No Happy Endings

by Angel Luis Colón

Polo’s Last Shot (*)

  By Dana King

  Worst Enemies

  Grind Joint

  Resurrection Mall (*)

  By Ross Klavan, Tim O’Mara & Charles Salzberg

  Triple Shot

  By JB Kohl and Eric Beetner

  Over Their Heads

  By S.W. Lauden

  Crosswise

  By Andrew McAleer and Paul D. Marks (editors)

  Coast to Coast

  Coast to Coast 2

  By Terrence McCauley

  The Devil Dogs of Belleau Wood

  The Bank Heist (editor) (*)

  By Daniel M. Mendoza (editor)

  Stray Dogs: Interviews with Working-Class Writers

  By Bill Moody

  Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz

  The Man in Red Square

  Solo Hand

  The Death of a Tenor Man

  The Sound of the Trumpet

  Bird Lives!

  Mood Swings (TP only)

  By Gerald O’Connor

  The Origins of Benjamin Hackett (*)

  By Gary Phillips

  The Perpetrators

  Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes (editor)

  Treacherous: Griffters, Ruffians and Killers

  3 the Hard Way

  By Gary Phillips, Tony Chavira, Manoel Magalhaes

  Beat L.A. (Graphic Novel)

  By Tom Pitts

  Hustle

  By Thomas Pluck

  Bad Boy Boogie (*)

  By Robert J. Randisi

  Upon My Soul

  Souls of the Dead

  Envy the Dead (*)

  By Rob Riley

  Thin Blue Line

  By Linda Sands

  3 Women Walk Into a Bar (TP only)

  By Charles Salzberg

  Devil in the Hole (*)

  Swann’s Lake of Despair (*)

  Swann’s Way Out (*)

  By Scott Sanders

  Shooting Creek (*)

  By Ryan Sayles

  The Subtle Art of Brutality

  Warpath

  Swansongs Always Begin as Love Songs (*)

  By John Shepphird

  The Shill

  Kill the Shill

  Beware the Shill

  By Anthony Neil Smith

  Worm (TP only)

  All the Young Warriors TP only)

  Once a Warrior (TP only)

  Holy Death (TP only)

  By Liam Sweeny

  Welcome Back, Jack

  By Art Taylor (editor)

  Murder Under the Oaks: Bouchercon Anthology 2015

  By Ian Truman

  Grand Trunk and Shearer

  By James Ray Tuck (editor)

  Mama Tried 1

  Mama Tried 2 (*)

  By Lono Waiwaiole

  Wiley’s Lament

  Wiley’s Shuffle

  Wiley’s Refrain

  Dark Paradise

  Leon’s Legacy (*)

  By George Williams

  Inferno and Other Stories

  Zoë (*)

  By Frank Zafiro and Eric Beetner

  The Backlist

  The Short List

  By Frank Zafiro and Lawrence Kelter

  The Last Collar (*)

  Published by ABC Group Documentation, an imprint of Down & Out Books

  By Grant Jerkins

  Abnormal Man

  (*) Coming soon

  Back to TOC

  Here's a sample from Dana King's first Penns River novel Worst Enemies …

  Until I got married, I was my own worst enemy.

  — Unknown

  CHAPTER 1

  Tom Widmer needed to pay attention. It’s not every night someone tells you how to kill his wife.

  Hard enough to hear in Tease as it was, the tekno/disco/hip-hop cranked to Volume Eleven, so loud the pulsing in his eardrums ruined the floor’s foot massage. Chastity’s nipple in his ear didn’t help. She had the rest of her tit wrapped against his cheek like she was about to go off shift in fifteen minutes and needed to get him into the VIP Room now, which she was and did. This was her go-to move when time got short: sit on the arm of his chair, slip the teddy or camisole or whatever they call that thing she wore off-stage out of the way, then ease it in. Usually he didn’t mind. Usually it cost him an extra fifty for a trip to the VIP Room. Not tonight.

  Tom turned his head and Chastity gave him a mouthful. He couldn’t resist a quick lick before he pulled away. “I’m sorry, baby. Marty and I gotta talk. Maybe later.”

