Discount Noir

by Patricia Abbott

  Welsh wondered briefly about the piped-in music. Can’t blame folks in the panic for not shutting it off, but Jesus Christ did Welsh hate watery pop Nashville. All sugary and vapid, sissy-jeans and ridiculous cowboy hats. Never understood the appeal.

  This was bad. Sure as shit this was going to be national news. Microwave trucks were probably staking the perimeter like vultures. Welsh thought he heard the pulse of a chopper overhead.

  Man, even if they pulled off a miracle, their every move would be broken down, analyzed, criticized, and magnified. Shit would be taught in law enforcement academies nationwide in less than a month.

  Can’t think about that.

  Do your best, he told himself.

  Stay tight. Stay hot. Stay on target.

  Welsh thought about the security cameras in the ceiling—the black half-domes, eyes in the sky, watching and recording everything. Someone’s going to leak those files, no doubt. Some asshole. A quick payday. Web site, news station. Maybe they’ll just chuck the massacre up on YouTube for the ghouls worldwide. Like those poor people tumbling out of the towers. Like those greenish-gray snippets of Columbine. Like Tech a few years ago. Like the worst America can offer.

  Welsh wondered about Megamart executives. Would they review the security recordings, sit in some glassy conference room and watch the slow motion snuff replay, customers and employees being cut down like cattle resigned to slaughter? Would they take notes with grim detachment?

  Action items: improve security, boost safety measures, install panic rooms, beef up surveillance, update contracts….

  Or would they just note the impact on revenues for the quarter?

  Welsh’s earpiece lit up. The order crackled. Time to rock-n-roll. One by one, tactical team members checked in. Welsh keyed his mic and checked in as well.

  Hostages were not being released. Negotiations had broken down. Threat eminent. Insertion from rear exits was inTEN, NINE, EIGHT—Welsh adjusted his aim and found the beige door again—SEVEN, SIX, FIVE—Welsh placed his finger on the trigger—THREE, TWO—Welsh eased out his breath, long and slow....

  The Black Friday of Daniel Maddox

  By Chad Eagleton

  At 4:45 AM, Daniel Maddox walked to the rear of the Megamart, past the shoppers camped out with lawn chairs and paperback books. His head ached from too many cups of instant coffee, and his knuckles throbbed from the heatless drive into town.

  Don’t you fuckers sleep? he thought as he headed to Electronics. He took his place eight back and flexed his fingers.

  Before the feeling returned, he remembered the crisp, hundred dollar bills folded neatly in his pocket. His head filled with fear. He shoved his hand into his jeans to check that the bills were still there.

  They were.

  He knew he couldn’t afford the three hundred plus tax, even if it was for a Sony television the size of a theater screen. But it was a big gift, a big gift the whole family could use, and he’d show it off and not feel bad about the dwindling checking account and fumbling his way through online applications because no one, fucking no one, took paper applications anymore. And when he hauled that big fucker out, maybe, just maybe, for one moment he could feel like a man again.

  He wasn’t going to risk letting go of the bills. No, siree.

  An employee walked by and stared at him.

  Maddox realized he was still working the bill edges between his fingers. He gripped the money tight and pocketed his other hand. Don’t want to get kicked out for playing pocket pool, he thought and chuckled to himself.

  The man behind him coughed. Air swept over Maddox’s neck.

  You’ve got to be kidding me. The chuckle stilled, replaced by a deep, ragged breath. The man coughed again. Maddox’s head started to pound. There’s Tylenol in the truck. The glove box.

  Maddox checked the line. Behind the Cougher, twelve more people were lined up. He closed his eyes and removed his hands from his pockets. Rubbing his temples, he tried to remember if there was wrapping paper at home.

  “You okay, man?” The Cougher asked.

  “Fine,” Maddox said.

  Employees prepared electronics. One of them gestured at the old woman who held the front. The line moved.

  Two steps.

  Maddox looked at his watch: 4:56 AM. The line continued to grow behind him. Along his temple, he felt the big vein drumming. Just a few more minutes.

