down made him feel young and strong.

  She said, “Do you want to get married?”

  2

  “How much can I spend?” Paige said.

  The next afternoon, she and Phil were at a downtown Reno pawnshop across from their hotel. Paige peered at engagement rings in the jewelry display case.

  “I don’t know. Will five grand do it?”

  “Are you serious?”

  Phil nodded.

  “Oh … my … God. This is the best day ever. I want one of those big round shiny diamonds you always see on those stuck-up bitches on Real Housewives of Wherever-the-fuck.”

  Phil enjoyed seeing her so excited. She wore some of the nearly one-thousand-dollars’ worth of clothes he’d bought her on the way at a Frederick’s of Hollywood in Sacramento. Super-tight black faux-leather jeans and a matching midriff-baring crop top. She stood tall as hell in black spike-heeled shoes. Over her shoulder hung a new leather purse stuffed with cash and Phil’s Colt .45.

  After hemming and hawing and trying on more than a dozen rings, she picked a brilliant, one-karat diamond solitaire with a solid-gold band.

  In the back of the limo on the way to the wedding chapel, Paige admired her new ring while absentmindedly rubbing Phil’s cock through the pants of the suit he’d bought at Men’s Wearhouse.

  Phil could not keep his eyes off her face, her hair, her beautiful cleavage. Her brilliant eyes.

  It was the first wedding for either of them.

  “I need to tell you something.” She kept her eyes on her ring. “I have a boyfriend.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah. His name is Dean Yancy. I live with him, or, shit, I used to live with him. Works the graveyard shift at Gallo Glass. He’s an asshole.”

  “Do we need to go over there at some point and get your stuff?”

  “Could we, please?”

  “No problem.”

  “There are only a few things I really need. All the furniture and kitchen shit is his anyway.”

  “Plus, you should probably let him know about our marriage. Give him a chance to congratulate you.”

  “Yeah, right. Oh, that reminds me, it’s probably a good thing we brought your gun.”

  Phil chuckled.

  “Sure, we’ll take the .45. But I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “You sure? Dude’s like half your age and twice your s
ize. He’s got muscles everywhere. He’s been training for a year to be an MMA fighter. You know, cage fighting?”

  “Leave it to me. We’ll be fine.”

  After three days of fucking, drinking, gambling—and shopping—Phil and Paige drove back to Modesto. Their first stop was the Red Devil Lounge. Paige’s boss, Maddie Ferguson, was not impressed by Paige’s new diamond or at all happy about her sudden marriage.

  “You missed four shifts,” Maddie Ferguson said. “Did it ever occur to you to call and tell me what the fuck was going on?”

  “I’m telling you now, you stupid bitch. Oh, and one more thing. I fuckin’ quit.”

  Next stop: Dean Yancy’s apartment.

  Paige started to open the door with her key. She stopped.

  “Shit. I knew that asshole would get all pissed off if I didn’t come home. This is a brand new lock, plus he added a dead bolt.”

  “No problem.”

  He took at large folding Buck knife from his pocket. Taped to the outside was a bump key used to open dead bolt locks. He placed the key in the slot and tapped it with the wooden knife handle as he moved the key back and forth. After ten seconds, the bolt was unlocked. He then stuck the knife blade in between the doorknob and the frame. While pressing down and making a quick wrist flick to the left, he turned the knob and opened the door.

  Dean, wearing only a pair of black silk gym shorts, furiously kicked and punched the flesh-colored head and torso of a floor-mounted punching dummy. Phil could see what Paige was talking about. The heavily muscled, tattoo-covered man was about six-foot-three and maybe 230 lbs. He was covered in sweat and looked like an NFL fullback.

  Dean laughed when he saw the smaller and older Phil. Laughed even harder when Paige showed him her new sparkling diamond engagement ring and solid-gold wedding band.