All Due Respect Issue #2

by Owen Laukkanen

The boy turned it in his hand but didn’t move. Ricky felt like giving him a slap. Instead he slipped his hand back in the bag and produced another £10 note. The boy smiled, went to take it but Ricky was too quick and snatched it away.

  “Do I look soft? You get this when you come back.”

  The boy narrowed his eyes, wondered if Ricky was legit. Finally satisfied, he ran out of view. A few seconds later he came back and shook his head. Ricky’s heart leapt. A chance. Cash bag stuffed under his jacket, gun weighing him down like an anchor, he crawled out of the undergrowth and went to slip away. The kid tugged on his jacket. Ricky looked down.

  “This what you want?” He waved the £10 note at the kid then bent low so he was right in the boy’s face. “Well tough fucking luck,” he said and pushed past to walk the path as if he had been visiting friends.

  Checking left and right he crossed the road. A patrol car flashed past at the end of the street just as the kid begin to wail. Running into the front drive of the house opposite he ducked down behind the bins. One more garden, one more road, and then the park. And even if Capo wasn’t there he could lose himself in a tangle of back streets the police could never hope to lock down. A screech of tyres checked his dreams. He turned. Spinning blue lights filled his vision. A patrol car slid to a halt in the gutter. It was the older cop and the young Turk. Ricky had just time to see the side door open and his bullet-shaped head appear before he ran and leapt the wooden fence.

  Dropping into the front, he heard the guy shout and stumble. But Ricky had no time to gloat. In his haste to clear the fence, he landed on his bad ankle. Pain shot up his calf. He yelped but kept moving, hobbled through the gate, and dodged the cars on the road. Ricky ran for the park. Behind, banging his fist on the fence in frustration and shouting at him to ‘Stop’ and that he was ‘a cunt’, was the red-faced cop. Like that was going to work. Ricky turned his head just in time to see him drop out of sight. There would be a minute, vital seconds while he joined his buddy in the car and made the turn out of the estate.

  Ricky kept to the edge of the park. He was hurting, but if he could make it across this open space, he was almost home. And every second, he put distance between himself and the chase. Exhausted, he walked the last few metres. Three stone steps by the old Belvedere pub led onto Blackburn Street. He calmed himself. The sound of pursuit had faded. Sirens still wailed in the distance and no doubt the pack of patrol cars were circling the estate like wolves scenting blood. But here was an oasis of calm. It wouldn’t last. The cop with the shaven head had seen where he was going and soon a flood of vehicles would follow.

  But now Ricky had options. This was home, a warren of interlocking streets where a rat could go to ground and never be found. He set off, felt his leg begin to stiffen as he turned onto Griton Street but didn’t care. Capo’s car sat at the kerb only a hundred metres away.

  He had done it: held up the bookie’s, made off with the cash, and gotten away with it. Tricia was right—he was the man.

  Ricky had taken no more than two steps when he froze. Something inside him, the feral sense of the thief perhaps, made him stop and listen. He cocked his head. In the distance he could hear a screech of tyres and a driver gunning the engine as he raced through the gears. And then it came.

  The driver rounded the corner too fast and hit the brakes hard—so hard the squad car dipped, fishtailing side to side, squealing on the tarmac. It slid to a stop sideways, blocking the road behind him. He turned to run and saw a cop dart from the side-street in front of him. It was the bullet-headed Turk, the twat who had dogged him from the very start. He was panting, breathing heavy, but there was a gleam in his eye and a grin on his face.

  Trapped.

  Ricky groaned, clutched his head and squeezed. No way, no way was he going to fall at the last. He gritted his teeth. As the Jack went for his Taser, Ricky reached for the pistol and waved it like he knew what he was doing. Yet still the cop came, still he had but one thing on his mind: to make the arrest and be the toast of the nick.

  Ricky levelled the pistol, cocked the hammer like he’d seen in so many films and pointed it at the bizzie’s head. Surely that would make him think? Behind the cop’s shoulder, he saw Capo. He was out of the car, eyes wide in his thin face, waving and shouting.

