Hilton Fishtrap tapped the bulb and started it swinging.
"Sausage patty!" Lester screamed, spittle flying from his mouth.
But as the scalpel opened his belly, Lester felt only warmth, like caramel melting on his belly. His chest full of the beating wings of doves. That tire iron had turned him into a flower. The yellow light bulb a sun. Lester was warm, so warm. If he squeezed his chin to his chest, Lester could see inside himself. What a tangle. What a quivering mess. Blue gloves pulled out a mound of flesh wobbly with veins. His heart? Had Hilton taken his heart? No, his heart hammered still in his chest. His heart was a rose unfolding like Evaleen's palm. Evaleen's fingers curling over his cheek like the legs of a spider. Lester was warm with love.
As Malcolm sliced open his skin, Lester opened to the room. He was becoming fully alive under that swinging sun. Lester Leroy Haight bloomed magnificently under the yellow light bulb.
Brad Green lives with his wife and three children in North Texas. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Needle: A Magazine of Noir, Surreal South '11, The Minnesota Review, The Texas Observer and elsewhere. Find him online at http://about.me/bradgreen.
The Janitor
Ron Earl Phillips
Conny Parker didn't answer his phone and it went to voicemail after the seventh ring.
"This is Conny. If I know you, leave a message."
Why bother? I flipped the phone closed and dropped it on the counter next to my cup of untouched coffee, now tepid. Conny hadn't returned the last half a dozen messages. I didn't expect another would tip the odds in my favor.
I wrapped my hand around the cold cup, taking sip of the bitter coffee. I blanched and set the cup down again. Carol, the waitress, must have seen my expression and bustled down with a fresh pot.
"Need a warm-up, Mike?"
"Afraid it will take a new cup to warm this batch up." She looked at my cup, barely a sip gone. "Sorry."
She pulled a cup from under the counter and curled me a smile as she set it down in front of me.
"Hon, it's no problem. So, he still not calling back?"
She poured me a fresh coffee. Always with a smile, Carol had been waiting here for a better part of a decade; breakfast, lunch and dinner. She knew me like I knew the well-worn menu, never changing. She knew Conny, too, from me bringing him around the last few months.
I shook my head no, picking up the fresh cup and taking a hot sip. Still bitter, but I gave her my best grin. I set it back down and Carol patted my free hand.
"Well, he's probably just forgotten to charge his phone is all. Dead battery, you know. He's probably sleeping it off, getting much needed rest with the way you work him."
"Yeah, I'd think that, but Conny's phone is ringing through. Don't they usually go to voicemail when they're dead? Turned off?"
"Mike, I don't know? I just know when my niece doesn't answer she always says it's because her phone is dead. Or she has no reception. Maybe that's it? You think?"
"Could be?" I said thoughtfully.
But in my gut, I knew different.
Conny had come looking for a job after his last rotation in Afghanistan and his final exit from the Marines. He was used to routine and responsibility, and had been his entire life. His father, Conrad Senior, had been my training officer on the job and, for a while, we had been close friends. Senior had been a strict disciplinarian and raised Conny the same. It made Conny a good Marine. Even six months out, he lived for the daily routine and proved more reliable than any help I'd had since starting All Good Cleaners back in '07. Had he been any other kid, I could imagine Conny sacked up, ignoring my calls. Only twenty-four, he deserved to be an ordinary kid.
I looked down at my watch, a faceless Timex. It was roughly 8:30 and I thought about trying the phone again when it rang.
I flipped the phone open, "Hello?"
"Hey, Mike. You coming or not?"
Carol could see the disappointment on my face.
"Tommy. Sorry. I'm still waiting on my help."
"Listen, I can't wait all morning. The bus has already left. The room's free and waiting. I need it done today."
Thomas Salamone, a ruddy Italian with a big heart and a bigger belly, owns the Moonlit Motel out on 19. It was a quiet, single floor place with fifteen units that filled up most nights with truckers and hookers. It was far enough out that cops didn't hassle Tommy about his clients. This morning Tommy, who had early on been a silent partner in All Good Cleaners, called in a favor. He had an early check out as he put it. That's why he called me.
