Lately, the past five years or so, I’d only ventured into the basement to store more crap, my claustrophobia becoming more pronounced. I hadn’t taken any time to nose around, go through my keepsakes. Didn’t have the energy. Didn’t have the desire, either.
No one would peg me a sentimental sort, but as I got ready to move on, as Sylvia would say, I figured it was time. Might be something in the shadowy corners worth a few bucks, to someone—one man’s treasures, yada yada.
As I reached the bottom step, the odor of moldering things, dark and dank, wafted up from the dirty floor. The house was old—older than me, which I guess made it ancient—and when we first moved in, I’d told Sylvia I’d spruce it up. Finish the basement, maybe put in a bar or sewing center, but on some level, I knew I’d never really follow through. Too busy with the guys. Too involved in my career. She’d given up asking after the first ten years, content to live above ground, enjoying all the niceties my income provided, not having to worry about what I stowed away down there, out of sight.
A single bare bulb burned overhead, and it seemed to be getting dimmer with age, barely able to cast wan shadows into the dark recesses. The basement was a decent size, but with all the boxes and bags and discarded furniture, there wasn’t much room left. Not that I planned on doing jumping jacks, or anything. I just needed enough space to maneuver. My plan was to go through the junk, toss ninety-percent away and pack up the rest, nice and neat, ready to be opened when we got to our new digs.
In Scottsdale, A-Ree-Zona.
The boss was setting me up with a new identity and a soft gig, a consultant on corporate security for one of his operations, just something to help pass time during retirement and provide some spending money. No heavy lifting. And no more killing. I’d put my foot down. Time for the younger generation to take over. Hell, I’d earned my retirement.
And how.
I cleared off an old glass-and-wood coffee table, something Sylvia thought looked modern back in the Seventies. Then I retrieved a box from a tower of boxes, set it down on the tabletop, and opened the interlocking cardboard flaps to reveal a jumble of desk knickknacks—a paperweight, a letter opener, a few packages of paper clips.
A smile formed on my lips as I picked up the letter opener and turned it in my hands. Similar to the one I’d driven through that bastard Jimmy Bang-Bang’s neck, right before I shot him in the face. It wasn’t the same one, of course. You couldn’t very well keep the actual murder weapon around as a memento, but it reminded me of the one I’d used.
Just as sharp.
I tossed it back and set the box in an open spot near the staircase. The trash pile.
I sifted through a few more boxes, then pawed through a couple green garbage bags bursting with old clothes. Nothing from the last fifteen years. Nothing worth keeping. All trash.
I moved aside an old lamp, uncovering a trophy with a gold golfer figurine atop a squat block of marble. My heart did the two-step as I recalled that incident. I never played much golf, but Tony the Elbow was a fixture at Blue Creek Country Club. One night, as Tony took a break from recounting his round in the bar to a bunch of drunks, I’d ambushed him in the men’s room, jamming an extra-long golf tee into his eyeball before strangling him to death and leaving his body on the cold tile floor.
Maybe I’d take up golf, now that I’d have some time on my hands. Wasn’t Scottsdale famous for that?
I tossed the trophy onto the burgeoning trash heap.
A voice caught my attention and I whirled around. I swore it sounded like someone calling my name, softly, from deep in the murky shadows. “Who’s there?” I said, instinctively patting my pockets, finding them empty. Why would I need to arm myself in my own basement? “Somebody there?”
I froze, listening. After about forty seconds, my muscles relaxed. Probably just a rodent, unhappy I’d invaded his cozy den.
A lifetime of caution—bordering on the paranoid—was tough to let go. I was a survivor. But I’d retired, didn’t need to worry. My days of sleeping with one eye open and my piece under my pillow were receding fast in the rear view mirror.
Next up: a shoebox full of photos, real pictures from back when you dropped off your roll of film at the drugstore and they came back printed on glossy paper, double sets. I grabbed a handful and flipped through them. Snapshots of old friends taken during various trips, both business and pleasure. In one, Five-Dollar Phil, whose nickname sprang from his habit of tipping strippers a fin, wore a sombrero and posed with a mariachi band. That had been one wild trip down to Baja.
