by John Kenyon
"Right. With him."
"Well, Benny isn't home at the moment. Works awfully hard, you know. If you knew him, I'm sure he would have told you that many times. He probably just stopped off for a drink on his way home. Needs to unwind, he says," she said. "Now, if you don't mind my asking, what do you need to discuss with Benny?"
"It's just business, ma'am," Nico said. There's an, um, debt we need to discuss."
Janet grabbed a coaster and set her teacup down—just because they didn't want any didn't mean she was going to deny herself—and leaned forward.
"Oh, my. Did Benny buy something from you young men? He's always talking about wanting a motorcycle, the old fool. As you can tell from the fact that I didn't offer you cookies, we can't even afford a new oven. How are we going to afford that silly contraption?"
"No, nothin' like that, ma'am. It's ... well, it's a gambling debt."
"Well, in that case, let me see what I can do." She climbed out of her chair, limped to the buffet table by the door, and grabbed her purse. She came back and slowly lowered herself into the chair, then opened the clasp and pulled out her pocketbook.
"So, what was it? A wager on a ball game or something? What does he owe?"
"Twelve large," Nico said.
Janet pulled a ten and two ones from her pocketbook and stretched out her hand toward Nico.
"Thousand, lady. Twelve thousand dollars," he said, looking at the money in her hand.
"Hey, what's that?" he said, pointing to a large, deep bruise on her forearm, exposed by her sleeve as she stretched her arm out.
"That?" she said, quickly withdrawing her arm. "Nothing. Ran into a door. Just leaped out at me," she added with a giggle. "I seem to do that all the time."
"Look, ma'am," Nico said. "I'm sure you don't have that kind of cash around. That's why we need to talk with Benny. Do you know where he stops for his after-work drink?"
"I just don't understand," she said. "Twelve thousand dollars? Are you sure it's him?"
"Doesn't matter," Nico said. There's a name and a number on a slip. That name doesn't cough up that amount, someone calls us."
What did he bet on?" Janet asked. "This is so unlike him."
"Horses," Vince said, leaning forward. "Look lady, we've done enough yammerin'. Where's your husband?"
Nico put a hand on Vince's chest. "Take it easy. You heard what they said. For right now we only deal with Benny." He turned to Janet. "Vince is right, though, ma'am. If we can just find your husband, I'm sure we can straighten this out."
"If you'll indulge an old lady's questions, how was he able to work up such a debt? I would think you would try to collect before things get to this stage."
"He put down five grand on Sea of Love at Arlington a couple of days ago. Apparently, he thought it'd make him square and then some. It was a strange bet, real long shot. Horse came in sixth. Bet like that, you gotta cover it right away. He didn't."
"Oh ho," Janet said, wagging her finger. "That Benny. 'Sea of Love' was the theme of our senior prom."
"Makes sense," Nico said. "Lotta guys bet stuff like that. Use their kids' birthdays for lottery numbers, you know. For luck."
"Well, he wasn't thinking this time. He stepped out on me that night. Almost lost me. Can't imagine he thinks of that song as being lucky," she said. "Of course, I suppose he did get lucky with that tramp Bernadette."
Vince stood up. "Listen," he said. "We're done with the chit chat here. Where's your husband?"
"He's been on that Facebook thing. Can you believe it? A man his age, gossiping about the old days on a computer," she said. "I hear old Bernadette is on there somewhere, too."
Nico ran a hand through his hair. "Ma'am. Please just tell us where we can find your husband, okay? We can only be nice about this for so long."
"I suppose so," she said. "I guess that's why they sent such strong men to handle this. Twelve thousand dollars is a lot of money, isn't it? I'd expect your boss is very interested in getting that back, and I would imagine you two can be quite persuasive."
Just then, the front door swung open. Benny, stepped in. He wore a new leather jacket and his face had the orange glow of a spray-on tan.
"Why don't I smell dinner?" he said as he hung the coat on a rack by the door. "What have you been—"
He turned and saw Nico and Vince, who were now standing.
"Who the hell are you?" Benny said.
"We're with Marty. Here to talk about the twelve grand you owe him," Nico said.
Benny looked at Janet, confused. "What are they talking about?"
"They say you've been betting on the horses, Ben," she said. "What, you take Bernadette? You know I'd like to go to the track sometime. Sounds like fun."
"Horses? What?" Benny said. He turned to Nico. "Look, guys. I don't know what's going on here, but there must be some mistake. The only betting I do is the NCAA tourney pool once a year down at the office."
Vince walked up to Benny, grabbed his arm and pulled it up behind Benny's back, twisting the old man into a painful knot. "Don't make this any harder than it needs to be, Benny," he said.
