by Beau Johnson
A BETTER KIND OF HATE
Stories
Beau Johnson
PRAISE FOR A BETTER KIND OF HATE
“Hard hitting stories of lives on the razor's edge.” —Paul D. Brazill, author of Too Many Crooks, A Case of Noir, Guns of Brixton, The Last Laugh and Kill Me Quick!
“Beau Johnson is a lawless writer. Several—but not all—of the stories in his collection, A Better Kind of Hate, feature his renegade cop alter ego Bishop Rider, a battered and bruised, world-weary hero forced to operate outside a corrupt system to find justice. And that's just what these stories have in common: justice, in all its muted, corrupt glory. Whether showcasing Rider or another flawed hero, Johnson operates in shades of gray, where sometimes all it takes is for a bad man to kill a worse one. A stark and sobering reality, and a stellar debut.” —Joe Clifford, author of the Jay Porter Thriller Series
“Beau’s ability to strike at the heart of human emotion is both unnerving, uncanny, and unique. It allows him to wring tears from the darkest recesses of the human experience. A dark chameleon who slides from twisted villain to damaged innocent like a well-tuned master of fiction. A how-to on the craft of short fiction.” —Tom Pitts, author of Hustle and American Static
“A Better Kind of Hate will haunt you like a specter. An uneasy collection, Beau Johnson crafts each story with masterful precision and an icy cold edge. Each page, each word, escalates the tension, ratchets the foreboding. Dripping with psychological terror, nerve racking suspense and characters unhinged, A Better Kind of Hate is an offering of patience, plans, and revenge. Johnson’s talent is spectacular and terrifying.” —Marietta Miles, author of Route 12
“Beau Johnson writes from that place inside us all that is nothing but brutal honesty and grit. And while most people avoid this place, Beau milks it for every word he can.” —Ryan Sayles, author of the Richard Dean Buckner series
Collection Copyright © 2017 by Beau Johnson
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by Eric Beetner
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
A Better Kind of Hate
Fire in the Hole
Front, then Center
Right Time, Right Place
Dicks and Jars and a Third World War
Gank
The Only Thing That Fits
Loose Impediment
Known Associates
Coffee, Tea, and Me
Recompense
Bobby Charles
#TheMediumIsTheMessage
Love, It Makes the World Go Round
More Than They Could Know
I Remember
The Place Before the Place
Saving the World, One Appliance at a Time
The Struggle Is Real
Darnell (Waiting on the Day)
Regrets? I’m Thinkin’ Yeah
Heavy Lego
Alma
Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch
A Full, Upright and Locked Position
Toad Baseball
Size Matters
In Preparation
A Better Kind of Hate
Knit One, Purl Two
Wonder Twin Powers, Activate
Of Dream Scenarios and Plans
And Now, Back to Our Program
Ten Off the Top
Never One to Do Things by Half
Anniversaries of the Heart
An Older Type of Care
No Offense to Mr. Neeson
Acknowledgments
Previous Publication Credits
About the Author
Other Titles from Down & Out Books and its Imprints
Preview from South of Cincinnati, a Jon Catlett crime novel by Jonathan Ashley
Preview from The Black Kachina by Jack Getze
Preview from Falling Too by Gordon Brown
For my parents
The ones who survived and the one who did not
Fire in the Hole
I push the steel harder into the back of Terrance’s shaved head.
“C’mon,” he says. “You and me, Rider, we’ve similar goals.” The scum was right as well as wrong. Where I saw him and his kind as a means to an end, he only wanted atop the pile. “We’re businessmen, you and I. Way I see it, the info I’m givin’ you, I should be gettin’ a free pass.”
“Anne-Marie Shields. Did she get a pass?” Terrance was smart, played dumb, but I already knew. Put a bullet in his crotch to make him understand. I unloaded the remaining five just to let off steam.
“And this piece of shit, this Terrance, he said Toomey and his men are coming in night after next?” Batista continued to look out over Culver, the city he’d sworn to protect. Duty and honor are the things which make up Detective John Batista; what made up most of the men he stood in line with. That he now found himself in my world was something we rarely discussed. It was a given, what I did. And he’d yet to try and turn me in.
In him I see myself, a time when belief had been the norm; that this world did in fact not kick at its dead. Detective Batista and I, we have our demons, sure, each the thing that drives us on. But to be fair, that is where the similarities end. No matter how much he might think otherwise.
Toomey, though…Toomey was the here and now. And Toomey was trouble. Aggressive. Ruthless. Feral. He was high-end too, lacking the moral compass most considered a conscience. Word on the street was he kept a portable wood chipper now, and that the man was unafraid to take his time if given the chance.
Bangers wouldn’t use him, slingers either, which left me two choices, both of which I could work with. Russians or Italians. Little more recon and Bobby Carmine popped into view.
