by Lonni Lees
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011 by Lonni Lees
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For my husband, Jonathan DuHamel, who is forever slaying the numerous evil gremlins that lurk in my computer, for his patience and invaluable assistance.
And for Gary Lovisi at Hardboiled magazine, for all of his support and encouragement along the way.
INTRODUCTION
Deep beneath the surface, they hide in all of us. The crawlspaces, cobwebbed basements, shadowed alleyways and musty attics of our minds; they are the dark and dangerous corners of the human psyche. Dormant, they lie in wait. Some pretend they’re not there and go about their innocuous lives, while others grab hold and pull them to the surface, feeding on their dark forces. Whether a career criminal, a madman, a thug, an abused spouse or an innocent child, within these pages you’ll find those who have embraced that darkness. Some tap into it for survival, some for greed. Some use it for destruction, some just because it’s there. It dwells within all of us. Waiting.
—Lonni Lees
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
These stories were previously published as follows, and are reprinted (with minor editing, updating, and textual modifications) by permission of the author:
“The Blue-Eyed Bandit” was originally published in Hardboiled #37, March 2008, and reprinted in More Whodunits: The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories, edited by Robert Reginald, Borgo Press, 2011. Copyright 2008, 2011 by Lonni Lees.
“Crawlspace” was originally published in Hardboiled #42, December 2010. Copyright 2010, 2011 by Lonni Lees.
“Dead Man’s Dance” was originally published in Yellow Mama #18, February 15, 2010. Copyright 2010, 2011 by Lonni Lees.
“The One-Eyed Belly Dancer” was originally published in Deadly Dames, Bold Venture Press, 2009. Copyright 2009, 2011 by Lonni Lees.
“Tumbleweed” was originally published in Hardboiled #36, January 2007. Copyright 2007, 2011 by Lonni Lees.
“Irrefutable Evidence,” “The Watercolor Witness,” “Daddy’s Girls,” and “Possum” are published here for the first time. Copyright 2011 by Lonni Lees.
THE BLUE-EYED BANDIT
The hot wind blew. Dust smothered the afternoon sun to a grotesque twilight as the old ’32 Ford sped down the highway between Ensign and Copeland. The dust bowl continued to wreak its devastation on this isolated corner of Kansas, annihilating lives and livelihoods, leaving nothing but ruin and broken dreams in its wake.
Frank Lanigan grumbled aloud as he floored the gas pedal, putting as much distance between himself and Ensign as he could. And as quickly as possible. He doubted he was being chased but wasn’t taking chances. He hadn’t become successful at his trade by being careless; but today something screwed up; blighted his stellar reputation. Now, in a split second, it was fucked.
Earlier that afternoon Frank had walked into the Ensign bank, Tommy gun held firmly in his grasp, empty black leather satchel tucked under one arm. He’d hit a good ten banks between Chicago and Kansas, an easy living in hard times, and he was damn swell at it too. Just in and out and nobody gets hurt. Hell, if he was in the “Auld Sod” they’d be singing songs of praise about him.
He swept the room with a motion of the gun’s barrel and the customers dropped to the wood plank floor like trained monkeys. An elderly security guard stood frozen in a corner, eyes round and unblinking in fear. Beads of sweat freckled his upper lip. Frank sauntered to the cage, dropping the satchel on the counter. The small-town broad looked more like a barroom floozy than a bank teller. She had bleached Jean Harlow waves with dark roots and lips bright as a maraschino cherry in a Manhattan. She looked like she passed out her favors as easily as she counted out dollar bills.
From the floor he heard someone whisper, “It’s him. It’s the Blue-Eyed Bandit.” Frank’s lips curled in a cocky smirk. Damn but he loved that moniker. Some pimply cub reporter south of Chicago called him that and it had stuck. It fit him like a felt Fedora. Those eyes got him under more skirts than he could count. He wasn’t like Charles Floyd, who’d hated the tag “Pretty Boy”. Pretty’d been a swell dresser but he was a fool. Shit, the day the coppers pumped him with seventeen bullets all he could say was “I think I’ve been hit”. The words of an idiot—or brilliant understatement. Frank suspected the former.
