Warm Hands, Cold Heart
Warm Hands, Cold Heart
Midpoint
Warm Hands Cold Heart
And Other Stories
by Ray FitzGerald
© 2017 Ray FitzGerald. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at [email protected]
Cover design by April FitzGerald
Illustrations © 2017 [email protected]. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
one
Regrets
by Ray FitzGerald
In a city built from rust and blood sits a bar that caters to the lowest of the population. Bob Johnson’s table was red from a neon sign that bathed the street in an angry glow. Any other night, he wouldn’t come near this side of town. Still, he waited impatiently, squeezing a briefcase between shaky knees.
The tasteless concoction he ordered ten minutes earlier was almost gone when the man arrived at the table. Calling him a man was putting it lightly. Helicopters could land on his shoulders. A shiny baldhead was attached to a gold earring the size of a baseball. A tattoo of an anchor looked actual size on his right forearm. He didn’t ask for permission to take the other seat at the table.
Introductions weren’t needed, although it was their first meeting. He came highly recommended as the most efficient contract killer in town. He placed his thick fists on the table and clasped the hotdog-sized fingers together.
“Got the money?” he asked.
Bob pulled the briefcase from between his knees and placed it on the table. It made a scraping sound as the man pulled it closer. The metal locks popped and he smiled at the contents inside.
“It’s all there?” he asked.
“It’s all there,” Bob said.
The man closed the case with a thud and put it on the floor by his feet. His hands returned to the folded position on the table.
“Say,” he said. “Not that it’s any of my business, but why are you wanting this done?”
Bob’s glare moved towards his left hand and the pale strip of flesh that used to be covered by a wedding ring.
“She’s cheating on me,” he said. “I’ve known it for months, but I just now found the proof.”
The man made a ticking sound with his tongue. “Too bad,” he said. “You know, you just can’t trust women any more. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”
Bob didn’t respond. He just stared at his pale finger.
The large man broke his concentration. “Why don’t you just have the guy dealt with?”
“Don’t know who he is. I just know his name starts with an R.” He found this out when he uncovered a stash of love letters under the mattress signed with a swirling letter R.
“Geez, that could be anybody,” the man said with a shake of his massive head. “Either way, I’ll handle this tomorrow night. Remember, don’t come home until at least nine. I don’t want no surprises.”
Bob assured him there would be no surprises. No one in their right mind would try to surprise a man this size. The man tapped his hands on the table, collected the briefcase and stood to leave. Before turning away, he slid a piece of paper across the table.
“This is my emergency number. If you change your mind, use it.”
Bob abandoned the drink, and his hopes, at the table and drove home in silence. He lit a cigarette and stopped before dumping its first load of ash in the car’s tray. The moonlight reflected off the wedding ring he’d dropped in there earlier. He no longer liked the taste of the cigarette.
What am I doing? This is crazy.
He circled the neighborhood three times to clear his mind. Fifteen years was a long time. It was wrong what she did, but did she deserve this?
As the car pulled into the driveway, he made up his mind. It wasn’t too late to call and cancel. Sure, the deposit money was gone – you don’t ask a guy like that for a refund – but his conscience would be clear.
He smoked another cigarette. The lights were off in the living room. Martha was out again - probably with “R.” The cat needed to be fed. He pulled the keys from his pocket and fought the darkness to find the keyhole. The lock clicked and the door slid open. Warm air scuttled out from the house. His fingers walked along the wall until they found the light switch. The house came alive with electricity and he followed it to the kitchen.
Standing over the dinner table, he removed the slip of paper with the emergency number and flattened it on the blue tablecloth. Seven digits were scrawled in black ink above a swirling letter R – the same R he’d seen on the love letters under the mattress.
Bob’s eyes widened and the air drained from his lungs. A knocking sound came from the corner of the room, where a shadow moved into the light to reveal a baldhead attached to a gold earring the size of a baseball. The arm with the anchor tattoo was holding a gun.
“You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” the man said.
two
Keep Your Eye on the Hanging Man
by Ray FitzGerald
Dark sparkles of morning dew burned on the sidewalks. The first onlookers showed before the sun was up. Now, the sea of bodies covered nearly all of the grass in Higgins Park. The object of affection that afternoon dangled wildly a hundred feet above their collective heads. From there, he seemed so small. But Harry Houdini was anything but a small man.
The straight jacket wrapped tightly around his frame to show the definition in his arms and shoulders. The beads of sweat gathered on his dark forehead and glistened like a halo. Graying hair appeared a shade of blonde in the noonday sun. If what they say is true, that fear tends to age a person, then Houdini seemed twenty years younger at that height.
Either five minutes or five years passed - the crowd couldn’t tell. Gasps and screams from the terrified onlookers rattled the ground and shook the trees. Bodies pressed in closer, towards the makeshift wooden stage where the escape artist was lifted by his feet on a crane bound for the heavens. Everyone fought for a closer look at the man newspapers wrote gospels about for two decades.
