Knuckleball (One Eye Press Singles)

by Tom Pitts

  Sue Alvarez finished her work out early. She usually spent close to an hour at the gym, but today she was there only twenty minutes. Every Tuesday now was a short work out. She walked in the door to their apartment and tossed her gym bag on the floor. She only had a few minutes.

  First she turned her cell phone’s ringer down. Not off, just down. Then she poured herself a tall glass of cranberry juice. Before she took the first sip the doorbell rang. She buzzed the front door without using the intercom. Footsteps came bounding up the apartment building’s marble stairs and she opened the front door before they reached her floor.

  “Yuri. What took you so long?”

  “I showered real quick at the gym. I wanted to be clean for you.”

  “You’re all clean? No fair. I have to wait till we’re done to shower.”

  “That’s all right. You’re like a little bit of sweet and a little bit of salty. Just the way I like it.”

  He tried to grab her right there in the hall, but she stopped him. Instead she pulled him by his shirt into the apartment, saying, “Not out here. C’mon. We don’t have much time.”

  Inside, they went through their ritual. Peeling the clothes off one another while they kissed, trying to not break their embrace as the garments fell to the floor. When they were ready, she reached an arm around his neck and started to steer him toward the couch.

  “Let’s go in the bedroom,” he said. “Just this once.”

  It killed the mood for a moment. At once, she went from playful to serious “You know we can’t do that. I’m not doing laundry all afternoon.” Sue’s tone dried up entirely. “What would Vince think? Coming home to washed sheets? He’s nosey enough as it is.”

  Being admonished in this maternal fashion didn’t slow Yuri down. He wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted her up as he stepped backward to the couch. “The couch will be fine,” he said. “Better, in fact.”

  “What are you trying to say?” David Cho was watching his partner’s expression, but Vince had his gaze locked onto the intersection in front of them.

  “It’s just … I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve seen him, that’s all. Since that day.”

  “And what? You’re having second thoughts?”

  “No,” Vince said. But after another moment of motionless thought, he added, “I don’t know. The kid’s brother never made sense to me. This other one, the one at the liquor store, he’s a fucking dark angel. Bad news. You should see this scumbag’s rap sheet. We saw him that day. Right before it happened.”

  “Where?”

  “On Capp Street. Right there. Right on the same spot.”

  “Jesus, Vince. You picked the kid’s brother out of a lineup.”

  Silence filled the car once again.

  “We’re talking about a cop killer here,” Cho said. “You’re saying you’re not sure now if the guy you helped finger is good for the deed? That’s a pretty big fucking deal, Vince. You want to roll around and take another look at this guy.”

  “And do what? Jack him up for an open container and ask him if he shot a cop?”

  “What about the kid? The kid said saw his brother do it. That’s a positive ID that’s tough to disqualify.”

  Alvarez couldn’t explain why the kid had done what he had. It was the weight of his testimony that tipped the scales. There was no coming back from that. Alvarez knew it and he suspected the kid knew it too.”

  “Maybe the kid was wrong.”

  • • •

  Oscar Flores was trying to adjust to his new life. After the reward money came in, he and his mother moved to nearby Vallejo. It was two toll bridges away from San Francisco, but close enough if he felt like coming back for a game he could.

  Vallejo had seen better days. Lack of funds to bolster the infrastructure or pay for city services had run the town down during the past decade. Not enough police and schools that were understaffed welcomed Ria and Oscar to their new home. They bought an old tract house built in the seventies. There were plumbing problems and a little dry rot, but it was bigger than any other place they’d lived.

  The reward money went quickly. There was the down payment on the house, then the hidden expenses a kid like Oscar never considered: closing costs and taxes and homeowners insurance. It was a crash course on growing up. If they were going to make it, they’d need extra income. Ria found a job right away at another salon, but the pay wasn’t as good and the hours not as convenient. Their struggle was nothing the two of them couldn’t handle, Oscar thought. As soon as the school year ended, he’d find himself a job and help out with the daily expenses. He’d soon be the man his mother always hoped he’d be.

