Gloves Off

by Gareth Spark

  #

  Chicago. It’s winter. I’m losing my memory. The alliance will move me on soon. Cars are frozen solid, women scurry by the blocks of iced metal, hiding their skins from the cold. Skin has a price. Even yours.

  I’m opposite Millennium Park and I ask myself what I’m doing here. There are no answers in the bottles of Jim Beam and Twinkie wrappers that litter the apartment. I pull down my eyelids and stare at my face in the tarnished mirror. You never know where your next job is coming from. I don’t know how many days I’ve been here. Clocks are illegal now.

  I’m stepping out of the shower when the door buzzes. Frankie’s standing there with his briefcase. He walks in, sits down, slings a cowboy boot over his Wrangler jeans, and pops a strawberry Zinger in his mouth.

  “So Harry, ready for the next one?”

  He slides a picture of a fat man eating a lollipop across the stained coffee table. It has the usual details on the back, address, schedule of target’s movements.

  “Usual payment?” I ask.

  Frankie nods.

  “Bake him, he’s cake. Then we’re moving you to another city.”

  “Where this time?”

  “Does it matter?”

  It doesn’t. It doesn’t matter where I am because the life’s the same, except I’m losing myself.

  “How did I get here?” I ask.

  “You don’t want to know that, Harry.”

  “You want to erase me, is that it?”

  He smiles.

  It is a smile totally without mirth.

  “We’re putting the codes in.”

  “On the targets?”

  “Everyone, eventually. That is the plan.” He leans forward and knits his hands together. “You see, we need to keep track of you.”

  “I work for you.”

  “Exactly. Consider it like an ISBN code, for your protection.”

  “I don’t need protecting.”

  “Safety is the purpose, it is a national objective.”

  “And you always achieve your objectives.”

  I watch him on the street down below as he walks to his car, a small man with small ideas. I can see his head opening from a long range shot, his skull cracking like plaster, his brains spreading across his cowboy boots, a fitting end to a drone. I get ready for the job.

  #

  It’s an easy hit. Fatso’s in the shower when I get inside his house, I can hear him singing Leonard Cohen’s Famous Blue Rain Coat. He’s croaking, “What can I tell you my brother my killer,” when he stops and gasps like a virgin as he sees me there in my black leather gloves. I say, “Bye baby,” and spread his head over his nice white tiles. Problem is there’s a half naked blonde in a G string in the hallway, who screams and covers her large breasts as I run my eyes down her full figure. Pity to miss a fuck but I pop her too. She looks good enough to eat and I’m hungry as I head out of there. I stop on North Sheffield Avenue at the DMK Burger Bar.

  The only beer they’ve got is Heineken and that’s when the flashback hits me. I’m sitting at a bar in Detroit drinking Heineken when Frankie’s boys come in. They blackjack me in the john with my dick in my hand. One minute I’m pissing, next thing I’m lying in a white room listening to Mantovani. A pretty nurse comes in and checks my pulse. I can smell Frankie’s cheap cologne in the air. He is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he had become invisible. Many of them do. I can tell what has happened. My brain is hammering like a rapid pulse. I’m aware of something solid in my head, a small hard thing at my temple. It’s a blur of pills and hotels after that. It’s called the sponge filling. When a gun gets to know too much they control his brain, spooky but true. Soon he’s put in a cake and shipped out to the diners. This job’ll eat you alive.

  I leave the bar. Back at the apartment I open my temple with a scalpel. I cut just deep enough into the side of my head and peel back two inches of skin, removing the chip, which I put in my pocket. I stitch myself up, and put on my hat. Then I pack and head downstairs to the Lincoln waiting to take me to the next city.

  The two bozos in the front yap about football as they take the detour. I shoot them at a junction and get a taxi to the airport, calling Frankie from my cell.

  “Think you could do away with me? I’m going freelance.”

  “Good job we have a code. Await your next instructions,” he says.

  Soon I see Bessie Coleman Drive and I taste freedom. It tastes of salt. There may still be restaurants. There may still be other foods.