“Fill it up, Toots,” he said, indicating the satchel with a tilt of his head. A flicker of recognition twinkled in her eyes, putting a come-on smile on her luscious lips. Any other day he’d have obliged, pounding her through the mattress ‘til she was too weak to walk and he was spent. But today was all business, then on the road before the hot winds kicked up even worse. She’d have to settle for a tale to tell her grand-kids. After all, he was damn near legend.
The blondie was shoving the last of the bills into his bag when Frank heard the hammer-click behind him. He spun around, blasting the guard with five rounds before the guy could squeeze off a shot. The old man looked surprised as he folded to the floor, still holding the pistol with his withered fingers.
“Damn, fuck, shit” Frank muttered. He grabbed the loot, slammed his shoulder against the door, exited, and high-tailed it to his car. Tires screeched as he fish-tailed down the street and onto the open road.
The wind gusts pushed violently against the car. He gripped the steering wheel tightly to maintain control. His heart was pounding hard enough to punch a hole through his chest and come out dancing a jig on his belt buckle. Why? He asked. Why did the old geezer unholster his gun? Frank was a bank robber but he wasn’t a killer; no punk who mowed down bystanders just to steal a headline. Frank had principles. It was the guard’s doing, he told himself. It certainly wasn’t his fault. Now things were changed forever. If the cops weren’t chasing him the G-men would be. The last thing he wanted was Feds on his tail.
His guts were twisting hard enough to churn butter. His summer seersucker suit was glued to his sweaty skin. He rolled down the window, shoved his head out. A hot blast of air splattered his vomit onto the car’s side. As he gasped, his mouth filled with dry Kansas dust that mixed with the sour bile caught in his throat.
It was getting more violent out there by the minute—and dark as a Mafia funeral.
* * * *
Maggie stood by the stove, stirring the simmering pot as she stared blankly out the window. As long as they had pigs there was food so they were better off than most. For now. One by one the pigs were dying, if not from hunger then from the dust that filled their lungs. The pigs were dying; their feed withered in the field; men were dying. Some men drowned in the sea of dust; some blew their brains out; some just gave up. The dust bowl turned men mad.
She sighed as she turned on the radio. Static filled the room.
“First Farmer’s Bank...Ensign...Blue-Eyed Bandit...dead.”
At least there’s some excitement out there, she thought with a cynical grimace. She spun the knob searching for band music. Gave up. Turned it off.
Pops came through the door, pulling off his protective mask, a huge cloud of dust in his wake. Turbulent and sinister. Maggie barely heard the pigs over the wind’s roar, but their squeals always triggered something uneasy inside of her. Something she could never quite put her finger on. It gave her the heebie-jeebies and always reminded her of when Mom left. How old had Maggie been? Six? Seven? She remembered Mom’s brisk goodbye. Pops had made little Maggie stay indoors as he followed Mom out. She sat abandoned, hands over her ears, silencing the frenzied squeals and restless snorts of those damned pigs.
When Pops came back in that morning he’d tried to explain that Mom was a city girl at heart. The loneliness out here tied down her spirit. He’d walked
her up the road to catch the Dodge City bus. She’d be back, he had said, but from that day on his eyes were empty. She never came back.
Maggie snapped to the present, grabbed the broom and started sweeping for the thousandth futile time. The grit burrowed into everything—from their hair and bedding to the tub of lard in the pantry. It was enough to drive a girl crazy.
Pops mumbled something about the dirt being piled up to the window sills. And nonsense about how having a John Deere would make everything right.
Sure. And his pigs could fly.
* * * *
Frank almost missed the barn’s faint outline. He was near blinded by the thick, brown haze—and the image of a slain old man’s sad, haunted stare as his eyes clouded over....
He hit the brakes, cut a sharp left, and aimed towards the welcoming shadow of the farmhouse.