At All Good Cleaners, we clean the messes most services don't. An early check out was when some shmuck ate a bullet or slashed their wrist or found some other creative way to punch their clock. Tommy had said it was a bleeder in a tub. That was good as long as the bathroom wasn't carpeted. At the Moonlit, it wasn't.
With Conny's help, we'd have been in and out in just over an hour. I could do it on my own, a simple tub job but I couldn't wrap my head around Conny not calling.
"Tommy, I'm not going to make it. Sorry. Give Sal a call. He'll get you fixed up this morning."
"Mike, you are going to hang me out like that? You know Sal and me don't get along."
"I don't mean to, Tommy, but what can I do? You got his number?"
The line clicked dead. I'm sure Tommy had an idea of what I could do and would be sure to tell me next time we talked. I just hoped Sal was in a good mood or I might have another clean up.
I flipped open the phone and hit the call button and stared at the contact list before selecting Senior's number.
"Hello," the voice answered on the other end.
"Conrad, this is Mike Banks. How have you been?"
"Alright, I suppose. Retired now, after thirty years, can you believed it? And you, still playing Philip Marlowe?"
"No, not for a while, I packed away the gumshoes, Conrad. I was wondering, have you heard from Conny?"
"Conny? A few days ago, I suppose. Sunday? Maybe, it was Sunday. Why?"
Conny visited his father daily, fixed him dinner and made sure his clothes and meds were laid out for his dad the next day. Senior had early onset Alzheimer's and at only fifty-eight had become your typical sundowner, which is why Conny spent evenings with him. Early in the day, however, Senior was as cogent as he had been five years before he was diagnosed.
"Conny's been working for me the last few months, helping me out with my cleaning business."
"Cleaning? Like a maid? Janitor?"
"Yeah, like that. It is good hard work, it pays well enough. I, just, thought maybe you'd seen him."
"Sunday, I think? You want me to go down to his place? I probably should go see him and how he is keeping himself."
"That's okay; I can swing by Conny's apartment. It's on the way to the office."
"If that works for you? Tell him to come by for a visit. It'd be nice to see Conny more often. We aren't getting any younger. You're welcome to come too, Mike."
"Thanks, Conrad. I'll pass along your invitation."
I finished my cup and left money enough on the counter for tip. Carol eyed the money and shot me a smile, always a smile, as I left the diner.
I'd never been to Conny's apartment, but according his work records it was only a few blocks from the garage. He lived in a narrow three story walk-up, with twelve apartments, on the third floor, number 303. I buzzed.
No answer. So I buzzed the next one, 304.
"Ello?" the speaker crackled as a woman answered.
"Hey there, I'm a friend of Conny in 303. I was supposed to pick him up this morning, but he's not answering. Wondered if you could buzz me up?"
There was a long pause.
I pressed the call button again. "Hello?"
"He's not here."
"What do you mean? 'Not here?'"
"Conny took off last night. Didn't come back."
"Did he say anything?"
She went silent.
"Listen, if you know something I need to know? M
aybe you can let me up and we can talk?"
She didn't respond. I buzzed 203. An elderly woman answered.
"Yes."
"Ma'am, could you buzz me in? I just stepped out to put some change in the meter and I left my keys in my apartment. I live right above in 303."
"I don't know. Don't you know the passkey?"
"Sorry. I just moved in. I'm subletting from Conny. You know him?"
"Oh, the nice boy who helps me with my bags?"
"That's the one. He's working out of town for a couple months, so I'm covering his rent while he gone and keeping his plants a go."
"How nice. But how will you get in the apartment without your keys?"
"The thing is, I'm pretty sure I left the door unlocked. I just wanted to feed the meter."
"Oh, okay."
She buzzed the door and the lock clicked.
I took the stairs two and three at a time, leaping passed the second floor where the older woman peeked out of her door. I called back a thank you.
