Copernicus Janssen was his handle, the defrocked dentist from Halifax, Nova Scotia. He’d also, apparently, spent some time in Kingston because some of the Ontario guys called him the “Kingston Kook,” though not to his face. Back east, on the coast, story was he’d been chased out of town for being more interested getting blitzed on his own laughing gas supply, especially while patients were in the chair with their pie-holes hanging open. And he’d get his fingers all in their mouths and then begin one of his fiery longwinded rants about whatever was bothering him that day. The man could lay down the ol’ talky talk, no doubt. Plus, he could forge a hell of a scrip and knew the good drugs so a lot of my fellow drifters really liked to have him around. Bennies and devils never did it for me—I was more a caffeine and whisky kind of guy.
Janssen got right up to me, like he was apt to do, a professional invader of personal spaces. A few hairs shorter than me, he looked up and grabbed me around the shoulders and kneaded the flesh with powerful fingers in what was probably supposed to be a comforting embrace. It wasn’t. Also jarring was his breath. Here we were, living on the edge, in the muck, and he had the nerve to have fresh breath. But it was disturbingly fresh, a cloying peppermint scent that practically seared the inside of my nostrils.
“A splendid morning brings splendid company. Smell that beautiful air, my dear Fitch. Why, there’s a butterfly! Good day to you, too!” He removed his hands from my shoulders and crossed one over the other at the thumbs and mimicked a flying butterfly. Same with his breath, no matter how low down he got, and he’d been burrowing down into the soil for several years now, his fingernails were always in perfect condition. Not a hangnail or a dirty, unclipped pinky among them.
“What do you want, Janssen?”
“Want? What should I want, other than to take in this fine morning air, walk this fine Earth and pass the time with fine conversation?”
Right. It was Janssen’s world and we were all the players, the saps, the dumb rubes to his slick carny. And “fine conversation” always meant “captive audience for my lengthy, spirited diatribe about the blah blah blah and did I tell you about the blah blah blah.” “Uh, no thanks,” I said. “Gotta go.”
“Excellent, I understand completely. Places to go and people to see.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“But it is such a fine morning so why don’t I walk with you?” Janssen was determined not to take a hint. I shrugged and walked on. He kept pace. A few weeks back, he’d attached himself to me for a whole day, like a shadow in the desert sun and nowhere to find shade. “So exactly where are we going?”
Bluff called, I had to produce. Think, Fitch, think. Okay, I knew how to scare him off. I put on my best serious face and said, “To look for a job.”
He didn’t recoil in horror like I’d hoped. “Oh? I thought you’d already taken a position. Why, didn’t you storm out of camp a few days ago calling us all degenerate lowlifes and vowing to ‘start over,’ ‘get it right this time’ and ‘live a normal life?’”
He had me there, I did. Every blue moon the shroud of have-a-career-get-a-bank-account-take-some-responsibility would settle over me and I’d comb the job ads for a suitable opening, vowing to clean up my act once and for all. And I had a gift of the gab when it suited me and could often talk myself up in an interview, enough to get the job anyway. Maintaining it was another thing altogether. Like this last job: office work, 9-5. Basically take paper from that place and move it there. Which was fine now-and-then but every day? And from now until retirement? No thanks.
“I’m taking personal leave,” I said.
“Their loss, I’m sure,” said Janssen with a knowing grin.
“Undoubtedly,” I said, firing a knowing grin back. “But let’s stop agreeing, we might get wrinkles from all the smiling.”
“Couldn’t agree more, good sir, couldn’t agree more.”
Leave it to Janssen to have to win on a word count, too. He repeated everything. Probably thought it was folksy and inspired trust. Personally, it made me want to throw up but every mark had a different threshold. Because, yes, as it turned out, I was to be the mark that morning, painted with a big bullseye and ripe for the targeting despite my defensive strategy.
“Say, didn’t you use to sell encyclopedias while putting yourself through cavity college?” It irked Janssen like nothing else did if you didn’t wrap his former profession up in fancy cloths and place it on a golden altar and then bow down in front of it with the appropriate deference. So I made sure to do exactly that whenever possible.
