Pulp Ink

by Eric Beetner; Chris F. Holm; Matthew C. Funk; Richard Godwin; Reed Farrel Coleman; Allan Guthrie; Hilary Davidson; Gary Phillips; Nigel Bird; Chris Rhatigan

  “Is not with weapon,” he said with a snort, turning to his boss. There was little doubt in my mind that Sergei was simply a flunky and on the regular payroll. I didn’t say it aloud, but I thought the choice of a stooge reflected badly on Yuri’s judgment. Having a guy’s back sometimes meant more than being a tough guy and if Yuri’s needs stretched much beyond patting people down, he was shit out of luck with Dancing Bear.

  When they were done with me, it was my turn to frisk both of the Russians. Christ, there hadn’t been this much feeling up in Brooklyn since Candy DiNardo’s parents went on a cruise and she invited everyone in the sophomore class at Lincoln to her house for a make-out party in her basement. That was the night I got my hand under Susan Maestro’s bra and touched a hardened nipple for the first time. Man, that was a feeling I would never forget.

  “Why you smile like idiot?” Sergei asked.

  I was awfully tempted to say something about mirrors and Sergei’s familiarity with smiling idiots, but I kept it to myself. “Just thinking about a girl from a long time ago.”

  “Ah, a sad romantic,” said Yuri. “You are Russian?”

  “Ukranian Jew. My people were from outside Kiev.”

  “Me too, from the Ukraine. Odessa,” he said.

  “The Black Sea, huh?”

  Yuri flashed that smile again, warmer still this time.

  “How about Sergei?” I asked. “Odessa too?”

  “No. Is Russian born in Chechnya. Strong like bull. Dumb like ox. Loyal like dog.”

  “Ex-cop?”

  “Very good, Mr. Moe. Yes, Sergei was cop in Grozny, but he was greedy. He got caught selling weapons to the Muslims.” Yuri wagged his tapered index finger. “Very bad offense. The Muslims will rise up when Soviet Union crumbles. Lucky for him, he saved my brother’s life in gulag.”

  “Loyalty works both ways.”

  “To a point, yes.” Yuri looked at his Swiss watch. “Spider is not late, but…”

  “No,” I said, looking at my own. “He will be here exactly on time. It’s Spider’s way.”

  As I said it, I realized I had once again underestimated Spider. That I was here as much to put Yuri at ease as I was to act as a second or to provide security. My guess was that Spider knew all along about Yuri being Ukrainian and that once we got talking, Yuri would find out about my heritage. I was meant to be a kind of calling card for Spider, a preview of how he did business. My being here would show his potential partner how thoughtful and rational Spider was, that he considered his choices and acted wisely and in everyone’s best interests. My being here would prove more about Spider’s worth than any sales pitch. When he finally walked in, Spider’s job would already have been half finished. He would just need to close the deal.

  Then there was a sharp rap at the glass door of McGee’s and the four of us – the barman, Yuri, Sergei, and me – turned to look. And fuck me if it wasn’t the last call girl.

  “Let me in,” she said, her desperate voice muted by the glass. “Let me in, I forgot my bag. Let me in, please.” She kept rapping on the glass with the underside of a thick ring. “I’ve got my house keys in there. Let me in.”

  The barman dipped under the service bar and moved to the door. The keys were in the lock, but he turned back to us for a thumbs up or thumbs down.

  “Tell the bitch, no.” Sergei said. “Go ’way!” He waved at her and shouted.

  That did it. She started crying those lonely heart tears and the pounding on the door got louder and more frantic.

  “Let her come,” Yuri said. “Let her come.”

  Even as the bartender turned the key, I got that sick feeling in my belly. I didn’t know what it was about, but I knew something was wrong. As he pulled the door back to let her in, I went over in my head everything that had happened since I walked into McGee’s. The barman dipped back under the service bar. He reached down and came up with a too-large black leather bag. Fuck! That was it, I thought. She didn’t have a bag.

  “Run,” I screamed, as I dove behind a table. “Run!”

