I suppose there are times when my job could be seen as, well, appealing. I set my own hours, got plenty of days off, and received payment on delivery. But like any other gig, this one has its ups and downs. The people I associate with are far from trustworthy, and there’s always the law to contend with.
If they knew what I did, most people would have been mortified with how I earn my living. I understand that. Again, criminality is not lost on the perpetrator. But before anyone gets too judgmental, they should understand that people get what they got coming to them. What certain people do to fuck up—from being the wrong guy’s competition on a construction bid to having an affair with the wrong lady to being too rich in the wrong circle of sharks—is not my concern.
After being honorably discharged from the Marines, Tony Mark came back to the old neighborhood and steadily rose through the criminal ranks. It seemed that everybody, even the local cops, knew he was in deep, but as long as he wasn’t caught in the act, people turned a blind eye. Maybe that’s what you get for serving your country? Or maybe people just knew better than to cross this crazy bastard. Whatever the case, Tony went from a two-bit hoodlum to a pretty influential man in a relatively short amount of time.
The make-or-break moment came when one of Tony’s bosses wanted a problem taken care of. With everything riding on the line, Tony Mark brought me along for backup and for my professionalism; he never forgot how I handled myself that night. His first professional hit was also mine. The difference is, that was the last time he actually pulled the trigger. From that night on, whenever somebody needed something dirty done, I became Tony’s subcontractor.
Felonious activities bond people unlike any other occupation. It’s not some sort of Semper Fi or taking-one-for-the-team kind of thing. It’s more like a bad marriage with no divorce option. Tony Mark knew that if I ever got arrested, I had enough dirt on him and his associates to take down the entire organization. By the same token, I fully understood that if I ever opened my mouth, my father, my sister, and her kids would have their names crossed out of the phone book.
Like any business, the object is to run efficiently and maximize profits. For me that meant if a certain opportunity presented itself—like the guy I’m taking care of runs a “cash only” business and I can get my hands on some of that free money—then I’d be foolish not to break off some.
Same with jewelry.
Some electronics.
Even clothing.
Toward the end of summer, Tony Mark contacted me about a problem that needed immediate attention. See, there was this trespasser named Raul whose encroachment on already claimed turf was doing financial damage to one of Tony’s respected associates. To make matters worse, when Tony and a few of the boys paid this nobody a visit about respecting boundaries, Raul remained defiant—which meant he had to go.
I trailed this lowlife dirtbag for three weeks, learning his patterns and routine. Once I’d gathered enough intel, I made an informed assessment as to how and where to make my move. In this line of work, one doesn’t get second chances or do-overs. One fuckup and game over.
Breaking into Raul’s apartment proved pretty easy. When you’ve been doing this sort of thing for as long as I have, all the locks in the world don’t mean shit. Once inside, I selected a strategic location where I’d wait.
A spot where he wouldn’t see me coming.
The sound of keys turning locks signaled that shit was about to get heavy. Still as a statue, I listened for additional voices, and when I didn’t hear any, that meant my target was alone. If someone had been with him, they, too, would have met their maker.
The door opened and closed.
Without a worry in the world, Raul turned to lock the locks. His back was to me when two silenced bullets from a .22-caliber pistol grafittied the front door in drippy red.
The body fell heavy, and for a split-second all of the oxygen in the room seemed to go away. But that was impossible. I was still breathing, right? Raul was the person gasping his last few breaths, not me. Then, in a flash, everything went back to how it was supposed to be and I could breathe again.
As I watched Raul expire with crimson pooling out of the two holes in his skull, another thought crossed my mind: The silk, purple, and gold suit this stiff was wearing had to be worth a few thousand dollars.
Before he ruined it, I had to get him out of it.
Dead people don’t always cooperate, but this prick offered little resistance. It’s almost as if he wanted to be free of his fancy duds. As far as I could tell, no evidence had gotten on the flashy attire, and that would earn me a nice bonus.
After dragging the underwear-and-socks-clad corpse into the bathroom, I cased the rest of the joint. Turns out he owned a decent amount of 24k gold jewelry as well as three more high-end suits.
When I saw the rest of Raul’s wardrobe, I got a little pissed at myself for wasting valuable time taking the purple-and-gold suit off him, but since I had put in the effort, I might as well take it. I loaded up a plastic garbage bag with soon-to-be-pawned items and used his keys to lock the door on my way out.
—
A few weeks before October 31, Halloween season took over the city. The chill in the air was more than just autumn; this was the time of year when the spirits became more active. Raised a Catholic, I never lost sight that November 1 commemorates All Saints’ Day, a holy day of obligation. All Saints’ Day is when the Saints in Heaven and the good Catholics of this world share the strongest bond.
It’s also the one day I feel least comfortable doing what I do.
Actually, October is my least favorite month. Everywhere a person looks there’s a window with a jack-o’-lantern or a storefront that’s now decorated into a cemetery. Witches, black cats, and ghouls lurked out in the open. No matter the channel, the TV showed countless horror movies. Some of these horrific scenes hit a little too close to home.
All Saints’ Day was approaching.
