The Sin Bin

by Tony Black

There was still plenty of fizz left in the bottle, as I pressed it into his ass it sprayed about like a power-hose.

  I could listen to those screams all day, I thought, they sounded like, no, they fucking told me, the world was mine now.

  They must have stopped for a time before I noticed the bed had turned black and damp and the bottle was no more than a shard of glass in my hand.

  The last I remember was the hooker scrambling for her purse and the sound her .45 made as she pumped a round into me. I don't recall feeling a thing, but then, a 55-inch chest carries plenty padding.

  The Long Drop

  Sometimes it was the thing to do.

  There was no keeping the needle under seventy; eighty was a trial, but the lights went out when the grille clipped the dumpster. These dark country roads called for careful driving; stick in the dirt from the slips and the wet

  — and the fact that this was the night luck ran out on us — we were always going to go to shit.

  The Toyota came to rest on its roof; Craven watched the wheels spinning and shook his head. He tried to crack his backbone into place. 'The car's fucking finished. We're finished.'

  'Oh, y'think?' said Lois. She had a deep cut above her left eye, it looked like jello when she dabbed it with her shirtsleeve. As her flannel rode up I saw the SIG Sauer was still tucked in her waistband. That was something.

  'You need to get rid of that,' said Craven, ''we're finished!'

  She turned to me, gave a slight sigh, then looked back to her shirtsleeve. 'Oh, I'm good for now.'

  Her tone was enough for Craven to fire up. 'Someone's been killed. We're fucked.'

  He strode forward and flagged his arms like he'd lost control again.

  Lois didn't like that. The way her lip twitched, the way she narrowed her eyes ... I could almost smell her anger.

  She removed the pistol.

  I knew to look away.

  For a second, the spinning wheels of the car were lit by the muzzle flash.

  ****

  I'd met Craven at NA, it was three weeks after my split with Pam, two weeks before Lois crossed the dark divide into the long drop that was my life.

  Craven was an old hand at kicking; he was wrapped far too tight for the real world and meth was his crutch. I liked to think I had the edge on him in that regard. When I used, it was because I was bored. Or working a job.

  'So, how'd you end up here?' Craven collared me at the coffee counter; he twitched and oozed sweat from his heavy brows. His hairline was receding and some freckles on his crown looked like they were ready to slide down his face.

  'Do I know you?'

  He shot up his hands. 'Whoa, easy cowboy!'

  'Don't call me that, please.'

  'You object to being called cowboy? Or, you're just not real friendly?' The tone was queer, but I didn't have him down as a homosexual. Either way, it had taken less than two minutes for me to tire of him. 'I don't like people messing with me.'

  'Well, fuck you!' He made a dramatic flourish with his coffee cup; some grey liquid spilled on the floor. A few heads turned.

  I moved off, found a vantage point by the doorway — it seemed a good place to assess the crowd. I soon had them sussed. The room was full of trembling, bug-eyed losers, all except the one. I watched over the cold decaf as Craven made a bee-line for her.

  I wished I had his courage — Pam had taken that.

  ****

  The lot held only two vehicles, three if you included the trail bike a group of kids were using to burn doughnuts on the asphalt. I watched them from below a to-let sign hung over the door of a long-vacated HoJo's. The neighbourhood had lost its sparkle. Brownstones were being boarded-up left and right; cops kept clear.

  'This'll do,' said Craven.

  'You sure?' I said.

  'Oh, yeah ... these Toyotas, can't kill 'em with an axe.'

  I took his word. Watched him approach with his steel rule outstretched; it didn't take him long to make the ignition kick, then the engine purred to life.

  I ran to the passenger's door. Craven gunned the gas.

  As we drove he lit a Montecristo; said it was 'his thing' on a job. I didn't question it — I had met a lot of guys with strange rituals and superstitions. This wasn't any take down, though. We'd moved up a league. The thought made me edgy.

  'Hey buddy boy ... you keeping it together there?' said Craven.

  I turned to face him, 'Me?'

  'You think I'm talking to Mr Magic Tree? Fucking-A I mean you.'

  'Don't worry about me.'