  But it was way too late for that. The last call girl had already stuck her hand in the bag and come out with a .40 Beretta. Sergei went first, his white shirt dyed red with his own blood to match his crimson leisure suit. Her second shot caught him flush in the face and the back of the rotten peach exploded. Dancing Bear would dance no more. Then it was Yuri’s turn. He too had taken cover behind a table, but with the hollow point ammo she was using, he might as well have hidden behind a wall of papier mache. I didn’t so much see Yuri go down as I heard it. The last call girl calmly walked over to where he’d fallen, took aim and redecorated McGee’s plank flooring with Yuri’s viscera.

  I peeked over my useless cover to watch her turn the Beretta on her accomplice and blow the barman away. She wouldn’t need to waste a second bullet on him. I heard her heels clickety-clack on the floor as she strolled toward me. Funny, I didn’t think about my wife Katy or Sarah my daughter. I didn’t think about much of anything except Susan Maestro’s right nipple hardening to the clumsy touch of my fingers. Not sure if I was breathing, I closed my eyes and waited.

  “Better get out of here, Moe, and take this,” said the last call girl, pushing an envelope into my right hand. “The cops will be on scene in less than two minutes and my employer won’t approve of them finding you still here.”

  I didn’t have to be told twice. I was smart that way.

  Ten blocks away, I could still hear the sirens. It sounded like half of the precincts in Brooklyn responded to the call. I pulled to the curb under a street lamp and opened the envelope. There were ten crisp thousand dollar bills folded into a sheet of lined paper. All the note said was this:

  Just golf, Moe – risk versus reward. Hope the money is thanks enough.

  Don’t worry, you’re safe.

  I drove to the nearest Catholic church I could find and put the cash, all of it, into the collection box. In spite of his talent for laundering money, Spider wouldn’t’ve been able to get the blood stains off those bills with all the chemicals in the world. He was right about me being safe, though for months afterwards I paid an awful lot of attention to people walking up behind me on the street. It was silly really. I’d been around long enough to know that if it was coming my way, I would never see it coming.

  I never saw Spider again, not alive, anyway. About a year after the thing at McGee’s, they found pieces of him in plastic garbage bags in Sheepshead Bay, the Gowanus Canal, and the lake in Prospect Park. Some parts they didn’t find at all. Now Humpty Dumpty had someone to keep him company. I went to the funeral, but hung back. I wasn’t in a reunion-with-his-family type of mood. A man came and sat down in the same pew as me, a few feet to my left. He was very well dressed and appointed and there was something vaguely familiar about him. After a while, I couldn’t help but sneak glances at his profile. His face was like a word on the tip of my tongue. I knew it, but I couldn’t quite place him. Then he turned to me and spoke in a thick Russian accent.

  “You knew this Spider?”

  “I did,” I said, placing the face. This man looked like an older, rougher version of Yuri. His brother, I thought: the one from the gulag. “Did you know him?” I asked, trying not to lose my breakfast there in church.

  He smiled a frostier smile at me than his brother had managed. “Yes, we had business together.” He spit on the floor and twice brushed his palms across one another in disgust. “Now business is done.”

  He stood and left without looking back. I followed his lead and didn’t look back.

  -

  Called the noir poet laureate in the Huffington Post and a hard-boiled poet on National Public Radio, Reed Farrel Coleman has written thirteen novels. He is a three-time recipient of the Shamus Award for Best PI Novel of the Year and has twice been nominated for the Edgar Award. He has won the Barry, Macavity, and Anthony awards as well. He was the editor of the short story anthology Hard Boiled Brooklyn and co-editor of the poetry journal The Lineup.
His short fiction, essays, and poetry have appeared in Wall Street Noir, The Darker Mask, The Long Island Quarterly, and Crimespree Magazine. Reed is an adjunct professor of English at Hofstra University and lives on Long Island with his family.

  Jack Rabbit Slim’s Cellar

  The $5 Mil Hak

  By Jodi MacArthur

  Elvis sang. High heeled shoes and flats drummed in harmony across a high waxed floor. My head ached. My balls ached more. A bullet dug into my ass, making my sitting experience an uncomfortable one. I kept a special utensil in my sleeve for occasions like this. Lesson learned from ’89, the Red Iron Waffle. Unfortunately, Hank Rinks remembered the Red Iron, too. His goons checked my sleeves first thing.

  She said, “You don’t appreciate the opportunities I’m offering.”

