Transgressions

by Ian Rankin (ed)

"Why does he—? Yeah, yeah. He wants to change the world, I suppose. Make it a better place.” He slowed to a stop in front of the window. “A better place. Yeah, what's the word?"

  "Utopia?"

  "That's it. That's what he wants. He sings ‘Over the Rainbow’ ‘cause over there it's a better world.” He leaned out the window and took a deep breath of the night. “Yeah, utopia.” He turned to her, settling back on the sill. “He goes in ghettos, brings out the deep, dark shit in lowlifes, triggers ‘em like a gun, so they go off, make a big killing spree, and right in front of the cops so they get fingered good, put ‘em away permanent. That's his agenda, his road to utopia. And he's due. He is so fucking due."

  She watched him try to sit still on the sill, but he kept rocking and dipping. “Shakes? Does the name Gloria Whiting mean anything to you?"

  "Nope. Maybe I heard it, but I don't know."

  "Well, that's me. That's who I am. I've been in some art mags, had a performance on PBS. I'm a multimedia performance artist."

  He looked at her, not really comprehending.

  "Let me tell you what I do. It's all very spontaneous. There's no script. I paint, sculpt, dance; I compose music and I sing. I do stuff like that and more, all mixed together. And I record it all, the whole process, the whole ordeal. That's what it is: an ordeal. Because there's something in me that's trying to get out. That's what my art's all about, trying to express what's in me. I work nonstop for days, not eating, not sleeping, and I can feel it. I feel myself getting close to what's inside—something huge, full of significance, a great truth. But I never reach it. I always collapse before I get there. I just don't have the stamina, the strength..."

  She caught herself and gave a nervous laugh. “How melodramatic I must sound—ridiculous, even. Still, my doctors, they tell me this has to stop. I'm destroying my health. For years I've ignored them, but I can't anymore. Because they're right; it gets harder. It gets harder every time."

  A siren wailed in the distance, setting off a chorus of barks.

  "Does any of this make sense, Shakes? What I'm saying?"

  He stared at the fluorescent orange scrawls on the wall. “So you come here hopin’ to meet Mister Rainbow Killer. You want him to help you bring it out, so you can see."

  She nodded. “Which is totally crazy. Because, first off, he probably doesn't exist. And if he does, I'd be meeting him on his terms, in the middle of murder and mayhem, my life on the line. But I don't care. I no longer care. I'm willing to risk all just to know. I have to know what's inside me."

  She took several slow, deep breaths, calming herself. “You ever feel that way?"

  He shook his head like a top out of control. “I know what's in me. Bad stuff, ‘cause I wasn't raised right. I done bad stuff and I'll do it again. It's best not to stir me up, you know? If there's something important floating around, it's not in me. It's out there. Maybe there.” His finger shook as he pointed at the wall. “Fluorescent Orange knows something important, and I'm trying to figure it out. That's my head-game, I guess. But sometimes I just look at his stuff and think, ‘This guy don't know shit.’”

  She laughed softly, thinking about it. Watching the play of light and shadow around him as he rocked, she felt herself drifting towards sleep. The siren faded and the dogs stopped barking. Then the door on the ground floor creaked open and clanged shut. Shakes stopped rocking and strained his ears. Gloria listened too. She heard the faintest voice. Deep and melodious, it echoed through the building's interior.

  "It's Duke,” she said, seeing Shakes tense up.

  "But he drove off!"

  "He stopped a couple blocks away and walked back. It's Duke."

  Shakes remained unconvinced.

  "It took him a while,” she continued, “but he finally figured out a way to get even—or try to.” She smiled at him. “Come on, Shakes. Don't let him spook you."

  Shakes had begun to hyperventilate.

  "Come on, Shakes."

  A scream pierced the night, coming from somewhere below. Gloria sat up, chilled. Shakes jumped forward and fumbled a gun from under the mattress. In seconds he was at the door, standing next to it, his back to the wall. His lips were rounded, puffing hard and fast, sweat beading on his forehead.

  "It's just someone else panicking,” Gloria said, trying to convince herself as well. She sought the pulse of her subconscious, checking for something rising up, preparing to emerge. But all she got was her own rattled nerves. Shakes's gun worried her most.

  "Come on, Shakes,” she said, standing up. “Give me the gun."