  But Ricky had gone too far to back down.

  All he wanted was to frighten him, all he wanted was time to slip by and escape. The sound of a blank was no different from the real thing. That’s what Capo had said. And even if it wasn’t, it would be enough to put the shits up the cunt. Ricky had never fired a gun, never before wanted to. He closed his eyes even as he pulled the trigger.

  The noise was astounding. His eyes sprang open as the shock wave reverberated through his head and rang in his ears. When he looked up, the bizzie’s face was surrounded by a fine red mist. As it cleared, Ricky saw the hole. The hollow point .22 had created a circle of raw meat where his mouth and nose had been. The cop stood for a few seconds then sank to his knees. Finally, he fell face forward on the hard surface of the road.

  Ricky looked at the gun in his hand, at the smoking barrel, at the chamber that contained real bullets. Behind him the cop was out of the car, eyes blank and staring at something he couldn’t believe. Capo had turned away and was climbing into the car. Ricky stared. Through the rear windscreen, he could see Tricia. For a moment she held his gaze, then her long black lashes flashed, and she turned her head.

  At last the ringing in Ricky’s ears cleared. Beneath a sky of gunmetal grey, the shot’s echo still lingered. The cop lay in the road and didn’t move. Capo’s car roared into life. Ricky’s world collapsed. He waved, wanted Capo to stop. He needed him, needed him more than ever. Capo didn’t look back. He burnt rubber and screeched from the kerb.

  Ricky looked again at the gun. Acid burned his throat, and as he turned aside to vomit, he tossed it into the gutter. And as he retched, the truth pulsed from his guts in nauseating spasms of green bile. And knowing didn’t make it any easier. There was only one fake on the street today.

  And the truth wasn’t any comfort. No comfort at all.

  * * *

  Dave Siddall is a Liverpool writer who draws inspiration from where he lives and works. He is published in: Noir Nation, Out of the Gutter, eNoir Fiction, Mystericale-e, Supernatural Tales, Albedo One; in the anthologies Dark Visions 2 and Our Haunted World; and has an e-novella to be published shortly by Full Dark City Press.

  That Time I Worked for the Feds in Mississippi

  By Joseph Rubas

  (Inspired by My Life as a Mobster

  by Tommy Merlino)

  THE SUMMER OF 1963 was a hot one in Brooklyn. From the end of June to the beginning of August, the entire Northeast was held in the grip of a vicious heat wave unlike anything ever before experienced.

  While NYC wilted and wished for death, I was doing great. In fact, I had never been better. The DA dropped the murder charges against me, I’d been inducted into the family, and I was pulling in more than fifteen thousand a week. Life was sweet.

  Then I got busted in Newark with a trunk full of coke. It was August 2.

  It’s funny, when you think about it. At breakfast, I was on top of the world. By dinner, I was sitting in a cell with twenty other guys. It’s kinda metaphorical for the uncertainty of life—no matter what you think, expect, or plan for, things can change in the blink of an eye.

  So, anyway, there I was, wedged in-between a nigger and a stinky drunk, looking at fifty years in prison, when one of the guards opened the door and called me in.

  I thought they were gonna ask me some questions about the family or something, especially when they led me into an interrogation room and left me with a couple of suits.

  “Mr. Merlino, I’m agent Caswell and this is agent Stone. We’re with the FBI.”

  Caswell was a small, narrow squirt with strawberry blond hair. Stone, on the other hand, was built like a linebacker and had a crew cut. Caswell sat on the table, all casual and friendl
y, while Stone stood by the door with his arms crossed.

  “I know what you guys want,” I said, “and I’m not giving it.”

  Caswell chuckled. “You think we want you to rat out the Caramaza Family, huh?” His tone was pitying, like he thought I was a moron.

  “Yeah. Isn’t that how it works? You arrest me and then offer me a plea bargain or something?”

  “Most of the times, but this is a…special occasion.”

  “Yeah?”

  Caswell nodded. “It is. That guy you were gonna sell to. He’s one of ours. We had him set this whole thing up just so we could talk.”