  Chastity pulled a pout. “I go off shift in fifteen minutes, Tommy. Can’t it wait?”

  Tom looked at Marty and saw no, it couldn’t wait. “Sorry, babe. Next time.”

  “You’re just a tease.” The smile that never reached her eyes didn’t hide the irritation in her voice. Fifteen minutes wasted. She made a show of tucking the nipple away and ran her tongue around his ear. Bit the lobe for good measure. “Next time. You’ll be sorry you passed.”

  Marty waited for her to get out of hearing range, about three feet. “Can I have your attention now, or do I have to wait for your dick to get soft again?”

  “You’re sure it has to be tomorrow?” Tom swallowed the bottom half of his gin and tonic, looked for the waitress.

  Marty put his hand over Tom’s and forced the empty glass onto the table. “Pay attention. This has to be done before Monday. She hired a lawyer. You understand me? She already hired a fucking lawyer. Once they serve me with papers, there’s no way anyone will believe a burglar killed her. Thursday’s my regular night out and we have this thing with her family over the weekend. It has to be tomorrow.”

  “That’s not a lot of time to plan.”

  “Fucking A, and I got tired of waiting for you to do it. Everything you need’s in the car.”

  “My car?”

  “No, dumbass, in my car. How the fuck would I get it into your car?”

  Tom really wanted that gin; the tonic had become optional. He’d had fun the past few months, basking in young pussy while he and Marty talked about killing each other’s wives, a couple of lap dances for the road. He figured his divorce was almost as close as Marty’s, and Marian would get half of what was already only half as much as it had been, the market’s death by a thousand cuts bleeding him every day. The sun would shine brighter in a world without Marian.

  Now Marty was good to go. Carol had a lawyer and Tom didn’t know for a fact that Marian didn’t. Marty was right: once papers were filed, neither wife could catch cold without her husband falling under suspicion. Of course, wife killing was much more entertaining as an abstraction, and Tom had never killed anything more evolved than an insect in his life. Buried the whole cage when the kids’ pet hamster died so he wouldn’t have to touch Fluffy. Still, it was now or never. Kill her or face the idea of living like an intern again, running the copier for guys whose cufflinks cost more than his car.

  Marty was talking. Probably had been, now that Tom thought about it. “You gotta be there at ten o’clock. Earlier and she’ll still be up. Later and it’s too close to when I come home.”

  “Huh? Wait. Run that first part by me again.”

  Marty squeezed Tom’s wrist until he grimaced. “Pay attention, dickhead. You fuck this up and I’ll come after you myself. There’s no way you’re doing this half-assed and taking me down with you. You listening to me?”

  Tom nodded, tried to make eye contact with the waitress without moving his head. She wanted fifty bucks, he’d give her fifty bucks. A hundred. Just someone bring him a drink, for Christ’s sake.

  Marty didn’t need a drink. “One more time. The stuff’s in the car. Black pullover, black jeans, black shoes and socks. One of those head things like Hines Ward wears when it’s cold.”

  “What? You mean like a helmet?”

  “No, not a helmet. Jesus Christ. Are all stockbrokers this dumb? No wonder the economy’s in the shitter. It’s like a skull cap, tight, pulls over your head
, covers everything except your face. Race car drivers wear them.”

  “Balaclavas?”

  “If you say so. At least you’re listening. Put everything on, darken your face up some—”

  “How should I do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Darken my face.”

  “I don’t know. Use some charcoal from the grill.”

  “We have a gas grill.”

  “Then buy some charcoal. Jesus Christ. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars here. Spend three bucks on a lousy bag of Kingsford.”

  “It’s not the money. How am I going to explain the charcoal when I have a gas grill? It won’t look right.”

  Marty rubbed his forehead with a thumb and index finger, closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. “What are you, autistic? Throw the rest of the bag away. It’s just charcoal. It ain’t like they got serial numbers on them. Use dirt if you want to. Just darken up your face.”

  Tom had a thing about being dirty, showered before and after work every day. Sanitized his hands after he blew his nose, snot on them or not. Right now he’d swim naked through a pig trough if someone would just bring him a beer. Lite beer, even.

