He should have done like I asked.
The front doors of the office building opened, and a steady stream of suits and dresses came pouring out onto the sidewalk.
Terrance hadn’t aged a day.
Tracking Terrance through the windows, I was out of the booth and heading for the exit. I crossed the parking lot, quickly closing the distance.
Even if Terrance did manage to slip out of my sight, I knew I wouldn’t lose him. Twenty years of long gray days and longer dark nights I’d thought of little else but meeting up with my ex-partner.
Terrance stepped around a bum holding up a can, took a left into a parking garage.
I followed.
The stairwell smelled like prison without the bleach.
I caught up with him on the third level.
There was no one else within sight, not that it would have made any difference. “Terrance.”
He paled as soon as it clicked who I was. “You got out.” His eyes dropped to the gun in my hand.
“I thought it was time to take advantage of this Internet thing, use my share from the bank job to seed an e-commerce business.”
“Look, I’m going to pay you back. I just need to get all my ducks in a row.” Terrance stepped to the side so he’d have the option to bolt.
I countered the move, keeping him trapped between me and the car. “Speaking of waterfowl, how does the phrase ‘dead duck’ grab you?”
“I swear I’ll make it up to you.”
“And how do you figure to do that?”
“I could deal you in.” He glanced around. We were still alone. “After the bank job, I went straight.”
“So did I. Straight to jail.”
“I took some classes, learned the business. I might have started at the bottom, but I have my own office now.” Terrance stopped as if waiting for congratulations.
“I process appraisal forms for a large insurance agency. I know everything that’s worth stealing in this town. I even know what kind of security the owners have installed on the premises.”
I had to admit the situation had potential. “So what?”
He lowered his voice. “I keep a list of the best places to hit, sort of an insurance policy. It’s sweet.”
“Keep talking.”
“The list is in my desk back at the office. I can take you there right now. I’ve just been waiting to put together a team. We knock them over one at a time. Bang, bang, bang. Then we split. It would be like old times.”
“For some of us, old times weren’t that good.”
Terrance licked his lips. “Look, nothing I could have done would have made any difference, but I’m sorry you were caught.”
“I’m sorry you spent my share. I asked you nicely not to.”
His eyes were skipping around, looking for a way out. “A lot can happen in twenty years.”
“Tell me about it.”
“The past is the past.” Terrance didn’t realize that he was adding salt to the wound. He was talking fast now, trying to sell me. “This is better than a bank job. It’s a sweet deal.”
“Not as sweet as this.” The first bullet flung Terrance back against his car, the second two pinned him there long enough that I was ten feet away before I heard him hit the ground.
I should have asked him first if he knew where I could get something decent to eat. I hated to break and enter on an empty stomach.
Stephen D. Rogers is the author of Shot to Death, Three-Minute Mysteries, and more than seven hundred shorter works. His other mysteries of under a thousand words have appeared in the anthologies Blood Moon, Border Noir, Dime, Discount Noir, Hardboiled, KnitLit (Too), Quarry, Seasmoke, Short Attention Span Mysteries, Small Crimes, Windchill, and Year of the Thief. His website, StephenDRogers.com, includes new and upcoming titles as well as other information.
HAIL, TIGER!
* * *
* * *
Cindy Rosmus
“Come on, baby!” Tony said. “You can’t mean that.”
Giulietta just smiled.
“Torn up by a tiger.” Tony shuddered. He appealed to Lou, the bartender. “No girl would let her man die like that.”
“’S only a story,” Lou said wearily, “in my kid’s eighth-grade reader.”
“But it’s timeless,” Giulietta said. “‘The Lady or the Tiger?’ is all about human nature. Obsessive love, and…”
The back door buzzed open, and two giggly blondes came in. One short, one tall. The tall one caught Tony’s eye.
“…Jealousy.” Giulietta dug her nails in his arm.
Bitch, Tony thought.
The blondes sat far enough away not to look suspicious. Maybe too far away.