The next year, I’d had to whack Phil when the boss found out he’d been skimming a little too much off the top. Pity. I’d liked Phil. Liked his young wife, too.
I wondered, not for the first time, if most guys thought it was better to know you were about to die, or if they’d prefer to get whacked without any warning.
Me? I think I’d rather know what was coming. Give me time to say a prayer or something.
I came across another pack of photos, this one held together by a crumbling red rubber band. Pictures from a long-ago family picnic, every third shot featuring Sylvia cavorting in a yellow sundress. She’d been a stunner all right, and though she never really approved of my line of work, she knew it was something I was born for, something I took to, something I excelled at. She saved her harping for stuff around the house, not about my career choice, no matter how much it ate at her. Of course, the jewelry and vacations and spa treatments helped ease her pain.
Now, it was only right I should dote on her as we grew old—older—together.
In one picture, Sylvia’s brother Angelo smiled at the camera. He was in the business, too. Or had been, until I took care of him. That had been the hardest job of my life. For Chrissakes, offing your brother-in-law! But it had to be done, and I was proud it’d been the only time I’d shed any real tears. After all, Angelo had a son to think about, Little Bennie.
I pictured the scene at Angelo’s funeral, where his wife, Carlotta, dressed in black, sat next to Bennie at the graveside, hugging him while sobbing uncontrollably.
The mental image was so clear, but something about it was off, out of focus, not exactly like things had been fifteen years ago. Bennie seemed older somehow, like in his twenties. And sitting next to Carlotta was Sylvia, wearing a black dress and a veil, as if she were the grieving widow.
I could almost hear her softly calling out my name. Oh, Frankie, Frankie…
Fucking mind playing tricks on me was all.
Five years after Angelo’s death, Little Bennie, who’d turned seventeen by that time, came up to me at cousin Maria’s wedding. Pulled me aside, him a skinny twerp with scraggly hair and big dreams, and tells me he knows I did it. Killed his father. Says he’s going to get me, get revenge, cold and deadly, someday when I’m not expecting it.
I guess that day never came, did it? I still feel bad about the hit, but bottom line, his old man shouldn’t have been ripping us off.
People had to pay for their deeds. Consequences was consequences.
I stuffed the photos back in the box and hurled the entire thing onto the pile destined for the dump.
The cramped basement was closing in on me. Time for a break. I hobbled back up the stairs and tried to turn the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. I put some force behind it, really gave it a twist, still stuck. Despite the subterranean chill, sweat dripped down the back of my neck and soaked into my collar as I wrestled with it. I gave the door a few rams with my shoulder. Nothing budged.
My claustrophobia kicked up a notch.
I swallowed, but my mouth felt full of cotton. I banged on the door, first with my palms, then with fists. “Sylvia. Hey, honey. Open the door. I’m down in the basement.”
Waited.
Nothing.
I listened for her footsteps, but heard a soft voice instead. Sylvia’s. “Oh, Frankie. Oh, dear. Too early.”
My heart raced. I pounded on the door until my hands ached. “Sylvia! Open up!
Please!”
I clawed at the sturdy oak door until blood ran from beneath my fingernails.
More voices now, stronger, clearer. Sylvia sobbing, her words getting louder. “How could you leave me? How could this happen? I thought you were out of it. You promised. Oh, Frankie…”
A piercing realization: My house didn’t have a basement. My fate enshrouded me like dirt entombing a casket, pressing in on me, suffocating me.
I said a prayer, but I knew it was too late.
I wasn’t a survivor.
I saw Bennie at the funeral, my funeral, smirking. He pointed a thumb-and-forefinger gun at the casket and dropped the hammer as his wicked smile grew.
“Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.”
Blackmailer’s
Pep Talk
Chris Rhatigan
I considered calling the cops. But I’m not a masochist, so I didn’t.