  “Look at me, you son of a bitch.” Marty grabbed Tom’s cheeks between a thumb and forefinger. “I’m desperate here. This has to happen, and it has to happen tomorrow. You don’t do this and I’ll ruin you. I’ll tell your wife what I know and she’ll get half of what you got left plus child support. And you’ll probably lose your license. Then what are you gonna do?”

  “How you figure to get my license?” Marty could tell stories about Tom lawyers would line up for like politicians at a microphone. Being a randy drunk couldn’t cost him his stockbroker’s license.

  “Remember that time you told me about that old broad—what’s her name?—Finnegan? How you used money in her account for what you called ‘leverage’ to float that hedge fund thing a few years ago? You made a bundle off that, didn’t you?”

  “She didn’t lose a dime.”

  “She didn’t make any, either. You told me how you got her to sign shit she wasn’t sure what it was? Got to be records of that, right? You move money around, something she has to sign for, I can’t believe they just throw the paperwork away when the money gets moved back. I’m no stockbroker, but they must be pretty fussy about their bookkeeping. I mean, it’s money, right? No other reason for a stockbroker to be in business.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Marty told anyone about that and it was over for Tom. He’d be lucky if his old man could get him a job delivering uniforms. If he didn’t go to jail. He opened his mouth to talk. Marty beat him to it.

  “Wait. Don’t say it. How do you know I won’t tell anyway? Right? That’s what you’re thinking. Well, think again. You already have me dead to rights for solicitation of murder. That’s a capital offense. If we quit dicking around and go through with it, both of us have enough on the other guy that neither one can afford to talk.” Marty cocked his head, raised his eyebrows. Showed the palms of his hands like he’d just said something so self-explanatory a retard would understand.

  Tom was drunk, not retarded. He understood perfectly that he was well and truly fucked. Didn’t matter anymore whether he killed her or not. Don’t kill her and Marty would ruin him, maybe even send him to jail. Much as Tom disliked getting dirty, he liked the idea of taking one up the ass even less. Kill this woman he’d never met, never ever seen, who’d never done him any harm, and he knew Marty would hold up his end of the deal. Just watching him, the way he acted when he talked about it, Tom knew Marty wanted to do Marian. Hell, he was looking forward to it. Then Tom would be out from under forever.

  Maybe he should pretend she was Marian.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tom took twenty minutes to decide where to park the car. Right in front of the Cropcho house was too obvious. Up the street either direction meant leaving it where someone might notice it in front of his house. Nothing but trees around the corner where Argonne made the bend to go down the hill, but then he’d have to walk. No telling who’d see him, and the car could get clipped by someone taking the blind turn too fast. He settled for across the street, more or less between two houses so each could think the car was visiting the other. Made him feel good, thinking of that. Like he knew what he was doing.

  Last week of September, steam from his breath reflected the streetlights. Made him feel practically luminescent, like people watching television in their homes would run to the window to see what the hell was glowing out there? His footfalls loud as someone striking an oil drum with a ball peen hammer. How could anyone not see or hear him?

  Relax. Take a breath. He had the key and knew the security code. Might not even need the code; Marty said Carol hardly ever turned on the alarm. She’d be in bed watching 20/20 or a doctor show or some queers designing clothes or cooking. Even if the alarm did go off, she’d assume Marty came home early and wouldn’t get up. Bedroom to the right at the top of the stairs. Walk up, surprise her—she might even be asleep, that would be nice—put a pillow over her face and press. Take a few things to make it look good, break a window on the way out. Easy.

  He paused on the front porch to steady his breathing, try to get a handle on his heart rate. Looked for signs of trouble, not that he’d recognize any. Most houses had a tree or two in the front yard; at least some shrubs. Leaves already falling, more every time the breeze picked up. Made rustling sounds so he couldn’t hear if anyone was coming. Moving shadows in odd patterns, someone could be in any of them. A kid sneaking in late. Sneaking out. Someone walking a dog. Too exposed out here. Time to get inside.