  “What, you couldn’t just come to my house?”

  Caswell’s eyes twinkled. “This way we have an advantage.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “We’re going to offer you a deal, Mr. Merlino. You can either do something for us, or go to jail.”

  “You tell me what you want done, and I’ll see if it’s worth it.”

  Caswell smiled. “I’m sure you may have heard about those kids in Mississippi. The ones that went missing.”

  “Yeah, I may have heard something like that.” In fact, I knew all about it. How the hell couldn’t you? It was on the news every day. I’d heard about it, but I didn’t know all the particulars. I knew that three college kids, two whites and one Negro, were working for some kind of civil rights organization, trying to register poor Delta niggers to vote. On June 28, they were due in Jackson, but never showed. People figured the KKK had something to do with it.

  “We’re stumped,” Caswell said, “and we were hoping maybe a guy like you could help us out, go down there and…get tough, use resources that we can’t. If you know what I mean.”

  “Why can’t you just do it?”

  “Because we aren’t scumbags like you,” Stone grumbled.

  “Fuck this,” I said and stood. “I’m done. You two fags can take your good cop, bad cop routine and shove it up your ass.”

  “Alright,” Caswell said and nodded, “be my guest. Enjoy the next thirty years of your life.”

  That stopped me. In that moment, I had a decision to make. Do what these jerkoffs wanted, or rot in jail.

  I sighed. “Alright.”

  At dusk, two officers led me outside to the impound lot. My car was parked over by the fence.

  Back in Queens, I dropped by the Hunt and Fish Club and saw the capo, Big Tony.

  “I’m going away for a few days,” I told him.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Florida,” I said, “I have a guy down there I need to see. Could mean money. Big money.”

  Tony nodded. “Alright. What’s it about?”

  “Porn,” I said.

  Tony smiled. It looked out of place on his morose mug. “Alright.”

  The next morning, I packed a suitcase and went to see the landlord. In those days, I was living in a big apartment building in Flatlands.

  I found the guy in his office, reading the paper. He was a little Jewish guy named Harold. He was alright. Never asked questions.

  “Here,” I said, slapping five crisp hundred dollar bills on the table, “I’m going away for a while. Dunno when I’ll be back. This should cover rent while I’m gone.”

  He snatched up the bills. “Bon voyage.”

  After that, I was on my own. Caswell told me to drive to Jackson, and, once I was there, to call a number and get in touch with the field director down there. He didn’t tell me to get there in a timely fashion, but he implied it.

  I left New York at nine and followed the coast to D.C. There, I took 81 and rode it all the way to Nashville, where I turned south. I blew into town the next morning an hour or so before dawn.

  I found a phone booth and called the number Caswell had given me.

  “FBI Field Office, Jackson.”

  “Yeah, lemme talk to the guy in charge. He’s expecting me. Name’s Merlino.”

  Two seconds later, he’s on the phone directing me to some twenty-four-hour diner.

  I drove over and parked near the road. I closed my eyes for a few minutes, because I’m tired, and next thing I knew, some asshole in a hat’s climbing into the passenger seat.

  “Whoa! What the fuck?”

  “Mr. Merlino, I’m agent Darrell.”

  “You ever heard of knocking?”

  “On a car?”

  I looked at him and he at me.

  “Anyway, here.” He handed me a big file. “You’ll find a list of suspects in there. Pick one, it doesn’t matter which, and get the information from him. Try not to kill him.”

  “None of this makes any sense to me,” I said.

  “Does this?” With that, Darrell produced a bulging envelope stuffed full of cash.

  “Of course that does.”

  “Do you have a gun?”

  “Yeah. A couple.”

  “Good.”

  After he left, I took the files and went into the diner.

  The inside of the place was shabbier than the outside. I took a corner booth, and ordered breakfast. While I waited, I read what I could. Basically, the “civil rights Workers” were last seen on Route 15 south of Louisa, thirty miles east of Jackson. All of the suspects were local. Hell, one was the fucking sheriff.