  By themselves, the two of them were slow to unpack. Most of what they’d brought from their apartment in the city sat undisturbed in the garage. Oscar often went out to look at it. It amazed him. The sum total of their lives fit neatly in to one quarter of the garage. A blue plastic tarp lay over their belongings.

  One overcast afternoon, Oscar had returned from school and found himself restless. He walked into the garage, flipped on the light, and peeled back the tarp. There were boxes and plastic bins, laundry baskets and heavy duty garbage bags of unwashed clothes. It sat like an unorganized time capsule from a place no one wanted to remember.

  Oscar reached into one of the laundry baskets and pulled a grey duffle bag that Ramon used to fill with dirty clothes. Along the garage door were some sandbags lined across the bottom to protect from rainwater that seemed to sneak in every time there was a storm. Oscar opened up the duffel bag and placed two of the small sandbags in the bottom. He then began to stuff old towels and other rags on top of the sandbags. He packed it tight, pausing every now and then to press down on its contents with his foot. When he was done and the bag felt good and solid, he threaded a rope through the metal rungs at the top of the bag. After setting up an aluminum stepladder, he climbed its rungs, then hoisted the heavy duffel by the rope over the rafters. It hung there, swaying gently like an old drunk.

  Oscar climbed down and faced off with the bag. He gave it a solid punch with his right hand. Low and on the side, where he thought a man’s kidneys might be. He peppered it with a few lefts, then some quick combinations. Gradually he built up some speed, some vigor, and soon he was flushed and sweating from punching the bag. He didn’t stop. He kept hitting and hitting until his knuckles started to sting. They were skinned and tiny beads of blood crowned each one. Soon the bag itself was tattooed with spots of Oscar’s blood. He kept punching. Harder and harder. He punched until he’d completely winded himself. He doubled over and tried to suck air into his lungs. When he straightened back up, he drew a folding pocketknife from back pocket. He clicked it into place and went at the bag, stabbing it with his right hand while hugging it with his left. He stabbed and stabbed into the bag. He stabbed until the fabric inside the bag began to hang out. He stood back for a moment, looked at the Ramon’s bag hanging lifeless from the rafters, then he started stabbing again. He kept at it until he could stab no more.

  Exhausted, he fell back to the floor, spent and silent. Clutching the knife, he pulled his knees up close to his chin and stayed sitting on the cool garage cement. He’d received no relief from attacking the bag, no satisfaction.

  Oscar thought he heard something on the other side of the garage door. The light near the bottom was blocked by the rest of the sandbags, so there was no way to tell if someone was out there. But, there was sound. The light scraping of shoes against the pavement. Someone was pacing back and forth. Oscar waited motionless, hoping whoever it was would go away. Then he heard the doorbell.

  If the noise were a delivery, a mailman, or even those nicely dressed men with religious pamphlets in their hands, they would’ve rang the bell. A metallic-sounding ping-pong that Oscar rarely heard since they moved in. Since the moment Oscar walked out of the San Francisco Hall of Justice, reporters hounded him for a comment, but never in their new Vallejo home.

  Before Oscar even raised hi
mself from the floor, the doorbell rang. Once more as he hurried to the front door to see who it was. Oscar didn’t look through the peephole, their apartment door in the city never had one, so he didn’t think to use it. He held the knife down at his side, opened the door a crack, and saw Salty’s face.

  With the heel of his hand, Salty shoved the door open the rest of the way.

  “What’s up, you piece of shit?”

  It was the closest thing to a nickname Ramon had ever called him. It made Oscar cringe just to hear it.

  “What do you want?”

  “What’d you mean, what do I want?” Salty pushed past Oscar and into the house. “I wanna talk to you. I haven’t seen you in months. Is this the way to treat an old friend?”

  Salty walked to the middle of the living room and spun around, treating the space as though it were opulent, not dingy and sparse like it was. But to Salty, maybe it was a palace. Oscar had never seen where he lived.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  Oscar knew he shouldn’t answer, shouldn’t engage Salty, but he didn’t see any point in lying. “She’s not home. She’s at work.”

