Shades of Pink

by 33 authors

  In a clear space among the crates, Pink sagged in a gorilla’s arms. Blood ran down his face and the front of his shirt. Another slugger, the one Pink secretly called Moonface, was handing Juice a billy club.

  Blood bubbled at Pink’s ruined nose. “Please, boss. I don’t...”

  The club came swinging at him. Pink cowered, but the gorilla held him in place.

  I reached out my ghost hand to catch the club. The club smashed right through, stabbing bone splinters into festering meat, and still crashed into Pink’s shoulder.

  Pink and I screamed together. My knees hit the cement floor.

  Juice turned to face me, snarling. “Who’s there? Come out if you ever want to walk on two feet again.”

  I crawled into the opening, the books clutched to my ribs, my stomach twisting with pain. “Don’t hit him no more, Boss. Please. Them pictures was somebody else. The mouth is wrong. Don’t mess up his mouth so much you can’t see the difference.”

  “Bullshit, Monk. Come watch a lesson in loyalty. Brick, take down his pants. After today, he’ll need a skirt.”

  Pink fought, roaring like a new bear at the zoo, the one who hasn’t yet figured out what fighting gets him. His left arm flopped at his side.

  I reached my missing hand into the pocket where Juice kept his rod, the same cut-down Colt that had crippled me, and I pulled at the trigger. It wouldn’t budge.

  My hand pulsed with agony. Sweat ran down my collar and my back, smeared my vision.

  Cloth ripped.

  Moonface—he bragged about the hair trigger on his piece. Where did he wear it? I felt his belt, tight around the heat of his belly, and reached for the heaviness of metal. He shifted, as if he felt the touch.

  There, in his inside coat pocket.

  I felt the lightly oiled steel workings, how they fit and how they worked. I found the trigger, hoped the barrel didn’t point at me or Pink, and pulled.

  The explosion threw out the slugger’s coat like a bagged squirrel.

  I dove behind a crate, slinging the books in a fluttering arc of pages and receipts.

  When I looked out, Moonface sat heavily on the dirty floor, clutching his leg above the knee. Blood ran between his fingers.

  From somewhere, Brick’s voice grabbed at me. “You, Monk! Throw down your piece. I don’t know what hornet got inside your shirt, but you aim like a blind man. Throw it down, and let’s talk, okay?”

  I thrust my good hand out where he could see it. “I’m not packing!”

  “He’s right,” Juice said, calmly enough. His Colt fired once. “That was Joey’s piece went off. Help yourself to his jack and raise a drink to loyalty. Monk! You gonna let your papers get all bloody?”

  I crept out of hiding, bouncing my line of sight from Juice to the gorilla to the big corpse on the floor, and back. Blood made sticky puddles on the concrete. Pink was nowhere in sight.

  Smart to stay hidden, until he could get outside. He wouldn’t be able to see the door I’d left standing open, not with crates stacked ten and twelve feet high all around. Nor could I say anything to clue him in, with Juice and the slugger to hear.

  His perfect nose...maybe a doctor could fix it. Maybe.

  Maybe we could jump to the moon and live on the cheese it was made of.

  I crawled about, staying low like a nice insignificant monk, tucking the loose papers roughly in place. Anyone else would be lost trying to make sense of them now, but I’d marked every scrap and every page like a sharped card. Then I sat back on my heels, right by the corpse.

  Juice smiled at me and caressed his cut-down Colt. “Get that turd back here. I ain’t through with him.”

  My skin shrank.

  A hand darted from behind me, snatched up Moonface’s rod, and fired it—three ear-bursting bangs.

  I legged it among the crates. A hand grabbed my sleeve. Pink. We darted left and right, him staying with me although I knew he could run twice as fast. I thought to keep the gunshots behind us, but couldn’t calculate how, since the high cracks of Juice’s .32 and the more powerful bangs of Brick’s pistol seemed to come from different directions. So I let Pink pick the moves. After the first few, I didn’t know whether he was taking us to the elevator at the back or to the door I’d left standing open at the front.

  He stumbled, and swore. I caught him, jamming my stump against his mouth. We ran on.