  The line moved again.

  Maddox got excited until he realized it was only the closing of gaps.

  Cougher sneezed. Wetness splattered against his neck. Maddox glared. Cougher apologized with a Kleenex wave. A few dark spots black-holed in Maddox’s vision.

  A girl in one of the blue vests said, “In one minute it will be five o’clock. Please follow the yellow lines to your purchase. No running, pushing, or shoving.”

  Shut the fuck up. Maddox’s head pounded.

  “It’s five.”

  The line rushed.

  Cougher brushed against his back.

  Maddox’s brain hurt with each step.

  Fuck.

  Cables, wires, cords, remotes...no TV.

  Shoulda found it ahead of time.

  The old woman pushed one of the massive televisions past him as Cougher hacked an aisle over.

  Maddox turned.

  Video games.

  Fuck.

  He hit the end of the aisle, looking right. There—one left! He started to run, stopped, and started again, walking quickly. Finally, finally something…

  Cougher grabbed the TV.

  Something inside thrashed against Maddox’s skull.

  Cougher smiled and wheeled the TV past and sneezed.

  Maddox cornered the aisle, saw Cougher, and ran.

  “Sir, no—”

  He dove. Cougher yelped. They both crashed into an end-cap of $2 DVDs as the cart careened into a pyramid of blank CDs.

  The cashier screamed.

  Cougher cried for help and coughed. Spittle hit Maddox’s face. The final hammer cracked him square between the eyes. Maddox smashed Cougher in the nose, cuffed him on the head, and punched him in the mouth.

  The feeling had finally returned to his knuckles.

  As Maddox reached for the wire display case, two security guards yanked him backward. He howled, firing a sloppy fist at the nearest crotch. The fattest guard went down, and Maddox scrambled to his feet.

  The mustached guard tackled him. Maddox’s front tooth chipped on the dirty electronics floor, and he took a fumbling knee to the ass.

  “Sonofabitch.” Both guards yanked him down the aisle, away from Cougher.

  Fatty kicked him in the thigh and reached for his mace. Maddox turned his head from the first blast. When he did, he saw the display to the left of the counter—more televisions. More of his televisions.

  The next spray hit his eyes, and his sight vanished in a burning haze.

  Something else taken away.

  The Holiday Spirit

  By Ed Gorman

  I was having a beer in a sports bar when I heard about it. This was two weeks before I did anything about it. During that time I was content to share my secret only with my wife.

  “You shouldn’t gloat, Bob,” Emily said. “His wife’s nice and so are their kids.”

  “But he isn’t. You remember how he started in on me at that Christmas party last year when I told him I went there all the time. And the way he treated me and the other kids growing up. His folks had a lot of money and ours didn’t. He made sure we knew it.”

  “Well, I still feel sorry for the family, even if I don’t like him particularly.”

  That’s why I married her. To remind me that there’s still decency left in the world. To remind me that even I can be decent once in a while.

  But this wasn’t one of those whiles. The first Saturday I parked half a block down from his house. It was a week before Christmas. He’d be shopping. He always bragged about the presents he bought at the most expensive stores. But he didn’t go
there.

  This Saturday was more productive. Just after noon he did me the favor of swinging his leased Mercedes into the big parking lot. What he did next made me laugh out loud. He had this old fedora pulled so low you couldn’t see his face unless you peered under the wide brim.

  I did what I’d planned to. I followed him inside and started tracking him. I don’t have to tell you about Megamart on the Saturday before Christmas, do I?

  All I had to do was follow his ridiculous fedora. He’s six-two, so it was easy enough. I waited until I saw him fingering neckties. He was probably in for a surprise: Megamart sells a lot of brand-name clothes.

  “I’d take the blue one with the small yellow stars.”

  Though he turned toward me, all I could see was his hat. I’m six-four. “Am I wrong, Kyle, or didn’t you once tell me you’d never be caught dead in Megamart? Maybe I should take your pulse.”

