by John Kenyon
“Well? You forget or something? Where’d those fuckers go?” Yancy asked.
“I’ll tell you.”
“Damn straight you’ll tell us,” Jay said.
“If,” C.B. started and immediately felt the air in the room go electric. “You let me go with you.”
Neither of his bosses said anything. C.B. resisted the urge to take it back and spill the address or blurt out that the blackmail plan had all been Bobbi’s idea. His feet were begging him to run, but he kept them planted, waiting for a response and expecting a bullet.
Yancy and Jay exchanged a look. C.B. couldn’t tell if they were choosing who would be the one to kill him for insubordination or if they were agreeing to his plan.
“Okay. You’re in,” Yancy said.
C.B. smiled. His turn at the big dance had arrived.
These weren’t the kind of guys you could go hug and slap high fives with so he ran down the address and the lay of land around the house.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Jay said, his stare hard and unsentimental.
“You won’t. I mean I won’t. I mean…” C.B. swallowed hard. “It’ll be fine.”
Yancy and Jay seemed less than convinced.
Three days later C.B. sat behind the wheel of a car retracing the Subaru’s route. He had a hard time concentrating on the road because his body stayed focused on the 9mm tucked in his jeans.
Yancy and Jay had run down the basic ins and outs of the night’s work earlier and since they got in the car had said nothing. C.B. was bursting to talk about it. Wild speculations ran through his head. Fear one second, exhilaration the next. Always it came back to fear like petals on a flower—he loves me, he loves me not. They’ll kill me, they’ll kill me not, they’ll kill me…
The Subaru wasn’t parked out front but the lights were on. C.B. checked the dash clock before he got out—nearly midnight.
Yancy and Jay had silently slid guns into their palms.
“You got your head on, C.B.?” Yancy asked.
He nodded.
“We appreciate the extra body and the firepower but if you fuck up on this we’re all going down. Understand?”
He nodded some more. He resisted the urge to reassure them with steel tough bravado of his readiness for the job, the hours of rehearsal and devotion to the team. His proof was in the doing. After tonight, they’d see that.
Right away C.B. feared he’d fucked up royally. The door swung on broken hinges as the three gunmen aimed at an empty room. The trio stood like Charlie’s Angels waiting for someone to call action.
No Asians in sight. No piles of drugs or stacks of cash. Just a suburban living room with bad art above an out-of-date couch and a grandfather clock hugging the wall that ticked out a beat nearly as loud as the heartbeats of the three invaders.
A logjam of excuses crowded out any coherent thought from C.B.’s mind. Escape, apology, suicide and blame all fought to be the first idea to push through.
Sweat had never formed on C.B.’s lip faster.
Yancy dropped his gun down to his side, ready to chew out his young protégé. “C.B., what the f—”
Something like a cannon went off and Yancy’s chest leaked red. He slumped backward and hit the broken door jamb as a second shot erupted from the darkness of the hallway. Jay clutched his chest and fell, leaving a bloody spray from the exit wound on the wall behind him.
C.B. hit the decks. He spun on the floor only to find Yancy’s body like a threshold across the open doorway. C.B. could hop up and make a run for it but he risked getting gunned down like a carnival game.
Wanting to keep moving, he crawled forward and made for the couch. Barely over his own breathing he could make out footsteps coming down the hall and into the living room.
C.B. moved to the right around the couch and first heard feet then felt them through the floor as someone circled the couch to his left. He’d gained an extra few seconds of cover but someone upright, armed, and who could presumably do first grade math well enough to know there was still one more intruder to find, stood only a sofa length away.
C.B. seemed genuinely surprised to find the gun in his hand. How had it gotten there? Was he some sort of magician? Then he remembered the three of them in the kitchen choosing their weapons like an old-fashioned duel. C.B. had again reassured them of his readiness. They should have shot him in the kneecaps and left him behind. At the moment C.B. would have preferred that fate.
