Shallow Cuts: Crime Flash Fiction

by Michelle Ann King

  The office safe was empty, except for a folded bundle of notes that might just about have paid for a couple rounds of beers. His home safe held some fake ID and a rumpled picture of ex-wife number three, the one who disappeared with the alligator wrestler down Florida. And that was it. So where in hell was the rest of the stuff?

  It was a mystery. One I had to solve pretty damn quick, considering we had a sit-down with Big Mo on Friday night and he’d be expecting the balance of what he was owed. If I couldn’t come up with it in green, he’d be taking it out of my hide.

  Goddamn Desi. I told him about all that shit he used to shovel down his neck. Would it have killed him to eat some goddamn fruit? Climb a couple flights of stairs once in a while?

  There was a sharp rap on the door and Shawn appeared in the doorway. ‘Hey, Boss?’

  Boss. Had to be said, that was sweet to hear. I nodded for him to go on.

  ‘Eden’s here. She wants to talk to you.’

  I thought about it. Eden was the best dancer at the Pussycat Palace—hell, the best dancer for three states in any direction—and she was Desi’s number one girl. I didn’t really have time for this, but the Palace was a steady income stream and I needed to keep all our assets running smooth. Plus, what was Desi’s was mine now, right?

  ‘Bring her in,’ I said.

  I’d only ever seen Eden in vertigo heels and skimpies, so the jeans, man’s workshirt and flat boots were a bit of a shock. Not that she didn’t make it work, though. I indicated the chair opposite me. ‘Sit down, sweetheart. Good to see you. How are you holding up?’

  She sat, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t smile, either. In fact, she looked positively flinty.

  ‘Listen, honey,’ I said, ‘I know you’re probably thinking, what does it mean, now that Desi’s gone? But trust me, you got no need to worry. It’s all business as usual. Nothing’s going to change, believe me.’

  Now she smiled. Or at least, she showed me her teeth. ‘In one sense, Jay, that’s exactly right. But from your point of view, a lot of things are going to change.’

  I leaned back in my chair and looked her over. She was going to hustle me for more cash, with Desi not even planted yet? That was pretty cold.

  I had to say, I was impressed. ‘Go on, babe. I’m listening.’

  She slid her right hand into the red leather purse on her lap. ‘Just so you know, there’s a Browning Hi-Power in here. And in various safety deposit boxes and warehouses and storage facilities in locations that only I know, opened with keys that only I have, are all the things that you’ve been looking for and probably a lot more that you haven’t even realized are missing yet. Oh, and in the parking lot outside is my good friend Kathleen—you probably know her better as Bunny—with a Heckler & Koch sniper rifle trained on your head. Kath, move the sight just a little to your left, so that Jay can—yeah, okay, that’s perfect.’

  As I watched, the red dot of a laser sight flashed onto the middle of the bourbon bottle a few inches away from my hand. It stayed there for a few seconds then disappeared from my view again.

  Eden inclined her head. ‘And your office is fully wired, as I’m sure you now understand. So is every other establishment, including your apartment. Including the bathroom, so try not to be too gross too often.’

  ‘Well,’ I said. I’d be the first to admit it wasn’t exactly an adequate response, but it was all I had.

  Goddamn Desi. Goddamn that son of a bitch to hell.

  ‘So now we know where we are,’ she said.

  We did?

  I waited, hoping she was going to expand on that point.

  ‘I’m happy to give you the same deal I gave Desi,’ she said. ‘You get to front, so you get the respect and the kudos. You also get 30% of the net profits, as long as you do exactly what you’re told to do when you’re told to do it, and don’t try anything dangerous like thinking.’ She bared her teeth again. They were very white. ‘You also get to tell people I’m your girl, and about all the wonderful, filthy things I do to you.’