Two days before Halloween, my phone rang. I was expecting to be offered another contract, so Tony Mark blew my mind when he invited me to a party.
“One of the bosses has a pretty festive ol’ lady, and this year she’s insisting on throwing a Halloween bash.”
I really didn’t want to go, but I knew better than to offend Tony Mark or his boss.
“And yes, it’s a costume party.”
“I don’t have a costume,” I explained.
“Good thing you have some time to get one, right?”
“But—”
“No buts about it. This very important individual, who happens to look after both of us, is having a get-together. You should be grateful that he even extended you an invitation.”
I knew he was right.
“What are you gonna wear?” I asked, hoping to come up with some ideas for my costume.
“It’s a surprise. And don’t even think about wearing one of those stupid T-shirts that say cheap-ass costume or something cheesy like that. Don’t embarrass yourself or me.”
Click.
Needing an outfit, I felt more stressed-out about trying to find the right costume than I did on my last job. Making ghosts was something I knew how to do. Dressing up like one, not so much. And what if someone else had the same costume and they were higher up the criminal ladder? Would it be viewed as disrespectful to have the same costume? Should I get two costumes just in case?
The Kirkebrann Costume Shoppe in the heart of the city was a godsend when it came to solving my costume-party problems. Having been in business since the mid-thirties, this costume shop had something for everyone. The German lady behind the counter was extremely helpful, making sure my selection fit perfectly. Not only did she hook me up, by the time I left Kirkebrann’s, I was kind of looking forward to the mobster masquerade.
On Halloween night, several local bars sponsored something that over the past few years had become a local tradition—a “zombie pub crawl.” Basically, a bunch of people looking to have a good time get dressed
up like the walking dead and make their way from one bar to another. These slow-moving tipsy zombies take over every sidewalk on their route, and if you happen to get in their way they growl and gnash their teeth.
You know, good clean cannibalistic fun.
With darkness blanketing the city, the night of the costume party landed on the same night as the zombie crawl. Looking out my window, I could tell that some of the older residents did not appreciate the undead shenanigans taking place. Truth be told, I could have done without it myself.
I put my costume on and waited for Tony Mark to call.
Knock, knock.
Half expecting some silly-ass zombie fucker to be standing there groaning for candy, I made my way to the door with a bit of an attitude.
“Who’s there?”
“Bitch, who the fuck do ya think it is?”
I immediately recognized the voice and reached for the door.
Unlocking the lock, all of the oxygen in my chest evaporated. Feeling like I’d been punched in the jaw, my head began to spin and my vision dimmed. My shaky knees wobbled but did not buckle. Then in a flash everything went back to how it was supposed to be and my lungs knew what to do.
“Trick or treat.”
Less than a foot away, Tony Mark looked like someone who had just stepped out from a 1970s time machine. Next-level funky, Tony appeared regal with his chest puffed out, dressed in a full-fledged pimp outfit. The gold rope chains, gaudy rings, and ridiculous grills covering his teeth made for great accessories, but the purple-and-gold silk suit that I had taken off Raul was too damn much to just be a coincidence.
The pimp flashed a golden grin that was more than a friend approving of my full-length, professional-quality, grim reaper costume. It was a giveaway that this dirty motherfucker had something up his sleeve.
If you think about it, and trust me, I have, the irony of this situation was almost laughable. On one level, the man standing in front of me was indeed my pimp, and I embodied Death. But what Tony Mark didn’t know was that hidden underneath my black reaper cloak I had my favorite pistol just in case a not-so-friendly ghost knocked on my door and wanted to take me to a shallow grave disguised as a Halloween party.
Remembering when we were much younger, I told him something that he once said to me as my hand raised the gun.
Something Tony said that night we broke into the Catholic school that stayed with me for my entire life.
Something that was often the last words my victims heard.
“Say a prayer.”
The Pumpkin Boy
Al Sarrantonio
1
Jody Wendt, five years old, saw the Pumpkin Boy through the window over the kitchen sink, outlined against the huge rising moon like a silhouette against a white screen. Jody had climbed up onto the counter next to the basin to reach the cereal in an overhead cabinet. Now he stood transfixed with a box of corn flakes in his hands, mouth agape.
The Pumpkin Boy had a bright orange pumpkin head with cold night steam puffing out of the eyes, nose, and mouth cutouts, and a body consisting of a bright metal barrel chest and jointed legs and arms that looked like stainless-steel rails. Even through the closed window Jody could hear the creaking noises he made. He moved stiffly, like he was unused to walking: His feet were two flat ovoid pads, slightly rounded and raised on top, made of shiny metal. As Jody watched, one of the feet stuck in place in the muddy ground; the Pumpkin Boy, oblivious, walked on, and then toppled over with a sound like rusting machinery. He lay on the ground like a turtle on its back, making a hollow chuffing noise like Saaaafe, saaaafe, saaaafe. Then he slowly righted himself, rising to a sitting position, and then turned slowly to search for his lost foot. Finding it, he fell forward and clawed his way toward it. He closed his hands around it. His head fell forward and hit the ground, rolling away from the body, and the hands immediately let go of the foot and grabbed the head, realigning it on the stilt body with a ffffffmp.
