End Of The Year Collection - 2014

by Spain, Laura

  “You cannot speak to me like that in my own house!” He meant to be threatening, but the buzzing rasp came off like a whining child.

  “It must have proved a cinch to pull the badger game on a man like Leblanc. Then a simple matter of blackmail. On the installment plan. That built-in method of laundering the cash—very smooth. I’ll hand you that.”

  “You have no idea what you’re saying.” Jupiter ran a shaky hand across his short crop of hair.

  “Leblanc became one of your best customers. Until he’d had enough. That’s when he became troubled, and that turned him into trouble. You can’t ignore a man with Mr. Leblanc’s influence and connections. So I suppose he had to be removed. Ditched in Hyde Park with a hole blown through the back of his head.”

  “I repeat—you have no idea,” Jupiter’s shark eyes glared, “no idea what you are saying. Doesn’t sound like anything we’d be involved in. No, wouldn’t do for us at all.” Jupiter controlled his words through clenched teeth. The red in his round face and neck boiled up another level.

  “I find that hard to believe, Mr. Jupiter. Especially when I look around a cheap joint like this.”

  “Joint? You refer to my house as ‘a joint?’”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if every dealer is packing. You telling me those aren’t heaters in Geoffrey’s pockets? No one’s hands are that big.”

  “I must,” he said with an extended wheeze, “afford myself some protection. It is de rigueur, after all, in a house like this. It is required and expected.”

  “Shall I tell you what I think, Mr. Jupiter?”

  “You’ve told me enough!” He meant to go on but couldn’t find enough air.

  Geoffrey pitched in, “Tell me to take a poke at him.”

  Jupiter’s round head made an abbreviated shake. “Later.”

  “I’m counting the hours,” I smiled at Geoffrey.

  “Enough,” Jupiter wheezed.

  “You’re down to two syllables.”

  “Why—”

  “Why what? Why am I here? Why did I want to talk to you? I’m beginning to wonder why my talking should make you look like a Pekingese with a case of the jitters. I could bring up honor and justice and that whole routine, but let’s boil it down to this. I’m looking to do right by an old egg who deserved better. And I wanted to say it to your face, accuse you straight up. You and your confidence game killed Leblanc just as sure as if you pulled the trigger—of course you haven’t the stomach for that yourself.”

  “Enough!” His wheezing bellow became a spasm of coughing.

  “I’ve had my say, Jupiter. I’m done for now.”

  “Mmm, most apropos.” Jupiter gulped some air, smiled, and bit hard on the cigarette holder.

  Maybe that’s not the shrewdest of moves, blowing your top like that when you’re in another guy’s territory. Especially when the other guy’s got more torpedoes than I’ve got socks. Maybe I was being just hardheaded, but sometimes my line of work calls for it. So, sure, I received an escort, compliments of Mr. Jupiter.

  It took three of them to walk me to my car, but only one to lay me out. It could’ve been worse, but it was bad enough. Two hard jabs to the jaw, the same jaw that was already as purple as a Crown Royal Whiskey bag, followed up by a knee to the stomach and a kick to the ribs. I remember throwing one wild punch that missed by a mile.

  As I gasped for air, just before I descended into a black cloud inside my head, I heard a faraway voice: “What’s that sickly, breathing sound?” The second bruiser laughed, “Oh, now I know. He sounds like Mr. Jupiter!”

  There’s not a whole lot of difference between almost blacking out and blacking out all together. Either way it was a while before my brains unscrambled and I could make out someone murmuring to me.

  “Mister. Psst! Mister! Are you with me?”

  The cloud began to lift and the ache kicked in.

  “I say, can you hear me?”

  I opened my eyes just enough to see a face nose to nose with mine.

  I winced. “I don’t know if I can hear so good, but I can smell your breath all right.”

  “If you’re coming round then, I mean to speak to you.”

  “Yeah, I’m coming round. But I don’t get it.”