I crouched on the stoop in front of John Ballard’s half of a duplex, slowed my breath. Looked up and down the mediocre street where he had spent his brief, dissatisfying life, houses like gaping mouths, sky, grass, trees all a shade of industrial gray.
Nothing I could do. I’d stolen Ballard’s wallet. Came to give it back but he’d blown his head off. End of story. No use asking questions. Going there in the first place was weak, made no sense.
That night I went to this bar. Ballard’s wallet had forty-seven dollars in it. I used this to buy well drinks. His sullen driver’s license photo kept staring at me so I took out the money, dropped the wallet in the bathroom trash.
I still had thirty-three of his dollars left. I was half-watching the Yankees kick the shit out of the Orioles when this girl walked in. We’d met at this bar two nights ago and ended up sleeping together. Morning after, I swiped several of her things—laptop, cash, some electronic tablet. I didn’t recall her name, Sarah? Melissa? Joan?
This time she was with some dude who looked like he’d dropped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog, except he had a shirt on. She had a grotesque rock glittering on her left ring finger. They were meeting up with some friends. The group of them laughed like they were in a commercial.
One point I caught her eye. She held my gaze for a second before looking away.
I ordered a pint and drank it too fast. Decided Sarah-Melissa-Joan would pay for her indiscretion.
• • •
I sat in my car across the street from the building her penthouse was in, checking the rearview now and again, ripping butts, stuffing them in the little tin ashtray. Wiped gunk out of the corners of my eyes. This was earlier than I’d been up in a while. Being unemployed doesn’t pay well but the hours are good.
Abercrombie guy left before eight in a crisp, three-piece suit. He got in a Benz in the parking lot next to the building.
I thought maybe I’d missed her. But then Sarah-Melissa-Joan came out walking fast, looking good—skirt she kept pushing down, chasm of milky cleavage busting out of a sea-green sweater.
I slid out the passenger side. Tracked her down.
“Melissa.”
She turned. “My name’s not Melissa.”
Fuck. “Who’s that guy you’re with last night?”
“What do you care?”
She walked away like she was in a real hurry, didn’t even know me. I scrambled in front of her.
“You’re not exactly a modern couple, are you? He makes the bread and you, what, secretary?”
Her long eyelashes fluttered like I was a speck caught in her eye. “What are you doing here?”
“I assume you don’t want him to find out that you went slumming.” I kept repeating to myself, This is a game of confidence. You have it. She doesn’t. This is not another John Ballard. Like a little blackmailer’s pep talk. “I don’t want to drag this out. No need. Let’s say five thousand and we’re done.”
She laughed, bright and musical. “You must be kidding. I can’t take five thousand dollars out of a joint bank account.”
“A thousand. Meet me at China Palace. Five-thirty.”
“I’m not paying you, Milo.”
She still thought my name was Milo. Good. “Then hubby will know every little detail.”
She headed for her car, heels click-clacking on the asphalt.
I said, “I’ll let him know where your piercings are and that spot on the back of your neck and—”
“Fuck off.”
She peeled out of the parking spot. Left me swimming in the scent of burned rubber.
• • •
I went to a café down the street. Clean wood tables and a black and white tile floor, smelled like baking bread and roasting beans. Little expensive for my taste, but so was everything in this neighborhood.
I had a cup of coffee. The saucer rattled each time I put the cup down. An old woman glared at me from behind reading glasses. I apologized for some reason, gave a little nervous laugh, said too much caffeine gave me tremors. Wondered if lying came to me naturally or if it sounded forced.
After I left, I hung around the swanky apartment building’s entrance until someone walked out. I grabbed the door before it closed. Found the mailbox for her apartment number, scribbled “Kyle/Sarah Frisson” on the back of a receipt.
When I got back to my building, my unemployment check was waiting for me. Five weeks til it ran out. I was supposed to have an interview at the Nordstrom’s in the mall that afternoon for a shoe salesman position, but I blew it off. Figured it would be like all my other interviews—fifteen, maybe twenty other people, half of them with a decade of experience in retail. Not that I wanted a job at stupid Nordstrom’s anyway.
