by Frank Zafiro
“It means a lot,” Rachel said, “but if you know Sam as well as I do, you know he’s got a sentimental streak. Especially for the people he knew coming up in the game. Sometimes he loses sight of one really important fact.”
“Which is?”
“A grifter’s gonna grift.”
The old lady’s smile vanished. Then she laughed, a high, bawdy cackle that seemed incongruous from such a genteel elderly woman. When she recovered and spoke again, the sweet Southern accent was gone, replaced by a harsh drawl that was pure trailer park. “God damn, Sammy boy, she’s not only pretty, she’s whip-smart, too. I like this one.”
Rachel arched an eyebrow at Sam. This one? she mouthed at him. He looked away as if he hadn’t seen.
The old woman stood up and stretched, the muscles and ligaments in her back popping like bubble wrap. She grimaced, then leaned over and extended a hand to Rachel. “Come on in the kitchen, hon,” she said. “Let’s talk about the peckerwood asshole we’re gonna take down.”
When Sam had first broached the subject, Rachel had been incredulous. “Raleigh?” she’d said. “You mean the one in North Carolina?”
He’d seemed nettled by her skepticism. “I don’t think there’s another one.”
She sat up in the bed and reached for a cigarette. “What the hell’s in Raleigh?”
“Aunt Sally.”
She frowned as she lit up. “I thought she was retired. Or dead.”
He shook his head. “Guess not. She sent me word a while back, while we were still setting up St. Louis. A nice juicy mark. Some rich asshole with a fetish for Civil War artifacts.”
She tilted her head and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “And I suppose she has some rare and priceless piece to sell him?”
He nodded. “That’s what she says. She says she’ll fill us in on the details when we get there.”
“And to what do we owe this golden opportunity?”
He shrugged. “We go way back, Aunt Sally and me. She was one of the first grifters I worked with. She taught me a lot. She said she’d heard we’d fallen on hard times.”
She put the cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed. “Hard times. That’s what she said.”
Sam looked away. “Yeah.”
She reached out, took his chin gently in her hand, and pulled him back around to face her. “So she knows about the contract out on us.”
He sighed. “By now, pretty much everyone in the game does.”
“And you’re okay with putting her at risk?”
“That’s her decision. She knows what she’s doing.”
“Like Finch?” Rachel regretted the words as soon as she said them.
Sam looked away. He was quiet for a moment. “She knows the risk,” he said.
Rachel didn’t reply immediately while she considered his proposal. Then she asked, “And it didn’t occur to you she might be setting us up?”
He shook his head. “No. Not Aunt Sally. She doesn’t have any reason to do any favors for anyone in Philadelphia. She hates them, actually. Goes back to the old Dixie Mafia days.”
“That’s ancient history, Sam.”
“Rachel,” he said soberly, “we’re talking about the South here. There’s no such thing as ancient history.”
CHAPTER TWO
“I hope you understand, Mr. Suddath,” the president of the college said. “It’s not that Peyton Community College isn’t committed to academic freedom…”
“It’s Doctor Suddath,” the man across from him interrupted, “and I understand perfectly. You can’t stand the negative publicity from the lying liberal press.”
There was a light sheen of perspiration on the President’s upper lip. “Well, it’s not as if you didn’t say some of these things. Such as—”
“Such as what?” Suddath broke in. “Such as that some slaves in the antebellum South were well cared for and devoted to their masters? Such as that some masters regarded their slaves as family members and that those slaves reciprocated the sentiment? Such as that some blacks served as soldiers for the Confederacy? These are all documented facts, Mr. Starnes. As set out in my doctoral dissertation.”
Starnes cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. That dissertation. We’ve come to realize that perhaps we didn’t, shall we say, examine that particular credential as we should…”
Suddath rose from his seat to his full five feet, three inches. “Let’s cut to the chase, sir. You’re firing me because my views of history don’t agree with the current politically correct media and academic environment.”
“Firing you?” the president looked aghast. “By no means. We’re merely—”
“You can’t fire me, Mr. Starnes. I have a contract. So you can expect to be hearing from my lawyers.” Suddath turned and stalked away.
“It’s Doctor Starnes,” the president called after him. “And my degree is from…”
Suddath didn’t hear the rest. He slammed the door behind him and pulled his phone from his suit jacket. The man he dialed picked up on the first ring. “It’s done,” Suddath said.
“You didn’t quit, did you?”
“No. But I can make the case that I’m being forced out for having politically incorrect views.”
“Good,” replied the man on the other side of the line. “We’ve already got the interviews set up, and the stories on the websites go live as soon as I hang up the phone. You’re going to be known nationwide by tomorrow evening.”
“Thank you. And you know that artifact we talked about?”
The voice on the other end of the line became guarded. “I do. You need to be careful about things like that. They could end up being embarrassments.”
“Not to worry, Mr. Hoffman.” Suddath assured him. “I’m not going to do anything to embarrass our movement.”
“See that you don’t.”
Hoffman’s tone rankled. “Now, you see here—”
The voice on the other end of the line had turned icy cold. “Our movement is ascendant, Doctor Suddath. This is our hour. But you are just another surfer on this wave. You could still wipe out.” Before Suddath could reply, the party on the other end of the line was gone.