“Well, I learned a sight more than how to fill cavities, let me tell you, Mr. Fitch, but, yes, I did spend several years flogging my volumes of wordy wares, educating the masses to all the wonders the world has to share.”
Jeez, a simple “yeah” was never enough for this guy. But I felt the position of the conversational sun changing. If I could get a tall building between it and me, get Janssen onto someone or something else, I might have a chance of losing my annoying shadow. A Janssen distracted was a Janssen disappeared.
“Must’ve been tough,” I said.
Janssen nodded. “There was many a day where my feet were worse for wear. The dogs were barking, as they say.”
“Nah, for your mind.”
He cocked his head and frowned. “Excuse me?”
“There you were tryin’ to fund your way though rotten molar school amongst all them preppy rich kids and you had to bring a knife to a gun battle to survive.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Books, Janssen. Who reads anymore? It’s all about the almighty glow of the television screen. You show up at their house, what were most of them doin’? Watching TV, right?”
“I suppose.”
“Sure, maybe an average Joe buys a set of A-Zs to look important but does he actually read them, when the screen can tell him everything he needs to know? TV is the new religion, mark my words.”
As we reached the end of the alley, I hope it’d mean we reached the end of the conversation. I got lucky. All of a sudden, Janssen had itchy feet, had to get going. He remembered he had irons in the fire and off he went, whistling a merry tune. Which was reason for me to whistle, too, and I gave my pathetic song a whirl before stopping mid-pfft. Wait a—
No.
No.
It couldn’t be.
I patted all my pockets.
Oh, it be.
Janssen, the rotten scoundrel, had lifted my 40 nickels.
Click here to learn more about 40 Nickels by R. Daniel Lester.
Back to TOC
Here is a preview from Tommy Shakes, a crime novel by Rob Pierce, published by All Due Respect, an imprint of Down & Out Books.
Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.
CHAPTER ONE
Tommy Shakes used to have a junk problem, that’s how he got his name. Still shakes sometimes, like it’s part of him now. This time he shivers, his glass falls from his hand and he hits the floor. Across the bar Eddie keeps taking care of customers. On Tommy’s side they leave him on the ground.
Guy on his left: “He’s an asshole.”
On his right: “Yep.”
And Carla, the kids, everyone knows he’s here. It’s night, he’s always here. Carla’s had to pick him up enough.
Tonight maybe he ain’t getting up. And who cares if he does? He’s a drunk. If he ever goes home to that pistol he bought for Carla and uses it on himself the world’s out an asshole. He’ll be missed—even assholes have friends—but the people who miss him won’t matter as much as the people who won’t. The people who’d have loved him if he lived right—that’s the fucking problem. He might as well be dead.
He knows it but sits up on the barroom floor anyway.
“You okay?” Eddie says. “You can’t be doin’ that in here.”
Tommy looks up. “Not drunk. Maybe sick.”
Says it like he’s about to puke. He stands, shaky. Early evening but some of the crowd is like this by now. Of course, they’ve been here a while. He’s only been here a few minutes.
He looks serious at Eddie, grabs his beer glass tight, sits on his stool. “Got somethin’ for me?”
“After that?” Eddie shakes his head. “I worry about you, Tommy. You seen a doctor? Doin’ anything besides drink?”
“Just the booze, Eddie. You my doctor. And I need work. Iron out shit at home with that.”
“You never struck me as a money problems guy.”
Someone down the bar needs a drink. Eddie walks away.
Tommy sits quiet a minute, drinks his beer, finishes it a couple minutes later and waves to Eddie.
Eddie comes back and Tommy taps the top of his glass. “It don’t gotta be the world, Eddie. Any kinda thing.”
Eddie picks up the glass, talks as he turns away. “I’ll look, but I gotta see you straighter ’n this.”
“I’ll go home, rest up. You see me in a couple days, I’ll be fine. I’m never like this.”