  "No!” His breathing was ragged. “Shit no! That's him!” He gasped. “And he's coming up here. I can feel it."

  "I tell you, it's Duke. Let's at least call the police. They'll handle it. Where's your phone?"

  "What fucking phone! You think I got a fucking phone?"

  The singing grew louder and more off-key. There was now no doubting the song. A commotion came from below, followed by muffled cries.

  "Oh shit! He's coming!” Shakes wailed, shifting his weight foot to foot.

  "We're fine, Shakes.” She walked slowly toward him. “He won't hurt us."

  "You think I'm scared of him? Shit! It's what's in here!” He palmed the side of his head.

  She looked from him to the gun in his hand. They shook out of sync. “You've got a good soul, Shakes. I can tell. Now give me the gun."

  "Bullshit! I got anger. I got hatred. Oh, shit, I'm fucked!"

  "Then the gun won't do you any good, Shakes,” she said, fighting down her own panic. “Give it to me."

  "Give it to you!” he shrieked. “Christ, you're fucking crazier than I ever was.” He tried to laugh, but it came out as sharp raspy breaths.

  Gloria stopped. The gun was pointed her way. “Fine, Shakes. Throw it out the window. Just get rid of it."

  Eyes wild, he shook his head. “He's got an axe, ‘member? I ain't facing no axe unarmed!"

  She felt her terror rising as he took more ragged breaths. Footfalls clanged on the stairs, the voice growing louder and clearer. She kept waiting for the clank of an access door opening onto another floor, but it never came. His footfalls continued up the metal steps, ever closer. Time seemed to stand still. Then an access door creaked open. Soon after, it clanked shut. The deep voice resumed, off-key, echoing through the corridor just outside.

  "Shakes,” she said.

  As the footsteps grew steadily louder, Shakes's gun hand quavered uncontrollably.

  "Shakes, no."

  "Bitch! Fuckin’ white bitch!” he slurred. He swung the gun upward, slamming the butt end against his temple. He struck himself twice, hard. She winced at the ghastly klok! klok!.

  Then his hand was on the doorknob.

  "Shakes?"

  "Muthafuck!” he shouted, blood dribbling down the side of his head. “Muthafuck!” He wrenched the door open and plunged into the hallway. The door rebounded and closed.

  Gloria jumped at each gunshot. There were five of them in rapid succession, then one more. She pressed against the door, listening for some sound.

  "Shakes?” she whispered. “Shakes!"

  The footsteps resumed, slow and steady, drawing closer, as did the deep, off-key singing. She fumbled with the door lock, at last getting it latched, then braced herself against the door. She felt something massive coming down the hallway, axe in hand, dripping blood.

  The footsteps stopped just outside the door, as did the singing. She stepped back, heart pounding, as the knob turned one way, then the other. At any moment she expected an axe to splinter the door. Nothing happened. She stared at the door. Then came a soft chuckle. It wasn't Shakes.

  "What have we here? Nobody home?"

  The voice was deep, delivering another chuckle; and now she felt something astir deep within. She sank to the floor as he continued, more in her head than aloud: “So many artists, so little message. Some have nothing to say, and it's their fear of the inner void that makes them create so much."

&nb
sp; A deep rumble of laughter filled the corridor even as that monstrous inner thing breached upon her consciousness, a vast emptiness that dissipated into the night without a trace.

  The footsteps resumed soon after that, slow, in retreat, accompanied by the singing; and with it came shrieks and something slamming into a wall, followed by a man's loud bellow and muffled gunshots.

  Minutes later, with police sirens wailing, she recovered her wits enough to open the door. Shakes sat propped against the wall, blood caking the side of his head and soaking his shirt. He appeared semiconscious. The gun lay at his side.

  "Shakes?"

  He shuddered and blinked. Then he looked up at her. “I missed. Six shots, and I fucking missed.” Almost as an afterthought he laughed.

  The sirens grew louder, and the wall in Shakes's room reflected a flashing red.

  "You okay, Shakes?"

  Looking down at his bloodied shirt, he gave a tired smile and began to dip. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am. Biggest muthafucka I ever saw, and he walked straight through me."

  She reached down and gingerly picked up his gun. It was still warm from firing. Using a corner of her dress, she gave it a thorough wipe-off; then, gripping it through the fabric of her dress, she flung it as far as she could down the hallway.