Here at Royal Flush, Giulietta called the shots. It was the classiest bar her family owned: shiny hardwood floors, top-shelf booze. Swarming with cougars and wiseguys. And the occasional model-svelte blonde.
If you knew, he thought smugly, who I fucked last night.
“She loved him to death,” Giulietta said. “Literally.”
“It’s the old man’s fault,” Lou said, after he’d served the blondes. “The fuckin’ king’s. He made her choose.”
“He made him choose,” Giulietta said. “Lowlife scum. Daddy was pissed he loved his daughter.” With a side look at Tony, she said, “Can you blame him?”
“No,” he said, wearily.
Like that king, Giulietta’s dad would kill Tony if he knew they were fucking. “Nino the Ice” was a tiny mobster whose pinky ring boasted a diamond twice his size. You could see your face in it.
But “the Ice” didn’t stop there.
Tony shivered. Nino was the coldest fuck out there. He’d order a hit with his morning coffee, want it done by the last bite of breakfast.
Nino’s look could freeze you to death. Even if he liked you. And I don’t like you, shithead, Nino told Tony more than once. God knows why Nino kept him on.
’Cos I shut up good, Tony thought. Like about fucking his daughter. Besides fucking every…
Again he eyed the tall blonde, who pretended not to notice.
“Can you blame her?” Giulietta asked Tony.
“Huh?”
“For choosing the tiger.” Her smile unnerved him. “She’d rather see him get torn apart than be happy…with some blonde.”
Tony’s chest felt tight.
“Wait a minute!” Lou swung around from the register. “It don’t say that.” On his stubby fingers, he began counting. “Number one, shithead loves princess. Number two, king finds out. Surprise, surprise!”
Tony wiped his sweaty forehead.
Lou kept going. He ignored customers waving for drinks. By the time he got to “One of the fairest damsels in the king’s fuckin’ court,” Tony wished he were on a plane to fucking Cancun.
“In other words,” Lou said, finally, “the story don’t say nothin’ about her bein’ a blonde.”
An uncomfortable silence followed.
“You’re right.” Giulietta had the Ice’s chilly blue eyes. “It don’t.”
Shit, Tony thought. She knows.
He forced a smile. “It’s a dumb story,” he said. “No girl who loves her man, like…” He slid his arm around her stool. “Like you love me, would hurt him. Not on purpose.”
She smiled up at him. “No?”
“If I were a chick,” Lou said, “I couldn’t do it.”
Giulietta didn’t see Tony wink at Lou. “She didn’t do shit,” she said stubbornly. “It was the tiger.” Bracelets jangling, she held up her hands. “Her hands were clean.”
The moment Tony saw the blonde texting, his cell vibrated. Oh, yeah! he thought, in the midst of all this. Pictured those luscious pink lips around his cock. His pants felt unbearably tight.
“Louie,” Giulietta said. “Buy the house.”
As Lou set up free drinks for everybody, Tony peeked at his cell. His heart leapt: CUM OUTSIDE 4 A BIG SURPRISE! the text read.
He slid off his stool, flashed a Ma
rlboro. “Smoke,” he told Giulietta.
Usually, her icy stare would’ve sat him back down. But tonight his cock was doing the thinking.
“No jacket?” she said. “It’s cold out there.”
He turned, suddenly, to Giulietta’s strange smile. Her bracelets jingled as she stroked his leather jacket on his stool. It was butter-soft leather, a Christmas gift from the Ice himself.
As Tony passed her on his way out, the tall blonde didn’t look at him. Again she was texting.
Now what? he thought.
But it wasn’t for him.
Outside the back door, the Ice’s boys were waiting.
“Shii—” Tony said. Before he found the t, he was down.
Never felt the next shot.
THIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN YELLOW MAMA.
Cindy’s a Jersey girl who talks like Anybodys from West Side Story. She works out five or six days a week, loves peanut butter, rare meat, and Jack Daniel’s. She’s been published in the usual places, such as Hardboiled, A Twist of Noir, Beat to a Pulp, Pulp Metal Magazine, Shotgun Honey, and Powder Burn Flash. She is the editor of the e-zine Yellow Mama. She’s also a Gemini and a Christian.