  It was dark. I could see her silhouette against the faint electric sign on the far wall providing the only light in the room. It said, $5 Milkshake!!! Only, most the bulbs had gone out. So it said, $5 Mil hak !

  I said, “You mean opportunities you keep shoving up my nose? I ain’t a pig. I can’t smell a fuckin’ thing.” I could hak this broad for $5 Mil or 5 bucks or a nickel for that. A roar of laughter surged upstairs. A loud round of applause followed, quieted. Elvis sang “Hard Headed Woman.”

  “Come on. Sniff again.” She leaned forward with the mysterious objects, smelling curiously liked the candy aisle at Quickie Mart.

  “I’m sick of doin’ this.”

  She leaned back and put the objects back in her purse, her chair creaking just slightly. She was slim, that much I could make out. My imagination filled in the blanks and I’d already told her so.

  “What makes you think I’m wearing polka dots?” A cigarette lit up. She blew smoke in my face.

  “Give me one of those and I’ll tell you.”

  “No.”

  Hell is being forced to sniff and resniff Bubblicious by a strawberry blonde with polka dot silk attire while strapped in a metal chair with a bullet in your ass under the twist contest delirium in Jack Rabbit Slim’s cellar. My name is Carl Moody. And I want a cigar.

  I said, “Stop horsin’ around little girl and give me a God damn cigarette. Or a cigar if you got one.”

  “Ohhh, Moooody. Ain’t cha a big fella? Cigar. Does a girl like me look like I’d have a cigar?”

  “How would I know? It’s darker in here than the wad of gum stuck to the bottom of my boot.” I lifted my foot to show her, then groaned. The bullet had dug in deep, fast.

  “Gum!” she said. “Now we’re talkin’, Moody. You know, Hank said to keep an eye on you. But I get awfully bored. And –”

  As she chattered on, my mind set to gnawing at the same thing it’d been at all day. How did they find out about my jewel stash? I’d wondered what she knew. I heard rumors Hank Rinks had a kid sister. I’d also heard his little sis had a couple loose marbles. I glanced at her again. Wait a minute. Did she just say she was gonna let me go? I tuned back in.

  “And I told you, if you could guess what the mysterious objects are. I’ll let you go free.”

  “Right. And I’m sure big brother would just love it if you let the biggest, baddest catch of the week go like that.” I tried to snap my fingers for emphasis. Unsuccessfully. My hands were tied tighter than a hog’s legs at a redneck rodeo. Where was the trust? They must have heard of my past escapes. I felt a bit better. Inflated.

  She said, “More like catch of the day. No. Hour.”

  Deflated. “Whatever.”

  “Hank said he’s got business to attend to in Atlanta and that you ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He thinks I got marbles rollin’ around in here.” She pointed at her head. “But I’m pretty good at figurin’ things out. And I know you ain’t half as lame as he says you are.”

  “Thanks.” I nodded.

  “Sure.” She nodded back, and flicked cigarette ash on the floor.

  I glanced around. “Say, why is it just you and me down here, anyway? Where’s the other two fellas? The one that –”

  “That shot you in the ass and kicked you in the berries? They’re upstairs. Their wives insisted on coming. The twist contest is tonight, you know.”

  “Let’s Twist Again” blared from the speakers upstairs as if on cue.

  I rolled my eyes. “What’s your name, little girl?”

  “My name’s Shasta Star and I ain’t that little.”

  I laughed. “Shasta Star. What the hell kind of name is that. You gonna run away with the circus?”

  She leaned forward, took the cigarette out of her mouth and whispered, “Exactly. See? Coincidence and opportunity.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Does that earn me a drag?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  She touched the cigarette to my lips. I took a long drag. It relaxed my shoulders and temporarily relieved the throb in my ass, although a different, familiar ache stirred in my groin. I said, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “You guess what I’m holding up to your nose: A, B, C, and the especially mysterious object D. That will prove coincidence. Next will be opportunity. I will give instructions how that will play out.” She leaned close. I could smell the shampoo of her imagined strawberry blonde hair. Coconuts and lime.