  I move like a shadow through the crowds. I ditch my Glock in a trash can. As I’m booking my ticket I feel a hand on my shoulder and a cop asks me to come with him and his colleague. I’ll show them the pictures, I’ll tell them about the alliance. I’ll work for them.

  The cop smiles.

  “Do you like cup cakes?” he asks.

  Richard Godwin writes dark crime fiction, among other genres. He is the author of critically acclaimed bestselling novels Apostle Rising, and Mr. Glamour. He writes horror fiction as well as poetry and is a produced playwright. His stories have been published in over 28 anthologies, among them The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime and The Big Book Of Bizarro.

  Apostle Rising, published by Black Jackal Books, is a dark work of fiction exploring the blurred line between law and lawlessness and the motivations that lead men to kill. It digs into the scarred soul of a cop in the hunt for a killer who has stepped straight from a nightmare into the waking world. The sequel is due out this year in mass market paperback.

  Mr. Glamour, published by Black Jackal Books, is about a world of wealthy, beautiful people who can buy anything, except safety from the killer in their midst. It is about two scarred cops who are driven to acts of darkness by the investigation. As DCI Jackson Flare and DI Mandy Steele try to catch the killer they find themselves up against a wall of secrecy. And the killer is watching everyone.

  Richard Godwin was born in London and obtained a BA and MA in English and American Literature from King's College London, where he also lectured. He has travelled the world extensively. His Chin Wags At The Slaughterhouse are highly popular and unusual interviews he conducts with other authors and may be found at his blog http://www.richardgodwin.net/blog . They have been compared to the Paris Review in terms of style and quality. You can find out more about him at his website RichardGodwin.net .

  He is also a highly requested public speaker and is speaking at The House of Lords in London for cultural diplomacy.

  By Paul D. Brazill

  Carl Henderson had to squint when he spoke to the tired sounding American woman that looked like she'd just melted onto a bar stool. The scorching midday sun was streaming through the open door and all he could see was her silhouette.

  He put on a pair of sunglasses and liked what he saw. She was a good looking woman; late forties, stylishly dressed and wearing sunglasses that were a lot more expensive than his.

  She held out a perfectly manicured hand. He took it delicately.

  ‘Linda,’ she said.

  ‘Craig,’ he lied.

  ‘What can I get you?’ he said.

  ‘Well, it’s just after noon, so that makes it Margareta time in my book,’ she said.

  He prepared the drink with a flourish and handed it to her to taste.

  ‘What do you think?’

  She sipped the drink and gave a shaky thumbs up. He smiled.

  ‘Nice to know. Cocktails are like humour. Very personal things,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said.

  He turned back and slammed the till closed so hard that the optics hanging overhead rattled.

  ‘With my late husband, the humour was the hardest part at first,’ said Linda and unsteadily she got off the bar stool. She moved it closer to the bar. ‘Well, that and the Yorkshire accent.’

  She tightly held onto the bar and edged back onto the bar stool. Gripped her glass. Stroked it. Caressed it.

  ‘Rod was like a machine gun. Rattling off these one-liners that were filled with c
ultural references that I just didn’t have a hope of getting.’ She smiled. ‘Never did get most of them.’

  She scraped some salt from the rim of her margarita and licked it from her finger tip.

  Henderson just nodded and waited for her to continue. He knew he was in for the long haul with this one. He could tell, just by looking at her that she needed a shrink at least as much as a drink. He could see how haunted she looked.

  Still, business was business. The bar was always deserted on Tuesday afternoons. The bloody Spanish and their siestas. And today, Linda was the only customer, apart from the old English geezer in the corner with the walking stick and the thick glasses. He’d been nursing a milky coffee for hours and didn’t look keen on buying anything else.

  ‘The first time we met,’ said Linda. ‘Was on a boat.’

  Henderson straightened his tie in the mirror behind the bar and turned back to Linda.