“Head-shit looking to take you out, I see.” Batista runs a hand through his greying hair, goes down about his goatee and finishes with a sigh. Politics notwithstanding, I swear the man’s as textbook as they come.
“What it looks like, yeah.”
“And just what is it you want from me?” I looked to the city’s lights behind him, looked down into the valley which had claimed so many. Culver was not the place I’d been born, but I was certain it’d be the place I’d die.
“I want unobstructed access to the south side when this goes down. I’m not looking for collateral damage. Ensure the night’s patrol is light.”
He looks at me, shakes his head, and then says he’d work on it: Batista-speak for yes.
“You’re going to need ordnance, then.” I told him yes, but that it wouldn’t be coming from him. As ever, he’d already done more than enough.
Outside Carmine’s place I load the launcher as soon as I see that Toomey and his crew are given the go-through. Ten minutes later and I light the night. Upon entering, I can’t help but think back to men like Toomey. Hell, to men like Carmine himself. Lowlifes who think they deserve; men arrogant enough to believe the streets were theirs; who would rob and kill and extort and have others do the very same thing in their name. I picture Mick the Fish, Danny Dolan, and Marcel Abrum. They were special, each of them, all receiving a little extra piece of
my time. To Toomey I would do the same. He of the wood chipper fame deserved no less.
As the Kevlar takes two to the chest I turn, dive, but take one in the side of the leg as I return fire. I hear a click. Another. And then the gun as it’s tossed aside.
“Come if yer comin’ goddammit!” I did. It was Toomey, of course. Why men like him never died like the rest of them I will never know for sure.
Through the debris and flame and smoke I see what he’s become—intestines that stream outwards, flowing in place of his legs. Thick, they wind around brick and plaster like pregnant string. He gurgles, spits up, and as I approach I step on as much of him as I can. In the end I don’t need bullets. I only look him in the eye.
To protect and serve, Batista says. To protect and save, I respond.
I admit the difference is vast.
Back to TOC
Front, Then Center
Not one of them, but two, and it’d been narrowed down to Sacks and Jimmy D. Both were tall, both were built, and both held their faces as men like them should; that they would not take shit from anyone, not unless I told them to.
Each was fucking my wife.
Where Jimmy D was white, Anton Sacks was black. I say this to prove differences; that I am a man who clearly sees. Not as one might think, but as one who has proven his ability to adapt and survive in an industry which will always be less than kind.
“You want I should pull the car around, Boss?”
I look up to the big man. His suit is tight, his hair tighter, and all at once I picture him taking Miranda from behind. This isn’t the first time something like this has occurred. Moreover, it’s that I hate admitting as much, as admission is akin to weakness, especially when respect is involved. My father taught me this, usually doing so with his fists. Same as the smell of his aftershave, I have remembered such lessons well. You mess with the bull; you get the horns being first front, then center.
“Yeah, Sacksy, you go get the car. Be nice to end it early for a night.” It’s then that I turn my attention toward my number two, my Jimmy D. His entire dick is wedged within Miranda’s young, sweet mouth, her entire throat engorged. I know it’s not real, not really-real before my eyes, but I know it’s happened regardless, there behind my back. How do I know this? I pay people. How the fuck else? Another sage piece of advice courtesy of a man I’d come to hate.
“Not really much to look at tonight anyway, eh, Boss?” He was right, the talent up on stage far from the best we’d employed. I make a mental note to do something about that—once this current set of circumstances had been remedied, of course.
And that each of them still called me Boss, every day, even though they continued to ball what wasn’t theirs—that’s what chafed me most, I suppose. Made a man angrier than he has any right being, taxing his emotional limits past a point he’d ever want to see. This is all conjecture, of course, so one need not get their panties in a bunch. The old rules still played here, same as they ever did.
“I ever tell you about that time my father took me to task for stealing lunch money in grade school?” Jimmy’s expression is counter to the one I pay him to provide, looking less than thrilled that I began what I had and more like he wished he were someplace else. Made me smile is what this did, but not for the reasons you might think. “No, Boss, I can’t rightly recall you doing so.”
Can’t rightly recall? Really? Fine. We’d play it this way then.
To Jimmy it was just another day in the life, another dollar, so he doesn’t sense anything when I tell him I want a moment alone with Bruce. Once Bruce is beside me I give him the man his cue. Ten minutes later I have what I want: the place is a ghost, the music is gone, and the house lights are up. During this time Sacks had come back in, the car brought round, and takes his usual place three feet behind wherever I am.
Contrary to what people believe, there is an I in team.
My old man again, rearing his head as he’s always done. I used the phrase anyway, stating it as I tell them to take their seats, saying we had some business to discuss. To his credit, I sense that Sacks recognizes that something is off, but still, he does nothing but what I ask of him. It’s only when Bruce walks onto the stage with his wheelbarrow that we come to the bones of it. I especially appreciated how he’d arranged her head, there atop her thighs, almost as if he’d taken the time and done the hair himself. The way it was matted there, tucked behind the ears, tufts of blonde gold curving toward red.