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Hang on just a minute. You mean—you and Desi weren’t—that time, in the jacuzzi on Big Mo’s yacht, you didn’t really—’

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. She closed her eyes briefly, then took a cell phone out of the purse and slid it across the desk. ‘That’s programmed with my private number. If you get in trouble call me, and I’ll have one of the girls with you in five. We can dig you out of pretty much any hole, as long as you don’t panic. Now, the deal with Mo Keelan is in hand, we’ll be done with the due diligence in time for the meeting on Friday. I’ll be in touch with your instructions in the next forty-eight hours. In the meantime you can take it easy—kick back, have some fun. Enjoy your promotion.’

  She stood up and swung her purse over her shoulder. ‘Oh, and Jay? One instruction to be going on with: in public you act normally but when we’re alone, don’t call me honey, or doll, or sweetcheeks, or any of the other demeaning, sexist nicknames in your admittedly impressive repertoire. Okay?’

  I turned my head a little and the red laser hit me square in the eye. I faced front again and swallowed hard. ‘You got it, sweet—I mean, Eden. Or—I guess that’s your, uh, working name, huh? Like Bunny. I mean, Kathleen. So what should I call you?’

  She smiled, and this time it looked real. ‘Boss,’ she said, and slipped out the door.

  Sacred Space

  IT WASN’T LIKE there weren’t any trees at home, but these were different. They were huge, otherworldly. Dizzying. She had to lay flat on the ground just to see their tops.

  And so quiet, so still, as if even the birds were holding their breath in awe. She rolled over and spread her hands, dug her fingers through the layers of crunchy leaves and into the earth. Felt the soil, cool and gritty, under her nails. She inhaled the dark scent, let it fill her body and mind with its power, its secrets. Let it make her ancient. Pagan.

  She felt the roots, resonant with power. With life, with energy. They whispered to her, told her stories. Asked her questions and listened to her answers. Spun her thoughts into a green canopy of sunlight.

  And they told her what they needed. What fed them, nourished them, made them grow.

  She wept for the beauty of it, because she’d always known there was so much strength in blood. The vitality of life, from one vessel to another. It was sweet and inevitable. Perfect.

  She lay, invisible, at one with the forest. Breathed. Melded. Waited. And when the outsiders came, defiling the sacred space with their noise and disrespect, she rose up.

  Based on a True Story

  SHE CALLS ME her biggest fan and says she’s grateful for all my support, but I don’t know if I believe her. Writers have to be good at lying, after all.

  I used to think she was different, because her book was so beautiful. I was certain everything in it was true, because nobody could write about love like that unless they’d felt it. So I was sure that the man in the story was the man she really loved, and when I saw her husband I knew I was right. He was so gorgeous, so perfect—exactly how I’d pictured him in my mind.

  I went to all her signings, in every store in every city. At first she seemed pleased, but then she started looking nervous whenever I arrived. Like she thought I was stalking her, or something. But then I guess writers need an overactive imagination, don’t they?

  I mean, sure, I’ve got loads of copies of her book. But that’s an investment. I reckon they’ll be worth a lot, when she’s really famous.

  And it’s not her I’m watching out for at all. It’s him. The more I read about him, the more I realised just how special he was. So it’s not like I’m following her, or harassing her, or whatever the police called it. It’s not like that at all.

  I thought he was with her, that was the thing. I thought they were going to the hotel together—that’s just the kind of impulsive, romantic thing he does all the time in the book. He would never let a relationship get stale, or take the woman he loved for granted.


  Which is how I know it can’t be down to him. Whatever’s gone wrong with their marriage, it’s not his fault. It’s hers.

  She’s the ungrateful one. The unfaithful one. The wicked one.

  She’s doing it to hurt him. She has to be, it’s the only thing that makes sense. Why else, when you’ve got the most beautiful, wonderful man at home, would you be sneaking around with someone else? It’s cruel. Evil. She’s probably not even human.

  He’ll be glad, when she’s gone. When he realises how much heartbreak I’ve saved him from. He’ll appreciate what I’ve done for him. That’s just the kind of man he is.