  “Right. I’ll be off, but you give me fifteen minutes. Meet me in the supply cellar. You know where that is?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Down the right side of the building. Towards the rear. Got that? On the right, towards the back you go, you’ll find steps going down to a door. It’ll be unlocked, but don’t let anyone see you. Just give me fifteen and I’ll be waiting for you.”

  He scrambled to his feet, first crouching and peeking over the fender of my car. He straightened up, glancing left and right.

  “Hold on,” I said, “Hold on.”

  He inched backwards while speaking in a loud whisper. “We can’t talk now. Shh!”

  “I know you,” I called.

  He hissed as loud as he could while creeping backwards. “You—don’t—really!”

  “You work the roulette wheel. Leblanc always sat at your table.”

  “It’s—more interesting—than that!”

  “So why should I want to talk to you?”

  I could barely hear him as he reached the end of the row of cars. “I’m Mrs. Leblanc’s friend!”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Jupiter!”

  With that he was gone. Sure, my head felt like a crazy game of pinball was going on inside. My jaw felt like an overinflated tire ready to blow. The whole thing screamed set up, but I figured I was close to the end. Real close. And his last line really was a grabber, wasn’t it? I wasn’t ready to leave. Not just yet. Not by a long shot.

  I lay crumpled in the grass next to the coupe. I swung an arm up and over and caught hold of the passenger door handle. It took a few tries, but I released the catch and opened the door. The tough part was pulling myself up into the car and onto the seat. I thought I’d give the pain down my ribcage a chance to subside—it didn’t take it. I popped the glove compartment and pocketed my .38. It wasn’t just the pain I had going for me. I could feel the pain trickling into a rich anger.

  No one paid any attention as I staggered along the south side of the building to the cellar entrance. Ten jarring steps took me down to a second door. I worked it with my left while my right held fast to the revolver in my jacket pocket. The knob turned easy and the door swung easy. I inched forward onto a landing. Adjusting to the dim light from below, I could make out another set of stairs twelve feet ahead. I closed the door behind me, carefully. I stopped, listened, then walked to the end of the landing. The cool, damp air from the basement hit me as I began my descent. I could feel my head starting to clear. The low ceiling blocked the view except for the stairs beyond my feet. A faint voice rose from below.

  “You can’t be serious. I mean, you don’t mean to do this. He’ll be here any mo. Why me? Why? Why me?”

  That was the croupier, the fake Mr. Jupiter. Sure. I held still, waiting to hear his playmate. The reply came like a cool, emotionless purr.

  “You bore me, Freddie. You really do. How long did you expect I’d put up with the likes of you?”

  I stole down the steps, one at a time. I reached the room at the bottom jammed with crates and cartons and shelves and barrels. I let the voices guide me.

  “You look so surprised, Freddie. Really.”

  The cold laugh led me around to a small clearing. That’s where I found the fake Mr. Jupiter, on a folding chair, rigid as a mannequin, the muzzle of a large automatic pressed hard against his temple. Gripping the butt end of the automatic, the first, or rather, the fake Mrs. Leblanc.

  Kitten threw me that wicked smile. “You look like crap.”

  It wasn’t much of a reunion, but Kitten felt chatty, and I got to straighten out a few things. I’d figured it mostly right.

  Leblanc was merely the latest in a series of marks. Kitten claimed it was almost too easy
for Freddie—she called him Freddie Bath—to cultivate Mrs. Leblanc as Jupiter. Mrs. Leblanc, she pointed out, got her husband’s affair all wrong. Kitten, of course, was the dame he was seeing, but not until after Mrs. Leblanc and Freddie got together. The strait-laced husband never laid a finger on Kitten, never came close, never even tried. That’s something she never understood.

  Everyone took the bait on cue, including the mister’s acquiescing to the blackmail. Kitten loved throwing in those big, Dale Carnegie words. According to her telling, the real Mr. Jupiter’s involvement was limited to the payoff-laundering scheme, a service that cost her twenty percent off the top. What she hadn’t figured on was Leblanc growing righteous. And she hadn’t figured on Freddie getting cold feet when physical action was called for. That’s when she put me on Leblanc’s tail, about the time he started cutting back on his payments. Eventually she decided to end their arrangement, in a one-sided sort of way, but she didn’t have time to pull me off. It was Kitten, not Freddie, who sapped me down in the parking lot.