FALL GUY
* * *
* * *
Jim Spry
The bloated gypsy stamped around like a hippo with a hard-on. Twenty-four stone of cheap booze and fast-food, he pumped his fists like a TV wrestler, hacked a ball of phlegm onto the concrete floor. His cocaine gaze bored into me like maggots in dead flesh. He dragged a thumb across his tattooed throat.
“I’ll rip yer foken head off,” he screamed, shoving a fist in the air like he already had me beat.
The Chinese, pikeys, and assorted violence junkies outside the circle brayed their delight at the fat man’s showboating. Bookies took bank notes like fry cooks taking orders. Donny Yip, arms crossed and face impassive, stared at me with Arctic cool.
Malone made his move a second before the bell. Dropped his lard arse into fifth. Trampled the distance between us. Looked to knock me flat with a shoulder barge.
Smooth as a matador, I stepped to the right. Hammered his liver as he barreled past. Tried not to sneer as he dropped to the deck. Ignored the booing jeers of the crowd around me.
“You’ll pay for that,” he bellowed, both hands on his knee as he struggled to stand.
He came in again. Fists tight to his chin. Elbows tucked to his shit-sack body. Shoulders hunched like a wiseguy in the wrong part of town. Sweat leaking from his bald head thirty seconds into the fight.
For the joy of the crowd I made my move. Ducked and weaved around his death-slow haymakers. Tested his guard to the rhythm of jab-jab-hook. Rapped on his skull with a Witness’s insistence. Shit bricks when a cross took him square on the jaw.
My hands dropped with my chin. I watched him stagger. Saw every ripple in his bulky gut. Watched his bat-wing triceps flap in the breeze of his windmilling arms. Watched his eyes roll back to white. Felt my guts clench around pig iron.
“Don’t.” A one-word prayer to whatever power would listen.
I threw a look to Donny Yip, saw his glacial cool replaced with a question. Knew the answer and turned back to the game.
Malone brushed off his second. Came at me like an elephant trying on a salsa dance. Swung low like a chariot. Swung high like an idiot. Tried to focus with KO eyes.
I ducked back in. Choked on his body odor. Drummed a limp-wristed tattoo against his arms and stomach. Wound up for a big right. Telegraphed it to my ma back home in New Zealand.
The smart fucker read it.
My world turned red as Malone slammed his forehead into my face. Blood and snot filled my mouth with bitter copper. I hit the deck like an insane DJ. Felt my ribs buckle under Malone’s stamping kicks. Heard the crowd roar before it all went black.
I could have taken him. Could have sent him home to his caravan with one less eye and an important lesson. But Donny Yip asked me a favor. And when Donny asks, the kids ain’t safe till you say yes.
THIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN SHOTGUN HONEY.
Jim Spry lives in Europe’s most densely populated city. He writes about what he sees on a daily basis, but tones things down so no one gets upset. He’s currently putting together a collection of his own works, tentatively titled Dirty Words.
DEATH BY SOBRIETY
* * *
* * *
J.M. Vogel
Darius jumped up on a table and began leading a chorus of an old Irish drinking tune. I looked at Bill, who just shrugged. The normally demure twentysomething appeared to be giving it his all. The crowd seemed to enjoy the performance and joined in with gusto. When he sloshed down his pint in between verses, the crowd roared with delight. We, however, were not quite as amused.
“So this is what one beer does to him?” Bill asked. Bill had suggested the beer when Darius’s nerves about our upcoming encounter appeared to be getting the best of him. It was clear he now thought better of the idea. “Well, he’ll never go undercover as a singer of any kind. And we also need to work on his tolerance. One drink and the enemy will know any secret we have.” I rolled my eyes. Bill didn’t really like our new colleague, and Darius wasn’t doing much to ingratiate himself. “Go up there and get him,” he said, nudging me with his elbow. “We’re trying to keep a low profile here.”
