Tiny Crimes
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VERY SHORT TALES OF MYSTERY AND MURDER
EDITED BY LINCOLN MICHEL & NADXIELI NIETO
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and
events portrayed in this anthology either are products of the authors’
imaginations or are used fictitiously.
Anthology selection copyright © 2018 by Lincoln Michel and
Nadxieli Nieto.
Interior illustrations copyright © 2018 by Wesley Allsbrook. Printed by
permission of the artist.
First published in the United States in 2018 by Black Balloon, an imprint
of Catapult (catapult.co).
All rights reserved.
Cover and book design by Nadxieli Nieto
Interior illustrations by Wesley Allsbrook
ISBN: 978-1-936787-87-6
eISBN: 978-1-936787-89-0
Catapult titles are distributed to the trade by Publishers Group West.
Phone: 866-400-5351
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017954702
Printed in Canada
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TO EVERYONE WHO HELPED US BURY THE BODIES.
WE’LL NEVER RAT YOU OUT.
CONTENTS
Introduction • Lincoln Michel and Nadxieli Nieto ix
Circuit City • J. Robert Lennon 3
Any Other • Jac Jemc 9
nobody checks their voicemails anymore not
even detectives • Sasha Fletcher 13
Give Me Strength • Karen Heuler 19
The Luser • Yuri Herrera, translated by Lisa Dillman 25
Hygge • Dorthe Nors, translated by Misha Hoekstra 33
Exit Interview • Christian Hayden 45
Ratface • Paul La Farge 53
Mary When You Follow Her • Carmen Maria Machado 57
Ghost Light • Elizabeth Hand 63
Highway One • Benjamin Whitmer 71
Airport Paperback • Adam Hirsch 77
A Bead to String • Michael Harris Cohen 83
The Fifth of July • Helen Phillips 89
Withhold the Dawn • Richie Narvaez 95
Good Hair • Marta Balcewicz 101
Dogface • Sarah Wang 107
See Agent • Anonymous 115
These Are Funny, Broken Days • Amber Sparks 119
Loophole • Adam Sternbergh 121
Knife Fight • Julia Elliott 129
The Meme Farm • Adam McCulloch 135
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The Rhetorician • Adrian Van Young 141
No Exit • Fuminori Nakamura, translated by Allison Markin Powell 149
The Hall at the End of the Hall • Ryan Bloom 157
Friends • Laura van den Berg 163
Minor Witchcraft • Chiara Barzini 171
Three Scores • Nick Mamatas 175
The Odds • Amelia Gray 181
Nobody’s Gonna Sleep Here, Honey • Danielle Evans 187
The Wrong One • Erica Wright 193
The Trashman Cometh • J. W. McCormack 197
Actual Urchin • Henry Hoke 201
The Law of Expansion • Brian Evenson 207
Night Train • Fabien Clouette & Quentin Leclerc,
translated by Jeffrey Zuckerman 215
What We Know • Misha Rai 225
Final Rescue • Kenneth Nichols 231
[Purple Pills] • Rion Amilcar Scott 237
We Are Suicide • Benjamin Percy 243
Alibi • Charles Yu 251
Permissions Acknowledgments 255
About the Editors 259
About the Contributors 261
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Introduction
Lincoln Michel and Nadxieli Nieto
The great Samuel Delany once said, “The only important elements in any society are the artistic and the criminal, because they alone, by questioning the society’s values, can force it to change.” When artists turn their attention to the criminal, their work becomes that much more powerful. In Tiny Crimes, we’ve asked some of our favorite writers to examine the current state of the criminal, the illegal, and the depraved. These are stories of gigantic crimes—vicious murders, insider robberies, white-collar criminals with blood on their hands—but each is short enough to be read during a coffee break or a corporate break-in.
Crime is the borderland of culture, but a border that is forever changing. What is illegal or unacceptable one day
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may become the status quo the next. Do-gooders are thrown in jail. Criminals are elected. Crime fiction, writ small or large, helps map our cultural consciousness: Who do we now think are the criminals? Gangsters? Politicians? Police? All of us?
The stories in Tiny Crimes trace tales of loneliness and betrayal, cataloging our desire for love, money, and revenge; the estranging solitude of a new city; the drug-fueled afternoon that gets out of hand; the fear for and of children, as well as of doctors, sex-positive women (yes, still!), the government; and experiments scientific, social, and rhetorical gone awry. Here too we find the old fears (and aspirations)—the glinting knives and secret signals of the furtive class. But double-
crossers and murderous femmes fatales aren’t always the bad guys. Sometimes we’re rooting for them as they narrowly get out alive or bake their revenge into human empanadas. The joy is not as much in the whodunit as in the who got it good.
