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Knuckledragger

Page 15

by Rusty Barnes

“Says you, you old fart. I should be in there making shit happen. Can’t believe I got passed over by those cowboys in there. You see some of them? Don’t know what Uncle Philly was thinking.” Carlo ran the comb down his hair.

  “Philly wanted a new crew on this one. Mix things up,” Phil said.

  “Hey, I just like to steal,” Carlo said.

  “You should take it easy. Believe me when I tell you guys like us have an expiration date in this game, and you’re a goddamn gold medalist if you can cut free with a legit business to run, hair left to comb, and a nice lady around to cook you dinner when you want it,” Phil said.

  “Hey, man, I got the hair thing covered.” Carlo stared at himself in the mirror, carefully patting the fine art he made of his hairdo. When he felt it was a masterpiece, he asked, “You think I got time for a cup of coffee?”

  Phil checked his watch and said, “If you make it quick. May as well get me one too while you’re at it.”

  “Syd, want anything?” Carlo asked.

  “Naw, I’m good.”

  Carlo attempted to open the passenger side door.

  Hastily, Phil said, “Hey, go out on the other side.”

  “What for?” Carlo asked.

  “Why you think?” Phil returned his seat to an upright position. “The last thing I need is for the bottom of the door to get scraped by the cement sidewalk. I won’t hear the end of it. Rose loves this goddamn car. How many times I gotta say it?”

  Carlo smirked, recalling what married life was like. He slid across the backseat.

  “Want anything in your coffee?”

  Phil placed his hand on the steering wheel and gripped it as if he were getting ready for Daytona. “Two creams, two sugars.”

  “I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything stupid like wave your piece around while I’m away.” Carlo opened the door and stepped out onto the street as a car pulled up with its horn blaring, hitting him.

  A shotgun blast of shattered glass hit the pavement. Vibrations shook the car as if an earthquake erupted.

  “What the hell—” Phil cried out.

  The passing car came to a sudden halt. Phil’s car door sounded like a skipping record as it slid down the street and into the intersection. Carlo rolled out of the smashed-in windshield, onto the hood of the passing car, and dropped onto the pavement. Chunks of shatterproof glass were wedged up his nostrils and embedded into his eye sockets. Pieces of bone pierced through his slacks and leather jacket. He looked like a marionette.

  “Rose is gonna murder me,” Phil shouted.

  “The hell with your old lady, man. We gotta go,” Syd barked.

  Phil lowered the rim of his hat and started the ignition. He backed the car up, crushing the car bumper parked behind him. He turned the steering wheel and pressed on the gas, slamming his front bumper into the car that caused the accident. Black smoke whipped into the air as Phil’s Cadillac accelerated at full speed to clear a path.

  People on the sidewalk froze as the Cadillac fled from the scene. Those crossing the intersection scattered like ants as Phil’s Cadillac blew through the intersection. Once it felt safe, customers from the coffee shop located across the street from where the Cadillac was parked, rushed to Carlo’s aid.

  Chapter 2

  Employees sat on the ground, facing the beige-colored walls, while a gunman brandishing two Glock ten-millimeter hand pistols paced from one end of the office to the other end. He wore a black, fitted suit, white shirt, and black tie. His head was buzzed. Another gunman entered the office. His head was shaved and he wore a similar suit as the gunman with the two pistols. He was equipped with an Armalite AR-10 rifle. Employees hugged themselves tighter when they saw the heavy artillery.

  “How’s it going in here?” Pinky asked with the rifle in both hands.

  “No heroes in this room, ’cause if there were they’d become cautionary tales on the five o’clock news.” Blinky made eye contact with those that had the courage to turn their head. His eyes were as intimidating as an owl staring with deep yellow eyes at prey shuffling in thick grass.

  “What’s taking so long?” he asked.

  “Still packing up. Big pieces back there. I’m guessing they need help, but ain’t heard squat,” Pinky said. He pointed his rifle at a man that wore tan slacks and a plaid button-up shirt. He had gray stubble growing in his beard. The man wept as he was forced to his feet, appearing thin and fragile like a hungry alley cat picked up by the back of its neck. Pinky shoved him across the room, making him kick paperwork scattered on the ground. He was led down a hallway. A door opened to a storage room. Pinky shoved the man inside, causing packaging foam to whip up in the air.

