by Ryan Sayles
By Dana Cameron (editor)
Murder at the Beach: Bouchercon Anthology 2014
By Eric Campbell (editor)
Down, Out and Dead
By Stacey Cochran
Eddie & Sunny (TP only)
By Mark Coggins
No Hard Feelings
By Tom Crowley
Viper’s Tail
Murder in the Slaughterhouse
By Frank De Blase
Pine Box for a Pin-Up
Busted Valentines and Other Dark Delights
A Cougar’s Kiss (*)
By Les Edgerton
The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping
By A.C. Frieden
Tranquility Denied
The Serpent’s Game
The Pyongyang Option (*)
By Jack Getze
Big Numbers
Big Money
Big Mojo
Big Shoes
By Keith Gilman
Bad Habits
By Richard Godwin
Wrong Crowd
By William Hastings (editor)
Stray Dogs: Writing from the Other America
By Matt Hilton
No Going Back
Rules of Honor
The Lawless Kind (*)
By Naomi Hirahara, Kate Thornton & Jeri Westerson (editors)
Ladies’ Night
By Terry Holland
An Ice Cold Paradise
Chicago Shiver
By Darrel James, Linda O. Johsonton & Tammy Kaehler (editors)
Last Exit to Murder
By David Housewright & Renée Valois
The Devil and the Diva
By David Housewright
Finders Keepers
Full House
By Jon Jordan
Interrogations
By Jon & Ruth Jordan (editors)
Murder and Mayhem in Muskego
Cooking with Crimespree
By Andrew McAleer & Paul D. Marks (editors)
Coast to Coast
By Bill Moody
Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz
The Man in Red Square
Solo Hand
The Death of a Tenor Man
The Sound of the Trumpet
Bird Lives!
By Gary Phillips
The Perpetrators
Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes (editor)
Treacherous: Griffters, Ruffians and Killers
By Gary Phillips, Tony Chavira, Manoel Magalhaes
Beat L.A. (Graphic Novel)
By Robert J. Randisi
Upon My Soul
Souls of the Dead
Envy the Dead (*)
By Rob Riley
Thin Blue Line
By Ryan Sayles
The Subtle Art of Brutality
Warpath
By John Shepphird
The Shill
Kill the Shill
By Anthony Neil Smith
Worm (TP only)
All the Young Warriors TP only)
Once a Warrior (TP only)
By Liam Sweeny
Welcome Back, Jack
By Art Taylor (editor)
Murder Under the Oaks: Bouchercon Anthology 2015
By Lono Waiwaiole
Wiley's Lament
Wiley's Shuffle
Wiley's Refrain
Dark Paradise
By Vincent Zandri
Moonlight Weeps
(*) Coming soon
Back to TOC
Here’s a sample from Eric Beetner & Frank Zafiro’s The Backlist.
ONE
Bricks
Getting in to see the old man used to be easier.
Actually, it was even easier to get face time with his old man, but I guess it isn’t really fair to make comparisons. I was still wearing pigtails and a training bra when Saverio was the boss. Not exactly a major security threat. Add to that the fact that I was always with my pops, who Saverio trusted in more ways than one, including with his life.
So I guess I shouldn’t judge Salvatore too harshly. He inherited the big chair at a time when any pretense of omerta was out the door, and when the family started making sure its soldiers remained loyal through pretty simple means: if you turned rat, they killed your whole family. It was old school Sicilian. It was harsh. And it was effective. There wasn’t a single made guy who turned state’s evidence in the decade Sal’s been the boss. So that’s something ya gotta respect.
Still, getting through the gauntlet of doors and sides of beef wearing cheap suits just to see him was a pain in the ass. And he summoned me. It’s not like I was just showing up trying to sell magazine subscriptions.
Finally, I made it into the waiting area outside his office. Bruno Taggliarti stood next to the door, his giant arms crossed over his chest. He looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and disdain, two words I’d be impressed if he knew.
“Be a minute,” he grunted at me.
I shrugged and took a seat. As if he knew the old man’s schedule anyway. Besides, I knew there was a pin-sized camera just above the door. When Sal was ready for me, his consigliere, Max, would come out and get me. Bruno would get the news same time I did.
The waiting area was quiet for a few moments except for the sound of Bruno’s labored breathing. Christ, I’d hate to hear what he sounded like after doing anything strenuous, like opening a door or reaching down to tie his shoes.
“Tell me something, Bricks,” Bruno said.
“What’s that?”
“You a dyke or what?”
I fixed him with a flat stare. “Why, Bruno? You cruising for a piece of ass?”
“Always,” he said, his tone becoming affable.
I shook my head and looked away. These guys, every one of them thinks if you won’t sleep with them, the only possible reason is because you’re gay. Couldn’t have anything to do with them being slobs.