Eddie shakes his head, sets Tommy’s filled glass on the bar. “Seen you like this before.”
“I’m not on nothin’. Must be sick, I don’t know. Find me somethin’, Eddie. I don’t get somethin’, Carla’s gonna kill me.”
“You don’t look good, Tommy. I got no work for men fallin’ down.”
“Thanks, Eddie. Back in a couple days. You’ll see.” Tommy stands.
“You gotta understand—guys gonna hear about this. You’re already on probation. Not the usual kind; the kind where no one trusts you on a job. Anyone takes you on, they gonna test you first.”
Tommy’s behind his stool, on his way out. “I know.”
“Sure,” Eddie says, “but you don’t know how they gonna test. The man starts the fight don’t get to make the rules.”
Thing he wouldn’t tell Eddie, it wasn’t just the money with Carla. How he made it pissed her off too.
“You got this way you gotta live,” she said, “this guy you gotta be. Don’t matter it don’t work with me or Malik. You’re this guy who lives wild, drinks too much, does anything for money. I know you quit junk, that’s good, but you didn’t quit the life. Didn’t quit being that guy.”
She said it like he could just change and be some other guy. A thing women never see as their fault—he was the guy she met, and now she wanted him to change. Like he’s her fucking hairstyle.
Tommy sits alone on the couch, TV low so it won’t wake Carla or Malik. Glass in his hand, fifth of bourbon on the table in front of him. It’s night and they’re asleep even though it ain’t late. Except for them.
His gut churns, hurts. Been like that a lot lately. He still loves Carla and it feels like she still loves him. He can’t give up, they just love different. She said he only wanted sex. She was beautiful, who wouldn’t? Thing is she’s pissed at him and they ain’t fucked in a long time.
I’ll get good work again, he thinks. Takes a drink. Bring the money home, make you proud. That’s what he’s always been good at, what worries him now. She works too, has to. He always makes money, but he always blows it. And she’s the one talks to Malik; the boy barely looks at him. It feels like she stole their son from him.
“You only talk about you,” she said. “You never ask about us.”
He knows, can’t change what’s already done. Just trying to fix what comes. Don’t like what’s coming.
He feels Carla wake beside him. No reason for him to get up. “Got work comin’,” he says, his eyes open enough to watch her rise. His hand goes toward her bare shoulder but she’s already out of bed.
She stands over him, don’t look his way. “Same kind of work?”
“It pays. It helps.” Knows he shoulda never opened his mouth.
“A real dad,” she says, steps away. “A real husband.” She grabs clothes from the closet and steps toward the bathroom. She’ll change in there, where he won’t see. “Would really help.”
She enters the bathroom, shuts the door behind her. She’s gonna be a while, spends all her money on lotions. Calls them her ablutions, whatever the fuck that means. She looks great, so fine. But she’s supposed to look great for him, not the world. Fuck the world.
He wishes he never woke up. Lies awake, eyes closed. Waits for her to leave the bathroom. To leave the house. Can’t stand to think of her smooth brown back and those perfect little tits. Wants to be inside her and she don’t care. He’s been wrong too many times, lied too many times, somehow talked her out of leaving so far. By now it’s just about Malik. She wants him to be a better dad, she’s told him that enough. This is his last chance for that. He’s blown his last chance at everything else.
She’ll take Malik to school when she leaves. When they’re gone he’ll get up, cook a ton of bacon with a big omelet and toast and lots of coffee. He don’t like to cook but that shit’s easy, easy to clean up too, then she won’t bitch about that. Some day she’ll take Malik for good. His only hope is a job that pays enough money she stops complaining how he makes it.
He wants her here forever but if they ain’t gonna fuck he wants her gone now. Not forever but now. So he can load up on fuel without looking at her, then go see Eddie and get work. Something where he can do good so he gets the big job next time. He needs the big job.
Seems like she’ll never leave the fucking bathroom.