At least he called me doctor, Suddath thought.
The fear of falling was always there. Always lurking. Always needing to be overcome. It’s why Fischer always asked for the highest floor available in every hotel in which he stayed.
He’d taken the “Do Not Disturb” hanger from the inside knob and hung it outside before fastening the latch. His suit coat went into the closet, carefully placed on the hanger. His shoes went beneath the coat in the closet. He walked over to the mini-bar and opened it. After regarding his choices, he pulled out a small bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He considered the ginger ale, but decided against it. Taking one of the plastic cups from the tray beside the ice bucket, he poured a finger of the rich amber liquid and looked over at the window. The drapes were pulled shut, a bright line of afternoon sunlight shining between them. The thought of fortifying himself with the whiskey first forced itself into his head, but he banished it, frowning with annoyance at his own weakness. After taking a deep breath, he opened the window. His jaw clenched involuntarily, teeth grinding together as he took in how high up he was. He felt the sensation of falling, the familiar icy terror twisting his guts. A child’s voice, his own, echoed in his head. No, Daddy, no…He stood there and took it, letting the fear pass through him. In a moment, he drew a deep breath and let it out before rewarding himself with the whiskey. The burn felt good as it went down.
He unzipped an outer pocket of his suitcase, pulled out the burner phone he’d bought at a convenience store outside of Fredericksburg, Virginia, and sat down on the bed, away from the windows. The party at the number he’d dialed from memory answered on the second ring. “Yo.”
“You know who this is?”
“Yeah.”
“Got anything for me?”
“Stil
l working on exact locations. They’re supposed to be meeting up with some old bitch who goes by ‘Aunt Sally.’”
“That doesn’t help me much.”
“Just be patient, bro. We’ll get you what you need.”
Fischer felt his anger rising. “Maybe you haven’t been filled in on the parameters of this particular contract, bro. I don’t hang around any place for long. So it’s a short window we’re working with. If I don’t get some clear intel, and soon, I’m gone. And our mutual employer loses his deposit.”
There was a short pause. “I don’t think I’d take our employer’s money and not give him what he wants if I were you.”
“Jesus, you really don’t know who I am, do you?” The man on the other end started to answer, but Fischer cut him off. “Twenty-four hours,” he said. “That’s the window. And that’s for telling me the location and doing the job. Hear me, bro?”
“Yeah,” the voice said. “I hear you. But I’ve got a message from our employer.”
Fischer sighed. “What is it?”
“He wants this to hurt. He wants these people made an example of. They took him for some cash, and tried for a lot more. He wants it known that that’s not something you do.”
Fischer couldn’t believe it. This fucking Guido was talking details like this over the phone? He was reasonably sure his burner was secure for the moment, but he couldn’t vouch for the other end of the line. If these idiots were this lax, it was no wonder the big boss nearly got taken by a pair of small time con artists. “Just get me an address,” he said, and broke the connection. He took a moment to look out over the city below. There was the usual bustle and automobile exhaust haze beneath him, but he could see more green space than he was used to in a city, even a Southern one. He silently lifted his plastic cup in tribute. City of Oaks, they called it, and even though they weren’t the Spanish-moss-draped live oaks he was used to from his hometown of New Orleans, it was a nice place. Still, there were two people down there Fischer was being paid well to kill. He was restless to get on with it.
CHAPTER THREE
The four of them—Sam, Rachel, Aunt Sally, and the man who’d been mowing the yard, who Aunt Sally introduced simply as “William”—sat around the kitchen table. The tea this time was poured over ice and flavored with generous slices of lemon. William was still dressed in his frayed, grass-stained khakis and a soiled white T-shirt. He downed half of his iced tea and sighed gratefully before opening the laptop computer on the table in front of him. After a few keystrokes and light touches of his large, callused fingers on the touchpad, he turned the laptop around. The screen showed a news story with the headline “LOCAL PROFESSOR CAUSES CONTROVERSY WITH SLAVERY REMARKS.” The photograph that accompanied the story showed a round-faced, balding man with the lines of what appeared to be a permanent scowl on his broad forehead.
Aunt Sally spoke up. “Professor Thomas J. Suddath.” Her face had lost its sweet, slightly addled expression. She looked as if she was about to spit. “Supposed to be some kind of expert on the Civil War.”
Rachel leaned forward to see the screen better. “A community college professor? That’s the mark?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Aunt Sally said. “But he’s got family money. Old-time money. And we’re going to take it from him.”
Something in her tone bothered Rachel. “You seem like you’ve got something personal against this guy.”
The good-natured mask dropped back into place. “Oh, no, hon. Nothing like that. It’s just business.”
Rachel wasn’t convinced, but she decided to keep it to herself for the time being. She took a sip of her tea and tried not to grimace. It was sweet enough to bring on diabetes.
“So, what’s the play?” Sam asked.
This time William spoke up. “He collects Civil War artifacts. Uniforms, old medals, buttons…”
“Buttons?” Rachel said. “Like clothes buttons?”