“Seriously, though,” he said.
“No.”
“No, you ain’t a dyke?”
“No, I won’t sleep with you.”
“So I suppose a blowjob is out of the question?” He gave me a meaty smile.
I was already tired of this jousting, but sometimes I think Sal has it set up to be part of the price of admission. You want to see the boss? Well, you gotta put up with Bruno’s bullshit at the door. And don’t pussy out, either.
“Why do you care?” I asked him. “You doing a dissertation?”
“A disser-what?”
Christ.
“Why do you care, Bruno?”
He shrugged. “Just wonderin’. I mean, you got the look, right?”
“What look is that?”
“Short hair. Kinda stocky. And you don’t dress like no girl, neither.”
“Sounds like you got it all figured out.”
Bruno scratched his fat cheek. “Yeah, not really. I got, like, you know, suspicions. It ain’t a for sure. Which is why I’m asking. So, whaddaya say?”
“I say I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth.”
He gave me a knowing look and wagged his finger at me. “But if I had tits...?”
“Take a look in the mirror, jerk off. You’re a B cup, easy.”
He frowned. “Why can’t you just answer a straight question, Bricks?”
“Same reason you can’t see your own dinger.”
He gave me a confused look.
“Because you’re a fat asshole,” I said, helping him out.
He sighed. “Gotta be a carpet muncher with that attitude,” he said, half to me and half for the record. “Man hater, right?”
The door opened. Max DaCosta stepped into the room. His tailored suit was such a sharp contrast to Bruno’s ill-fitting excuse for one that it almost made me squint in pain.
“Problem here?” Max asked Bruno, his tone quiet but authoritative.
“No, sir,” Bruno answered immediately. He didn’t exactly snap a salute but I
was pretty sure he straightened his posture when he spoke.
Max turned to me, his eyebrow arched.
“No problem,” I said. “Bruno and I were just talking a little anthropology.”
Max glanced back to Bruno. “Impressive.” Then he waved me inside. “Mr. Giordano is ready for you, Paula.”
I rose and followed him into the old man’s office.
Salvatore Giordano was what you’d call a traditionalist. In an age when most of his peers wore track suits and played video games most of the day, Sal was old school. He dressed well, he had manners, and he believed in loyalty. His pops taught him all three things, if you ask me, but where do any of us learn our most important lessons, right?
“Bricks!” Sal said, giving me a smile as he stood. “Good to see you.”
“You, too,” I said.
Sal came around from behind his desk, opening his arms to me. I leaned in. He took me firmly by the upper arms and brushed a kiss on first one cheek, then the other. His skin smelled of expensive cologne, but was rough and scraped against mine.
“Please, have a seat,” Sal said, releasing me. “You want something to drink?”
“No, I’m good.” I sat in the plush leather chair in front of Sal’s desk.
“No? You sure?”
“Positive.”
Sal returned to his own seat, settling in. Max took a chair off to the side.
We sat in silence, me waiting, and Sal just watching me. I had the uncomfortable sense that he was deciding something right then, and I didn’t like it.
“How long you been with me, Bricks?” he finally asked.
“I’ve been with the family all my life.” Couldn’t hurt to remind him of that, especially with the odd vibe I was suddenly getting. “My pops used to bring me in here when your old man had that chair.”
He smiled but the warmth didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, yeah. The good old days,” he said with a light chuckle that quickly faded. “You know, having you do what you do for me, it’s kind of strange. Something they call a contradiction in terms.” He spoke the last part slowly, like it would be a concept I had never heard of or wouldn’t get.
“How’s that?”
He motioned toward me. “Look at you. You’re a woman.”
“Last time I checked, anyway.”
“How many women you figure get used as button men?”
“I’m guessing zero.”
“Exactly. Zilch. But my old man, he had a soft spot for yours, so here you are.”
I didn’t mention how my pops also got pinched taking care of a particularly messy problem for Saverio, and how he went to prison for it. How he didn’t utter a word to the cops the entire time, even after he got the cancer. How he took every single secret he had to his grave.
I didn’t mention it because it was Sal’s mess that my pops was cleaning up. So while the loyalty he showed to the family was understood, it was also an unpleasant reminder that even Sal fucks up sometimes.
He leaned back in his chair, appraising me. “Still, I gotta admit, there’s another reason I kept you on the payroll. You know why that is?”
“Yes.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Yeah? What, then?”
“I deliver.” Then, because I can’t leave well enough alone, I added, “Just like my pops did before me.”
To his credit, Sal didn’t frown or otherwise react. He just nodded slowly. “That’s right. You deliver. Like the Federal fucking Express.”
We were quiet again for a few moments. Then I asked, “Is this about a job, then?”