  “Brought help,” he said to the others.

  Clyde used a blue workman’s rag to wipe blood off his hands. His black tie hung loose and his sleeves were rolled up, exposing ink from his days in the service. He opened a drawer on the shipping desk and pulled out a pair of inspection gloves. Rolls of bubble wrap hung over his head. He pulled the gloves on and walked over to the sliding racks where paintings were stored on grated panels.

  Pulling on one of the racks, he said, “The artwork is top quality.”

  Pinky pulled the employee up by his hair.

  “See your coworker over there?” he asked.

  The employee nodded.

  “Get to work, asshole,” he said.

  The employee dried his eyes with his sleeve. Alongside his coworker, he grabbed a roll of bubble wrap and began wrapping up works of art like he had done so many times whenever he made a sale.

  Pinky turned to Clyde. Clyde pointed to a clipboard on the shipping desk.

  “What’s next on the list?” he asked.

  Pinky swung the rifle over his shoulder and picked up the clipboard. His finger scrolled down the page and stopped at the next title on the list that wasn’t scratched off with pencil.

  “Children Playing After the Storm,” he said.

  Racks were organized alphabetically by artist last name. Clyde adjusted the gun holster wrapped over his shoulders and pulled out a rack. Index cards with the artist name and title of the work were clipped next to each art piece.

  Children Playing After the Storm was enclosed in a handcrafted gold frame. Clyde leaned forward, the tip of his nose almost touching the canvas, so he could study the brushstrokes. He stepped back to take in the composition and the vibrant colors of two children playing in a flooded grassy field. The dark country landscape in the foreground broke away from the horizon, and the sky was painted in chalky pastels. There was a collapsed farmhouse where dead animals’ heads poked through the rubble and a small shack torn to shreds. A horse stood in the corner of the frame, drinking water from a puddle that showed its reflection.

  “You can tell the artist survived this tragedy. The use of color explains so much.” He turned to the employees. “Wrap this one up too.”

  The stolen collection included abstract works from a Peruvian artist, surrealist paintings from a prominent Cuban artist, impressionistic works that portrayed the French countryside, and multimedia works from a former punk rock singer.

  “How’s it you know so much about this junk?” Pinky asked while walking down the rows of rolling racks and randomly pulling paintings out. Paintings were composed in a post-impressionistic style reminiscent of Paul Gauguin. Canvasses were covered with stark contrasts and thick brushstrokes of the sea. One painting had boats waddling in the choppy current. A lighthouse stood tall as huge waves crashed against the sloped rocks. Pinky reached up to remove the painting off the grated rack.

  “Don’t you dare put your filthy hands on something so beautiful. Show some respect,” Clyde said. His Colt .45 was pulled from its holster, cocked back, and pointed at his partner.

  “Whaddya think you’re doing?” a surprised Pinky asked.

  “These are valuable works of art that require delicate handling. Not the usual ‘made in China’ junk you pinch from shipping containers. Wanna handle a painting? Do it with grac
e and use the white gloves or else end up like that guy.”

  Pinky looked over Clyde’s shoulder and saw the feet of a dead man hidden behind an open sliding rack.

  “We ain’t here on a field trip, in case you forgot. These assholes got two minutes to haul shit into the van or I’ll take whatever’s loaded and leave on my own,” Pinky said.

  “You ain’t going anywhere until the job is done, understand me?”

  “You barking out orders at me, little doggy?” Pinky asked while reaching for his rifle.

  Clyde couldn’t help but smile. A gun pointed at him was nothing new.

  “What the hell you guys doing?” Inky appeared inside the storage room.

  “Pinky’s playing boss man,” Clyde said.

  “Bullshit—Clyde’s gonna get us pinched,” Pinky responded.

  “We got another problem,” Inky said. “You need to check this out.” He stepped out into the hallway, but no one followed him. “Seriously,” he said, “Clyde, you need to see this.”