Frank knocked and was pulled into the kitchen. The door slammed behind him. The heat was stifling. The room smelled of pig shit, stale sweat and despair. Layers of dirt coated everything, collecting deep and defiant in the corners. The gal who’d invited him in swept with the wrath of the damned, displacing the soil from one spot to another and back again. A man sat at the kitchen table studying gnarled hands with weary eyes. He had to be her father. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen tops.
“Could I sleep the night in your barn, sir? It’s wild and blind out there, not safe for....”
“No more doors, no more doors, no more sweeping, no more doors.” She chanted it like some mantra she’d repeated a thousand times, tossing the broom into the corner with a hollow clatter.
This little dame was a real looker. A deusy. The face of an angel with porcelain skin, hair the color of half-ripe strawberries, eyes green and wild as shamrocks.
Invited to eat with them and bed upstairs, Frank sat, sliding the bag of loot safely under his chair. His stomach thanked him loudly but he tasted nothing. Her cotton dress, paper thin from hundreds of washings, clung to her damp body, caressed her young breasts. His body responded and he was damn glad he was sitting down.
Later, Frank followed her to where he’d sleep. As she led him up the narrow stairwell his eyes followed the motion of her round, tight caboose. Damn but he wanted to dive into the sticky sweet magic between those gams. She opened a door and they entered the room. Frank tossed his satchel into a corner as she fluffed the bed pillow with a punch hard enough to cold-cock The Great John L. A cloud of dust flew from the pillow and she mumbled, “Enough dirt to drive one crazy.”
Maggie walked over to where Frank stood, pressing her body against his as she looked into his intense blue eyes. Her voice was deep and smoky as her hot breath whispered in his ear:
“You can put your shoes under my bed any time.”
Before you could say “John Dillinger” they’d disrobed, leaping into the bed, rusty bed springs creaking in protest. Sweaty bodies slid sensually against each other as she spread her legs and straddled him. Pressing him against her sweet damp folds she flexed soft pink muscles, milking his cock with them, pulling it into her. There was an urgency, a hunger, as she drove him into her forbidden depths.
Frank’s day had started lousy, but now, in this humid little room on the outskirts of nowhere, everything was Jake.
She leaned forward, pulling a tattered head scarf from the nightstand drawer, not bothering to reclose it. She repositioned her hips atop him and said, “I wanna play.” There was mischief in her eyes. She twirled the scarf into a blindfold and tied it securely around his head and over his eyes.
Life couldn’t get better than this. This was payday. A bag of loot, a hot broad, and all the time in the world.
She ground her pelvic bone against him. Her moans said she was enjoying this as much as he was. Hell, maybe more. He thrust into her, over and over. It took all the self-control he could muster not to pop off right then and there. But he wanted to drown in her wild, animal sex forever.
Frank felt the weight of her against his chest as she stretched across him, heard her fingers shuffling through the nightstand drawer. His anticipation escalated with his breathing as he wondered what was next in this doll’s bag of tricks. This was turning into the ride of his life. Impeccably Jake.
A flash of light and pain exploded behind Frank’s eyes, bursting and spreading like fireworks on the fucking Fourth of July. His last conscious thought was the knowledge that he was wearing the same expression as the old bank guard.
Then darkness.
Then nothing at all.
Maggie kept his cock snugly inside of her as the ice pick penetrated into his brain, shoving and grinding it deeper into his ear canal like she was trying to crank up an old Model T. Deeper, deeper. She giggled as her body climaxed to the rhythm of his death throes. Then leapt from the bed.
Frank had given himself away the moment she’d opened the door and looked into amazing blue eyes. She knelt naked on the floor, her fingers running through the money from the Farmer’s Bank heist. Her nostrils inhaled the pungent smell of government ink mixed with the oil of a thousand men’s dirty hands. The sweet, filthy aroma of cold, hard cash.
She rose, putting the tattered dress over her head and shaking it into place with two snaps of her hip. “This fucking dust is enough to drive a girl crazy, crazy, crazy,” she sang as she galloped down the stairs with child-like enthusiasm, black satchel in hand.
Maggie tossed the bag onto the kitchen table across from where Pops sat.
“Here’s your John Deere, Pops,” she said proudly.