William nodded. “You’d be surprised how much a collector will pay for a uniform button in good condition.” He turned the computer back toward him and tapped on the keys. “Check it out.”
Rachel leaned forward again as he turned the screen to her. There was a selection of brass buttons lined up, some nearly pristine, others with slight tarnish and pitting. She looked at the prices. “Holy shit. Five grand? Really?”
“Really.” William shook his head. “Crazy, I know.” He grinned. “You white folks get stranger all the time.”
Sam looked dubious. “So, we’ve got a button to pass to this guy?”
“Something much, much better,” Aunt Sally said. “A sword.”
Rachel nodded. “If a button can net five thousand, I’m betting someone would pay serious cash for a sword.”
“Not just any sword,” William said. “This is the long-lost sword of Confederate General Thomas ‘Stonewall’ Jackson. Or that’s what we’re going to convince Professor Suddath.”
Aunt Sally smiled. “This guy’s a nut for anything to do with Ol’ Stonewall. Guess what his middle initial stands for.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “You’ve got our attention. Now how do we convince him?”
“Not us, Sammy,” Aunt Sally said. “You.” She picked up the pitcher and refilled his tea. “You’re about to become the local expert on Civil War swords.”
He picked up his glass and smiled. “Like the Savannah uranium shares game?”
“Something like that,” Aunt Sally nodded. “You still got the tweed jacket with the leather patches on the elbows?”
“I can get one.” Sam looked over at Rachel. “So, we in?”
She stalled for time by taking another sip of her own sickly-sweet tea. “I like it. But let’s talk.”
Sam frowned slightly, but turned back to Aunt Sally. “How soon do you need to know?”
She looked at Rachel appraisingly. “We’ve already made the first play. It’s time for the rope. We need an answer soon.” She stood up. “I made up the guest bedroom for you. Why don’t you go on up there and have a talk?”
Rachel stood as well. “We can give you an answer in just a bit. That okay?”
“Sure, hon,” Aunt Sally said.
“So what’s the problem?” Sam closed the door behind him. The room was small, nearly filled by the double bed with its faded quilt and embroidered pillow placed just so in the center of the carved wooden headboard. WELCOME FRIENDS, the motto on the pillow said.
Rachel sat on the bed. “I don’t know. Something just seems…off. For one thing, this Aunt Sally.” She shook her head. “For some reason, this seems really personal to her. It makes me nervous.”
Sam sat next to her on the bed. “She doesn’t like bigots, that’s for sure. And it looks like this guy fits the bill. Did you see the story about why he was in hot water?” When Rachel shook her head, Sam went on. “He apparently just published a book about how slaves before the Civil War were happy being where they were. And how slave owners always took good care of them.”
“Well, of course that’s stupid. But we’re in this for the money, right? Not to make some sort of point about racism.”
Sam shrugged. “Nothing says we can’t do both.” He put his arm around her. “We do kind of need a score right now, babe.”
She sighed. “I know. And this is important to you, isn’t it? You feel like you owe her.”
“I do. But I owe you more. If you say no, we don’t do it. We’re a team.”
She turned to him and kissed him. After a long, sweet moment, he broke the kiss and looked into her eyes.
“Strictly business?” she said.
“Strictly business,” he promised.
“Okay, then. Let’s get the rest of the tale.”
Aunt Sally was in the front parlor, seated in an easy chair. She looked up from the knitting in her lap, her eyes expectant. “Well, dears? What did you decide?”
“We’re in,” Sam said.
The old lady beamed.
“Excellent! Rachel, have a seat on the couch over there. Let me tell you what I have in mind.”
Click here to learn more about People Like Us by J.D. Rhoades.
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Here is a preview from The Bad Kind of Lucky by Matt Phillips, published by Shotgun Honey, an imprint of Down & Out Books.
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1
Remmie Miken heard the voices through the wall, two loudmouths shouting at each other in the studio apartment next door. Something about a skinny girl named Veranda and a used Dodge Charger with low miles. Remmie caught bits and pieces, put together that the girl was gone, but somehow the Dodge might still be around, maybe in Tijuana. Who-fucking-knew?
Thing was: Remmie couldn’t sleep.
Not with the shouting and the stomping and the constant back and forth about the goddamn car. Whether the girl and the car were in Tijuana or not, Remmie was tired after ten hours on fryer duty at Big Stop’s Roadhouse, a grease pit burger joint smudged beneath a freeway overpass on the outskirts of downtown. He worked six days a week and all he wanted—besides a timely fucking paycheck—was a few hours sleep before his next shift.
How to get some quiet in this rundown apartment building?
He started by banging his fist against the wall and smothering himself with a lumpy pillow.
The conversation coming through the wall was the scumbag version of the scientific method:
Could be the girl got picked up by the cops, no? Would have been out by now, that’s right. Okay, so she didn’t get picked up, but maybe the girl took the Dodge up north? What’d the raspy-voiced guy think? Well, he thought the skinny bitch was too lazy to drive herself. No, she maybe sold the car to a gringo down on the border, used the money for a flight to Mexico City. The Dodge had leather interior, a decent sound system. Some nice fucking rims.