  The gallery was a large loft-like space. A huge storefront window allowed enough natural light inside to make the room feel holy. Exposed beams and an unfinished ceiling gave off a modern, almost industrial ambience, while the current art exhibition provided the right amount of culture for high-class clientele to feel comfortable rubbing elbows with hipsters on Friday evenings.

  Inky and Clyde stood by the storefront, watching cop cars fill the street. An ambulance had its lights flashing. Pedestrians stood around the outer rim of yellow police tape that blocked off the intersection.

  “Can you make out anything?’ Inky asked.

  Clyde shook his head and said, “Maybe there was an accident, a fender bender. Trust me—if they knew about us, we’d already be shooting cops or in shackles.”

  Clyde ejected the clip from his Colt and placed the gun in its holster. He ejected bullets into his open palm, similar to how businessmen squeezed stress balls as a way to relax. The bullets looked like busted teeth from a drug dealer.

  “We either get in the van and drive off with what we’ve got or assume there’s something else going on that has nothing to do with us.” Clyde reloaded the magazine clip. He packed the clip into the gun and slid the action back. Sirens were heard in the distance.

  “I vote for jumping ship and riding off into the sunset,” Inky responded.

  Clyde leaned his forearm against the window and squinted his eyes together, trying to make out any details. However, there were too many people in the street, too many bright, flashing lights to get a clear picture. It was like staring at an abstract painting and searching for meaning. He should’ve been paranoid but he wasn’t. Art had that affect on him. It brought a calming, almost tranquil quality that he was never able receive from psychiatrists, meds, or padded rooms.

  Outside two patrol officers approached the entrance.

  Startled, Inky stepped away from the window.

  He said, “Shit, they’re coming over here.”

  “Just stay put. Relax,” Clyde said and unlocked the door. He stepped outside and waved hello. “Officers, what can I do for you today?” he asked.

  Click here to learn more about Les Cannibales by DeLeon DeMicoli.

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview of Dead Clown Blues, a Carnegie Fitch Mystery Fiasco by R. Daniel Lester…

  1

  The diner was Deadsville with a capital “D.” I ordered breakfast for lunch and headed for my usual back booth. The only other customer in the joint was propped up on his elbow at the counter, snoring Zs over a bowl of Boston clam chowder. Harry drove a bus and had one ex-wife, two mortgages, three kids and rumour had it, personally slit the throats of four enemy soldiers at Incheon. Whatever the case, now he just looked on the other side of the knife.

  As for staff, Greek Benny, the diner’s owner and main grill man, was in the kitchen busting a gut over the funnies and Glenda, the knockout waitress, was putting on lipstick and making little kissy faces into a hand mirror. She gave one last smooch, placed the mirror back under the counter and then came over with the coffee pot.

  “Cup of joe, Fitch?” she asked, already pouring.

  I was on my third cup when Taffy Pook entered the diner and made a beeline for my booth. We weren’t best friends, to say the least, but each of us played nice because we could get something out of it. It was a good system. Scratching backs meant less time for holding knives.

  Taffy squeezed himself in, sucking in his breath to make the fit. He had the wide waist and protruding stomach of the gainfully employed glutton. As an in-house investigator working fraud cases for Best Life Insurance Corp. he had all the perks, like respect, an expense account and a big fancy desk in a big fancy downtown high-rise. In contrast to an entrepreneur like myself, with what I had: second hand suits, a rooming house eviction notice on two-month rotation and an office on the corner of Skid and Row.

  “Want that?” he asked.

  “All yours,” I said.

  Taffy snatched the last strip of bacon off my plate with one hand and pushed a manila envelope at me with the other. I opened the envelope. Inside was half payment for a new hide-and-click surveillance job, along with a thick file for one Bartell Rightly. Now, in matters of Big Insurance versus Regular Joe, I always tended to root for David not Goliath. However, a job was a job, and a soft spot for sad sack scammers who didn’t have the plain sense to stop doing things they claimed they couldn’t was never going to get the landlady off my back or keep Glenda pouring the good stuff. Besides, when Best Life was happy, Taffy Pook was happy. And when Taffy Pook was happy, so was my wallet. And that was fat city, the place to be. I inhaled. The money smelled good.