The proving is in the doing, he thought. I made it to the dance, no time to be a wallflower. So he stood.
The man he saw wasn’t what he expected. Not Asian at all. Across the couch stood a large, make that extra large, black man. A double XL gun in his hand and a XXXL scowl of hate and anger on his rocky face.
C.B. fired once, caught the gun hand. The big man didn’t scream at all. C.B. charged forward.
The cannon fell to the floor as C.B. reached the man. Up close and personal he recognized the deeply lined face. Wallace “WALL-E” Price. Chief competitor to Yancy and Jay and a man with whom they’d forged and uneasy cease-fire years ago.
Also apparently a man smart enough to know if he hired Asian dudes to run his business creeping into Y&J’s territory there would be no link to him.
Smart. And big.
So big C.B. couldn’t wrap his arms around him. He’d expected to take him down to the floor, knock him cold or shoot him dead, whatever the moment called for, then make his escape.
Instead, he stood grappling with the giant like they were dancing at a ball. Wallace pushed his thick hand into C.B.’s face, smearing blood from the gunshot wound across the dark skin.
C.B. resorted to playground fighting, swinging his legs to try for a crotch shot, banging his forehead into Wallace hoping to break his nose. Nothing worked.
Wallace locked eyes with the young brother. “Who the fuck are you?” C.B. didn’t feel like giving out his vitals right then.
They waltzed across the room, past the couch, past a side table, C.B. unable to lift his arm up to fire his gun.
As they struggled and turned they found themselves falling to the floor. Their progress had been halted by a lump on the carpet. Jay’s body.
Tripping over the nearly dead man sent them both down to an oriental rug. C.B. managed to fire a round but only succeeded in making a loud noise and a hole in his jeans from the muzzle flash.
The dance had turned to a Greek wrestling match. Wallace got his blood-slick hand up again to C.B.’s face. The giant nearly hooked a finger in his eye but C.B. thrashed away, spinning his head violently to avoid being blinded. He inadvertently put his ear in the big man’s hand and Wallace pinched down on the flap of skin and the diamond earring in the center.
C.B. made another try at bashing his forehead forward and this time caught Wallace’s nose square on. He also jerked his skull forward fast enough that the grip Wallace held on his ear tore away a piece of flesh, and a bit of jewelry as a bonus.
Not showing Wallace’s restraint, C.B. cried out in pain.
Like a live wire C.B. bucked and thrashed. Wallace loosened his grip as his nose throbbed and the prey in his arms became wilder and harder to clench with blood-soaked hands.
C.B. slid down the man’s belly and popped out of Wallace’s grasp, immediately ditching the gun and grabbing at his half an ear. He screamed his way out the door, passing by the quaint suburban grandfather clock chiming midnight as he left.
C.B. felt Wallace reach out to claw at his ankles, trying to keep him in the room. “I’ll find you, motherfucker,” C.B. heard as he reached the car.
C.B. landed back at Yancy’s place wondering how the hell his fortunes had gone to shit so quickly. Bobbi came fast-stepping out of the back pulling on a thin robe over her brown thighs.
“Yancy? What happened?”
She stopped when she saw only C.B. The way he crashed through the door signaled trouble and now the sight of his face, as pale as he’d ever been which meant only a shade lighter than oil,
and the smears of blood down the side of his neck from the missing earlobe gave off signs that things were worse than Bobbi could have expected.
“Bobbi, I’m sorry. It all went…fuck, it all went bad.”
She glanced over his shoulder through the open door checking for her brother and Jay. When they didn’t appear she knew better than to ask if they were ever going to.
C.B. hit the couch, slumped over and pressed hard against his ear, hoping the damn bleeding would stop and maybe if it did he could formulate a plan.
Bobbi went back down the hall, came out ten minutes later dressed and holding a suitcase.
“You best get going, too,” she said, but didn’t stop moving out the door.