Winded, I stood at the top of the stairs and took a moment glad I had stopped smoking when I was still young. 303 and 304 were on the backside of the building. The frame on 303, Conny's door, was splintered and the door stood partially open.
I hesitated and the 304 opened behind me. Turning I saw a pretty black girl with caramel skin, "You saw this?"
A child cried behind the door and she shut it tight.
She could wait; I needed to know if Conny was in his apartment? I needed to see what lay behind the broken door. I hoped it wasn't Conny.
I took a rag from my coveralls and slowly pushed the door open.
The inside of Conny's apartment was as sparse as a barrack, but I could tell there had been a fight, a struggle. On the floor there was a smear of blood and on the wall another. The place had been tossed. Drawers emptied, cushions torn. I ducked back out into the hallway and pounded a flat hand on 304.
"Ma'am, I got to talk to you. Tell me what happened?"
"Go away." She threatened, "I'll call the cops."
She wasn't going to call anyone. She'd had done it already. I pounded hard with the ball of my fist. I heard shuffling inside and hushed voices.
"Tell him to go away."
"I tried, he's not going."
"Ma'am, you okay in there?"
Silence, again. I stepped back, ready to put a heel to the door.
The latch clicked.
The woman poked her face out and whimpered, "Go. Please. I don't know anything." Her brown eyes were pooled with fear.
I held up a calming hand, moving closer to her and the door.
"I'm looking for my friend. I'm not here to hurt anyone."
I inched closer, pushing my hand through the open door, easing her back.
"Just looking for my friend, Conny." I repeated calmly, slowly before shouldering the door. The chain snapped and she stood back. 304 was a mirror of 303 but with more furniture. Junk, curbside finds.
I could see a toddler bobbing up and down in a bouncer, but couldn't see the other voice.
I mouthed, "Where is he?"
She nodded towards the hall closet. I motioned to the baby and the woman followed my lead, going to the child's side.
I pulled the closet open and a scraggly white guy stumbled out over a stroller and a fold up grocery cart. I picked him up by the collar. His bone thin legs clumsily found footing.
"You're not going to do anything stupid?"
He shook his head, still clumsy and wobbling the jitters. A tweaker.
"You know Conny next door?" He nodded, as did the girl. "What happened?"
"I...I don't know. Some guys came. They traded some fists but there were too many for that Conny guy."
"What happened after? They take Conny?"
"I guess, I shut the door when they came up. I don't need that kind of hassle."
"How many guys? You recognize any of them?"
"Three, maybe four. Does it matter?"
"Conny has a sick dad he watches after and a worried pissed off boss. The latter being me. So yeah, it matters. Do you know any of them?"
"No." He said too quickly. I looked over to the woman, a girl really.
"You?"
She looked down at her child. "They was here for Nic. They grabbed Conny, instead."
I looked at the guy at the end of my arms and pushed him into the wall, "Nic? Why would they mistake Conny for you, Nic?"
"I don't know? We kind of look alike, a little?"
I drew back a fist.
"Yeah, you're both white."
"Wait. I know where they went. I can tell you where. I can tell you."
I dropped the arm. "No, you can show me."
"But?"
"Nothing. If they want you, they're going to get you. No buts."
Nic took me down to The Rico Act, a converted warehouse turned nightclub. I knew the place and the owner, a reformed Columbian, Alejandro Rojas. I knew Rojas by reputation and had done some work for him indirectly. Reformed or not, he still pulled a lot of strings. I don't know what he wanted with this loser, Nic, but I prayed for both our sakes Conny was okay.
I dragged Nic towards the club.
"Conny better be inside. I don't know what you're into, but you'd better be worth a trade."
We were met at the door by two of Rojas' men, interchangeable from one another, both with barely concealed guns hanging under their shoulders. I told them I had a present for Rojas and they guided us in.
Alejandro Rojas sat a table near the bar. He was an older man, with a trim white beard and dark skin. He didn't seem exceptional and he looked like he was someone's endearing grandfather. And he was.