  So I’m writing it all down, and I’m going to make my own book. He’s going to be the hero of my story too, but mine’s going to be different. I’m not a liar, like her. I really love him.

  I’m going to tell the truth, people like that. And I’m going to put pictures in—people like that, too. I’ve already got some good ones. Shame you can’t do sound, as well. She’s still good at fancy words, even when she’s crying.

  It’s a bit of a mess at the minute, but I can type it up on clean paper later. It’s going to be better than hers, I know it. Bet it sells more copies, too.

  Full Service Package

  THE COURT DOCUMENTS in my hands inform me that a temporary restraining order has been granted against me—well, against my current identity, anyway. I could be arrested right now, just for sitting in my car across the street from their house.

  They didn’t really need to go to all the trouble; I won’t be bothering them again. I suspect the husband might actually be a bit regretful about that—I was wearing his resistance right down at the end there, and he wasn’t at all far off the point of allowing me to have my wicked way with him when it all got out of hand.

  Bet he wishes he’d given in at the start, now. So much grief and upheaval in his life, and he didn’t even get to enjoy the sin that usually goes before the punishment.

  Although not many people, his friends and family included, truly believe that. His wife does, I think—just—but everyone else looked at the wreckage I left behind and thought there’s no smoke without fire.

  He’s been married for seven years with an eighteen-month-old baby, and everyone knows what that does to a marriage. He said I was crazy but I was stable enough to get a good job at his firm, and I clearly knew a lot of intimate details about his private life. And the clincher, of course, the one that made it gospel as far as a lot of people were concerned, is that I’m beautiful. Beautiful and available. They looked at him, at his frazzled and exhausted wife, and then they looked at me. Case closed.

  When it started to get nasty, they looked at me again and they didn’t see a crazy woman, a fantasist; they saw a spurned lover. Hell hath no fury, right?

  The high point, as always, was getting inside the house. Knowing that I’d been there, drinking her wine and rolling around in her bed, drove her insane. I didn’t even do any damage, just left him a present on his pillow: a watch, one so much more elegant and tasteful than anything she’s ever given him. Stolen, of course—I have a finite budget for expenses—but he still doesn’t know that yet. He told her that he threw it away, but I’ve seen him put it on once he’s in the car, waiting at the stop sign.

  At that point, after the home invasion, is when it always turns legal. The police, the attorneys, the brand new state-of-the-art security system. By then, the wife doesn’t care what it costs. She just wants to keep me out. Out of her life, preferably, but at the very least out of her house.

  Her friends get worried, too, seeing her so shaken at just how easy it had been for me to walk in and out as I pleased. It frightens all of them. They might not think themselves vulnerable to obsessive stalkers—although you never know, right? It’s not like her husband was even that much of a catch—but what about burglars, vandals, opportunistic street gangs? They’ve got children, these women, babies. They’re so often alone in their big old houses—houses filled with the temptations of cash, jewellery, precious possessions. You hear such terrible things on the news these days.

  They would have said they were safe, before, that nothing could ever happen to them, no, surely not—but look what happened when I blew into town. Before they knew it, it had happened, and to one of their own. It wasn’t just on the TV any more, it was on their street, in their living rooms. It wasn’t a random stranger on the screen, it was their friend, crying in their arms.

  She’d had a lucky escape, everyone said so. It could have been so much worse. They were able to stop me, frighten me off, in time—but just think about all the awful things I could have done. It came out of the blue, this storm I brought into their lives. It happened to her, but it could have been any of them really, couldn’t it? It still could.

  With all that, what was a measly few thousand bucks for a proper home security system? What was money, against peace of mind?

  And luckily enough, a security company was running a promotion in the area. Generous discounts, especially on the full service package. How was that for good fortune?

  It’s not the number one security firm in the Northeast, but it’s getting there. And thanks to my unsung sales force of terrorized housewives, it’s getting closer all the time.

  I watch the wife load their SUV with bags and baby paraphernalia, enough for maybe a week. They know the house is protected, now, so they’re off on a little vacation, a refreshing break to help them put all this behind them.