Sal never gave me my assignments directly. Usually, I met with Max at some diner somewhere and he gave me a packet with everything I needed to know. The money came after. I paid my own expenses.
Sal sighed, and glanced over at Max, giving him a little nod. Max stood and motioned for me to do the same.
Confused, I stood up.
Max held his arms straight out to the side, miming me to follow suit. “If you please.”
Then I understood. “Christ, you think I’m wired?”
“Just a precaution,” Max said.
I shook my head in disbelief. “In a million years, I wouldn’t even think to do something like that.” I looked over at Sal. “I’m my father’s daughter, Sal, just like you are your father’s son.”
“I know,” he said. “But what’s the old saying? Trust, but verify.”
“You’re quoting Russian proverbs now?”
His eyes narrowed. “I thought Reagan said that.”
I turned back to Max, holding my arms out to the side. “Go ahead,” I said. “I don’t even have my pistola. Your guy at the front door took it.”
Max stepped forward. He ran his hands over my body, searching me with a light but firm touch. He was efficient and thorough, checking everywhere. Still, I was glad it was him doing the search instead of Bruno. That was something, at least.
When he’d finished, he gave me a curt, almost kindly nod, but there was no hint of apology in it. Then he motioned toward my chair, and returned to his own.
I sat down, took a huge breath, and let it out. Sal sat, watching me. “You want to tell me what’s going on?” I asked.
Sal reached out for a gold colored pen on his desk, toying with it while he considered my question. Finally, he said, “I’ll cut right to it, Bricks. Times are tough.”
I knew that. It’d been four months since my last assignment and six months since the one before that. I guess it was a good thing I lived cheap and knew how to budget.
“You know, with the economy and all that?” Sal continued. “Well, it affects our business, too. We’re like a corporation, just like GM or Ford or IBM. We deal in what they call fiscal realities.”
Slow and steady on the last two words again, like I was a moron. I suppressed the frustration, not wanting to let it show on my face. This guy might have his doctorate in Mafioso 101 but I’ll bet he didn’t know that in between doing jobs for him, I managed to get a real degree from a real college.
And he didn’t need to know, either, I reminded myself. Just like he didn’t need to see how much his condescension pissed me off.
I sat stoically, and waited.
“These fiscal realities are forcing me to make some hard decisions. Decisions my old man never would have imagined possible in his time.”
“You declaring bankruptcy?” I blurted.
Oops.
Sal scowled. “Don’t be a wise ass, Bricks. It ain’t attractive.”
Like I gave two shakes about what he found attractive or not. But I did care about leaving this office alive and staying that way afterward, so I buttoned up.
Sal sighed, and let the scowl diminish. “Actually, it ain’t that far from the truth. We’re gonna have to downsize our operation.”
“Downsize?”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
Sal looked over to Max. I followed his gaze.
“Significantly,” the consigliere said.
I waited for more, but Max simply sat quietly and said nothing.
“Yeah, so here’s what significantly means,” Sal continued. “It means I don’t really need more than one button man these days.”
Oh, Christ. I was being laid off by the mafia.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
Sal shook his head. “No. Dead serious.”
I almost laughed at that. Then I wondered how in the hell I was going to file for unemployment, and the desire to laugh out loud doubled. I pressed my lips together to hold it inside.
“The thing is,” Sal said, “we’re gonna try to do this honorably. You know, in a way my old man would’ve been proud of? So we’re gonna license a few people to start their own families in other cities if they want. Other people we’ll give a nice severance package. Some people have already got their legit business for laundry purposes, so they can get by on that. It’ll work out.”
That sounded like something Sal told himself so that his father’s
ghost didn’t haunt his dreams at night, but I kept that inside, too.
“But,” Sal said, holding up a finger. “There are a few loose ends. Some things that need to be tidied up.”
“Like?”
“Like a couple of guys who know too much. Guys who we know won’t keep their mouths shut once they get cut loose. Guys who fucked some things up to help put us in this situation. Things like that. They’ve been on the backlist for a while, but now we gotta move on things, so their number’s up.”
A picture of where this was going started to form in my mind. “And that’s where I come in?”
Sal smiled that same empty smile he’d flashed at me when I came in. “Always the smart one, Bricks.”
I shrugged. It didn’t take a genius.
“Yeah,” Sal said. “That is where you come in. I’ve got three of these loose ends that need taking care of. You take care of them, you not only get paid, but I keep you on as what they call an independent contractor.”
Christ.
“So, capisce?”
I thought about it, more for form’s sake than anything else. I didn’t have a choice, and we both knew it. If I refused, I became another loose end. I had to say yes, and decide later if I wanted to follow through or blow town.
Like that was even an option. What kind of work was I going to get with experience as a hit man and a degree in philosophy?
Dishwasher, that’s what.
“What about your other buttons?” I asked.