A corral of journalists and cameramen gathered on a hill and awaited the inevitable. Eventually the superhuman magician would fail and they would be there to collect the scoop that newspapers around the country would pay dearly for.
Typically, Houdini saved these sort of public stunts for weekends. Upon hearing of young Sally Harris’ sickness, and the final wish of seeing her hero escape a straightjacket while shackled and dangling above the town, he couldn’t say no. The publicity was phenomenal and the crowd wanted nothing more than to see Houdini and Sally cheat death and emerge victorious.
Bob Jenkins called his work and said he was sick just so he could be there. June Utley decided to forsake her housework for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Amateur photographer Harry Sutter closed his pharmacy early and brought his camera to the hill near the journalists. None traveled farther than Victor Sands. The father of three loaded the family up in his beat-up Ford and drove nearly three hours to see the spectacle. As Mary, his wife, held a tiny hand in each of hers, Victor balanced his son, Henry, on his shoulders. As the crowd pressed in further, he nearly lost sight of Mary and his two girls. Even Mayor Johnny Potts was among the masses, with his typical routine of shaking hands and patting kids on the head. Victor’s eyes pointed upward, towards the man he’d read so much about. With Henry’s legs gripped tightly around Victor, the father pushed outward with his arms and tried to creat
e some kind of elbow room. It was no use. Instead, the crowd pulled in harder and nearly knocked him off his wobbly legs.
“Say, what’s the big idea?” Victor said as he pushed on a man that nearly took his feet out from beneath him.
“Beat it, buddy,” the man said with a sneer that would scare a snake.
Houdini, oblivious to the crowd below, went through his meticulous routine. Some of the writhing and wriggling was for show. Truth is, he’d broken out these same jackets and chains in hundreds of different towns. He could - and did - do it it blindfolded and under water. Most of the time he spent up there was to build anticipation. And boy, did it work.
During one particularly intense moment, the magician twisted awkwardly like a hooked fish. The rope holding him swayed, bringing him with it. Henry, still on his dad’s shoulders, kicked wildly in fear for his hero, but hit a woman’s head in the process. Victor apologized for his kid, but never took his eyes off the skies.
The dangling body shook and shivered above, and the crowd loved every moment of it. Time stood still as every second the body hung above seemed one moment closer to a grisly fate.
The pharmacist snapped fuzzy pictures washed out by the sun. Bob Jenkins, unafraid of being caught by his boss, clapped uncontrollably at the shoulders of the spectators around him. Most didn’t seem to notice the man’s grasp. Half of the town’s elementary students ran around, calling out to Houdini. Even their teachers played hookie for the event.
On the outskirts of the park, men sold balloons, cotton candy, and caramel apples for a dime each. Business was good before Houdini showed up, but now even the salesmen couldn’t keep their eyes off of the show.
Mother Nature made sure she was in attendance, too. Her occasional gasps of wind sent birds fleeing from trees and turned Houdini into a human pendulum on his flimsy rope. Sweat leapt from his face as he used what little energy he had in a futile effort to stop the swaying. His face was red. The seams of his jacket confined him tighter with every struggle he attempted. This wasn’t part of the plan.
On the hill, the pharmacist Harry Sutter snapped pictures in a frenzy. As Houdini began to sway in the wind, he turned his camera’s attention to the sea of wide eyes, drooped jaws, and dark hats below. It stretched as far as the camera could see and grew by the minute.
Bob Jenkins, now close as ever to the stage, chewed his bottom lip like a steak. As the winds blew the magician around, a fit of nerves forced him to grab the shoulder of the woman next to him. She yelped in fright. Time, and the crowd, marched closer and closer to the stage towards an inevitable ending that everyone sensed was coming.
A man with a dark coat and a long, twisting gray mustache walked to the center of the stage with a megaphone. He checked his pocketwatch and barked over the chatter of the crowd, “Fifteen minutes, Mr. Houdini. Fifteen minutes.”
A group of local firemen appeared from the hill, dragging a net with them that they stretched below the gaze of the crane, upsetting the star of the show.
“Send them away,” a weak voice called from the sky, as if from God himself. Houdini had spoken.
The crowd roared its approval as the firemen retreated with their net in a ball.
The body of the great Houdini dangled lifelessly three stories above the park. It stayed there, limp, until the man with the megaphone started up again.
“Twenty minutes, Mr. Houdini. Twenty minutes.”
Normally these escapes finished in ten. What was the matter? The crowd demanded to know and was nearly unglued with tension when the magician pulled his best trick yet. In a flash, his head disappeared into the jacket like a turtle under attack. His shoulders spun counter clockwise as the jacket crept into a cream-colored mass around his neck. The shackles around his wrists now dangled from his arms in defeat.
The onlookers roared their approval. The journalists cursed their bad luck. Little Henry’s feet beat a drum solo on Victor’s shoulders. June and Bob, strangers on any other day, hugged in excitement. This, Bob thought, was worth possibly getting fired over.
June Utley’s house chores couldn’t be further from her mind. Before today, she was sure that Houdini’s escapes were all show business trickery. As the straight jacket fell from the sky and fluttered to the stage, and the celebration erupted around her, she became a believer. This would be a day she would never forget.