  “You want I should leave you two alone?” Taffy asked.

  “Maybe,” I said, “but that’d mean getting paper cuts in a bad place.”

  Taffy grunted a laugh and licked the bacon grease off his lips.

  “Why the above-market rates?” I asked.

  “Let’s say your sense of timing is excellent.”

  “First time for everything.”

  “See, my other guy, Nelson, he fell out of a tree yesterday and busted up his back pretty good tryin’ to get a pin-up shot of this redhead babe layin’ poolside.”

  “Fraud case?”

  “Nah. Hobby.”

  “Ah. What’s the picture?”

  “He said she was tall with a body like—”

  “I meant the prognosis on Nelson. He out of action for a while or…?”

  “Yeah, a while.”

  “Too bad.”

  Taffy grinned. “You asking ’cause of the work?” My silence was answer enough, so he put on a fake serious face and fake cleared his throat. “I’m drowning in flim-flam right now and you, Carnegie Fitch, are my life raft.”

  “Wow, didn’t know you were so poetical, Pook.”

  “Why, Fitch ol’ buddy, I’m full of surprises.” He was right about that. Full of gas and halitosis. Taffy scooted out of the booth. His stomach got wedged in there for a second, but he got it sorted. “And speaking of surprises, none of that artsy crap, okay? Last time, half the roll was useless.”

  “I know, you gave ’em back to me, remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah, like always. Just listen to what I’m sayin’.”

  “I’m listening. Don’t pop an artery.”

  Taffy felt his forehead, feeling for the vein that always bulged out when he got upset. It wasn’t, but I liked to kid him about it. Sometimes that got him riled up enough to actually get the artery going. It was a chicken and egg thing.

  “Asshole,” he said.

  2

  The rooming house where I hung my hat was an okay place if you were half blind and your nose didn’t work so good. For the rest of us, it took guts. Dingy hallways led to dingier rooms and there was one bathroom for each floor, which were clean if you considered zoo cages clean. Once a week, the landlady threw a bucket of sudsy water in there and left it up to gravity to do the rest.

&n
bsp; When I reached my floor, I nodded at Mrs. Henry, who was sitting in a chair at the payphone in the hallway. I had to hand it to her, stellar work ethic. She put in a solid eight hours on that phone every day, week in, week out, rain or shine. As I walked by, I overheard her saying something about someone’s pound cake, how it was too dry, too flaky, not at all like her pound cake, the one that was so moist and succulent. Breaking news no doubt.

  Next, I removed the eviction notice that was attached to my door, crumpled the paper into a nice round ball and then walked one apartment over. Ms. Crawley, the landlady, opened her door without me even knocking. She had her eye to the peephole like Mrs. Henry gabbed on the hallway phone—always and forever.

  “Well, well,” she said, “if it ain’t Mr. Fitch. To what do I owe this honour?”

  I thought about cracking wise, my tried-and-true, but the woman had no sense of humour and even less faith in humanity. She also didn’t accept IOUs scrawled on cocktail napkins, which just went to show there was no pleasing some people. I handed her the eviction notice along with a few folding dollars from Taffy’s advance.

  She slowly counted the money, licking her finger each time. Wafting out of her apartment was the smell of cabbage and nicotine. No surprise, considering she looked exactly like a head of Savoy smoking a cigarette. Eventually, she liked the sum enough to nod with grim acceptance and smooth out the eviction notice for the next time she’d have to tack it to my door.

  Free and clear on the landlady front for another few months, I went to my apartment. The air felt slow and heavy inside. A couple of houseflies flew lazy circles in the dead space. I opened the window in hopes they’d leave, but instead they invited some friends in to join them for a fly jamboree. I shrugged, live and let live, and took off my shoes, stretching out on the bed. If I was a cat, I’d’ve purred. Even despite the incessant buzzing it was golden, considering I’d spent the last few nights at my office, snoozing in a chair with my feet up on the desk, skimming the surface of sleep never getting down too deep.

 

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