I googled Kyle Frisson. An attorney at Greenstein and Varachi. Photo of him in that three-piece suit, ridiculous grin, law books that looked like they were made of cardboard on a shelf behind him. I wrote down the office phone number on the back of a receipt.
Next hit was a wedding announcement on the local newspaper’s web site. Married two months ago at a country club. Her maiden name was Sarah Annabelle Ralston. She worked as an assistant to the PR director at DataLink Corp. The smiling, all-American couple had hooked up in college while studying abroad in Spain.
I should’ve stuck with the five g’s.
The more I thought about it, the more the whole thing baffled me. She was so clearly in the wrong, had so much at stake. But she seemed set in her defiance, not willing to even negotiate. Like she thought that if she ignored me, I would disappear.
She needed to understand that wasn’t going to happen.
I dialed Kyle’s office number on my cell. Receptionist picked up and connected me to him.
“Kyle Frisson.”
I lit a cigarette. Waited.
“Hello?”
“How’s Sarah?”
“Who is this?”
“Answer my question.”
“What?”
He was stiff, defensive. More nasal than I’d expected. Offended that I’d even considered invading his tiny world.
“I said, answer my question. How’s Sarah? I’m interested in her well-being.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“You’re a newly married man. Sex must be explosive. Two, three times a day, am I right?”
“Listen, buddy.” He paused, hiss of breath into the receiver. “I don’t know what this is about but I’ll call the cops. I have your number right here.”
I chuckled, smoke dribbling from my nostrils. Felt good. Loose. “And tell them what, exactly? That I asked how Sarah was doing?”
“Well, that you’re, that you’re harassing me.”
“Am I harassing you?”
“Yes!”
“My sincerest apologies, then. We don’t need to talk anymore. Just tell her Milo says ‘hi.’”
I hung up. The message would find her. But on second thought, the whole thing felt grimy. Too eager, too soon. I overplayed my hand.
Should have planned it better. Maybe called from a pay phone and pretended to be an old high school
buddy of Sarah’s, said I was looking for her and then said something a bit off that he would pass onto her. Didn’t like him knowing I was in the picture, even with the false name.
The sugary high of moments before deflated into numbness. I put on coffee, smoked a cigarette. All I had was this information. Soon as I used the information, its value vanished. It only had value when it was trapped in my head. Bizarre.
I sprawled out on the mattress on my floor. What the fuck did Sarah Annabelle Frisson think she was doing? Not even ten weeks into her marriage and she’s picking up losers like me.
I almost wanted to tell her to keep her money. Her marriage was fucked anyway.
• • •
The Chinese food place was set in a series of skywalks that connected one end of the city to the other. I got twitchy hanging around my apartment so I paced the skywalks for most of the afternoon.
The skywalks used to have shoe repair shops, bookstores, Italian delis, newsstands, and the like. Now the storefronts were all dark, lease signs in the windows. Carpets hadn’t been cleaned in years—a network of stains stretched across each hallway, beads of moisture dripping from the ceiling and rust bleeding from the steel structure. This was one of the last places you could smoke inside with no problem—no one around to tell you otherwise.
I took a pen and a notebook out of back pocket. Sat with my back against the plexiglass. Wrote an account of my one-night stand with Sarah. A chronology that included every possible detail. I filled in a few moments that were fuzzy cause of how much I drank. Made sure I had a lot of material that only someone who’d fucked her would know.
It ended up being five pages. I liked having an object I could use. Maybe I could show it to her, make her understand the reality of her non-compliance.
Writing the letter made me aroused, so I went to one of the filthy stalls in the bathroom and rubbed one out. I kept thinking someone was going to walk in—ridiculous considering how empty the place was.
Shotgun Honey Presents: Locked and Loaded (Both Barrels Book 3) Page 16