by Frank Zafiro
The car lot would cost too much money, I decided. They might strike back instead of giving in. I needed to send a message, one that didn’t cost much but let them know I was serious. Something simple. Something—
How did she know about Isaac?
“Stop it,” I said out loud. “She didn’t know. She just took a wild guess and got lucky. That’s what people like her do.”
“People like who, boss?”
I jumped in my seat.
Joe Bassen stood in my doorway. His scarred face brought me some comfort.
“Christ, Joe!”
He closed the door behind him. “Sorry ’bout that, boss.”
I waved his apology away. “Listen. I have something for you to do.”
Bassen took a baseball bat to the large plate glass windows in the front of the madam’s house. Then he knocked over the big white sign in the front yard and dumped the statue of the saint right on her ass. I got all of this from him the next morning.
“Good job,” I said.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now we wait for them to respond,” I said.
They did. Two days later, I got a call from my cop.
“I think that your psychic got herself killed,” he said.
“What? Where were you?”
“Hey, it happened before my shift started,” he said. “I can’t be everywhere.”
“You’re sure it’s her?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “My guy at the scene said she was strangled with a pair of pantyhose.”
“Damn,” I whispered.
He laughed. “Guess she didn’t see that coming, huh?”
“Real funny,” I said, and hung up.
I sat at my desk in the small cramped office off the restaurant kitchen and stared down at my hands. The cell phone chirped on the desk in front of me. I didn’t need to look at the display screen to know who it was. I could already hear Uncle Angelo’s booming voice coming through the telephone receiver.
He would want to know what went wrong.
He would bluster and threaten and tell me I was never going to earn my way back to Jersey.
He would want their blood.
I knew I couldn’t let this stand.
I ignored the cell and picked up the desk phone and called Bassen. I told him to pick me up at the restaurant.
“Come heavy,” I said. “And bring some weight for me, too.”
A piece of plywood covered the large plate-glass window at the madam’s house. The saint and the sign had been righted.
“Bastards bounce back,” Bassen grunted.
“It’s a talent,” I muttered back.
Bassen sniffed and rubbed his nose. “We taking out the old lady?”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to, but I wasn’t sure how much blood would appease Angelo. Bassen kept looking at me, so I finally said, “Just follow my lead.”
We exited the car and made our way up the walk. I didn’t see any sign of Dragos or his cousins. The front door was unlocked and we let ourselves in, setting off the bell.
The old lady stepped through the beads and regarded me with disdain. “Dragos!” she said in a loud voice.
The sound of footsteps filled the small house and three men burst into the room. We stared at each other for a brief moment and then all five guns came out at once, including mine and Bassen’s. I paused a millisecond, waiting for the first crack of gunfire. If it had come, I’d have drilled Dragos old-school, right in his face with my .45. But everyone kept their cool, at least for the time being. All gun barrels stayed pointed at the ground.
“This isn’t what I want,” I told Dragos firmly.
“What you want is irrelevant,” Dragos said. “What you have chosen is at hand.”
“I didn’t choose this. It just happened.”
The old Gypsy let out a dry, cackling laugh. “Always you say you do not choose, Dominic. And yet everything you do is a choice.”
“Shut up!” I yelled at her. “If you’d minded your own business, none of this would be happening!”
She shook her head, still cackling. “This is happening because it is happening.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said. I glanced at Dragos and his cousins, both staring hatred at Bassen and me, their pistols clutched in their hands. The old lady sat in the corner, her laughter sounding like dry, crunching leaves. “How did we get into this mess?”
“Because you are dumb son of bitch,” Dragos said.
“Someone has to pay for Madeline,” I told him.
“She was a fake!” the old woman shrieked.
“Who cares?” I asked, focusing my gaze on Dragos. “It’s all about money, right?”
Dragos shook his head. “No. It is also about honor.”
I realized this was not going to end well. I saw the darkness in Dragos’s eyes. I glanced at the old woman and held her self-righteous gaze for a long moment. I wondered how she knew the things she knew. Then I remembered her words.
Old and alone, she’d said. That’s how I would die.
Fuck it. Forty-three isn’t old and I damn sure wasn’t alone.
I flicked my eyes to Bassen and he caught my look. In that second, I said everything that needed to be said. A moment later, I raised my .45 and blasted a hole in the chest of the guy next to Dragos. He flew back into the wall with a grunt, his shoulders slapping into the drywall.
There was a blast next to me and Dragos’ remaining cousin collapsed to the ground with a gurgle. I turned my .45 on Dragos, but not before he leveled the barrel of his own pistol at my head.
His finger twitched.
I grimaced.
Click.
He stared down at the gun in horror.
I smiled. He forgot to chamber a round. I stepped into him and cracked him across the nose with the barrel of my gun. He crumpled to the ground, dropping his pistol. Bassen scooped it up.
Without hesitation, I moved toward the old woman. I grabbed her by the shoulder and jerked her tight to my chest. Then I pressed the barrel of the .45 to her temple.
“Dragos!”
