Shotgun Honey Presents: Both Barrels (Volume 1)

by Dan O'Shea

  I just can’t stop thinking about my husband’s new wife. She’d do well to get the procedure for the care of Joe’s clothes sorted out as quickly as possible.

  Unless, of course, she wants to rest under the back-forty… with me.

  LUCK

  Tom Pitts

  Gary flipped off the radio. He couldn’t stand the shit his partner listened to. They sat in a rented Ford Focus on a tree-lined suburban street in a neighborhood that would have suffocated Gary.

  “Time to discuss the plan.”

  “What plan?” said Andre. “I thought we was just gonna go in and shoot this motherfucker.”

  “No, no, no. He’s too apprehensive. We got to put him at ease, let him relax. Let him know we’re there as friends. He knows he’s in over his head. He’ll be scared as shit soon as he sees my face.”

  “What did this guy do exactly?”

  Gary knew that Andre didn’t really care. The kid was just eager to climb up the food chain and it didn’t matter whose body he climbed over. He talked tough; after this, he figured he’d be able to walk tough. Gary looked at his partner; one word came to mind—shortsighted. Andre was young, dumb, and probably never would make it to Gary’s age, not on the outside anyway. He only hoped that Andre wouldn’t suck him into the whirlpool of shit when he eventually fucked up.

  “He got caught with his hand in the cookie jar,” said Gary.

  Andre nodded his head thoughtfully, like this was explanation enough for taking a man’s life.

  Gary continued, “After a few minutes, we’re gonna settle in, watch some TV, then, you go get us some beers in the kitchen, or take a piss or something. That’s when you put the gloves on.”

  “I know, I know,” said Andre, acting like he’d done this before. Gary knew he hadn’t.

  “Don’t touch that gun without those gloves. You wiped it good, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m not stupid, Gary.”

  Gary let that one slide.

  Andre, getting cocky now, “You wipe your piece?”

  “I told you, Andre, I ain’t bringing one. That’s why we brought the throw-away. We’re walking away clean.” Gary looked up at the house again. “You wiped the bullets too, right? Real good? ’Cause we’re leaving it all right there, the casings, the gun, the body, everything. We don’t want a stray print to fuck us up.”

  “Yes—for the millionth time—yes.”

  “You bet your freedom on it?”

  Andre looked at Gary, hard and stern. He had to give it to him; the boy didn’t look scared.

  “Watch what you touch in there, too. Try to remember everything you come into contact with.” Gary looked once more into Andre’s flat black eyes. “You ready?”

  “Let’s go get shitty,” said Andre.

  • • • •

  Gary rang the doorbell and waited. He could hear a TV inside and nothing else. Andre stood behind him on the cement steps that led up to the front door. For a second he felt like they were just a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses come to talk about Christ—not introduce someone to his Maker. A shadow moved across the windowed panel in the door. The knob turned.

  “Gary.” Vince tried not to look alarmed, but his eyes betrayed him; there was fear popping out of them. His hair was rumpled and his clothes looked like he’d slept in them the night before. “What’re you doing here?”

  “We were in the neighborhood. Doing pick-ups. Fucking Chinaman won’t be back till three. I thought we’d come by and see how you’re doing. Make sure you weren’t overstocked with beer or nothing.”

  Vince didn’t move, a grin frozen on his face. Gary knew he was trying to read the situation, gears spinning, trying to see the angles, but he hadn’t moved a muscle. He looked like he might faint.

  “Vince, you remember Andre?”

  Vince looked at Andre and stretched his smile a little further, making a dark crease form across his brow. “Of course.” Vince stuck his hand out, but Andre only nodded his head and said, “Waz up?”

  “So, you gonna invite us in or what?” said Gary.

  “Oh, yeah, of course. C’mon, make yourselves at home.” Vince swung the door open and led the two men into an empty living room, darkened by drawn shades. The furniture had obviously been picked out by a woman, but Gary guessed that, whoever she was, she wasn’t around. There was cigarette smoke hanging in the air and dirty plates were piled three-deep on the coffee table. The TV was blaring some ad about erectile dysfunction. Vince snatched up the remote control and knocked down the volume before plunking himself down at the right end of the sofa, the spot where he’d spent most of every day.