  "He was big,” Shakes said, twisting up his face, trying to remember. “Maybe he didn't go through me, but he got by. He got to you, to the door, was trying to get in. He was after you, Princess."

  She checked his temple. It was swollen and still bleeding. “No, Shakes. I don't think so.” She ripped a piece of hem from her dress. “I don't think he had any use for me at all."

  "Well, that's good then. That's good. I'm glad. But—? How ‘bout you? You use him? You make him show you what's inside?"

  Settling down beside him, she pressed the cloth against his temple. “I suppose I did.” She felt dizzy, disoriented. The foggy road ahead had entirely vanished. She had no idea where she was headed anymore. “It wasn't pretty, Shakes. Not pretty at all."

  "Yeah? So you got some evil stuff in you?"

  Sitting there, she felt like she might never get up again. “No, Shakes. I'm afraid not."

  Copyright © 2007 Gary W. Shockley

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  STEALING FROM GARBO by Ron Savage

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Ron Savage has been publishing his stories since the age of eighteen. They have appeared in journals and magazines throughout the world. His more recent publications include the Taj Mahal Review in India, the Lichen Review in Canada, and the Southern Humanities Review. Ron has a BA and MA in psychology and a doctorate in counselling from The College of William and Mary. He has worked as an actor, a broadcaster, a newspaper editor, and for twenty-something years as Psychologist Senior at Eastern State Hospital in Williamsburg. He has recently retired from everything but his writing and his lovely wife Jan.

  * * * *

  If you had his trust, he would tell you what thrills him. To take what is yours and make it mine, he would say. Then he'd say, There's nothing better. He compares it to sex or a T-bone medium rare. He likes to say, It's better than sipping a cold Corona with lime on a Jamaican beach. Or the Mets winning the pennant. He would tell you the one thing all thieves know. Stealing is the drug of choice.

  * * * *

  It's 1976, Cincinnati has taken the series from the Yankees. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest wins Best Picture, and The Captain and Tennille are singing ‘Love Will Keep Us Together (Forever)'. His wife has left him. Don't even think about looking for me, this is what her note reads. He finds it on the gray Formica table in the kitchen. Bobbi J has taken the twins, his boys. She has taken everything but the water bed and the kitchen things. His house is as empty as he feels. A glittering two inches of jewelry covers the black and white tile floor of the bathroom. There are gold brooches and Cartier and Rolex watches. There are necklaces and bracelets studded with diamonds and sapphires and rubies. Another note is taped to the bathroom mirror. This one reads, You said you weren't doing this anymore, Nicholas. Now I am stealing us away from you. How do you like it? Bobbi J. She always knew what button to press and for how long. This time ‘long’ might be very long. Nicholas doesn't like it.

  * * * *

  The Campanile is a fourteen story brown brick co-op on East 52nd Street. It was built in the thirties, an uncluttered, stoic-looking building that is at the end of a dead end street and overlooks the east river. There is no canopy or roof deck or garage or sidewalk landscaping. There are no balconies. It has sixteen apartments, a pool, and a doorman named Derek.

  Nicholas has become friends with the doorman and knows what Derek does and doesn't like. He is a vegetarian. He has a Pekinese named Charlie. Derek was also married for fifty-three years and is a recent widower. When Derek and Charlie can't sleep, which is most of the time, they watch old movies together in Derek's brown leather recliner. They are great Paul Newman fans. Derek's favorites are The Drowning Pool, Cool Hand Luke, and Harper. Charlie likes Paul's lighter films, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, for example, and Rally ‘Round the Flag, Boys!. Nicholas has been reading up on Paul Newman and vegetarianism and Pekinese dogs. Derek thinks Nicholas is Bill Kramer, Jr who owns a plumbing business on West 55th. Sometimes Derek and Nicholas go out for drinks after Derek finishes his doorman duties. They talk about easy to do vegetarian recipes. Mostly, though, they talk about Paul Newman and what Paul is doing now and how wonderful it is that Paul and his lovely wife Joanne Woodward have stayed married. Derek has even promised Bill to send some Campanile business his way.

  That's not necessary, Nicholas/Bill says.

  What are friends for? Derek says.