  He picked up the remote and clicked on the CD player. Tim Hardin wafted into the room. A Leonard Cohen song about trying to be free.

  ‘I was barely in my twenties. Trying to prove I could be independent from my rich daddy. He was a big shot executive for General Motors. Anyway, I got a job working as a kids’ entertainer on a cruise ship that was going around the Greek Islands.’

  Henderson sipped his lemonade and looked up at the ceiling fan. It was working but the bar was still stiflingly hot. Pain in the arse getting planning permission for a listed building , though, so air conditioning was out of the question. It had cost plenty already. Almost everything he’d ripped off from Big Howie, in fact.

  ‘Sounds great?’

  ‘It was. Another world. I’d never been out of Michigan before, let alone the States. My family didn’t like to travel. Dad always said, why go looking around the world when we have everything we need at home?’

  ‘Not the most adventurous of guys, then?’

  ‘Huh. Yeah. So, there I was trying to entertain the kids –who were running riot - when this middle aged English singer turned up. In two minutes, Rod got them organised into two lines. ‘Boys in front of Uncle Ian’ - him – and ‘girls in front of Auntie Myra,’ me. Not that I got the joke at the time.’

  ‘The Moors Murderers? Sick joke, that.’

  Linda shrugged.

  ‘But you hit it off, anyway?’ said Henderson.

  ‘Yeah, and what a life that led to. I joined the band on backing vocals, and that eventually became a duo. Him and me. I played keyboards even though I had no musical training. He put coloured tape and numbers on the keys for each song. We went around the world; Russia, Saudi Arabia, Thailand and Italy.’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  Linda nodded.

  ‘It was in Morocco when I noticed something strange, though. Rod always went out for a drink late at night. Sometimes he didn’t come back till the early hours but he rarely seemed drunk.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Yeah, so. Paranoid. One night in Morocco, I followed him. He walked and walked and eventually ended up in a small dark, bar. He sat with a big, sweaty guy in a stained, white, lined suit. Very creepy looking . I saw Rod move up close to the guy, whispering in his ear. I was about to barge in when I saw Rod lean even closer and the businessman slump into a heap on the floor.’

  Henderson stopped cleaning the pint glass in his hand.

  ‘Then, Rod walked out of the bar a blank expression on his face. He put a gun in his jean's waist band and walked straight past me.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘I said nothing. Didn’t know what to say. I was in shock or something. A few months later we returned to the States and went to a bank. Rod opened up safety deposit boxes full of more cash than I’d ever seen. We put on money belts stuffed with hundred dollar bills.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘Yep. Headed off to Switzerland and put it in a bank account there.’

  ‘And did you confront him?’

  ‘Eventually. But I knew the score by then. I’d guessed. It was clear that Rod was a hit man. An international assassin for hire. The musician thing was perfect cover.’

  ‘Yeah, perfect,’ said Henderson, a little nervous now.

  ‘Anyway, things slowed down a little and then …When we were in Africa, The Gambia, well, Rod died of Malaria.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I buried him there. Went back to his home town for a memorial. Returned to Michigan for a while.’

  ‘So, did you give up the music?’

  ‘Yes. I never had any talent for that side of the business. But I carried on Rod’s other work.’

  Henderson’s turned pale and dropped the glass which shattered on the floor.

  Linda dug a hand into her handbag and pulled out a gun.

  ‘A goodbye from Big Howie,’ she said and fired.

  Henderson stumbled and fell. A single bullet in his forehead.

  The man with the walking stick sat up.

  ‘You know, I’ve always wanted to invest in a bar,’ said Rod. He tapped his stick on the stool.

  ‘You’ve invested in far too many as it is!’ said Linda.

  And they walked, arm in arm, out into the mid-day sun.