Then the foot was reattached to the leg and the Pumpkin Boy stood up with a groaning, complaining metal sound.
The Pumpkin Boy reached back down, creaking loudly, to pluck two fat organic pumpkins from Mr. Schwartz’s field that grew in back of Jody’s yard, and began to move off, away into the night.
“Wow…” Jody whispered against the windowpane, making it fog. He quickly cleared it with the cuff of his shirt and watched the Pumpkin Boy stiffly climb the fence that bordered Mr. Schwartz’s pumpkin patch from another behind it. In the process the Pumpkin Boy lost hold of one of the pumpkins he held but paid no heed.
“Wow…” Jody whispered again.
Jody was alone in the house; it was the half-hour in-between time when the afternoon sitter went home and his mother came home from her job in town.
He had been told repeatedly that he was not to leave the house during in-between time.
The forgotten box of corn flakes lay spilling cereal into the kitchen sink as he climbed down, pushed his arms into his jacket, and opened the door that led from the kitchen to the backyard.
As Jody Wendt stood on the top step of the back stoop, the storm door closing with a hiss and bang behind him, he saw the Pumpkin Boy once again outlined against the moon but moving quickly away. He was already two fields over and would soon drop behind the slope that led down to Martin’s Creek and the valley beyond.
Mouth still open in amazement, Jody was working at the zipper to his jacket, which wouldn’t zip. His feet were already carrying him down the steps, across the yard, to the split-log fence.
He dipped under the fence, forgetting the zipper, and stood in Mr. Schwartz’s pumpkin patch on the other side.
The Pumpkin Boy’s head was just visible, and then the slope down made him disappear.
Jody hurried on.
Mr. Schwartz’s pumpkin field was furrowed, bursting with fat vined pumpkins that would soon be picked and sold for Halloween. Jody tripped over the first row he came to and landed on his hands.
He found himself face-to-face with a huge oval orange fruit, its skin hard and strong.
It looked like a human head.
Jody pushed himself up and stumbled on.
He fell twice more. But still, in the distance, he could hear the metallic creaking sounds of the Pumpkin Boy. There were two more fences to manage, one again of split logs, which Jody scooted under, and the other of chain link, which he climbed with difficulty.
He nearly toppled over when he reached the top, but then, in the distance, he saw an orange flash in the moonlight: the top of the Pumpkin Boy’s head. He held on and descended to the other side.
There was a rock wall, which Jody had never known existed, separating two more pumpkin fields.
Jody was now in unfamiliar territory. Even from his bedroom window, just before harvest, the fields surrounding his house were awash in taut orange fruit, and now, for the first time, he knew just how complicated the layout was.
At yet another rock wall he paused to look back. He could no longer see his house.
He heard a sharp metallic creak in the far distance and hurried toward it.
The pumpkin field ended in a tangle of weeds and brambles and a ledge. Abruptly, Jody found himself teetering at the top of the slope. A tuft of brambles caught his foot and twisted his ankle and, with a short, surprised gasp, he was tumbling down the damp, soft bank.
At the bottom, he came up short against an uprooted oak trunk and came to a stop with one of its gnarled roots pointing at his face like an accusing finger.
He sat up, soiled and wet.
Suddenly he realized what he had done.
He looked back, up the slope, and shuddered with the thought that even if he could climb the steep incline, he would not be able to find his way back home through the tangle of pumpkin fields.
A quick, hot shiver of fear shot up his back.
But then: In front of him, like the sound of the pied piper’s flute, there came the creaking sound of the Pumpkin Boy moving. The pumpkin head flashed thr
ough the trees, and Jody forgot his fear. His wonder renewed, he stood and ran after it.
—
The moon was partially hidden by a thick tangle of trees on the far bank of Martin’s Creek, which made shafts of gray-white light on the ground. Jody splashed into the water before he knew it was in front of him. His hurt foot slid down nearly to his shin into icy tumbling water and lodged between two rocks.
Jody cried out in pain. For a moment he couldn’t move and panicked—but then, suddenly, one of the stones upended in the water and rolled over, and he was free.
Now both sneakers were in the water, and the slight current tugged at his legs.
He tried to turn around, but the water hurried him out farther.
He sank another half-foot.
The current was trying to make him sit down, which would bring his head underwater.
He gave a weak cry as he lost his struggle—and then there was water in his mouth and he could see nothing but the blur of moving wetness.
Almost immediately, his body pressed up against something long, dark, and solid, and his forward progress stopped.
It was a half-submerged log.
Jody clung to it and slowly pulled himself up.
To his surprise, the creek was only two feet or so deep here; the whooshing sound of water angrily churning around the log filled his ears.
He held on to the dry part of the log and coughed water out.
He wiped his eyes with one hand and had another surprise: Not only was the water shallow, it was not half as wide as it had been just a few yards upcreek.
Holding the log, he pushed his way through the shallow water to the far bank.
He sat down and his eyes filled with sudden tears.
I want to go home, he thought.
Halloween Carnival Volume 2 Page 9