As the crane moaned back into action, lowering its load towards the ground, Houdini was once again wired with energy. The crowd delighted as he waved and blew kisses all while dangling from his string. The firemen, no longer needing their net, righted the man once he was within reach. The joyous admirers fawned over their idol as he resumed a standing position, proving once again that a determined man can defeat science.
With his composure fully regained, Houdini made his way to the corner of the stage, shaking every hand within reach. Little Sally Harris, whose wish made the day a reality for everyone, was rushed to the stage by Mayor Potts to greet her idol. The magician kissed her on the cheek. The journalists ate it up.
“No fair,” a young boy’s voice rose over the crowd. “How come Sally gets to go up there with Houdini?”
“Because,” his mother called back from somewhere nearby. “Sally’s dying and you’re not.”
“Shucks,” the boy said. “I wish I was dying.”
A small sputtering of chuckles took over the crowd, but it became obvious the boy’s desires were shared with others.
Those near the stage, desperate to touch the hand of the famous man, pushed in tighter. Air became rare and screams of pain and pleasure overtook the cheers. Among those grappling for space was Bob Jenkins. As the crush became too much to bare, the man who’d fought so hard to get closer to the stage wanted out. The harder he struggled to obtain freedom, the further he was sucked into the abyss of arms and legs.
His ears rang as the man with the megaphone blasted his commands to those below.
“The show is over, folks,” he said. “Please leave in an orderly fashion. No pushing. No fighting. Anyone breaking the law will be arrested.”
To prove his point, a dozen uniformed police officers were unleashed into the throng, carrying billy clubs and big muscles. Whistles pierced the air as they pushed, pulled, and pried bodies apart. A hand attached to an unseen arm shoved Jenkins towards a woman to his right. The lady toppled into the dirt with a yell and a thud. Jenkins broke his fall by grabbing onto the arm of the woman next to him. He helped the fallen lady up and began to dust her off, but when a hole opened in the crowd, he opted for a safe escape and darted through it. The woman, still in shock, reached towards her side, where she sensed her purse was a little lighter.
“My wallet,” she screamed. “That man stole my wallet. Stop him.”
Jenkins heard the yelling, but didn’t know where it came from. He struggled for each step of freedom, pushing past anyone in his way.
“Say,” a deep voice protested. “My wallet. It’s gone too.”
“Mine, too,” yelled the housewife June Utley.
The crowd, it seemed, had a new reason to be excited.
Near on the outskirts of the hysteria was Victor Sands, who removed Henry from his shoulders and reclaimed Mary and his daughters. Not everyone there was as lucky. The family locked limbs as Victor guided them towards the dirt lot where their car was parked. They were oblivious to the problems around them and wanted only to return to the safety of their vehicle.
“My legs are tired, Pa,” Henry protested as he went limp. “Pick me up.”
Victor didn’t heed the call. Instead, he limped on and urged his son to walk faster as the crowd grew louder and more unruly. A war, it seemed, could break out at any moment. In the distance, Houdini’s faint voice could be heard through the megaphone, begging the people for order.
Jenkins, unable to figure his location among the crowd, vanished into the shrubbery along the edge of the park. He wasn’t sure which direction the parking lot was and wasn’t in any position to ask for directio
ns. In the brush, he felt safe. The pressure from the crowd had him close to cracking. He watched in secret as people shoved and clawed their way out. Mothers called for their children. Husbands for their wives. Overturned apple carts spilled their produce all over the dirt. Police were everywhere. It takes very little for ecstasy to become agony.
If moving on foot was difficult, leaving by car was darn-near impossible. For the Sands, though, the wait was no problem. They were just happy to be back in the safety of the Ford. They sat there for nearly two hours and watched in amazement as thousands of feet walked around the car and towards their own version of safety. Fights broke out. Clothes were torn. Nasty names were yelled. The cops tried directing the crowd, but it was no use.
It took at least another hour until the foot traffic died down enough for the cars to move. By then, the children were asleep, the park was mostly empty, and the sun started its fall from the sky. Victor pushed a button and the Ford sputtered to life. That startled a shadowy figure behind the trees by the car. Bob Jenkins, who by now wished he’d gone to work, skulked out of the brush in front of the Ford. He stopped for a moment and locked eyes with Victor, who reached next to him and grabbed Mary’s arm.
The look in Jenkins’ eyes was familiar to Victor. Though he’d never seen the man before, you never forget the look of pure desperation. He’d had it himself before, during the war. Everyone held their collective breaths for some time until Jenkins disappeared into a black Coupe not far from the Ford. The car’s engine roared with approval and the tires destroyed the gravel road as it roared off towards the highway. Mary exhaled loudly and looked at her husband. His face was a pale shade of ghost.
“How’d we do?” she asked softly.
Victor reached into a coat pocket and pulled out billfolds made from several types of materials. Each was stuffed with paper money in different denominations.
“Eleven,” he said. “Better than last week.”
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