C.B. knew where some money was hid. An operation like Yancy and Jay’s always kept around a decent amount of cash. Git-up-n-go money they called it. Might be enough to get a start. C.B. discovered that with the only world you’ve ever known suddenly off-limits the choice of where to begin again is a hard one.
Blood crusted around the missing piece of ear and caked like dried mud down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. Bits of it flaked off, dark and dry like his skin had been baked. His body felt pinned to the couch like someone had turned up the dial on gravity that day. He felt a rush of blood to his brain and knew it was moving too fast. A shutdown was coming. Even with his eyes closed he felt the world go black.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been on the couch, passed out. The door still hung open, Bobbi’s perfume had dissipated. C.B. thought of the money. He stood.
A figure filled the door. Wallace stared at him, his fist clenched around something more than just anger.
“I knew those two niggas you left on my floor.”
C.B. tensed in his gut, thought he might puke. Of course Wallace knew who they were and of course he knew where they lived. C.B. had spent the night proving, in bright neon signs, the reasons he wasn’t ready for a job like this one.
Wallace held up his closed fist, opened his fingers like a rose blossom—the red coating his hand made a beautiful bloom. Pinched between his thumb and forefinger was a small triangle of dark flesh and a diamond in the center.
“Shouldn’t leave a rock this big behind. Must be worth something.” C.B. opened his mouth but no words came out. For the second time that night his brain had become clogged with information. Wallace did all the talking. “Know what I think? Piece of shit must be glass.”
Wallace stepped forward slowly, no gun out, no knife. Only a rock-hard stare and a lifetime of putting down punks like C.B. kept the young man in his place. The way Wallace stared at C.B. as he advanced made him feel like he was being measured for a coffin.
Coal Black stood frozen, resigned to his fate. Never should have tried to dance with royalty. He belonged in the basement, soot on his face, sweat on his brow. A servant to the end.
Wallace held out the ear, reached forward and put it back where it used to attach to his body.
“It fits,” Wallace said.
C.B. watched as Wallace reached behind him and drew the gun from his waistband. The same cannon from before, still smelling of fresh gunpowder as Wallace rested it under C.B.’s nose.
C.B. closed his eyes, waited for the sweet ever after.
Sing a Song of Sixpence
By Nigel Bird
“Sing a Song of Sixpence” was first printed in 1744. Imagine that. In that version it was four-and-twenty naughty boys who were baked in the pie. As a rhyme, I found it impossible to resist when I first found out about John’s competition. Birds in pies, a king counting his ill-gained money, a nose pecked off and put back again; in short, all the rich ingredients to make a satisfying tale (or at least that’s what I’d hoped). Come and see what happens when the birds are released this time around. Wouldn’t it be great if someone was quoting this story 300 years from now?
Cargo.
Something moved from one place to another.
Doesn’t matter much what it is as long as it gets there.
Danny’s in the business of moving things. Enjoys the regular work and the chance to get out and about. Bags time in the sun and stacks of duty free. Even gets to try out the merchandise when he fancies.
If there wasn’t a downside, it’d be perfect.
Whatever spin you put on it, getting caught on the job would be a downside. That and having to work for Charlie “the arse hole” Wren.
Would have given it up if he hadn’t been reckless and fallen for the boss’s daughter.
But St. Chris has been good to him. Never had an accident and only got stopped at customs the time he had a flat tyre.
Knows his history and all, our Danny. Result of spending all that time poolside with his books. Understands that folk have been stealing people since time began.
It’s what made his country great. That and tea and football.
Knows about Liverpool, too. All those fine buildings fronting up the Mersey built on the blood of Africa.
Sing a song of sixpence a pocketful of rye
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie
He could see the Liver birds gleaming in the bright sunlight as he drove through the city centre. Cursed his luck that the air-con had packed up on the hottest day of the year.
Least he had a window to open.
Poor buggers in the back just had to suffer.