  Let’s twist again like we did last year! played on upstairs. A round of applause rang out. Shasta Star cocked her head up to listen. I could see the perfect profile of her delicate nose and full pouty mouth in the soft glow of the $5 Mil hak ! neon light.

  “And if opportunity plays out?”

  “You go free and I join the circus. You’re on your own from there.”

  In the light off to the right of her shoulder, I saw her reach into her purse and pull something out. I’d recognize that shape anywhere.

  “What the fuck?” I jolted back in the metal chair. It scraped against the floor.

  “Take it easy, Moody. This here’s your destiny.”

  “Destiny sounds like a sappy love song.”

  I froze as she slipped around my chair, teased the instrument down my spine to the knot. My hands broke free. She laid the blade on my thigh.

  “Why don’t ya dig that bullet out like they do in those bad boy pulp books while we conduct our séance of fate.”

  “Not sure about séance of fate, don’t that include dead people? But, I can do coincidence and opportunity. Gotta hand it to you Miss Shasta Star. Wham. Bam. And thank you, ma’am.” I laughed and rubbed my wrists, thought about jumping up to make a go of it. She was little. No match to what I’ve gone up against before.

  I heard a gun cock. “I wouldn’t be so… self assured. Just yet.” She placed the gun where her dress dipped between her thighs.

  Not out of the fire, but I had a chance. I’d played this game many times before. The rules were simple. We both wanted something. In this instance, I wanted my life. What did Miss Shasta Star want?

  “Moody.” She grabbed her purse off the floor and sat it on top of the gun on her lap, pushing it deeper, closer to that sweet spot.

  “Yeah?” Was it getting hotter? I had to set the knife down to wipe the sweat off my hands.

  “Before, we begin with our séance of fate. I need one more thing from you.”

  “What’s that?” Here it was. The rules. The clincher. What was Shasta Star after?

  “A place to hide. You see it’s Tuesday. The Flying Unicorn Circus won’t be leaving town until Thursday night. I’ve arranged to go with them, but I can’t take the chance of hooking up with them until the night they leave. If I let you go tonight. I’ll need somewhere to hide, somewhere where my brother or his baboons won’t find me two whole days until –”

  “Until they leave town.”

  “Exactly.”

  I clenched and unclenched the knife handle. Desperation was in her voice. It made sense. And yet something was up. But what did it matter? Nothing mattered if I didn’t have my life. Hank pried me outta the underground like a pearl from oyster. Only I ain’t purty as a pearl. I’ve been heisting jew
els for years. I knew it was only a matter a time before either the mob or the cops caught up and bit me in the ass. I should have quit two years ago. But I craved the thrill of the grab and chase. No one could catch me, and if they did, I was like a shadow and slipped right out of their grasp. I was also a greedy bastard. Millions in diamonds, rubies, and dough sitting like a good dog in a place no one would ever think to look. If I’d learned anything, it was not to be a patsy like Uncle Jack.

  “So?” She tilted her head to the side. I imagined strawberry blonde curls floating. I could smell them.

  “There’s a small garage at the back of my property. It’s got a chair and some bottled water.” I’ve had many hiding places through the years. That was my first.

  Shasta giggled. “Are you kidding me, Moody? You and I both get away from Hank’s boys, that’ll be the first place they look.”

  I ran the blade of the knife along my arm. It was sharp. Deadly sharp. I had a feeling Shasta knew about the place already.

  “Yeah? Check this out. My grandma. Old gal. Still alive. She lives on the other side of town, on Spring Meadow Street. Ya know where that is?”

  “Sara’s Café?”

  I smiled. Good coffee. “Yeah. That’s the one. You been there before?”

  She nodded. “Good coffee.”

  Quiet. We both were thinking it. Coincidence.

  “Anyway. She lives right across from the elementary school where there’s still a patch of old growth trees. In the middle of the trees, is an old tree house. You’ll be safe there for a couple of days.”

  I couldn’t see it, but I think Shasta smiled. She pulled something out of her purse and unwrapped it in the light. “Now we’re getting somewhere, Moody. I want you to close your eyes.”

  The fuck I was going to close my eyes. She leaned forward and waved something under my nose. It was sorta spicy and shit. She took it away.

  “Now. Guess what it is.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Guess what I waved under your nose just now. Go on, use your sense of smell.”