  Just as we reached the stairs alongside the elevator, the lights at both ends of the warehouse flared. Pink yanked me into shadow. With his one-handed help, I shoved the books under my coat and tightened my coat belt to hold them in place.

  Juice or his slugger had reached the other end, where the light switch was. Maybe they would guess we’d run down the street? No. The jobless men would still be watching the door I’d gone into, waiting for something interesting to come out. So they’d head back this way. How could I slow them down?

  I remembered my ma nearly burning down the apartment block when she replaced the oven fuse with a penny. That elevator—the wires in it would have plenty of current. More than enough to start a fire.

  I put my lips on Pink’s ear. “Bring stuff that will catch fire fast, and then something that will burn a while. Put it by the fuse box in the elevator.”

  He jerked a nod, and flinched. I slid into the elevator, and there was the fuse box. If I had some wire...but I didn’t. I did have a penny. I screwed out the fuse with the highest rating and waited for Pink. He brought a sloshing bucket half-full of some eye-watering chemical and a bolt of silk in a brilliant pink, like that new dawn his poppa was always promising. I put the penny in place while he wet down the cloth, and we ran for the door.

  “Open!” Nothing happened.

  Something spanged off the wall, and flakes of brick scratched my cheek. I closed my eyes, held my breath against the chemical smell, and felt the smooth, cool weight of the tumblers. “Open.”

  It did.

  Orange light splashed against the door and wall, with our shadows jerking in the middle. Pink yanked the door wide and shoved me through it. He shut the door; I locked it.

  A breeze raised shivers on my sweaty neck. I smelled car exhaust and boiled cabbage. No smoke out here. Not yet.

  To reach us, Juice and his slugger would have to pass the fire, which wasn’t too likely, or they’d have to circle the block. We needed to be elsewhere when he got here. We’d need a taxicab, and cabbies don’t want trouble.

  I looked Pink over. His beak had stopped bleeding, but with one shoulder busted down, half his blood-soaked shirt torn off, and him having to hold onto his elbow, there was no use trying to hide the damage.

  “You were on your bicycle, okay? No details. Last you remember, you were riding home—then I was shaking you and asking what truck hit you. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  The cabby would remember us, if coppers asked who’d been here. We would need protection.

  Only one chance of finding that level of protection: the Limey. At this hour, he might still be in his office. If not, his office would be guarded, and a shot as big as him would have guys who knew where to find him.

  I had the books to buy his attention. What I knew should keep the two of us alive. Maybe even get Pink a good enough doctor to ...

  Got to get to the moon before you feast on the cheese. Right now we needed protection.

  The Limey’s outer office was a wood-paneled room lit by green glass banker’s lamps. Coming here with Juice, I’d been quickly called to the inner office, but Pink and I were told we could wait. The Kewpie-doll office girl smoked twig-like black cigarettes, lighting each from the butt of the one before, and read magazines with a hand-glass. The Boss, she’d said, would see us at his convenience.

  I guessed that meant later.

  Pink huddled sideways on a straight-back chair. I stood between him and the window, trying not to fidget, watching the moon rise over the eerily dark shipyard. Usually, Juice did the talking, and I stayed quiet until he got in trouble. Tonight the c
ards were in my hands and I was the one who had to deal them. I’d say good evening, sir, when he came in. I’d say...what?

  Somewhere, a phone rang once. The office girl glanced at her wristwatch and stood. “Stay here, gentlemen, if you please.”

  Since when were we two gentlemen?

  I watched her go out the door we’d come in through. When the door closed, I traced Pink’s reddened ear, stroking the sweaty black curls behind it. A pale green line edged his mouth. “Maybe only a little longer.”

  I heard voices, smelled Old Bay Rum under the stench of the black cigarettes. I dropped my hand, but stayed close to Pink. If he fell over from the pain, I couldn’t help from three steps away.

  “Well. If it isn’t Mr. Conlan’s bookkeeper. Isn’t this becoming quite the enlightening evening?”

  Words stuck in my throat.

  He looked me up and down. “What might be under your coat?”

  “The books, sir.” My version, which had everything. The Limey’s copy, which had less. And the tax man’s thin book.