Dragos shook his head to clear it, then turned his eyes upward toward me. As he took in the scene, his jaw clenched and a helpless hate came into his eyes.
I met that terrible gaze with my own fire. “Listen to me,” I said. “We can come to an agreement here or I can close her eyes forever. You make the choice.”
I saw him struggle with submission, but after a few moments he gave a reluctant nod.
“Good,” I said. “You’re smart, Dragos. This is business.”
“Say your piece,” he said through gritted teeth.
“It’s simple,” I told him. “You killed Madeline. We killed these two here. That’s it. We’re quits.”
He shook his head. “Those are my cousins, you—”
“Who do you think Madeline was? Just some bimbo? She was connected.”
He didn’t answer, but I saw him calculate my words.
“It’s even,” I told him.
“It is one for two,” he said. “Honor demands that—”
“It’s even,” I said. “I’ll give you a life.” I gave the old woman a light shake. “Hers. And yours.”
Dragos considered. After a few moments, he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Son of bitch. Yes.”
I nodded back. Two dead would appease Uncle Angelo. And I’d never have to see another Gypsy fortune-teller again.
“Fine,” I said. “Swear it.”
Dragos drew himself up. “I swear on my father’s name.”
Good enough, I thought. I released the old woman. She stepped away from me.
“You’ll take care of these?” I asked, pointing my gun at the two dead bodies.
Dragos nodded.
Bassen and I walked carefully toward the door, our guns still trained on Dragos. He followed with his eyes. His gaze was flat and deadly.
At the door, I stopped. “On your father’s name, Dragos,” I reminded him.
He no
dded again. “Is finished.”
I slid the .45 into my belt, knowing Bassen would keep his at the ready until we reached the car on the street. “All right,” I said. “Goodbye, then.”
Dragos nodded, but said nothing.
I turned to go.
“Dominic.”
It was the voice of the old woman.
I turned to face her. “What?”
A cruel smile spread across her face. “Remember what I told you. You will die as an old man, alone and frightened.”
A chill passed over my shoulder blades, but I waved her words away. “Yeah, yeah.”
She laughed then, a measured, cackling burst. “Afterward, Isaac waits for you in hell.”
Sheets of coldness washed over me again. I swallowed. “Whatever,” I whispered.
“In hell, he waits,” she hissed, and broke into gales of laughter.
We left, her peals of cruel, joyous laughter and Dragos’s deadly stare following us out the door.
“You made those bastards pay?” Angelo asked.
“Two of ’em,” I said.
He sighed. “I really wish you could’ve worked this out in a more businesslike manner, Dommie.”
“I tried,” I told him. “These Romanians are a pain in the ass. Even the Russians can’t deal with them.”
“No? Well, then I guess you did what you had to do.”
“I did.”
“So this Gabriella is all pissed off at me now,” he said.
“Sorry.”
“Ah, women are crazy, anyway. She’ll come around. Or she won’t.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re all right, though? You didn’t get hurt?”
“No, I’m fine. My guy, too.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Yeah.”
“You figure this is over out there?”
“Unless this guy don’t care about his father’s name, yeah.”
Angelo considered. “I’m thinking that’s a blood oath for him. You?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, then. We’re back to even, right?”
“I suppose.”
“What’s that mean?” he asked. “You suppose?”
I thought of the madam’s accusing gaze. I felt Dragos’s deadly glare. I saw Isaac rotting under a few inches of earth and a pile of leaves, bullets in his back and behind his ear.
In hell, he waits.
“It don’t mean nothing,” I said.
“Good,” Angelo replied. “Then we’re even.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Even.”
But I knew I was wrong about that.
PUBLICATION NOTES
Last Day in Paradise first appeared in March 2007 at Amazon Shorts.
Three Days of Christmas first appeared in the anthology By the Chimney with Care, in 2006 (Wolfmont Press).
Home for Christmas first appeared in the anthology Carols and Crimes, Gifts and Grifters in 2007 (Wolfmont Press).
Be My Santa Baby first appeared in the December 2005 issue of Mysterical-E.
Finch and Elias first appeared in Fall 2006 at Amazon Shorts.
Core Issue first appeared in the anthology The Ex Factor in 2006 (Koboca Publishing). It was reprinted in the Summer 2010 issue of SpokeWrite.
The Bastard Mummy first appeared in the Winter 2009 issue of Mysterical E. The beginning of this story also appeared as part of an intended serial in the Summer 2007 (and, unfortunately, final) issue of Mouth Full of Bullets. It is a sad fact that this fine magazine discontinued before the entire story could be published. MFoB published a lot of good crime fiction in its brief run.
I am glad that Mysterical-E picked up this tale and ran it in a single fell swoop.
The Worst Door first appeared in the Winter 2006 (inaugural) issue of Dispatch Literary Journal. This story was a 2006 Derringer Award Finalist. It was reprinted in the Winter 2010 issue of the regional arts journal, SpokeWrite.
Running into Darkness first appeared in the anthology Never Safe in 2007 (Seven Sisters Publishing).
If Only first appeared in the February 2005 issue of Ascent Aspirations Magazine.