  “I was just watching the game,” said Vince.

  “What game?” said Andre.

  “Rangers/Maple Leafs. I’m a dime in. Rangers are up by one.”

  “Who the fuck bets on hockey?”

  “I do. Helps pass the time,” said Vince. “Besides, I can’t do shit with basketball.”

  Andre screwed up his face and settled in at the other end of the couch.

  Gary took the overstuffed armchair at the left. He was soaking up details. Vince’s cell phone sat on the coffee table in front of his spot. The windows were all closed. Two shoes sat beside the couch. Vince was in stocking feet.

  “Where’s the missus?” asked Gary.

  “Shit, don’t ask. That cunt took off six months ago. For better or worse, my ass.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. She was a bitch. Problem is she took my boy with her. Can’t even get the kid on the phone.” Vince clapped his hands together. “So … you guys want those beers or what?”

  “I’ll get ’em,” said Andre.

  “No, relax, please,” said Vince, getting up.

  Gary watched Vince walk into the kitchen and made eye contact with Andre. His partner looked ready, like he wanted to shoot Vince as soon as he walked back into the room.

  Vince called out from the kitchen. “How’s Yuri doing?”

  Andre raised his eyebrows at Gary and Gary held his index finger to his lips.

  Vince came back into the room with three long-neck Budweisers laced through his fingers. “You’re still with Yuri, right?”

  “Pain in the ass. You know how it is. Fucking hurry up and wait with that guy. Always an agenda.”

  “Yeah, I recall,” said Gary.

  They tuned into the game for a while, watching the tiny figures ricochet around the ice. Vince talked about the players, who was new, who should be traded, the usual bullshit. Gary didn’t know shit about hockey, but he thought he was doing pretty well faking his way through. “Nice hit … nice shot.” Mostly agreeing with Vince.

  After a few more minutes their beers were gone and Vince offered them a couple more. Once again, he told Andre to stay seated while he got up and went into the kitchen. As soon as they heard the fridge door open, Gary whispered to Andre, “Almost time to piss.”

  Vince hadn’t even sat down when Andre asked, “Hey Vince, you got a shitter in this place or what? I gotta piss like a race-horse.”

  “Yeah, down the hall to the left.” Vince was relaxed now, enjoying the company, enjoying the game. The Rangers were up by three and it looked like he might be a winner.

  Andre got up and walked slowly down the hall, taking his time. When they heard the bathroom door shut, Vince said, “I’m really kinda glad to see you guys. I been stuck here all alone for, shit, months now. Been feeling like a, I dunno what. What’s that word?”

  “What word?” said Gary, listening for the bathroom door.

  “Like an outsider, like an untouchable.”

  “Pariah?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. A pariah.”

  Gary never heard the bathroom door open. All he saw was Andre’s shadowy form, moving quick behind Vince. Andre had the gun in his hand, a Walther PPK .380, pointed right at Vince’s head.

  Click. They all heard it. The dry metallic click. Andre frowned and looked down at his hand, like he could blame his trig
ger-finger. Vince’s eyes lit up, wide. He knew instantly what had happened. Gary just exhaled through his nose and said, “Shit.”

  Vince spun around, the gun facing him now; he was still speechless, mute with fear.

  Andre pulled the trigger again, this time with the barrel pointing right a Gary’s face. Again, the dry metallic click.

  “Fuckin’ thing jammed,” he said, half-apologetic, half-surprised.

  “You guys came here to kill me?” said Vince. He’d found his voice, but now it was high and squeaking. “We’re watching the game, and you’re here to kill me? What the fuck?”

  “C’mon, Vince. Take a breath, settle down. Nobody’s dead. We’re all just sitting here talking.”

  “Holy fuck. Yuri, that cocksucker. I shoulda known. Fucking money? He wants to kill me for money. It’s a few thousand dollars for Christ’s sake, and he wants to kill me?”

  “It’s more than a few thousand dollars, Vince. You know how this shit works,” said Gary.

  Andre still stood behind Vince, staring at the Walther in his gloved hand. He held it toward Vince’s face and gave the trigger another squeeze.