  “Get away from me, Bob. Or you’ll be sorry.”

  “Gosh, I seem to remember that I won every fight we ever had. That was my only satisfaction.” I reached over and flipped up the brim of his hat.

  What I saw shocked me. I carry around this mental photograph of Carmody with the smirk on his face and in his eyes. But this gaunt, haunted-looking man didn’t resemble Carmody at all. “You all right?”

  “Sure. I feel fine and dandy, Bob. I just had to let go half the people at the plant that’s been in my family for four generations. And my lawyer’s telling me we’ll probably have to go into Chapter Eleven. I’m here buying Christmas gifts for my in-laws. So if you want to make fun, go ahead.”

  I thought of what Emily had said about gloating. “They make good coffee here. Let’s go grab some.”

  The way he glanced around, I could tell he was worried about who else might be watching us.

  “Things have changed, Kyle. You know, the economy. I counted three Porsches in the parking lot out there.”

  The smile was strained. “That’s what my wife said. She’s been coming out here the last six months. Of course the time I came out here I ran into some guys we went to school with.”

  Yes, and those guys had been laughing about it ever since.

  We took our coffees black. There was holiday music in the air and festive displays all around and little kids smiling so hard you had to wonder if their faces would crack. If these things didn’t get you in a generous spirit, nothing would.

  And I listened to him tell me what the economy had done to his business. And I was kind of proud of myself because I almost felt sorry for him.

  And then he said: “The thing that really got me today was the way those workers treated me when I told them they were laid off. I’ve got problems, too.”

  Yes, I thought. And you also own two large houses, a small yacht, and part of a business jet. Plus your eighty-six-year-old mother will be leaving you a few million when she passes.

  “Why’re you smiling, Bob?”

  “Because you’re the same old Kyle. You don’t have the problems they do, Kyle, and you never will. And I almost started to feel sorry for you there a little bit.” I slid out of the booth. “Merry Christmas, Kyle.”

  Acceptance

  By Cormac Brown

  It was 1987. My mother was dead and I had been exiled to upstate New York to live with my grandfather for the summer. In a way, it was a relief. My father was so grief-stricken he could barely wipe his own ass.

  Unlike most old people, my grandfather didn’t like to talk about the past. When I asked him why he had left the family business in Queens to run a general store in a little town north of Albany, he just waved off my question.

  Before I got on the bus to Bumfuck, New York, my cousin gave me a present for the journey, a book about dealing with loss. I would have preferred a Walkman, but it was a long trip so I read the book.

  I can’t remember the book’s title, but I remembered the stages of grief when I saw my grandfather go through them in reaction to the news that a Megamart was going to be opening just down the street from his little store.

  Denial.

  The arrival of the store shouldn’t have been a surprise to my grandfather. It wasn’t like they built it in a day. But even after it was clear the new store would change everything, he clung to the notion that his customers would stick by him out of loyalty. “They’ll take care of me the way that I took care of them,” he told me.

  Anger.

  A guy named Brandt, the soon-to-be manager of the Megamart, came into my grandfather’s store and took pictures of his stock with a Polaroid camera while another guy made notes in his Day-Runner. They wanted to know what his prices were so they could undercut them. When my grandfather realized what they were doing, he was enraged. “This is not the way a man does business,” he told me. “In my old business, nobody woulda tried such a thing as this.”

  Bargaining.

  My grandfather went to the mayor, he went to the town council, he went to the town planner, he went to the building inspector, and he went to anybody he thought could stop the store from opening. They placated him with lies and promises and then they did nothing. They didn’t care if every business in town suffered; they were going to get their share via construction kickbacks, “special permits,” and other off-the-book “incentives.”

  Depression.

  I came home one night to find my grandfather sitting in the dark, drinking grappa, the Italian version of vodka. His eyes were brimming, so I went over and hugged him. His tears were wet on my shoulder.

  Acceptance.