The Meat-Cutter’s Wife first appeared in the Spring 2006 issue of Mysterical-E.
Pride Goeth first appeared in the anthology Seven By Seven, in 2006 (Wolfmont Press).
And a Fall Cometh first appeared in the December 2007 issue of Mysterical-E.
Rescuing Isaac first appeared in the March 2006 issue of Thuglit. It was later included in the anthology Best of Thuglit: Volume I, (Kensington Publishing, edited by Todd Robinson). This anthology was probably the highest profile anthology I’ve been in, and I was pretty proud to have “Rescuing Isaac” chosen by Big Daddy Thug to be in its pages.
Dead Even first appeared in the anthology Medium of Murder, in 2008 (Red Coyote Press). This story was a 2009 Derringer Award Finalist.
NO GOOD DEED
Frank Zafiro
Copyright 2010 by Frank Scalise
This collection is for Kass McHugh, who believed long ago.
FOREWORD
This collection of River City stories is character based. First you have the tragic Stefan Kopriva, then the saga of Shae and Laddie, followed by the further exploration of Connor O’Sullivan and then Glen Bates. The collection ends with a trip to West Texas just outside El Paso for two installments with Carl in La Sombra.
I love writing the River City novels. I love exploring the nooks and crannies of those particular stories. But there is something satisfying about a taking a side trip down an unknown alley with a character you don’t know as well as Katie MacLeod or Thomas Chisolm. There’s a thrill in seeing them get their moment at center stage and finding out that some of those characters are every bit as interesting as those River City mainstays.
STEFAN KOPRIVA
Five for Fighting and a Murder Misconduct
There are few smells better than the ice at a hockey rink.
I sat in the empty stands and watched the last River City Flyers practice before opening night. The team jerseys were orange, just like the NHL Philadelphia Flyers, with a stylized ‘R’ in place of Philly’s ‘P.’ I’d read somewhere that there was affiliation between the two teams, but if that were true, River City’s Flyers would be like a Single A baseball team to Philadelphia’s Major League.
Even so, the skill of the players was amazing. They flew up and down the ice like bullets, turning and cutting back at unbelievably sharp angles. Passes zipped from stick to stick. When a shooter teed up a shot, the crack of the stick on the ice was like a gunshot. More amazing yet, two of the players were padded up a little heavier than the rest and actually stood in front of those shots, protecting the net.
The old injuries in my shoulder and knee ached just watching.
“Enjoying the show?”
Matt Sinderling made his way down the steps and into my row. He dropped down into a seat two spaces over from me. His ball cap and sewn name tag identified him as arena security, not a role you would figure him for, given his slight frame. He ran the office and coordinated efforts during events. They had sides of beef to do the heavy work.
Earlier in the year, I’d done some work for him, helping find his teenage daughter. The cost had been high, for her and for me, and since then, he’d stayed in touch. We had coffee together once or twice a month. He’d tell me how she was doing, then ask how I was. I usually lied about that part.
I nodded toward the ice. “They’re good,” I said, telling the truth.
He smiled. “Better than last season. They’ll probably finish first in the division.”
“Good.”
“They traded Beaves away to some team in Ontario and brought up this new kid just out of Junior. He’s a hell of a goaltender.”
“Good.”
“Got a couple of goalscorers this year, too.”
“Good.”
“And a scrapper.”
“Good.”
“That all you can say, Stef? Good?”
“True.”
“But I appreciate you getting me in to watch the practice.”
“No problem,” he said, rubbing his chin and looking out onto the ice. Then he shook his head. “It’s too bad.”
“What?”
He pointed. “Number Twenty-Three, see him? That’s Phillipe Richard.”
He said it with a French accent, Fill-eep Ree-shard. I followed his finger to Number Twenty-Three. He was a lumbering skater at least half a head taller than most of the other players and built like a bulldozer.
“They say he’s a grandnephew to Maurice Richard,” Matt said. “But he plays the game like Dave Shultz.”
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Shultz was a fighter that played for Philadelphia during the 1970s. They called him ‘The Hammer.’ It’d be nice to see a little of that toughness here at the hometown arena.
“What’s the problem? He can’t keep up with the rest of the players?”
“No,” Matt said. “I mean, he’s not the fastest guy on the team, but he’s got some skill. I guess.”
“Then what?”
Matt shrugged. “I don’t know if I should say. It’s personal.”
It was then that I realized Matt was playing me. It ticked me off. I thought about getting up and leaving. Then I thought about just ignoring it. Finally, I said, “Don’t try to run a game on me, Matt.”
He affected a shocked look. “What do you—”
“You want to ask something, ask.”
His face turned bright red and he looked away, watching the players skate. When he finally looked back at me, he said, “Sorry. I just didn’t know how.”
“Ask.”
“Okay,” he said, and looked back out to the ice.
He was quiet again for a while. The sounds of skate blades cutting into the ice and wooden sticks slapping into frozen rubber filled the silence. I was beginning to think he was going to drop it altogether when he turned back to me.
“The thing is, he trusts me. That’s why he told me about it.”