  “Stop doing that,” said Vince. “The fucking thing is jammed. It’s not gonna work. I’m sitting right here. Stop trying to … just stop it.” Vince had broken down into short gasps, asthmatic little sobs.

  Andre said, “Fucking krauts, German engineering, my ass.”

  “I told you to bring the .38,” said Gary.

  “That’s your answer?” said Vince. “He shoulda brought a fucking revolver? Christ, Gary, how long we known each other?”

  “A while, Vince, a few years. But, you know, we ain’t never been what you’d call close.”

  Vince broke back down into those child-like sobs. “All this—for money. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, who kills over money?”

  Gary couldn’t hold back. He laughed. “Vince, for fuck’s sakes, who gets killed over anything else but money? I mean, c’mon, were talking about Yuri here. You knew who you were getting in bed with, you knew whose phone calls you been ducking. He had serious plans for this real estate thing. Yuri was committed, he had expectations. You left him with his dick hangin’ in the wind.”

  “Gary, Andre, look at that photo on the end table. Look at that kid. Fucking nine years old, can hit a ball out of the park every time he’s at bat. Look at him.” They looked. The picture showed a boy squatted down in a little league uniform, fist punched into his glove. “I’m his father. I can’t die. I gotta raise that kid. His mother don’t know shit about boys, he needs a man around.”

  “Good-looking kid,” said Andre. Gary shot him a look that said, You ain’t helpin’.

  “I can make this right, I know I can.”

  “I don’t think you can, Vince. We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  “I know I missed some of his calls. I been out of town. Working on something else. I’m not without resources.”

  Gary looked again at the coffee table piled with dirty dishes. This guy had been nowhere but the couch.

  “Just let me talk to Yuri. I can explain what I’ve got going on. He’s gonna like it, you’ll see. He’s gonna treat you like heroes.” Vince was talking a blue streak now, words flying, believing his own bullshit.

  Gary looked at that picture of the boy in his baseball uniform. Red and white, like the Red Sox. Gary had three boys, but only one of them played ball. He wished they all had. He loved going to see his boy play, the regular-ness of it, the wholesomeness.

  “I can’t call Yuri. Not about something like this,” he said.

  “Let me call him,” Vince was pleading again. “Let me explain. I’ll talk to him in person. Take me to him.”

  Andre stood behind the couch, still, waiting for a signal from Gary. Signal for what, to hit the guy on the head with the butt of his gun? The plan was fucked.

  “Please, Gary. I’ve got the kid, I’ve got a wife.”

  “I thought your wife walked six months ago, that she wouldn’t even let you see the kid?”

  “C’mon, Gary, nothing’s forever. I’m gonna work it out with them, but I gotta be above ground to do it. All I’m asking is a chance.”

  Gary looked up at Andre. The kid had lost his nerve. Shooting someone in the back of the head was one thing, but to beat them to death while they begged for their life, that was another. He pulled out his cell phone.

  Vince began to wring his hands together. He looked so happy he almost started to cry again.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” said Gary into the phone. “Not so good … Well, let him know. Why? It didn’t work out, that’s all.” He looked at Andre, then Vince, then at his feet. “I’ll explain to him when we get there … We’re bringing him over … Where should I bring him? … Just let the man know, would you?”

  Vince’s fate was in Yuri’s hands now.

  “Jesus, thank you, Gary. You won’t be sorry, I promise. I won’t ever forget this.”

  Andre shrugged and stuck the Walther behind his belt in the small of his back.

  “Fate smiled on you today, you are a lucky son-of-a-bitch.” They heard the final buzzer for the third period on the TV. Vince had won his dime. He was a lucky son-of-a-bitch.

  “I’ll take care of you guys, I swear, we’ll all earn off of this. Wait and see. Lemme grab my jacket and we’ll go see Yuri.” Vince disappeared to the back bedroom and left Gary and Andre standing in the living room.

  Gary shook his head in disgust. Andre shrugged his shoulders.

  Vince came back into the room and Andre said, “Hey, where’s your jacket?”

  Vince didn’t answer. Instead, he pointed his tried-and-true .38 revolver at Andre’s chest and shot him through the heart. Andre dropped like a side of beef.