Eddie’s a regular guy, works days at the bar so he can take real work when a night job comes. Mostly he sets stuff up, takes a piece of all that. But muscle work? He’s a natural. Don’t like the risk is all. Don’t mind so much when the money’s right. It’s early and ain’t many guys at the bar yet. He leans against it waiting for whoever comes. Like he’s showing off the knuckles on his big hands, knuckles grown from all the times they broke. Hitting faces and anything else in the way.
Tommy pulls up a stool. “Hey, Eddie.”
“Hey. The usual?”
“Just beer.” Before Eddie pours a shot with it. “Lookin’ for work. Hear anything?”
Eddie grabs a pint glass, turns his back to fill it. Sets it in front of Tommy, a five’s already on the bar. Eddie looks at it.
“Whole lot more for you when you get somethin’ for me.” Tommy drinks.
Eddie picks up the five, looks side to side. A bar lifer down either end, too far away to hear. Lowers his voice anyway. “I get five. You make at least two large, easy work. That’s all I know about the job, all I wanna know. Serious work, Tommy.” He drops to a whisper. “Fuck it up and I give him you, your wife, your kid on a fucking platter.”
Tommy takes a short drink from his beer, looks up at Eddie. “Business always serious, Eddie. Why I ain’t dead.”
Eddie grabs a scrap of paper from under the register, sets it next to Tommy’s beer, hands him a pencil. “Gimme your number. He calls you.”
Tommy has a couple beers and leaves, his gut fucking killing him, like he might explode. Can’t wait ’til he’s healthy though, Carla could leave before then. Don’t know when the job is, gotta be sober when his phone rings. It’s in his pocket and it’s charged. Two large ain’t a ton of money but enough to be legit. And if he gets it soon, proves his worth, something bigger next.
He walks outside. Afternoon in the city, it’s safe. This part of town anyway. Hears that ringtone that came with the phone, but he walks through crowds and it’s always someone else’s. Keeps walking. Life’s good, work’s gonna be good, he’s gonna get Carla back, he fucking knows it. She loves him or she’s already gone no matter what else is going on. That’s how women work.
How he works? There’s always someone needs a hand. If it sounds clean, he does it. Sounds messy, he says no. Agrees with Carla on that one—no time to serve time. He has a wife and kid to impress, and they can’t hate or ignore or have pity on him.
Morning’s gone and he’s still walking. He was with Eddie less than an hour. It’s t
hree or four in the afternoon, breakfast has worn off. He steps into a pizza place.
“Pepperoni. Four slices.” Two at this place would be a large meal for most. Tommy’s always topped out at three. Sick as he’s been, he should probably stop at two. “And a large Coke,” he says when the slices arrive.
He takes a table for two, throws spicy peppers all over every slice. Don’t know what that shit’s called but it’s good. Late for lunch and early for dinner, the place ain’t crowded, no one sits near him. Good. Fuck people.
Almost done with the third slice, his phone rings.
“Yeah.”
“We gon’ meet before we work together.”
“Yeah.”
He gets a time, an address. He finishes his pizza.
“Tommy.” Skinny guy he don’t know sits at a back corner table outside, faces the street, the only way in. “Siddown.”
Tommy never saw the guy before but he sits, faces him. “What’s your name?”
“Not how this works. I tell you the deal. Take it, you know me. Don’t, you don’t.”
Tommy stands. “I’m gettin’ a beer. Need anything?”
Skinny taps the side of his coffee cup without looking at it. “I’m good.”
I’m not, Tommy thinks as he steps inside. Not even tryin’ to get good. More like a junkie, tryin’ to get well. Maybe a beer settles his rumbling gut. And if things don’t work out, get fucked up again.
Twenty feet inside the front door a fridge houses shelves of bottled beers. Tommy grabs one. He could use a couple slugs before he talks to this guy. He reaches the counter, eight people ahead of him in line. He angles his beer bottle and pops the cap off the edge of the counter, drinks as the cap hits the floor. No one says shit. People in a place like this don’t even wanna look at a guy like him.
The bottle’s half empty when he reaches the register. “Just the beer,” he says.
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