  His voice dropped, took on a mocking tone, 'Oh but I do buddy boy ... I do.'

  'Cut the shit, Craven ... just spit it out, where you going with this?'

  He started to laugh. He laughed me up. 'I ain't going anywhere ... and neither are you! Isn't that what your little woman used to say?'

  I felt a rush of adrenaline enter my veins; I grabbed the SIG and pushed it in his throat. 'Pull this fucking piece of shit over now.'

  His face changed colour, dropped several shades. His mouth turned down towards his chest, as he grabbed for breath his words came falteringly. 'Jesus ... I'm, I'm ... only messing with you, man.'

  I moved the gun from his throat to the middle of his temple.

  'How many times do I have to tell you? I don't like people messing with me ... Pull the fuck over!'

  ****

  The job was bloody; I never meant for it to be that way. I knew Lois wouldn't approve; she had insisted on one thing only — no body bags. We'd cleared the city, made the highway in good time but Craven wasn't in any kind of condition. I took the wheel from him but I wasn't in much better shape. She was only a girl.

  'Man, this is wrong, dead wrong,' Craven whined.

  'Shut the fuck up!'

  'Why was she in the middle of the road?'

  'I said shut the fucking hell up, Craven. He rocked to and fro on the passenger seat. Tears streamed down the sides of his face as he tugged at the few tight red curls that sat above his neck. I could see the streaks of blood where he'd cradled her head on the front of his jeans, it had already dried dark on the pale blue denim.

  'What was she, man ... six?'

  I couldn't listen anymore. It was his fault; he rolled out way too fast after we cut Pam loose. Craven had fucked up twice now — tested our luck — and that was fucking fatal. If I had to produce the gun again I'd fire it in his face; make that two body bags.

  'Craven, listen ... now listen. Are you listening?' I needed him to chill out; for all our sakes.

  He sobbed louder, brought his knees up under his chin.

  'We have to collect Lois from the drop ... if she has the money, we can still make this work. Do you hear me? We can still clear out … go our ways like we planned. Only richer, a hell of a lot richer.'

  Craven didn't answer. As the wind and rain picked up, and the sky darkened I started to think of Lois. It had all been her idea — the kidnapping. I had never had a thought to it; not even when Pam had turned me out without a dime, not even then. There was something about that line of business that brought nothing but bad luck; that's what the old boys said. But Lois was certain we could pull it off ... 'You don't need to be part of the gig ... just feed us what we need to know,' she had said.

  I never believed her. I knew better, but Pam had taken something from me and I wanted to take something from her. Christ Almighty, my mind was ablaze. I was full of thoughts of the past, the present meant nothing to me, and Lois had this way of making me believe anything was possible. Anything at all.

  ****

  Craven pulled the Toyota into the side of the street. The SIG started to feel heavy in my hand; my palm was sweating. If he had made contact with the mark then we were finished before we'd even started. We were skating close to the edge on this job as it was; it would take one look from Pam, one hint that I was back in her ambit and her father would have her locked-down by security. Billionaires are funny that way about only daughters.

  'What the fuck
do you know about what Pam used to say to me?'

  Craven knew he'd fucked up. He had set about riling me, taking me for a ride … but he hadn't thought it through properly. He didn't see where his joking would end.

  'I ... I ... didn't do anything.'

  He looked pathetic, his eyes looping in wide circles, searching for some answer that was never going to come.

  'I didn't do anything ... Is this fucking kindergarten? ... Am I playing with you, here?'

  'No. No ... I …'

  I smacked him with the gun. His cheekbone opened up, a little blood spilled out. 'Tell me now ... when did you speak to her about me?'

  He turned to his lap, looked at his palms. 'In the diner.'

  I hit him again, the force of it sprained my wrist. 'What did you say to her?'

  'She didn't know me ... she didn't know who I was ... I just sat next to her at the counter and she asked me to pass the mayo ... we started talking and she said something about an ex she had. I just put two and two together ... that was it. I promise. She had no idea who I was ... she'd never know me again. I promise. I promise you …'

  I took the SIG in my other hand, I was ready to blow his fucking dumb head through the window.