  The next morning, he was back to his old self, a man with a plan. He took his dead brother’s driver’s license and applied for a job as a Megamart greeter. Brandt didn’t even recognize him. All old people look pretty much alike, I guess.

  When the store opened, people came from miles around, lured by the grand opening sales. It was so busy no one noticed the forklift that picked up the pallet of paper towels and hoisted them into a light fixture, where they caught fire. The sprinklers malfunctioned, which seemed like an unfortunate coincidence until the firefighters discovered all the hydrants were glued shut with industrial adhesive.

  All that was left of the store was one wall and the foundation.

  Brandt came into my grandfather’s store the next day, making wild accusations and raving about the loss of his job. I don’t know if you remember, but in 1987, jobs were as hard to come by as they are now, so Brandt had a good reason to come unhinged. My grandfather just smiled and held up a tape recorder. The reels were turning.

  When Brandt lunged over the counter at him, a customer ran outside to the nearest pay phone and called the cops.

  The fire was ruled an accident with suspicious circumstances. Megamart didn’t build another store there for nearly twenty years. My grandfather didn’t have much time to savor his victory, though, as he passed on the next year.

  One day I Googled my grandfather and finally found out why nobody ever talked about the “family business.” My grandfather had been something of a “fixer,” indicted often but never convicted of creating a certain kind of accident for a certain kind of client. If my grandfather had wanted to, he could have made it look like Brandt started the fire and then left Brandt dead in the ashes.

  The reason I can’t remember the title of that book about loss is because I gave it to Brandt as he was being escorted out of my grandfather’s store. I hope it helped him find his way to…acceptance.

  Aubergine

  By Fleur Bradley

  She called me at two in the afternoon on a Sunday, asking if I could give her a ride to Megamart. I said sure before I could think. If I’d thought about it, I would have remembered my vow to stay away from Brianna. She was bad for me. But I picked her up at her house, two on the dot, since that’s the kind of guy I am.

  Brianna got into my car, said nothing. She wore what looked like pajama pants, purple, with little japanamation panda bears doing deliriously happy cartwheels. I put my car in drive and, in the rear view, watc
hed the black cloud of doom I left behind. “So,” I said, feeling like my father, “what do you need at Megamart?”

  Brianna shrugged. “Printer paper. Shampoo.”

  I nodded. Pulled into traffic. Tried to think of something to say but came up short, as usual. We used to do this all the time, Brianna and I. She was fifteen, and I was a year older, with a license to drive us to Megamart when we got bored. Get a ninety-nine cent raspberry slushy at Subway on our way out. It never occurred to me that transportation was the only reason she hung out with me.

  Until Evan, The Boyfriend. He had a black Ford F-150 with tinted windows. Evan put an end to my chauffeur days, and I resolved (it was January first, so it seemed like a good time) to stop being Brianna’s errand boy. It was now June, and Evan had upgraded to McKenzie. So I was back on duty.

  I parked my rusty Ford Escort and waited for the engine to stop sputtering. Brianna got out before I did. We walked up, sort of together, Brianna dragging her flip-flops on the asphalt. I got a basket. Her curly brown hair was piled on top of her head, and I wondered if it took her a long time to get it to look that nice.

  “Let’s get the paper first,” she said without looking at me. The old greeter guy welcomed us.

  In the office aisle, she grabbed a pack of paper and tossed it in the basket. I had to grip the handles so I wouldn’t drop it. Brianna looked beaten. I followed her to Health and Beauty, trying not to slump under the weight of the value-pack of paper. Brianna walked ahead of me, down the shampoo aisle, where she lingered, studying the bottles, like it actually made a difference which one. Not that I cared. I enjoyed watching her profile, the way she mouthed the words as she read the bottles.

  “OMG,” I heard someone whisper. I turned and looked right at McKenzie. Blonde hair, mocking glare—how do girls get so good at those? I tried to shield Brianna from McKenzie’s evil stare, but it was too late. McKenzie’s clone friend’s eyes darted from McKenzie to Brianna, loving the drama of it all.