The crimes collected here take place not only among the alleys of rain-streaked metropolises but also in the backyards of gated communities, in swamplands, doctors’ offices, and suburban malls. They take place over email and voicemail, in whispered exchanges, and on social media. In one story we are the unrepentant victor, in the next the victim, in others we are merely the people who clean up the mess. Crime fiction, and noir in particular, has always blurred the line
INTRODUCTION
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between criminal and good guy, arguing that rarely are the two mutually exclusive. And even the most glancing look at the daily news reveals that reality is no different, and no less strange.
We hope you enjoy.
Sincerely,
Lincoln Michel and Nadxieli Nieto
INTRODUCTION
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Circuit City
J. Robert Lennon
Because we didn’t like John, our manager, and because we suspected that he planned to rob Circuit City on its final day of operations, we decided (John, John, and I) to rob Circuit City on its final day of operations.
John had been tasked with selling off all stock, which meant deep discounts for our customers on computers, televisions, stereo equipment, video games, DVDs, and home appliances. John elected to close Circuit City for one week leading up to its final day of operations, which was Sunday, March 8, 2009, in order to generate excitement and to promote the store clearance as a “sales event.” The “sales event” would be cash-only, which is an unorthodox
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procedure at Circuit City and which tipped John, John, and myself off to the possibility that John was planning to rob Circuit City. In movies and on television, which John, John, and I often were able to watch during our shifts at Circuit City, owing to its recent decline in revenue, this is known as a “heist.”
“Cash,” John observed, smoking, during our smoke break out on the loading dock, “is harder to account for than other forms of payment.”
“John is going to steal some or all of the cash,” John replied, smoking.
Smoking, I said, “If John intends to steal some or all of the cash, then we should steal some or all of the cash instead.” In movies and on television, this is known as a “double cross.”
We
all were wearing the red shirts required of all employees. John wore the required red shirt as well, but upon his required shirt was embroidered the word “Manager.” Because we didn’t like John, we called him Manager.
“Manager, this customer is looking for a game controller.”
“Manager, this customer would like to return these cables.”
“Manager, your required red shirt is looking fly today.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Stop calling me that.”
J. Robert Lennon
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“Stop calling me that.”
The “sales event” proved successful. Customers lined up around the building in order to buy computers, televisions, stereo equipment, video games, DVDs, and home appliances, all the way back to the loading dock where no one was smoking due to the “sales event.” Circuit City made $42,738 in the hours until noon, at which time John reduced prices by half, then Circuit City made another $29,722 in the hours until five p.m., at which time John reduced prices to 90 percent off list, then Circuit City made another $22,835 in the hours until closing, for a grand total of $95,295, which we helped John pack into large canvas sacks. In movies and on television, this is known as “loot.”
John, John, and I made to leave Circuit City, driving in John’s car, after farewells and thank-yous to John, whom we didn’t call Manager for the first time ever. John appeared moved but eager for us to leave, presumably because John was also eager to transfer the large canvas sacks of dollars into his car. We came back five minutes later to find John at the loading bay, loading the large canvas sacks of dollars into his car.
“Manager, what are you doing?”
“Manager, are those the dollars?”
“Manager, this is an unorthodox procedure.”
“Hey, well now,” John said, and then John pulled a pistol from the crack of his ass and shot John in the head. John collapsed to the ground beside his blood-spattered
Circuit City
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car, his red shirt, bearing the embroidered word “Manager,” soaked red with blood, which was ironic. The shooting was an unorthodox procedure. In movies and on television, this is known as a “twist.” After a moment of reflection, John and I began to transfer the large canvas sacks of dollars from John’s car to John’s car. John asked John if he intended to help, and John replied, gesturing toward John’s lifeless body, “I just did. Also,” he said, smoking, which was an orthodox procedure, especially considering that John, John, and I were at the loading dock and were now on what could be termed a permanent smoke break, “it’s my car. John,” he said, meaning me, “you drive,” and he gestured toward the driver’s-side door. I got into the car, behind the steering wheel. Driving John’s car was an unorthodox procedure. Outside the car, John shot John in much the way he had shot John. Now I understood that John was bad. In the movies and on television, this is known as “anagnorisis.” The cigarette fell out of John’s mouth, and he said fuck.
John climbed into the passenger seat and pointed his pistol at me and said drive. I drove. John said left. John said left. John said right. John said keep going. John said shut up. John said keep going. John said exit. John said right. John said, his voice distorted by the rutted dirt road we were driving on, keep going.
Now John’s portable telephone rang. In movies and on television this is known as “deus ex machina.” John looked
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down. I reached behind my back and pulled out the pistol I’d hidden in the crack of my ass and I pointed it at John. In movies and on television, this is known as “peripeteia.” I told John to drop his pistol and instead John pointed his pistol at me, so I shot John, and he shot me. We shot each other. In movies and on television, this is known as “poetic justice.” We died.