  “Ah, of course. Come through here. Gwen will bring tea.” He stared at Pink, then glanced at his slugger. “Howard, see that the boy is taken care of.”

  Taken care of?

  “He’s my friend!” Even I flinched at the raw desperation in my voice.

  The Limey studied me. I felt myself shrinking, but no. I had to be big enough to protect Pink.

  How could a mook like me be big? I stepped in front of him, as much good as that would do.

  The door opened again, and the quiet man came through. He looked at me and Pink, and raised one eyebrow at the boss.

  I appealed to him. “I got the books! I know how they’re snaked and...”

  I know how to be a traitor. I swallowed.

  The Limey’s slugger stuck a hand past me to Pink. His coat sleeve stank of a too-familiar chemical smoke.

  My gut twisted. They already knew about the warehouse. We’d be blamed for ruining all those goods before the Limey got his mitts on them. But the bims, the rents and the debts, the games, the fixers and the names...the main part of every racket remained intact.

  The Limey rubbed his hands. “Books, you said? I do hope you meant you’ve come prepared for an in-depth discussion of the late Mr. Conlan’s business dealings.”

  Pink crossed himself, gasping as he did.

  I itched, and looked past Pink to the door. The quiet man was watching me.

  The Limey’s voice snatched me back around. “Will we be having any loyalty problems, boys?”

  I shook my head. “Loyalty is to the living, sir. The dead have to settle for what piety gets them.”

  “You vouch for your friend?”

  I swallowed. “He’s my best pal, sir.”

  “Take him to Flatbush, Howard, and ring up Dr. Kimble. The two of you will stay with my associates for a few days, until matters on the street settle down sufficiently. Should you write a quick letter to your wife?”

  The two of you will stay under my eye until enough people are ‘taken care of’ to make everyone else toe the line. I swallowed. “Neither of us has a wife.”

  Stupid—I’d just said nobody would miss either of us. My shoulders pulled in. I watched the quiet man open the door, watched Pink follow the soldier out. Then I followed the Limey to the inner office.

  He waved me to the fancy leather chair beside his desk. Normally, Juice sat there and I stood at his elbow. I tried not to take up more than an inch off the front edge of the seat.

  The quiet man shut the door. The smell of them scratched at my throat. I hoped the fire hadn’t spread outside Juice’s building.

  I opened my coat, and sorted the notes to their proper pages. The blood had dried. I scraped off a flake with my thumbnail. “Should I begin with an overview of the operation, sir? Or just a correction of week’s report?”

  “In due time. Right this moment, I’m more interested in you, frankly.” He opened a pen-knife and dug under his fingernail with it. “Word is Juice Conlan lasted as long as he did for two reasons. One was pure dumb luck. The other was because his cully kept the details straight for him and snaked them for everyone else.”

  Sweat tickled down my back. Him using street words meant something. I had to be smart enough to know what it meant.

  He finished all the nails on one hand and looked at me. “As it happens, I have uses for a man with a mind for detail.”

  “That’s me!” I clapped shut my yap. Too eager. He wouldn’t trust someone that eager.

  But he just turned his attention to the nails of his other hand.

  Did he mean it? Why would he bother lying to me, raising my hopes? Yeah, I knew my onions, but when was that ever enough?

  He wiped his blade on the edge of the desk. “Will you take fifty per week, plus a millage on the profit—should there be any profit—in return for your entire loyalty?”

  Entire loyalty. The ghost of my right fist throbbed. Give up Pink, even for that much bacon?

  What would the bacon be worth if I had to sleep alone, wondering if he was cold or hungry or bleeding in some piss-crusted alley?

  “I-I give loyalty where it’s due, sir, and in full measure. But me and Pink—I can’t ditch him now he’s got a bum shoulder. It wouldn’t be right.”

  The Limey looked over my head.

  “Aye.”

  I flinched. The quiet man had spoken from right behind me.

  The Limey smiled. “You’ll do, Mook. You’ll do.”