He pulled open the front door and pushed Benny through the storm door screen and down the steps to the sidewalk. Janet heard Benny grunt and moan as he hit the pavement.
Nico turned to Janet. "I'm sorry you had to see this, ma'am. You got any jewelry or anything you could sell, you might want to do that. Make it easier on your husband."
Or not, Janet thought, as she shut the door behind him. She went into the kitchen and pulled a racing form out of the breadbox. Marty wasn't the only bookie in town, and she thought Lady Luck looked good in the fifth today. I'll start winning yet, she thought. Then again, this doesn't feel like losing at all.
Circumstantial
So, Juanita, let’s go over this, OK?”
Briggs was leaning back in the metal chair, the crack in the worn vinyl seat cushion pinching his ass. West was leaning against the wall by the door, eyes closed -- probably asleep on his feet. Briggs marveled at the skill.
“What you wanna know?” said Juanita. She was a woman for whom the term “spunky” was invented. She was short — maybe four-eleven — and compact, the kind of chick who would have a handful of someone’s hair within the first three seconds of a catfight.
“OK, here’s what I know,” Briggs said. He leaned forward and the chair’s front legs hit the floor. Still nothing from West. “You were Paco’s girlfriend, and –”
“Taco,” she said.
“What?”
“It’s Taco. You know, like Bell? Not Paco. You’re saying it wrong.”
“Seriously? Nickname, right?”
“Nah, his Papi liked tacos, so…”
“All right. So, you and Taco were boyfriend and girlfriend, right?”
“Yes,” she said as she twirled her long black hair around a finger, clearly bored.
“Then, what, he left you? Slept with your sister? I mean, this is a lot of anger we’re dealing with here,” Briggs said. He looked over at West, still stock still against the wall. They had money riding on this. He said sister, West went kinky and said mother.
“No, not angry.”
“Come on, Juanita. His head was hacked off and placed on the nightstand next to the bed. Whoever did that wasn’t exactly happy with Taco.”
“OK, I get that,” she said.
Briggs felt relieved.
“You do?” An actual breakthrough! When was the last time a suspect actually agreed with anything a cop had to say in the box? He was going to ask West, but didn’t want to wake him. “I mean, of course you do. So my question is this: why did you do it?”
“Me? I didn’t kill Taco. Look at me.” She stood and twirled. “How could I do something like that?”
Briggs actually had no trouble imagining it, but tried a different tack.
“Can we talk about your ink?” he asked.
“You like?” she said, smiling. She held out her arms, which made Amy Winehouse, God r
est her soul, seem demure.
“Let’s talk about the one on your left shoulder. That’s a pretty nice tat of Taco, right?”
He pulled a mug shot from the folder in front of him and slid it across the table. It was clearly the source material for the tattoo.
“Yeah,” she said, hesitating now. “So? I got that when we started going out.”
“A fine expression of love,” Briggs said. “But I can’t help but notice that it has been altered. It’s nice, work, actually. Seems like the arm holding his head up by the hair seems new. Like, really new. That and the bloody neck stump.”
“What? Just because Taco’s head was cut off and I have a tattoo of his cut-off head on my shoulder, that somehow means I did it?” she said, her voice rising to a screech.
Briggs shrugged, impressed that she was going to play hardball.
“I’ll admit, it’s circumstantial,” he said, leaning back again. “The timing, however, makes me wonder. We talked with Tank down at Tattoo You, and he said you had that done yesterday. The coroner is pretty sure poor old Taco lost his head the day before that. Just seems, well, too convenient, you know?”
Juanita sat motionless for a moment, something that seemed to require effort.
“It’s a metaphor for our–”
“Juanita…” Briggs said.
“No good?”
“No, it’s not bad, actually,” Briggs said. “First time I’ve heard that word in this place. But it’s over.”
“The tattoo was a bad idea, wasn’t it?” she said.
“Didn’t help,” Briggs said. “You confess, it might be, well, who am I kidding? You cut off your boyfriend’s head. Emotional distress is the best you’ve got. Did he hit you?”
“No. He fucked my sister, that whore.”
“Damn.” This was West, who pushed himself away from the wall, pulled out his wallet and tossed a twenty on the table. He then grabbed Juanita by the arm. “All right, off you go to lockup.”
Bleed American
Foley stomped across the apartment, slammed open the sliding glass door to the deck that was just wide enough to accommodate two lawn chairs, and pulled a tattered American flag from the railing. He came back inside, stepped onto a scarred end table, reached up and unhooked another flag hung sideways with thumbtacks in the wall.