  “Work? You made her get a job? With all the money you got? Me? I’d treat my mother like a queen.”

  “We don’t have any money.”

  “No? That’s not what I heard. I know what you got for what you did to Ramon. A great big check.” Salty wagged a finger at him, taunting, mocking. “That’s why you did it, right? That’s why you sent your brother away? For the money?”

  Oscar didn’t say anything. He felt sick. Salty knew. Why wouldn’t Salty know? He’s Ramon’s best friend. A strange metallic taste formed in Oscar’s mouth and the room tilted a little.

  “That’s right,” Salty slurred. “Ramon told me everything. I know all about you and your big brother.” Salty glared at Oscar, a reptilian grin bent his wet lips into a cruel curve.

  “Go home, Salty.”

  “Home? I ain’t got one, thanks to you. My old man kicked me out after I came home drunk from mourning my lost friend. Said I could go room with Ramon in la pinta. Said I was no different from him.”

  “That’s not my fault,” Oscar said.

  Salty ignored him and went on, “That’s okay, he’s an asshole. He don’t know Ramon didn’t do nothing” Salty let that one hang on the air a moment before going on. “That’s why I thought I’d come over here, to my extended family. Maybe stay with them a while. Live the good life, for a change.”

  “You gotta go, Salty. My mom’s gonna be here any minute.”

  Salty’s tone shifted. He began to snarl and hiss. “I know what you did, you fucking piece of shit. I know you fucked up Ramon on purpose. He didn’t shoot that cop and you know it. You knew it all along. You fucking sent your own brother away. You think you can do that shit and nothing’s gonna happen? You’re fuckin’ wrong. Dead fuckin’ wrong.”

  Oscar went cold, a chill ran over his skin and he felt each individual hair raise up on his arms and neck. He remembered the pocket knife still clutched in his right hand. He squeezed the handle so tight it barely seemed like the weapon was there at all.

  “That’s right. I know your secret. I know why you did it, too. So you owe me, Oscar. And you’re gonna keep on owing me.”

  Oscar couldn’t tell if Salty was drunk, or high, or what, but he noticed him swaying a little. His eyes looked unfocused.

  “You should make me a sandwich or somethin’, punk. You got any beer here?”

  “You gotta go, Salty. I mean it.” Oscar kept the knife down at his side, hugging the seam of his pants.

  “What’re you gonna do? Call the cops on me?” Salty giggled. “Oh yeah, that’s right, you probably will.” He paused to look around his surroundings as though he’d just noticed he was inside the house. “How about that beer, bitch? You fetching it, or what?”

  “You can’t have nothing, Salty. You gotta go. Right now.”

  “Or what?” Salty stepped forward and Oscar could smell the liquor on his breath. “You gonna fight me?” He stepped a bit closer. “You gonna try to put me down?”

  Oscar was backed up against a wall now. Salty’s hot breath was blowing in his face.

  Salty reached up with both hands and grabbed Oscar by the throat. “Maybe you want to give me some of that sweet stuff. You know, like the shit you did for your brother …”

  Oscar raised the knife from his side and plunged it into Salty, right under his left armpit. Salty’s eyes lit up with surprise and Oscar realized he hadn’t seen the knife. He felt Salty’s grip tighten for a moment and then slowly go slack. They stood there for several seconds, eye to eye, only inches between their faces. Then Salty’s hands fell away from Oscar’s neck entirely and he collapsed to the floor.

  Oscar stood over Salty’s body and watched him bleed out onto the floor. Bright arterial blood seeped onto the linoleum tiles, growing into a puddle, reaching all the way to the rug. Oscar was surprised at how bright the blood was. Nothing like that day, nothing like the dark stream in the gutter on Capp Street.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tom Pitts received his education on the streets of San Francisco. He remains there, working, writing, and trying to survive. He is the author of, HUSTLE, and the novella, Piggyback.