They must have been baking in there, but it wasn’t as if he could let them out for a stroll. Anyone got a whiff of what he was up to and they’d have him behind bars before you could say “Jack Robinson was a fag.”
Last he’d set eyes on them was in the Pyrenees. Let them stretch their legs, gave them water and emptied the buckets. Even bought them bread and cakes.
They certainly needed the fresh air. The stink in the back of the van was worse than the one under his duvet after a curry and a night on the piss.
“We have rights, Mr Dawson,” one of them had said. “We might be desperate, but we’re human beings. Human beings deserve better.” She was the feisty one of the group—someone took on the role every time. Not that it ever did them any good.
“I can take you back,” Danny said, not looking her in the eye. “Leave you on the streets. Drop you off at an orphanage if you like.”
Always shut them up, that one. Took the chirp from their mouths, it did.
He thought about the back of the van. Couldn’t bear to imagine what it would be like in there now. He reached for the flask in his pocket to change the record his mind was playing.
If he was pulled over, drink-driving would be the least of his worries.
When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing
Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king.
“Ready, Danny?” Ralph asked. He wasn’t but he nodded his head, pulled out the wall of ply and stepped back real quick.
Ralph and his mate turned the nozzles on the hoses and the water gushed into the van.
The girls huddled together, crossing their arms over their bodies to maintain what was left of their dignity. The feisty one stared back at them like they should be worried.
“Get laid?” Ralph shouted over the roar of the water and the high-pitched squeals of the girls.
“Too young,” Danny said. Ralph was sick. This lot were just girls. Danny turned his back and went off for a smoke and another sip from the flask.
The king was in his counting house counting out his money
Charlie Wren looked out of the window at the top of the tower.
Done well for himself, the lad. A mansion overlooking Sefton Park. Two gardeners, a chauffeur, a cook and a maid, not to mention a collection of Everton Football Club memorabilia that’s second to none.
All built on the blood of Africa, just like the city.
Danny could see him through the leaded glass. His big belly spilled out over the towel around his waist. In one hand he gripped the stub of a cigar, in the other a wad of cash.
“Clean ’em up good,” he shouted down.
“Don’t want to be catching nothing from the merchandise.”
Danny didn’t want to be around when the boss checked them out, jabbing his fingers into places they had no right to enter. “That’s enough,” he told Ralph and headed inside.
The queen was in her parlour, eating bread and honey.
Soon as he saw Jenny walking down the stairs, he got a hard on.
Driving long distances could do that to a man, nothing to think about but football and sex.
Helped that she looked good, skin glowing and skirt as tight as a condom on an elephant.
When she saw him she put a little extra into the sway of her hips.
The sultry smile on her lips expanded into a big grin and she dropped the plate she’d been carrying onto the floor. Three bounds and she was in his arms, legs wrapped around his hips.
She sucked hard at his mouth.
“Drinking already,” she said.
“Celebrating. Where’s your mum?”
“I’ve just taken up her toast. She’s still in bed.” How the other half lived.
“And your dad’s not dressed.”
“You getting ideas?”
“I’ve been having ideas all the way from Dover,” he said and walked her into the downstairs bathroom.
Locking the door behind him, he fumbled at her buttons while she pulled madly at his fly.
The maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes
“Danny.” Charlie Wren wasn’t far away. “Danny.”
Having her dad looking for him made it all the more intense. He pounded harder and quicker till he was done. Jenny bit into his shoulder to suppress the sounds of her joy.
The two of them collapsed into silent laughter and they straightened out their clothes before sneaking out.
“Danny.” His voice was coming from the conservatory.
“Yes, boss,” Danny called back.
“I’m ready,” he said.
Danny and Charlie headed out to the van where Ralph was supervising the merchandise, twenty-four girls sorting through a pile of clean clothes of assorted styles and sizes.
“You did good,” Charlie said as he looked over at his maid sorting out the laundry on the lawn.