  Gary didn’t get a chance to say anything. He instinctively reached for the gun that wasn’t there, pawing at his hip. Vince pointed the gun at him and squeezed the trigger again. Gary flew back. Vince walked over where he landed, slumped and wheezing, and gave him one more in the head.

  That was it. The room smelled of gunpowder and there were two bodies bleeding all over the floor, but Vince still felt like one lucky son-of-a-bitch.

  INTUBATION

  Glenn Gray

  The banging came loud and hard.

  Doctor Sanford Wigstein roused, turned over in bed, accidentally elbowed Honey in the low back.

  “Wassat?”

  “Nothing, Honey. Go back to sleep. Looks like I got myself a customer.” When Doc said “customer,” it was with a little twang, to indicate he was being facetious. At 74, he didn’t know how much longer he could do this kind of crap. Not that he had much of a choice. He was kind of obligated. And they did pay him well.

  “Need anything, lemme know.”

  “You know the deal.” Doc swung a robe over his shoulders. “You don’t hear something from me in 15 minutes, come check.”

  “Always, baby.”

  Doc bent and rubbed Honey’s stubbly cheek. “You’re too good to me.”

  Honey twisted to look over his shoulder, abs rippling, sprouting up like little knobs. The chiseled plate-like pec swept under the upright Double-D implant. “No no no, you’re too good. The best little sugadaddy ‘round.”

  They both laughed.

  Doc smacked Honey’s muscular thigh, kissed him on the forehead, said, “I love you, you know that?”

  “Love you too, old man.”

  • • • •

  Doc lumbered down the two flights of stairs, heading for the basement level. Oh, how he adored this Brownstone with its prime location on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Probably worth millions now, incredibly spacious, but the stairs were wreaking havoc on his knees. Maybe he would sell the darn thing so he and Honey could go somewhere, just live in peace. Maybe in a grass hut on some secluded beach.

  The banging seemed to escalate as he got closer. Frantic voices outside the door. More than one. He lowered himself off the last step into the home medical suite, knees clicking, and zigz
agged his way around the examination table, carts, and other equipment towards the entryway.

  He cracked open the door, chain still on, to see three guys in the concrete stairwell. The middle guy was limp. Arms draped over the shoulders of the other two on either side. Doc thought the middle guy looked like Jesus Christ on the cross, hanging there. And he was bloodied up pretty good. Especially the front of his shirt.

  “Come on come on come on!” One of the guys said.

  The site and sounds jarred Doc into emergency mode. He undid the chain and the door sprung open, the men starting to stumble forward, huffing and sweating. The three shuffled as one unit, the limp guy’s sneakers squeaking across tile.

  Doc backed up, motioned them toward the examining table situated in the middle of the room, which doubled as an operative table for minor procedures when needed. He had a sinking feeling this was going to be one of those times.

  “What happened?” Doc pushed the door shut, hooked the chain in place out of habit.

  “Stabbed, man! Goddamn stabbed ‘em!”

  The other guy chimed in, “Jewelry store. Had it all done. Yeah. Then a little old lady in a wig and sweater came outta nowhere swinging some goddamn sword like an ancient ninja. Sliced up my bro. Right here. Look, Doc.”

  “Sword couldn’t stop no bullets though.” The other guy said. “Stupid ninja. Come on. Help ‘em, Doc.”

  “Fine fine, get ‘em straight.” Doc gathered materials. Ripped open the guy’s shirt, popping buttons down front. Saw a gaping laceration across the chest and abdomen, a puncture wound in the left upper quadrant. Good, Doc thought, missed the heart, maybe dropped a lung, possible diaphragmatic or even splenic injury. This guy needed to get to a real ER.

  “We’ll get him stabilized,” Doc said. “Then we must get him to the hospital.”

  “No, Doc! You fix him now!”

  Doc didn’t respond. He went about taking vitals, doing a cursory physical exam. He could feel hot breath on the back of his neck. He turned and threw a hard glance and the guy got the message, leaned back slightly. The injured guy’s heart rate was rapid. BP low normal. He heard the hissing air. Doc was right. Pneumothorax. He realized he had to get a chest tube in, then intubate this guy. He was lethargic, shock setting in, and he was starting to buck. Once he got him intubated he could sedate him, call the ambulance.