  'Craven, you stupid motherfucker. You stupid son of a bitch … you never heard of tempting fate?'

  ****

  If I had been anything like the man I once was I would have pulled the trigger myself, but he was gone. Pam had turned me around, made me believe I could change ... and I did. I had changed so much that I wasn't capable of living the life anymore. I'd grown soft; that's what the meth was about. It was recreation to begin with, a break from carrying shopping bags in Beverly Hills, some kind of reminder of the old days, the old kicks. I knew I'd taken it too far. Pam knew that too — or maybe she was right when she said I was never going anywhere.

  'What the fuck happened?' Lois yelled. Her blonde hair was tied back tight from her face, it made her look harder than usual, her features seemed severe as she squinted through the falling rain.

  'Get in! I shouted.'

  'What the fuck's going on?' She looked at the dent on the fender, where Craven had hit the girl … throwing her little body in the air.

  'What happened?'

  I let her get inside the Toyota, she looked at Craven rocking to and fro and yelled at me again, 'Tell me what the fuck is going on …'

  'Take this, keep it on him. She took the SIG Sauer from me.'

  'What is this?'

  'Never mind ... Did you get the money?'

  Lois wrestled the rucksack off her back, stayed calm. 'Every dime … let's hope we get to hold onto it.'

  I gripped the wheel tighter. I was already upping the revs as we sped into the rain.

  Lois spoke. 'Now, what happened back there?'

  Craven was stirring, 'We're finished ... the girl. That poor fucking girl.'

  'What's he on about?'

  I tried to keep the needle below eighty but I was desperate to put some distance between us and the scene.

  I felt a cold gun on my ear, 'I'm not going to ask again,' said Lois.

  'We killed a fucking little girl ... she was in the fucking road!'

  Lois turned back to Craven, he was still cradling his head in his hands as I yelled, 'You fucking killed her ... you dumb bastard! You killed that girl when you spoke to Pam in the diner.'

  'No. No. No.' Craven mumbled and sobbed.

  'You burned our luck ... You fucking burned us!'

  Lois couldn't take it anymore; she exploded. 'You spoke to her? You fucking spoke to the bitch!' She levelled the gun at him. I turned, saw her eyes widen, her breathing stilled. I tried to grab the gun — her shot broke the windscreen — I went to right the wheels but the car was on the verge already. I pumped the brakes but it only made matters worse. We fell into an uncontrollable skid.

  The second the car turned over on its roof, I thought we were all dead. As we rolled to a stop I wished I had died. Outside I tried to find the courage to go and take the SIG from Lois but I knew Pam had been right about me all along, I was going nowhere.

  A little girl had died, but I did nothing.

  Sometimes it was the thing to do.

  Daddy's Girl

  Ben the gimp racked up another bottle of Bud, leaned over the bar, real conspiratorial, then blurted, 'He was fucking her for years, y'know.'

  I thought, not again. Some guys see you with an eighteen-year-old in hot-pants, they get off on this shit. I grabbed the Bud, watched a white head of grog float over the edge and caught it on my tongue.

  'Straight up,' said Ben. He eyeballed me real close, even let a fly settle on the bar, blinked at it, thought about a swipe, thought again; watching me was obviously more interesting to him.

  I slurped the beer. Ben's jaw jutted, a jagged line of crooked teeth poked up like fence-posts ... and, what was that, drool? He was drooling as he waited for me to go postal. Riding me for a move; the signs were more subtle in the Joint.

  'So, you, eh ... you know? Gonna take care of it?' he said.

  I'd been out just long enough to know what passes for shit-stirring on the street. If I was cracking heads through, Ben was topping my list right now.

  I lowered the Bud.

  'You wouldn't be making trouble, would you, Ben?'

  He swatted at the fly. Missed. Moved back from me real fast and flicked a bar-towel over his shoulder. 'Fuck off! Trying to be a mate that's all.'

  He did the petted lip thing, my little sister Kimmy used to do this when she was about eight, nine ... no later than ten, for sure. I still remembered her ways.

  'A mate, eh?'