From behind we are joined by a couple more of my guys, Gus and Frankie P. They come slowly, guns drawn, and take the two pieces Jimmy D and Sacks wished they were holding. I don’t know this for fact, but it’s the very thing I’d want if our roles had been reversed. Last but not least are the two bull queers I’d purchased just that morning. One black, one white, they come in naked except for their G-strings. Like it should, it adds an air of symmetry to the proceedings, and if I’m anything, it’s a man who loved his symmetry.
“So the story I was wanting to tell is of the time I took a thing that didn’t belong to me.” They are not stupid men, not in every regard, and their faces begin to release everything I’d hoped for. This should have relieved me, but no, the images continued to come—these two men I’d employed for years now double-teaming the woman who’d given me my son, one deep into her snatch by way of his tongue and the other at home where the sun didn’t shine. “It reminds me of this kid I once knew, we’ll call him Billy. Billy was a scrawny little fuck with sticks for bones. Whenever we’d come to teams, it wasn’t that he was picked last, but that he wasn’t picked at all. Shit like that leaves a certain kind of scar on a person, creates a different type of rage. You see what I’m saying here?”
They did. I know they did. But it was only Jimmy D who spoke. “Way I see it, Boss, if you’d been able to satisfy your wife, well, she wouldn’t have needed Sacksy or me at all. That much is obvious. But since she did, well, maybe a part of that lands on you. Whether you see this or not, I can’t say. What I can pass on is this: she was the sweetest piece I ever took a run at, Boss. I mean, the throat on that woman. Damn.” Not stupid, not in every regard, but I wasn’t about to be baited, not after all the thought I’d put into this. And thus the scene was set, and suddenly I didn’t care anymore—suddenly more angry with myself than anything.
It’s a poor man who blames his instrument.
Really, Dad? Really?
But I was through with being polite. You fuck with something of mine I will fuck with something of yours. They knew that; had enforced the very rule. That’s what gets me most of all—that despite knowing what I might do, they chose to continue anyway. The only consolation I receive is what I need: their screams. The ones that come as the two bull queers start giving them the horn.
More than the manner which ends them, it’s this I will cherish most.
Back to TOC
Right Time, Right Place
Geared up, I meet Batista at the usual spot. The detective is thinner now, and his face is drawn. Behind the lines I see everything I need to; everything the both of us have sworn to correct.
“I’ve found him,” I say and move forward, my eye line out toward Culver and down. The detective and I have been here many times before, this meeting place now ritual I suppose. It didn’t change the fact that we were acknowledging the evil awaiting us below. If anything, it reinforced what we’d come to be about.
“Who?” And then it clicked; a pause as Batista goes and makes the leap. “Him? You’re telling me Abrum’s the guy?” I tell him more, plenty, how Marcel Abrum seemed to be the one who initiated it all. Batista voices his concern, cautions we can only take the information we received so far. I disagreed, telling him as much, stating that this was it, there was no turning back, after all this time we had finally found the truth.
Batista takes a moment, a hand up and through what remained of his hair. He then jams his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. Taking himself from the view of the lights below and the darkness be
yond, he says: “What the fuck are we waiting for then?”
He didn’t need me to answer. Neither of us did.
Marcel Abrum took the spot left wide by Mick the Fish. Word on the street was he brought Toomey into the fray as well, back in the day. Toomey was vicious, feral, but broken down nothing more than a gun for hire. But one who housed a particular skill set; piece of shit bringing along a portable wood chipper wherever he could. Man was unafraid to use the machine either, not when given the time. I’d taken him and his crew out long ago, doing so with a launcher from inside a hundred yards. Through the fire and debris the man had somehow survived, his guts around him like snakes. I did what any sane man would, stepping on everything of him that remained, the world in turn becoming a much better place. But Marcel Abrum had been the man behind the man. And now I find out he had always been the man, from day one, since April and my mother went missing. It filled me with something larger than dread, burned with a heat you can only call hate. Not because I didn’t know. But because I should have. The man had fingers in everything, all of it, the self-proclaimed Boss of Culver City since he took it from Mick the Fish. Was I blind? Too busy feeding my hate with low level scum to see the big guy for the trees? It would appear so.
Change was coming though. And with it, blood.
“I’ll take the back,” Batista says, and I nod. We both have the Kevlar on, each of us a helmet. If we were going to do it tonight, I told him we’d be doing it right. He laughed at that, a sour little thing, but I was used to his responses, even before he began losing the weight. “You say that like you give a shit. Like the both of us haven’t been using each other this whole damn time.” We’re far from the same, Batista and I, but closer in our thinking now than in the past. This took some doing, and the time we found the cameras and cages had become the tipping point. Me, I’ve always hated scum; would eat it on a daily basis if given the chance. I had to be smart though, learning this long ago, and only because there was so much more to do.