  From what I was able to gather, the Klan’s front was a Hunt and Fish club on the outskirts of town. Every single member was a Klansman, which makes things easier, you know? Like back in Queens, if you wanna shoot up a bar where wiseguys hang out, you gotta worry about collateral damage. Sure, the capo of a crew might operate out of it, and all of his guys might be there, but there were also gonna be other people, you know, guys off the street, couples.

  Anyway, I went over as much of the information as my brain could handle (about four pages) before I called it quits. Over a steaming plate of eggs, hash browns, sausage, and bacon, I wondered which asshole I was gonna bust up. Certainly not the sheriff, though it would be fun breaking a cop’s jaw.

  Finally, I settled on Delmar White, a TV salesman.

  After a nasty breakfast, I drove up to Louisa. First thing I did was find a motel; there was a dumpy little motor lodge on the edge of town. I rented a room and unpacked my bags. It was eight at that point, and I was beat, so I decided on a little nap.

  Six hours later, I dragged myself out of bed and caught a shower. Freshly dressed, I hopped in the car and drove over to Delmar’s shop on Main Street. One thing I can say about Louisa, it was a nice little town, the sorta place you’d find on a postcard or something.

  Anyway, I parked in a little side lot between the shop (DELMAR’S TV/RADIO) and the town hotel.

  Before I got out of the car, I grabbed my Saturday Night Special out of the glovebox and tucked it into my pants. I got out and walked across the street.

  The shop was cramped and stuffy, a little fan on the table blowing the same stale air around and around.

  Some fat guy sat behind the counter, his beady little eyes nearly lost in the folds of his face.

  “I help you?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m looking for Delmar.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Good. I’m new in town. Need a set.”

  Delmar got up and came around the counter. “Alright.”

  I spent I dunno how long looking at TV sets. Finally, when he was at ease, I made small talk with him, asked him if he had anyone working for him.

  “My nephew comes in after school,” he said, “should be here in…about an hour.”

  “Good,” I said, and pulled out the gun. Delmar’s eyes got real wide.

  “In the back,” I said. I was facing away from the windows. Anybody passing by wouldn’t see shit.

  “Alright, alright,” he said, “take it easy.”

  Never taking my eyes off of him, I locked the door and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. I’d done that sort of thing a hundred times before.

  The back room was a little workshop piled with TV parts. I shut the door behind me.

  “Look, I don
’t have much in the register, but you can…”

  “Where are they?” I asked.

  Delmar looked taken aback. “Who?”

  “Those civil rights kids.”

  “I dunno…”

  I cocked the gun.

  “Hey! Hey!”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me,” I said. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a fucking liar.”

  “Okay! Okay! I don’t know where they put ’em. I…I…I didn’t have anything to do with it. They just told me.”

  “Who?”

  “Roscoe Parker, George King, and Larry Smith. They’re the ones did it.”

  Roscoe Parker. Also known as Sheriff Parker.

  “What exactly did they do?” I didn’t really give a shit, but I thought the feds might like to know.

  “Well, uh, Sheriff Parker pulled ’em over and arrested them. Only he didn’t take ’em to the jail, he brought ’em to the club. He called George and Larry over, and…”

  He trailed off, out of breath. He looked like he’d just run a mile. Poor fat bastard, all sweaty and pale.

  It occurred to me that he was scared shitless. I snickered.

  “Okay. That’s all I wanted to know.”

  A look of relief washed across his doughy face. “Look, I…”

  I shot him twice. The first bullet hit him in the chest and drove him back against the wall, his eyes and mouth flying open in shock. The second tore out his throat, and splattered the wall behind him with blood.

  On my way out, I robbed the register.

  Outside, the wet Mississippi heat swallowed me whole; before I’d even made it to the car, I was drenched in sweat.

  I supposed I should call the office and see what they wanted me to do.

  Back at the hotel, I locked the doors, drew the blinds, and sat on the bed. I was just reaching for the phone when it rang, startling me.

  I chuckled and picked up the handset. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Merlino?” The voice on the other side was tight and stern, like a priest after he finds you gangbanging a nun with some other guys.

  “Hey,” I laughed, “I was just about to call you…”