  * * * *

  Nicholas understands why Bobbi J was so quick to leave. But he's been a good provider for her and the boys and has never cheated. Bobbi is a large girl with a pretty face and tiny feet. Nick's sister, Anita, introduced them six years ago.

  You'll like her, Anita had said to Nicholas. Anita has intense gray eyes that take you in and never blink. His sister said, You like blondes, right? Who doesn't. She has a great personality and a really pretty face.

  So she's fat, Nicholas said.

  She was fat, absolutely fat, not big-boned, not a couple pounds over. Bobbi J was short and round, five-three, two-eleven, and it just didn't matter. There are people you feel at home with from the start. Like a key finding its lock, you hear the click and feel the tumbling bolts through your fingertips. Nicholas feels that way; he thought she felt that way, too.

  Bobbi J never asked Nicholas how he earned his money, another reason he liked her. When you meet the right woman, you know. He gave her a five carat Asscher cut engagement ring. He built her a beautiful two story Victorian with a heart shaped pool in upscale Clinton, thirty miles north of Trenton. On their first anniversary Bobbi J opened the front door and found a silver Mercedes 280se tied with a red ribbon in the driveway. Nicholas wanted to show his love. Nicholas wanted a wife who was an accomplice.

  You spoil me, Bobbi J said.

  That's my joy, Nicholas said.

  The twins changed Bobbi J more than Nicholas, though both agreed the changes were for the better. The first time Nicholas saw the twins he thought, You're daddy's boys. Ernest and Eric. They already had his dark hair and thick eyelashes and beautiful Greek skin. They were slim and graceful like him. They also had small hands with long fingers. Those hands got everyone's attention from the start. Bobbi J's granny said it best. Granny Lott is short like Bobbi J but she has lavender eyes and not an ounce of fat anywhere. After studying the boys in their Graco Duorider stroller, she said, They have the hands of thieves.

  * * * *

  The woman who lives on the fifth floor of the Campanile keeps to her schedule. Nicholas has been writing down her times and places in a pocket-sized spiral notebook. Derek the doorman says the woman keeps her phone in the lobby. It's got the letter g on it. The phone rings but it's never answered. De
rek says she is up at 7:00am to cook her own breakfast before the maid arrives.

  Nicholas enjoys following Ms G. She wears large shady hats and Jackie O sunglasses. The sunglasses hide everything but her nose, lips, and chin. He enjoys the preciseness of her life, the on-time routine of it. Ms G is like a German train, she is tidy and never late. She leaves at 9:00am and returns at 12:30 for lunch. Not 12:31, not 12:29. Ms G walks the quieter, less traveled streets. Her favorites are First and Second avenues. And the day doesn't end here. Derek says she eats her lunch at 1:00pm, usually tuna or chicken salad, sometimes just fruit. A new trip into town begins at 1:30pm. The afternoons are devoted to art galleries, especially the ones on Madison Avenue.

  Nicholas has begun looking forward to the gallery visits. He'd always thought art was for people who wore black clothes and handmade jewelry but now finds he like the surrealists. Yesterday Nicholas followed Ms G into the La Fiandra Gallery on Madison and 73rd. The gallery has a bleached pine floor and white walls and angled lighting. He was examining a Chagall when he felt the woman staring at him from behind her Jackie O's, from beneath the shadowy wide-brim hat. Nicholas turned and glanced at her, less than a second, nothing obvious. She was on the opposite side of the narrow room. And wasn't that a smile?

  * * * *

  The two men had walked into Bobbi J's home without asking. This was five or six months ago, more like six. They didn't talk or give her a nod or notice her. The twins were playing with Lego in the living room. Ernest was building a square of alternating red and black rows, and Eric was throwing the loose red ones at Ernest. The two men were tall and big-shouldered and wore dark suits with white shirts and ties and gold cufflinks. One had a droopy brown mustache and the other was clean-shaven and smoked a cigar. They looked in all the upstairs and downstairs rooms. Then the one with the mustache told the twins to shut the fuck up. When Bobbi J said, Hey, you, wait just a minute, the man with the cigar slapped her across the face and sent her to the floor. Ernest and Eric started crying. The two men ignored them. The clean-shaven one with the cigar knelt on one knee and fastened his thick fingers around Bobbi J's throat.