Although he was right, I didn’t want to even attempt plucking him from the grips of his adoring public. It was kind of nice to see this side of the nervous newbie. “I’m not his keeper,” I said, returning the nudge with a little too much vigor. Bill glared but continued watching Darius’s one-man show. He didn’t want to go up there either.
“If our contact shows up here and he’s in midperformance, we’ve not only lost our jobs, we’ve quite possibly lost our lives,” Bill said as Darius began singing “My Wild Irish Rose.”
I sighed. It was still early, but he was right. Being a spy was all about discretion. “Fine.” I wormed my way through the crowd to Darius’s makeshift stage. I pushed between two girls at the foot of the table and tugged on his pant leg.
“Get down here!” I yelled, my voice barely audible over the din of the crowd.
He smiled and started the crowd singing “Danny Boy.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a note, and let it float to the floor. To anyone else, the action would have looked accidental. I bent down, picked it up, and unfolded it hastily.
Cover blown. Contact not coming. Best to be somewhere public until help can arrive. Shan’t be terribly long.—A.F.
I searched the pub until I recognized someone vaguely familiar ducking out the door. Albert Filmore, our messenger. I looked up at Darius, who winked and extended a hand to help me up on the table. I grabbed his hand, stumbled slightly to hint at inebriation, and giggled as he pulled me up beside him. I grabbed his beer, took a swig, and joined in the chorus.
My heart started racing as I surveyed the crowd to see who our assassin might be. If he were there, I couldn’t pick him out. He was playing his part as well as we were playing ours. Despite my trepidation, I kept on singing, as sloppily and off tune as possible. I knew that public drunkenness might just save my life that night, so I tried my best to be convincing. Over the heads of our fans I noticed Bill, his hands raised in confusion.
“Come on up, Bill!” I slurred, motioning wildly. Darius laughed and did the same before convincing the crowd to chant his name. Bill shook his head and crossed his arms in defiance. He just wasn’t getting it.
I began a rousing chorus of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” and started to jump down to retrieve Bill when Darius’s hand restrained me. I looked up and saw him give a very subtle shake of his head. I stood back up, continued singing and swaying, and looked out over the crowd again in search of Bill. It took a few minutes before I finally found him, slumped over the bar. To a patron or bartender, he appeared to be passed out. Darius and I knew, however, that Bill was dead.
I hoped that Darius’s knowledge of Irish drink
ing tunes was more extensive than mine because I was about out and we were going to be here awhile.
THIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN EVERY DAY FICTION.
J.M. Vogel lives in a suburb of Columbus, Ohio. She is setting out to show the world that a degree in English does not predestine one to life in the unemployment line. Keep up with J.M. Vogel by following her blog at JMVogel.blogspot.com.
A RUSSIAN STORM
* * *
* * *
Andrew Waters
The day started at four a.m. Waking up in the humid July heat, I was on the road to Raleigh even before the fast-food restaurants opened. During the drive he thought about the day she gave him the painting. Senile, angry about something—not him, thank God—but raging nonetheless. It was Mother’s Day and he was in the neighborhood, thought he’d drop by, ask about the painting.
“Mortimer,” she said, calling him by his father’s name. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to see you, Noni. I just thought I’d stop by. You know I like to admire the painting.”
“Yes, the painting,” she agreed. She led him to it. A storm-tossed sea, a boat in the distance struggling against the waves, a trim sailing sloop with yachting flags. Sunlight just breaking in the foreground, off the canvas. But, oh, what light, golden and pink, illuminating the storm and the sea with unearthly magnitude.
“I wish you’d just take the thing. You’re the only one who truly loves it,” she said. Was this insanity or was this real? He searched her face for the answer. She nodded competently.
“You boys will just fight over it when I’m gone anyway.” She walked to the wall, stared at it one last time. “Its ghosts are gone now.”
That was the last time he saw her. Dead from a stroke two months later. Anthony was furious when he found out, of course, but it was a year later and his older brother had not yet launched his retaliation.
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