  Find links to more of his work at: TomPittsAuthor.com

  Thank you for reading our first One Eye Press Single of 2015, Knuckleball by Tom Pitts. If you enjoy the book, be sure to leave a review online and tell your friends about this book so we can continue to publish books like Knuckleball other novella Singles.

  As a bonus, please enjoy the following excerpt from our next Single release. A western by Timothy Friend.

  The Gunmen

  by Timothy Friend

  Available May 2014

  THE GUNMEN

  Timothy Friend

  One

  If it wasn’t for a whore named Dottie, Charlie Brittle and I would never have taken up bounty hunting. At that time we owned and operated one of three saloons in the tiny town of Olvidados. The town didn’t have people enough to keep one saloon in business, let alone three, and when you considered that ours was the least popular, it meant lean times for Charlie and me. I had won the place in a poker game in El Paso the year before and I’d been regretting it ever since.

  Charlie and I were sitting in a couple of chairs under the porch awning out front of the saloon trying to stay cool when I heard Dottie step out behind us. She said, “I know that fella.”

  Charlie was leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the rail and his hat pulled low. He looked like he was napping, but I knew he was just figuring on our money troubles. Without raising his hat he said, “Dottie, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m drinking,” Dottie said. “That’s what you do in a saloon.”

  In addition to having three saloons, Olvidados had two dollar-a-poke whore houses. Dottie worked at one of them, but she didn’t seem to care for whoring much and spent most of her time in our place. If anybody missed her they never came looking for her.

  Charlie and she didn’t get along. It wasn’t that he had anything against whores, he just thought that since whoring was her occupation, she was lazy for not doing more of it. But she paid for her whiskey, and more often than not she was our only customer. So as much as she annoyed him he never ran her off.

  I looked back at Dottie. She was about twenty, blonde, pretty going on plain. She tapped her finger against the wanted notice posted beside our front door.

  We didn’t have any law in Olvidados, so from time to time a deputy marshal would ride through to check on things. He’d been by a week ago and put up the paper. Generally they were supposed to be tacked up outside the Sheriff’s office, or in pinch outside the bank or post office. Since we didn’t have any of those I guess he figured a saloon was as good as any place.

  The Notice read:

  $1000 Reward

  to any person or persons who

  will deliver bank robb
er and murderer

  Arbo Cullins (Dead or Alive)

  to any sheriff of New Mexico.

  Cullins stands five foot ten inches, bearded,

  with buck teeth and one milky eye.

  By now Charlie had turned around to look at the notice. He scratched at his cheek, thinking. “How do you know him?”

  Dottie put her hands on her hips and looked at him like he was stupid. “How you think? I fucked him. He come through about two weeks ago.”

  “You sure it was him?” I asked. “Not like there’s a picture.”

  “I’m sure,” Dottie said. “Had that milky eye just like it says. And he was so buck-toothed he could eat watermelon through a key-hole. Plus he said his name was Arbo.”

  “That does seem to clinch it,” Charlie said.

  I didn’t like the way Charlie was pondering this information.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “I’m thinking we could use a thousand dollars.”

  I wasn’t hot on the idea of hunting down a killer. I’d had enough of getting shot at during my time as a shotgun messenger for Wells Fargo. Charlie used to scout for the army and quit, so I thought he felt the same. Lately though, I’d begun to wonder. He seemed to be getting restless the more we hung around Olvidados with nothing to do. I think he had imagined keeping the peace in a saloon would be a wild and wooly time. That not being the case, least not in our saloon, he was getting restless.

  “Awful hard to pick up his trail after two weeks,” I said, trying my best to be discouraging. Charlie nodded, and I was hopeful that might be the end of it.

  Dottie said, “He told me he was going to work for his brother. Said he was the foreman out at the mine.”

  “Well, ain’t you just a Goddamn fountain of information,” I said.

  “There’s no call to take that tone with me, Owen Ashe. I’m just telling you what I know.”

  “Can’t hurt to talk about,” Charlie said.

  “Talking ain’t what I’m worried about,” I said.