  Running Leblanc off the road proved easy as pie. That goes for hijacking him to the South Side. Thrusting a .44 down an old man’s throat and squeezing the trigger? Splashing his brains across the car roof? A cakewalk for her kind of woman. That left taking care of a stooge who couldn’t pull his weight.

  “You’ve probably known lots of Freddie’s,” I said.

  “There’s always another Freddie creeping around the next dark corner,” she shrugged.

  “You’re not going to let her do me in, are you? You can’t let her!”

  “This is her show, Freddie.”

  “But you can’t!”

  “I sure can, Freddie. There’s nothing in this whole, sweet world anyone can do to save you.”

  I waited to make my play. She pressed the gun hard into Freddie’s temple. Did she suspect I was holding? Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. I waited.

  “Say something,” she purred to me. “Say something impertinent.”

  Freddie lost it. His pale lips vibrated. He made this gurgling noise and babbled a rapid-fire string of nonsense. I didn’t know what the hell he was trying to say. Kitten increased the pressure on the barrel until Freddie’s head pressed against his shoulder.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Freddie.” She stared at me, that wicked smile showing her teeth. “Go on,” she said.

  I kept quiet.

  “Go on!”

  “Maybe later,” I replied.

  “It’s later than you think.”

  With smooth ease she wheeled the automatic in my direction. Freddie nearly collapsed. I waited. As the gun drew about, Kitten squinted her left eye. The .44 came to rest, pointed at my heart. She smiled again, nearly laughing. I was ready.

  “Go on. Say something—”

  I made my play and Kitten didn’t flinch. I leaned to the side fast, jerked up my pocket, squeezed off two shots. Bang—the first cut her chest open and her whole body recoiled, taking her back one step. Bang—the second blew through her gut as she went down. She collapsed fast and hard. Dead before you could count ten. The wicked smile faded even quicker.

  The act of shooting, the deafening echo of the volleys, the sharp smell of spent bullets and burned cloth—it left me stunned, my nerves raw. My hand remained locked on the .38 sticking out the hole in my pocket, trained on a target that was no longer there. Then Freddie caught my eye, cowering with his gaze fixed on something behind me.

  The something wheezed: “Why do you bring trouble into my house?”

  I meant to turn around but never got the chance. The heavy, padded weight crashed down hard and fast and I went out cold.

  Sure, I woke up on Cicero Avenue. Again. Beats me why Cicero. I found the first cup of hot coffee I could, couldn’t keep it down, but managed the second cup all right. That’s when I came straight round to see you boys.

  So, here I am. Plenty worse for wear, but trying to do what’s right. See, this is about justice and honor and all the other stuff that fair play’s about. That’s why I came in. Sure.

  I came in because I want to do just one last thing. I want to report a stolen .38.

  Our Final Crash

  by Laura Spain

  It was a deadstick. Directional stability did not exist, nor did any readings to indicate altitude. Inertia forces were scant and my stomach was in knots. We took a sharp turn to the left while swooping upwards to miss the object directly in front of us. I heard a loud scream coming from a location I could not readily identify.

  “Mayday, Mayday!”

  I closed my eyes swiftly with the idealism that if I could not see it, it would not exist. The darkness this act created was settling for only a brief moment, but curiosity soon surpassed this bearing of solitude and I reopened them. I looked down to see my older brother, Chris, smiling at me in a way that confirmed my safety. At the moment of my downward glance our lateral stability became even more capricious and I heard nothing but silence. It was a terrifying silence and I sought a requisition for the loud sound of engines to return.

  “Mayday!”

  I heard it again, however this time with more fervor.

  We were going to crash. The object was stead ahead; and crash we did.