  He probably should have skipped that third drink, the double, but he couldn’t bring himself to think of what he had to do with just two in him. The last one got him feeling sorry for himself, how that bitch Marian was ruining his life and what he had to do tonight would be the first step toward setting things right. Not equating it to killing Carol Cropcho, he kept it an abstract concept, like all those discussions at Tease. As much booze as he had in him, it was more or less an abstract concept, though he felt dead sober now. He adjusted the balaclava, tucked the long sleeve tee into his gloves. The breeze died and took all sound with it except the porch creaking as he walked to the door. Put the key in the lock, rested his hand there and closed his eyes. Leave now and no one would ever know. No going back once the door was open. He thought of what he’d tell Marty, what it would be like to face him, try to explain why Carol was alive. Then he turned the key and pushed.

  The beeping of the alarm sounded like an air raid siren. He reached for the panel on the wall to his left. Fat fingered the code twice, got it right the third time. Stared at the wall until his heart worked its way out of his throat. Stepped across the vestibule to the stairs. Looked up and saw Carol Cropcho standing at the top looking down at him.

  A powder blue nightshirt hung below her knees. Auburn hair to her shoulders in the twenty-first century version of a shag, rumpled from the bed. Her breasts filled the nightshirt as she breathed, nipples visible though the material in the cool house. Neither moved for three seconds that lasted a week. Gawked at each other like two cartoon characters who’d walked off a cliff, waiting to fall. For a nanosecond Tom’s mind considered stepping back out the door and pretending it never happened.

  Carol turned and ran into the bedroom. Three words ran through Tom’s mind: Nine. One. One.

  He took the stairs two at a time, saw her in the bedroom to the right crawling across the bed to get at the phone. Dove onto the bed, wrapped his arms around her as his momentum pushed them off the other side. The phone glanced off his head. She screamed and rolled away when they landed unevenly on the floor. Reached for the phone and he swatted it under the bed. Carol screamed again.

  Carol got to her feet and backed to the wall nearest the bathroom. Hands hooked near her face, eyes locked on Tom. Screaming, not hysterical. Screaming with a purpose. For someone to hear. To get help. Tom thought of how quiet the neighbo
rhood was. How close the other houses were.

  Someone would hear.

  He stepped up, put his hands on her throat to stop her. Carol scratched for his face and missed, snagged his collar. Twisted her head away. He got one hand on her neck, felt the cartilage under his thumb as he pulled her back toward the bedroom. Her nails raked across his eyes and he let go to swat them away.

  She stepped aside and ran for the bathroom. He grabbed for her, snared an ankle to trip her onto the tile floor. Carol rolled onto her back as he crawled on top of her. Used her heels to kick his shoulders, then his stomach. Not a small woman, in good shape. The kicks hurt. He fell off her and backed away on his knees to catch his breath.

  She made too much noise and he moved his head aside in time for her to miss with the scissors. She tried to bounce off the bed and face him, but he lowered a shoulder into her and drove her back. Took the scissors and threw them away without thinking they’d work as a weapon for him, too. Carol slapped his face hard when he shifted position to take her arms. He caught her wrist before the second slap and realized how strong she was. A knee missed his groin, connected higher, knocked some wind out of him. He raised up to catch his breath and she scratched his face hard enough to draw blood. He tried to pin her arms and she drew up her knees to beat him to the leverage, kicked out hard. He lost the grip and she went after his face again. Tears blinded him when a nail caught a corner of his left eye and it occurred to him he could lose this fight he never expected to have. Nervousness passed through fear into terror.

  Adrenaline cleared his mind. He forced his hands inside her thighs to spread them. Leaned in to press her onto the bed. Positioned himself between her legs, letting his weight hold her down, and drove her arms into the mattress. Desperation gave him the speed to get one hand around her throat, then the other. Rose up so he could press straight down and use his size to keep her hands off his face. Pressed his thighs into the backs of her knees to stifle her movements. Carol writhed against him, her mound pressing against his groin made him hard. She got her knees loose and kicked at his back with her heels like spurring a horse. He ignored the pain in his kidneys, watched her face start to change color. The kicks and thrusts got weaker. Slower. He pressed down harder. Her eyes rolled up. The kicks stopped. Then the punches. Carol’s arms and legs fell away. Then she was still and he relaxed.