  'Too right, try and do a man a good turn and what do you get?' He didn't know what he was saying; he was still pumped on the rush from the job.

  'I dunno, Ben, you tell me ... what's a good turn?'

  He got that faraway look in his eyes. Slapped palms on the bar, leaned in again, 'I'm telling you straight down the middle ... that girl bangs like a truck stop door! She's my sister, I should know ... there's more to being in this crew than lapping about in my old man's Mustang.'

  He wrapped the bar-towel round the pumps; the fly settled down on the bar again. I swatted it with the heel of my hand; showed Ben the blood and guts, little legs still twitching.

  He turned down the corners of his mouth, dropped brows.

  'That's fucking gross.'

  'You want gross, Ben?'

  There was no one in the bar to see the muzzle flash, hear the shot or Ben's cry as the bullet lodged between his ears.

  ****

  The Mustang started first time. Beautiful set of wheels. Always loved these old cars.

  'It's junk,' Angie had said when her old man offered it to me.

  'Junk ... girl, this is quality. Genuine piece of American history, this is!'

  She flicked her hair back, those dark-blonde curls making waves like the ocean behind us, 'I'm hungry, let's eat.'

  I took her to Maccy Dees on the Point, out by the auto-mart. I liked to listen to the crickets at this time of night, smell the imported eucalyptus breezing in over the burn of gas and burgers.

  'What do you want?' said Angie.

  'I'm good, thanks.'

  'Not even a Coke?'

  'Maybe a Coke, small one.'

  She smiled as she spoke into the clown's nose, ordered herself a Big Mac, sprung for the 'Go Large' option when she was asked. As she leaned over she exposed her lower back above her trackies ... how did she stay in shape and eat all that comfort food?

  We drove to the back lot. Gulls were scratching on the nature strip. Angie devoured the burger and fries, then set about washing it all down with the Coke.

  'Daddy has some work for you?' She wiped her chin as the Coke dribbled down the side of the cup.

  'Oh, yeah.'

  'Yeah, says it's something you'll like—' she opened the cup, took out an ice cube.

  'Like?'

  I liked two things, playing the ponies and the other
... Angie climbed over the stick-shift, popping the ice-cube in her mouth.

  'Mmh-hmh,' she said, fiddling with the cord on her trackies, and passing the ice-cube from her mouth to mine.

  Was it all just a game to her?

  ****

  I was making good time on the highway. The Mustang took its time lapping in the 'burbs, but out on the proper roads — no problem. Had the needle touching 70-mph. Always made me jumpy travelling at speed on the way to a job. Never on the way back. Amazing how some sirens, few Mars lights, helps you get your shit together.

  I felt hot, must have been a 30-degree day, in country LA, you remember those with a fondness, mostly.

  The sides of the highway, the verges and trees, were burnt yellow. Not even a bird digging for a feed. Out the back of the car a trail of dust kicked up.

  I could feel sweat forming on my spine. Drops ran down my forehead, got in my eyes. I took the sleeve of my shirt and wiped.

  I was coming into Venice as the cell phone rang on the passenger seat.

  'Yeah, it's Jonny here ...'

  The voice on the other end was one I recognised straight off.

  'Why the fuck are you not where you're supposed to be?' said Patto.

  What was I gonna tell him?

  I'd thought of blowing him out?

  That it was a last-minute change of heart?

  I went with: 'I got ... side-tracked.'

  Patto roared. I could hear the Irish coming into his voice; most parts, I'd say it was left in the old country, but now and again it came back ... usually when he was about to go Ned Kelly on someone's ass.

  'Now, you listen here ye little gobshite, I will permanently end your ability to play the hard fuck by removing your tongue and any other protuberance I find to my feckin' fancy if you are not at exactly where you are supposed to be in the next fifteen minutes ... do I make myself feckin' clear?'

  Those Irish, real way with words.

  I clicked the cell to end the call.

  ****

  Patto saw me pulling up in the Mustang and burst a blood vessel.

  'You dumb Yankie fucker, what the hell are you bringing that piece of shit for?'

  I wound down the window, it played on his nerves, kind of accentuated the car's vintage. 'It's your car.'