  I was born in England and now live in Poland. I’ve had writing published in various magazines and anthologies, including The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime 8 and 10 – alongside the likes Lee Child, Ian Rankin and Neil Gaiman. I’ve published 13 Shots Of Noir, Snapshots, Red Esperanto/ Rosso Esperanto , Death On A Hot Afternoon/ Morte A Madrid, Vin Of Venus, Guns Of Brixton and The Gumshoe. I’ve edited the anthologies, True Brit Grit ( with Luca Veste) and Drunk On The Moon. I'm a member of International Thriller Writers Inc. My blog is here: pauldbrazill.wordpress.com/

  By Aidan Thorn

  I could not be happier right now. I’m on the way to the hospital with a stab wound in my side courtesy of my big brother and if I didn’t have eyes on me right now I’d be grinning from ear to ear. The ambulance is really shifting as it carries me away from Larkford Prison to the hospital.

  Of course I panicked at first. Well you would, wouldn’t you? Some resourceful and deadly chap sticks a sharpened toothbrush handle into your side and you start to wonder if today might not quite make the ‘top 10 days I spent in prison’ list. And if I’m honest getting on that list would not be difficult because the days have been pretty shitty so far. Still, I was wrong, because this day is actually going to top the list of great days I spent in prison. Well, days I started the day in prison, because today, I’m escaping.

  See, when I say I have a stab wound in my side courtesy of my big brother I should probably explain. He didn’t actually administer the wound. He’s not in prison with me. Oh no, this isn’t some episode of Bad Girls where we’re all in together, happy families and stuff. That said I wouldn’t have minded being stuck in that prison, there were a few tidy looking sorts in there. I reckon I’d have a new day to add to my ‘top 10 days I spent in prison’ most weeks in a place like that. I’m sorry, my mind is wandering a bit, I’ve lost a lot of blood, you’ll understand.

  Anyway, Rick, that’s my brother. He arranged for me to be stabbed. It’s all part of his plan to help me escape. He had Three Fingers Louie do it. Louie’s only got three fingers on his right hand. He’s doing a life stretch for stabbing some bloke eighteen times; killed the bloke it did. See, my brother Rick is a top bloke, made sure he got someone who knew what he was doing to stab me in the guts. It’s good to know you’re in the hands of a professional. Reassuring.

  Louie had stuck the toothbrush in deep and moved it about a bit. He made a fair sized hole. At first I was focusing too much on the fear and pain to really listen to what he was saying. When I finally did hear him I realised he wasn’t being aggressive towards me, well unless you count wiggling the shank about a little too vigorously.

  ‘Calm down Jimmy lad, I’m doing you a favour. This is all part of a plan your brother Rick has to break you out of here. Now lay down,’ Louie whispered quietly in my ea
r before dropping the bloody toothbrush, stepping off and shouting. ‘Guard! guard! This man’s been stabbed.’

  The next thing I know there are two guards trying to fight their way through a crowd that spontaneously assembled the second Louie started shouting. They’re morbid fuckers in that prison, first sign that someone might die and that’s it they’re buzzing for the week. The only person that didn’t stick around for a look is Three Fingers Louie himself. What happened next was a bit of a blur but it’s ended up with me lying handcuffed to a stretcher in the back of this ambulance. I’ve got a paramedic working on my injury on one side and one of the guards that dragged me out of the crowd on the other. The guard is an older fella. I can’t remember his real name, but apparently he’s been at the prison longer than most of the lifers and everyone calls him 'Mortar' because they say he’s part of the building. He’s a grumpy old fucker. I guess I would be too if I spent my life at a prison.

  ‘Why were we called out?’ The paramedic asked Mortar. ‘You’ve got a ward and doctor on site.’

  ‘We’ve had to close it down this morning. There’s a water pipe running through the medical centre. Some prick has put a whacking great hole in it and flooded the place,’ Mortar said rolling his eyes.

  Bloody hell my big brother’s clever, he really did pick the right man for this job. See, old Three Fingers Louie has got a cleaning job in the area of the hospital wing. I think it would be a pretty safe bet if I were to stick a 'ton' on that he was responsible for that leak. Rick’s thought of everything, which is good to know because I guess that also means he’s got a plan to get me away from the prison guard and the police escort that is following the ambulance.