  * * *

  All night, rain and sleet fell together, making a mess of the street. But Pink slept on a feather bed, with clean sheets and soft, thick blankets. When he stirred uneasily, I was there to whisper into his curly hair. And I felt like a man.

  ~~~

  Amber Green is over 50 and over the county's limit for pets. Her interests include etymology, military history, and flea control. She uses three pairs of glasses and one pair of shoes. Her goal is to write a book worth re-reading. http://www.shapeshiftersinlust.com/

  COLLAR ME PINK

  Rachel Firasek

  Allison McAnders never imagined her boss would open her mail, and Graham Taiden never thought he’d have a submissive’s collar on his desk, but when the delivery man leaves, they’re both left with a fight between pleasure, pain, and their careers. Choices blend, passions ignite, and only love will guide them down the right path.

  ~~~

  The delivery driver unloaded the packages next to Allison McAnder’s desk. She scanned the stack of small cardboard boxes and bit back a squeal of excitement. It had finally arrived.

  She scooted closer to the small pile and ran a finger across her parcel. “Thanks, John. I hope you have a good morning.” And tonight, she’d have the perfect ending for this perfect day. “Do I need to sign?”

  The driver finished checking off his list, held the clipboard steady for her to initial, and then tucked it beneath his arm. He leaned against one of the dolly’s metal handles and popped a knee forward, thudding the side of her desk and sending her pens rolling across the top.

  “Hey, Allison, when are you going to finally give in and give me a chance to sweep you off your feet?”

  She faked an itch on her nose and smothered a nervous giggle. It wasn’t that John wasn’t a nice looking guy, and he did have great legs from hours of hauling boxes, but she’d been holding out for something more. Allison wanted the kind of man that could make your toes curl with just a look. She wanted someone that had his shit together, someone that wouldn’t ask for a date, but would command one from her. And unfortunately, John wouldn’t and didn’t measure up.

  “Uh… Well, you see—”

  “Ms. McAnders?”

  Saved.

  Her boss’s whiskey-smooth voice filtered through her phone’s intercom speaker. Her nipples hardened just from hearing him say her name. The twin peaks pressed against her lace bra, chafing when she shifted closer to the phone. And Delivery-John’s eyes swept across her fitted white blouse.
>
  “I have to go.” She crossed her arms over her chest and turned half away from him, hiding her lady bits from his view. “I’m sorry. We’ll talk some other time.”

  John nodded and smirked before walking away. The jerk could have at least made his perusal a little less obvious. Now, if Graham needed her, she’d be sporting a dark flush. Her fair skin kept the pink tint ready and waiting for any unsuspecting event.

  “Ms. McAnders? Are you there?”

  She smashed her intercom button and leaned forward. “Yes, Mr. Taiden. How may I help you?”

  “Have the deliveries arrived?”

  With a sigh, she plopped into her rolling chair before her legs folded beneath her. She’d never been able to shake this reaction to that voice. The steel beneath his words held her completely enthralled, blanking her mind and fading out the world.

  “Ms. McAnders. Are you there?”

  “Yes, sir. The delivery driver just left.”

  “Bring them with you when you come for our meeting at ten.”

  Oh how she’d love to come in his office. On his desk. In his chair. She’d wrap her hands in his wavy hair and squeeze her thighs against his lean hips. She’d been dreaming about her boss since her first week on the job, and at some point in the last seven months, she’d fallen for him.

  Loving him from afar was safe. He’d never know what really ran through her mind, and she’d never have to watch the revulsion slide over his square jaw. She’d never see the light in his grey eyes dim flat, and she’d never have to accept the knowledge that he thought her a freak.

  But if he’d give her a sign that he felt just an inkling of the way she did, she’d assume the position and give him the full scope of all her tricks.

  She scooted the stack of boxes toward his door and pushed back a long strand of blonde hair that had escaped her bun. With a soft tap on his door, she waited for his next directive.

  “Come in, Ms. McAnders.”

  Allison wedged the door open and tugged on her packages. She had them halfway across the room before she felt a brush of fingers against her lower back. She knew those hands. Had felt them in her grasp only once—the day she’d interviewed—but she’d never forget the slightly callused pads on his tips, like he played a guitar or maybe worked with hand tools in his spare time. She’d envisioned him playing a ballad for her in front of the fire in her living room. Had dreamed of the way his skin would feel on hers.