He folded each flag in turn, then set them on the kitchen table. He walked across the room to the disheveled college student still sitting stunned in a threadbare recliner, grabbed him by the front of the shirt and dragged him across the room to the table.
“This is not a Cubs banner,” he said, pointing to the tattered flag from outside. He pointed to the other. “And this is not a Bob Marley poster. This not art. It’s a symbol of your freedom.
“Take this one to the Legion post and dispose of it properly, and keep this one folded up until you can think of a more proper way to display it,” he said. “I know you kids think this is some big joke, but boys your age fought and died to keep this flag flying. Show some respect.”
The kid, fully awake now after having dozed off in the middle of a video game before Foley knocked his door in, pulled out a kitchen chair and dropped into it.
“Who are you?” he said. “Some sort of flag patrol?”
“I’m the guy they call when guys like you owe a shit-ton of money, Kyle,” Foley said.
“Are you gonna kill me?”
“That’s a real possibility,” Foley said.
“Then what’s with the Betsy Ross act?”
“Principles are principles,” Foley said. “If I let you live, then I have done you a favor by teaching you an important lesson. If I decide to shoot you, those flags won’t be sitting around waiting for your stoner friends to decide to paint a pot leaf or peace sign on them.”
“Principles?” the kid said, a little fight coming into his voice. “You talk about principles when you readily admit you might shoot me because I owe the mob some money?”
Foley sighed. He was tired of this. Of the job. Of these entitled brats. Of the country sliding down the tubes.
“You owe money,” he said. “Used to be, that meant something to people. You want principles? How about making good on a promise? You promised to pay us back. You didn’t. We promised to kill you if you didn’t make good. So, who is more principled?”
“That’s fucked up, man,” the kid said, the brief hint of bravado now gone. His leg began to shake violently, and he ran a shaking hand repeatedly though his stringy hair.
“So,” Foley said, pulling a pistol from his waistband. “Do you have the money?”
“No,” the kid said.
Foley pulled a silencer out of his jacket pocket.
“Can you get the money?”
“No.” The kid was dripping sweat now, his eyes locked onto the silencer as Foley slowly twisted it into place.
“Is there any reason for us to expect that you will be able to get the money?”
The kid swallowed hard, and a yellow puddle started to form under his seat.
“N- n- no.”
Foley stuck the gun against the kid’s temple and pulled the trigger. The body immediately slumped onto the table. The blowback from the kid’s head left a spray of blood and brains on the wall where the flag had been.
“Now that,” Foley said as he gathered up the flags and headed to the door,” is art.”
Cut appeared in Thuglit
A Wild and Crazy Night appeared in Beat to a Pulp
Dog Days of Summeris due in January 2012 in All Due Respect
Clean Up appeared in Crime Factory
Not So Calm, Not So Bright appeared at Do Some Damage
Gutshot appeared in Powder Burn Flash
238 appeared in A Twist of Noir
Demon, Him appeared in Pulp Metal Magazine
Countdown appeared in Thrillers, Killers & Chillers
The Bluffs appeared in the Wapsipinicon Almanac
About Snubnose Press
Snubnose Press is the ebook imprint of Spinetingler Magazine.
The snubnose revolver dominated visual crime stories in the 20th century. Every cop, every detective, every criminal in every TV show and movie seemed to carry a snubnose. The snubnose is a classic still used today.
The snubnose is easy to conceal and carry.
The snubnose is powerful.
The snubnose is compact.
That’s how we like our fiction.
Snubnose Press Titles:
Speedloader
Harvest of Ruins by Sandra Ruttan
The Chaos We Know by Keith Rawson
Monkey Justice by Patti Abbott
Dig Two Graves by Eric Beetner
Gumbo Ya-Ya by Les Edgerton
Old Ghosts by Nik Korpon
Hill Country by R Thomas Brown
Cold Rifts by Sandra Seamans
Nothing Matters by Steve Finbow
Karma Backlash by Chad Rohrbacher
To Die Upon a Kiss by Craig Wallwork
Bar Scars by Nik Korpon
The Jones Men by Verne Smith
City of Heretics by Heath Lowrance
Ghost Money by Andrew Nette
Wild Child by Josh Stallings
The First Cut by John Kenyon
Moondog Over the Mekong by Court Merrigan
The Subtle Arts of Brutality by Ryan Sayles
Pulp Ink 2
A Healthy Fear of Man by Aaron Philip Clark
Dope Sick: A Love Story by JA Kazimer
Blood on Blood by Frank Zafiro & Jim Wilsky
Broken Glass Waltze
Choice Cuts by Joe Clifford
Wake the Undertaker by Joe Clifford
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