  I make a note in my file to look into the travel and vacation industry. Cabins, beach houses, maybe spa breaks? Could be an investment opportunity. A real full service package.

  She drives away, and I pull up the latest sales figures on my phone. Massachusetts is having a disappointing quarter. I pull up another list, then smile at my reflection in the rear view mirror. ‘Hi, I’m Carla Greenberg. It’s lovely to meet you.’

  I practice saying that until it feels natural, then call the airline and book Carla a flight to Boston. I’m sure she’ll meet lots of exciting people there.

  Silence

  PEOPLE. EVERYWHERE. SWARMING, like insects. Like bugs. They got in his way, tripped him up, blocked his path, breathed up all his air and left him bruised and gasping.

  So many people. Too many. Unnecessary. Obscene. So many flailing, gross bodies everywhere, filling up all the clean spaces and making him ill, making his head hurt. Too much noise, all those heartbeats, all those pointless, meaningless sounds flapping out of their disgusting wet mouths. No stillness left, anywhere.

  It had to stop. He had to find a way. Guns, gas, fire. Purification. And after the screaming, there would be silence.

  The Rehabilitating Power of Conversation

  ‘IT’S NOT WORKING out,’ the girl says, crying. Always crying. The boyfriend has done something outrageous again: forgotten her birthday, insulted her mother, abandoned her by the side of the road when they argued, gone drinking with friends she doesn’t like until three in the morning and not texted her to explain.

  He does these things, and others like them, many times.

  ‘So leave him,’ I tell her. It seems so straightforward, to me. He makes her miserable at least fifty times more often than he makes her happy. The conclusion, even just based on simple maths, is irrefutable.

  She shakes her head, wipes her eyes. ‘I’m not ready to do that.’

  ‘Then you need to deal with it. Explain the problems, tell him what you need. See what he needs. Straighten it out.’

  She looks at me mournfully. I’ve disappointed her, I can tell. She lets her shoulders drop and gives the long, slow sigh of the oppressed, the disadvantaged, the hard done by. ‘He won’t listen,’ she says.

  ‘So leave him.’

  Another shake of the head, and the eyes she wiped free of tears spring leaks again. ‘But I love him.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure? What is it, exactly, that you love about him? Explain it to me. Be specific.’

  Another mournful look, another sigh. ‘You don
’t understand,’ she says.

  She’s right about that, if nothing else.

  The guard arrives then, to say that visiting hours are over. She stands up and moves away from the table. I wait for her to be gone, so that I can be unshackled and go back to solitary. But Daniels just stands there with his arms folded, giving me one of his nastiest grins.

  ‘Not so fast, McLennan,’ he says. ‘Sit your arse back down.’

  ‘But you said visiting was over.’

  ‘For her. Not for you. The boss is so pleased with how her little ‘rehabilitate a sociopath’ scheme is going down, they’ve increased the hours. These kids just love talking to you, it seems. They can’t get enough of it.’

  He looks at the girl. ‘Off you go, then. And send in the next one, will you?’ He consults his clipboard. ‘That’s Vikkkie, I believe. With three k’s. She’s very... individual. But nobody understands her.’ He gives me another nasty grin. ‘I’m sure you’ll give it your best shot, though, McLennan, won’t you?’

  I sink back down into my chair. ‘How is this supposed to rehabilitate me, Daniels? Seriously? This is punishment. Cruel and unusual punishment, at that.’ I consider telling him that I end these sessions with a far greater desire to commit violence than I ever had before I came in here, but the look on his face suggests he already knows that.

  He roars with laughter and gives me a wink. ‘Who said you’re the one they’re trying to rehabilitate, McLennan?’

  They Do Things Better in Albuquerque

  THEY SAY WE forgive someone because we need it, not because they do. I think that’s true. I also think we tell someone our secrets not because they need to know but because we want them to.

  I tell Den my secrets because I want him to know what he got himself into by marrying me. That’s only fair, right?