"You must be Mike, the cleaner. Let me introduce you to my grandson, Mateo. It seems your Lonny..."
"Conny," I corrected and then put my hand up in apology.
"Conny," he repeated. "They serve together. Mateo was just returned to me, a man. Even before today, he speaks of your Conny. A good man. A friend, much like you, I think."
"Yes, Conny is important to me. That is why I'm here. Where is he?"
"My men took him back to his apartment. Is this the man who stole from me?" Nic flinched at the accusation and Rojas' man took him by the arm.
"I couldn't say. Since you mistook him with Conny, I'm guessing you're not sure either. He brought me down here, so he knew your men. What did he take?"
Rojas laughed to himself, knowing better. "It was a trifle and will not be missed. However, it cannot happen again."
I looked over at Nic, "It won't."
"Let us hope not." Rojas said in earnest and his man let go of Nic.
"Can we go?"
"One thing," Rojas motioned to his grandson, Mateo stepped forward.
"Conny said the men tore up his apartment. And he was detained a while, before we came. We want him to have this for his troubles, incidentals." Mateo held out an envelope of bills.
"Why didn't you give it to him?"
"He wouldn't take it."
"Then I won't. You understand?"
Rojas spoke up, "Take it for you, a finder's fee."
"I haven't found anything."
Nic look sheepishly away.
"I think you have found a friend."
I acquiesced, taking the money promising myself I would drop it in a charity box.
I flipped the phone and dialed Conny. He picked up on the first ring. It was good to hear his voice and I told him to take tomorrow off.
I looked at Nic as we got in my All Good Cleaners van.
"You ever work a mop?"
"Like a janitor?"
"Yeah, like that."
Nestled in the foothills of West Virginia, Ron Earl Phillips lives with his wife, teenaged daughter, and their three cats. When not attempting to keep a roof over their heads through the mundane and legal job as a web developer, Ron reads and writes crime fiction. He also acts as co-editor on the online flash fiction magazine, Shotgun Honey, and for the upcoming e-book charity anthology, The
Lost Children. You can find out more about Ron Earl Phillips at his website, www.RonEarl.com.
Vengeance on the 18th
David Cranmer
Truman Krup took his nine iron and slammed the back of Jackson Lee Mercer's head with such force that Jackson's glass eye popped out of its socket and came to rest on the rim of the 18th hole. Breathing hard, he repeatedly swung the club until Jackson's crumpled body lay still.
Striding to the golf cart, Truman grabbed the shovel and pick that Jackson had inquired about earlier—but he'd brushed it off by saying the caretaker must have left them. He threw the tools on the body and dragged it to the edge of a knoll alongside the green where he began chipping away at the earth. This was his golf course, he owned it, and he could damn well bury a body here if he wanted.
Truman planned it well in advance—right after he discovered his wife's betrayal. He had come home early and heard her upstairs pacing the floor, talking on the phone. A blinking cursor alerted him to the abandoned computer where he found a love letter in progress to [email protected], addressed to "my darling." Realizing she hadn't heard him, he positioned everything back in place and quietly left.
He spent the next week driving past the house at different intervals until one afternoon, Mercer's SUV was parked outside. For fuck's sake, his wife and best friend! He remembered reaching for the 9 mm that lay on the passenger seat. He gripped the handle firmly and then just as quickly let go: Why ruin my life?
Instead, he invited Mercer to play one last game before he closed the course down for a year-long renovation. The club manager and caddy were already dismissed for the season so he could privately say good riddance to his wife's fuck buddy. And what an appropriate ending for a golf aficionado, this being the last hole of the game and the closure of a friendship.
Truman dug about three feet down and heard a moan. He looked up and saw the back of Mercer's bloody head trembling ever so slightly. He climbed out, pick in hand, and walked around the body to find Mercer staring at his own glass eye.
He tried to whisper but nothing came out. Truman knelt down. "Save your fucking breath. I know you're asking 'Why?' but shouldn't I be asking you why? I treated you like a brother and how did you thank me? By screwing my wife!"
BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled Page 8