  I was now on my back, feeling a sensation that left me unable to control the muscles in my body. I was floundering around and finding it difficult to breathe. I could not see anything clearly due to my lacrimal glands allowing water to exit my green eyes that, only moments ago, had been finding shelter in darkness. I knew that at any moment I was going to pass out. My stomach and the surrounding areas felt nothing but pain. I heard my younger sister screaming our older brother’s name,

  “Chris, Chris!”

  I was yearning to hear him reply.

  Please reply.

  I finally heard his voice; the soft and calming voice that it was.

  “Yes, Leah,” he asked.

  I was still squirming. I was still in an agonizing state of misery.

  “Chris!” She yelled again, louder and more demanding.

  After her call I heard nothing but the sound of silence. A sense of overwhelming peace embraced my body. The ten mechanisms moving about my stomach and causing my lack of oxygen had finally ceased. The tears from my eyes quickly dried and I was able to see. My sister was crying by my side while my brother was looking down at her. His brown eyes were wide, which assisted in his ability to conceive an apologetic look.

  “Leah, are you okay,” he asked in a sincere manner.

  “No, I’m not!” she screamed back at him,

  “It’s my turn. Fly me! Fly me!”

  He scooped her up in his arms, placing his hands on her stomach and lifting her above his head. Her arms stretched out as far as any four year olds could, creating a wingspan shorter than mine had been but still analogous to that of an airplane. I watched her smile quickly fade as he swiftly swooped her down below his knees and back up again. The couch that I had crashed into was now in her direct path. The words were spoken again, much softer this time than before,

  “Mayday, mayday!”

  My little sister glided up, then down, and was gently placed on top of me. As he tickled her, she laughed more vehemently than I had. I joined in and started tickling her as well, relieved that I was no longer the primary focus of this act. Suddenly, the pandemonium dissipated due to the interruption of an authoritative voice.

  “Alright girls,” our father said from across the room, “Chris just got here, so let him unpack.”

  My sister and I sat up, adhering to our father’s demands. Chris looked at us, clearly stricken by our lamentable faces.

  “We’ll continue this later,” he said.

  And we smiled.

  Chris is 22 years older than me, and 24 years older than my sister. He has lived in Sevierville, TN since before I was born. His visitations to Nashville were just as exciting, if not better, than Christmas to us. He never got around to flying us again that day or the next one, and he left early in
the morning the day after that one. This was 1996 and I was six years old. The morning he left I was riding the bus en route to my kindergarten classroom. The bus I was riding, “The orange bus” named by my clever elementary school, had a radio on it. “Chasing Waterfalls” by TLC came on and it was my favorite song at that time. The bus driver, aware of this, looked at me with a smile and turned up the volume. I put my head on the window and sang along, watching the world beneath me move so quickly that it resembled nothing comparative to its true nature. The words of the song resonated in my mind as they made their exit through my chocolate milk-stained lips, causing a mysterious fog to present itself on the window of which I leaned. Ignorant of its true meaning, my imagination was inspired and all I could think about was having my brother fly me again. The next time he flew me, despite what the lyrics entailed, I would be soaring over waterfalls. I would be chasing the waterfalls my young mind was referencing from images I had seen in pictures, films, and commercials. These thoughts produced an inconspicuous form of innocent rebellion.

  I did not see my brother again for six years. Time maintained its repetition of diurnal course while life got in its way: as it always seems to do. The time that passed, along with the biological nature of the reality it projects, forced me to grow both mentally and physically. In this passing of time, the fantasy of flying fell to the back of my mind. When he finally returned, I was older and uninterested in being flown. My ambitions had altered and my youthful ignorance transformed into the rebellion of an adolescent. That day in 1996 was the last time I sought comfort in always getting what I wanted. It was the last time I felt a sense of youthful excitement. And it was the last time I flew with my brother. That day, in 1996, encompassed our final crash.

  Meteor—

  by Nikolus Cook

  First Day: The news came.

  They named it Wormwood.

  Long after the sun cracked and spilled

  red holocaust on the world, every neighbor,

  clad in mantles of blankets, strode in silent procession