With a slight turn of her torso, she stretched out her arm, pointing towards the stairwell.
The hot night wind blew mournfully, carrying the oinks and snorts of the pigs as they paced and choked in their pens. In that same split second something happened inside Maggie. The deep, gnawing unknown that had haunted her stopped. It coalesced into vivid, absolute clarity. In that moment, as the pigs screams rode the deadly wind, she knew. The mystery of her mother’s departure was clear.
She knew.
She turned, locking eyes with Pops, still pointing awkwardly in the direction of the dead man beyond the top of the stairs. And as she spoke, Pops knew that she knew. Everything. She said:
“...and your pigs won’t go hungry.”
CRAWLSPACE
If there’s one thing life’s taught me, it’s that life ain’t fair. If it was I wouldn’t have been sitting in the slammer waiting out a five year stint for robbery with nothing to read but the Bible and inspirational, self-help bullshit. One thing I learned from the Bible was that any one of those guys could have been my cell mate. That Cain guy murdered his brother. When Lot’s wife got zapped and turned to salt, he did the nasty with his own daughter. I could go on and on, but you get the point. And I had to keep an eye on my backside, even while I was sleeping. The bastards put me away on nothing but one near-sighted eyewitness who couldn’t have seen a damn thing. At trial, he pointed his finger at me like he’d actually seen me commit the crime. I stared him down, but he must’ve felt safe up there on the stand. Shit. Like I said, there was no evidence, no loot, no proof. Nothing but my extensive resume. What’s fair about that? A long rap sheet always makes you the patsy. The cops and the courts take the easy way. They just haul you back in whenever somebody snatches an old lady’s purse or poisons somebody’s rat-mutt for yapping at midnight. The lawyers get paid, win or lose, so they don’t give a shit. Especially those lazy, fucking public defenders. I feel bad for all the innocent dupes that get put away like I was—for nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ll bet there’s plenty of ’em, too. Every thug and small time crook in prison swears he’s innocent. Maybe, just maybe, a few of them are.
Some people might call me a loser. I never saw it that way. The night before my ma’s man left for ’Nam, she asked him to give her something to remember him by. She probably wanted an engagement ring... nine months later she got me instead. She never heard from him again, never knew if he was killed in action or
just another run-off asshole. But what the hell, it got me into this world, didn’t it?
It’s funny how things play out.
I lived for Gloria’s monthly visits. I could have set my watch on them, if I’d had one. That last time was a real corker. She sauntered in, her size-too-small dress clinging in all the right places. As she walked toward me, her hips churned like she was having sex. She sat down and picked up the phone so we could talk through the glass barrier. Her fingers slid up and down the receiver like she was playing with my poodle-dink. That wicked little wink told me she knew exactly what that was doing to me.
Damn, but she could tease.
“I miss you, baby,” Gloria whispered. Her voice was like a smoke-filled barroom at midnight, fuzzy and filled with promises of drunken, dirty sex. We small-talked, but I was focused on those full, moist lips that could send me straight to heaven—and getting my walking papers. I wanted to screw her until she couldn’t walk, just like in the old days.
Every visit Gloria’d tell me she was faithful—just waiting for the day I’d get out. I pretended I bought it, but I knew better. Gloria couldn’t spend one night in an empty bed. It was how she was made, but that’s what attracted me to her in the first place. She was eager and easy and I was willing and able. The down side was I knew she’d been out there straddling anything that was still breathing, but it don’t matter that much. Once I got out she’d be all mine, just like before. I’d see to that. I might have to rough her up some before she got the idea, but she’d learn all over again. The occasional gut-punch works wonders for fidelity.
“I’ve decided to sell my house and find us better digs,” she said, throwing me into panic mode.
“You can’t do that.”
Gloria looked startled. So I calmed my voice, and my heart-beat, before I continued.
“I get out in just over a month, Gloria.” Her puzzled expression told me I needed to think fast. “I’ve spent five years thinking about the day I can walk up to that house with you greeting me at the door. It’s what’s kept me going.” I hoped I was convincing. “Let me have that moment, baby. Then you can sell it.”