We kept driving. This was an unorthodox procedure. Our red shirts were red. The dirt road smoothed out and began to glow. Angels appeared on either side of the car to escort us into heaven. In movies and on television, I am known as an “unreliable narrator.” Circuit City was later purchased by Systemax and consolidated, along with CompUSA, into the TigerDirect online brand. This is an orthodox procedure. John and I are still driving. The angels wear red. John and I are beginning to think that they are not angels and that this is not heaven.
Circuit City
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Any Other
Jac Jemc
He found her already seated at the coffee shop.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you.” He held out his hand.
Bethany paused before accepting.
“I’m Keith,” he said once her fingers were wrapped in his, and laughed at himself. “Of course, you know that. I’m sorry. May I?” He gestured to the chair across from her.
Bethany nodded, wondered why he didn’t get himself a cup of coffee first.
“No use in wasting time, so I’ll just ask,” he said. “Have you made a decision?”
Bethany responded honestly. She shook her head.
“Good, then I can still convince you.” Keith scooted
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his chair forward. “I know it’s a family heirloom, but if you keep it locked away in storage, what difference does it make if you technically own it or someone else does? If you sell it to me, you can visit it. I can loan it to you. We could even agree that you can buy it back at any time.”
Bethany wondered why it mattered so much to him. That he wanted it so very badly made her want to refuse him the satisfaction. “How much are you willing to pay?” she asked.
Keith blinked rapidly. “Well, we discussed fifty thousand dollars.”
Bethany frowned. She had learned to do this during negotiations of any kind.
Keith filled his lungs. “But I’m prepared to go up to seventy-five thousand dollars.” He looked down at her coffee cup now, ready to wait for her response.
“Would you get me a refill?” she asked. She enjoyed this power. She held it tight.
Keith jumped up. “Of course!” She could feel his relief at stepping away from her decision-making. He ushered her mug over to the counter and asked the barista for a cup of his own, as well. She watched him closely as he pulled out a few bills. She examined the repetitive wear of his wallet on his back pocket. She noticed the bevel of the outside heels of his shoes, the evidence of uncorrected supination and thriftiness. The money he offered her could be better spent.
Jac Jemc
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When Keith returned, he looked expectant, hopeful the delay might have delivered a verdict.
He sipped his coffee. “I’m happy to answer any questions.” He smiled.
Bethany found the way he forced himself to keep his gaze on her willful. She respected his determination and broke eye contact to see his index finger fidget the cuticle of his thumb, torn raw and red.
“Or maybe I can ask you a question,” Keith said. “What’s holding you back? Why not sell it?” He lifted his mug to his lips again.
Something about this query settled it for Bethany. “I’m sorry,” she said. “No deal.”
Keith set his mug down a little too hard. Coffee rushed over the edge of the cup and ran down the tilt of the table into his lap. “Shoot,” he said. He ran to retrieve some napkins, wiping first at the splash on his pants and then mopping at the edges of the mug on the table. Bethany didn’t move or speak. When Keith finally resettled, he said, “Why?”
Bethany looked in Keith’s eyes for the answer, but all she turned up was the realization that she didn’t need to explain it to him. She felt her shoulders flinch, as if the decision mattered little to her, no possibility of reversing it.
“There’s nothing I can do to convince you?”
She shook her head and tightened her lips.
Keith stood, a ball of wet napkins clenched in his fist. “Okay,” he said. “You know where to find me if you change
Any Other
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your mind.” Blood swamped her heart. “Have a good afternoon then,” Keith said. He turned away, but spun back again. “I don’t have it, but if I’d offered a hundred thousand dollars, would that have made a difference?” he asked.
“No,” she said. She held out her hand hoping to end the conversation as it had begun, before she remembered the wad of napkins. She placed her palm back on the table.
“Then why . . . all right. Thank you, Joanne.” Adrenaline rushed behind the name “Joanne,” but Bethany maintained her composure. Keith walked away with purpose. He pulled open the door and Bethany watched through the window as he disappeared right and then crossed back left, unfamiliar with the neighborhood or changing his mind about where he was headed.
Bethany wondered what it was Keith had wanted. She wondered what Joanne had to give. She wondered why she felt like it was her place to decide for both of them, but it had all unfolded so easily. She took a last sip of her coffee and gathered her things.
A woman in a polished pantsuit walked through the door, her eyes looking for someone. She asked at the counter about the man whom she was supposed to meet.
Bethany let her fingers fall on the shoulder of the woman as lightly as possible and leaned in. “Joanne?” The woman’s whole body pursed under Bethany’s touch. “Keep it,” she whispered.
Jac Jemc