BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled

by Garnett Elliott

  "I'll go up and get it tomorrow," I told her, figuring Ric would be home by then. "And maybe we can even have a party—like we did that one time."

  Jessie's face lit up. "Chinese food," she remembered. She looked around wildly, and I know she was worrying about those darned chopsticks.

  "Maybe we'll buy some other kind this time," I said. "How about Mexican? We'll bring it home after I get him. Burritos," I reminded her, not sure if she knew what Mexican food was.

  I took the bus to Ric's place again. It'd gotten real dark, like it might start to rain and I didn't have an umbrella. I'm not fussy about much, but I hate to get wet, and all the kidding in the world about me melting won't change it. Ric's door was shut, the mail gone. I knocked for ten minutes but nobody answered. Finally some old man from next door came out and screamed at me to go away—that I was disturbing his sick wife and his old dog. I could hear the dog howling so I left after a bit.

  Didn't have any money just then so I couldn't go and get Jessie any tacos and came home empty-handed as usual. Or to where our home used to be because the house wasn't there. All that was left was some smoky, burnt boards, electrical wiring, a few old pipes, a sink, and some pieces of metal and furniture that hardly looked like furniture at all. Our refrigerator looked like someone took an axe to it. Jessie's bed, an iron stead, was black where one it was golden. The chimney was propped up like a drunken man on the porch next door. What was left smelled twice as bad as the processing plant south of town. It wasn't just the smell of fire but of chemicals mixing in with it. That yellow tape you see on TV kept me from going inside.

  "This your house?" a policeman asked, stopping me when I tried to duck under the tape. I nodded. "Looks like someone burned it down," he said, half-scolding and half- feeling sorry for me. "Your mama a smoker?"

  I nodded. "But she never smokes inside. Had a cousin died that way." I looked around, feeling sick to death. "Where is she?"

  He didn't answer me. "How do you think this happened if she doesn't smoke? Who would have burned down your house? Do you have any enemies? Owe any money?"

  While I was thinking about that, the neighbor lady walked over and said, "I saw Jessie lighting candles all over the house. Like she was getting ready for a party. Twitting about like some damned fairy."

  She started to laugh but stopped herself when she saw that cop's face. I wanted to tell that lady to be quiet 'cause she made it sound like Jessie was crazy, not like she was just getting ready for Mexican food and having Ric over again.

  "I could see inside real good," the old witch explained. "I could see her flitting around from one room to the next, her long white skirt catching the draft from time to time."

  I started shaking my head. I knew that skirt she was talking about, but where would Jessie get all those candles? And then I remembered those piles of junk and the dollar store in town that had closed down a week or two ago.

  "Where's my mother?" I asked again.

  "Why, she's at the hospital," the neighbor lady said. "They took her there in an ambulance." The cop grabbed my arm just in time.

  * * *

  Jessie didn't die that night, but I never did see her face again because they had so much ointment and stuff covering it.

  "Was it those dollar store candles?" I asked her more than once, but she didn't say a word or move a muscle. I don't know why I kept fixin' on those candles. It was all I could think to say with her under that gauze. I couldn't pick up her hand, or touch her at all. Just stood there and talked about candles—the nurses, one black and one white, lookin' at me like I was brain dead instead of Jessie.

  After that, they took me to the children's home and started looking for Ric. I had to tell them about Ric—just too many things came back to him. Never thought they'd blame him. Didn't see how they could. It was Jessie who burned the house down after all.

  Those cops did though 'cause they heard lots of other bad stuff in my story. The D.A. said all Jessie's money was gone as far as they could tell. Ric used it up in the first few days after I gave it to him though no one ever said how. They also said he'd raped me and hired me out as a whore and a drug courier. Lots of other bad stuff too. The biggest lie that D.A. told was that Ric slept with my mother and that was why Jessie got dressed up and lit candles all over the house. She was dreaming of her lover.

  The love we had for those four months was real—the realest thing I ever knew. I think when Ric gets out we will be together again, maybe have a place of our own. I just wish Ric looked at me once when he passed out of the courtroom. Maybe he didn't even recognize me after all this time. My hair's a lot longer. Mrs. Roney says it might be because I'm practically a woman now. I'm counting on that.

  Patti Abbott is the author of Monkey Justice, a collection of her stories from Snubnose Press. Future stories will appear in Off The Record, Plots with Guns, Grim Tales, BEAT to a PULP: Round Two, Yellow Mama, and The Texas Gardener. You can find her at http://pattinase.blogspot.com or walking the streets of Detroit.

  Black-Eyed Susan

  Thomas Pluck

  "What do ya tell a woman with two black eyes?" The doughy slob with the buzz cut asked me. "Nothin'! You done told her twice already!"

  I wiped the bar down, then laughed. "That's a good one."

  He fired a machine gun laugh, and his two stringy buddies hooted along, slapping backs and shoulders. They'd marched in with the factory crowd at quitting time. Rest of the customers had already gone home for supper.

  I wrung the rag out, tucked it in my apron.

  "I finally made you laugh," he said. "New here, ain't ya? What's your name, boy?"

  I'm no boy. Even got a few gray hairs in my sandy mop. "Name's Zeke."

  "Don't get many Zekes no more," he said. "My name's Jed." He looked like a big kid, with a pig nose and freckles.

  "How about a round on the house, since we both got Bible names?" I said.

  They smiled. Thought it was a joke, flashed jumbled teeth. Their eyes went wide when I poured four drafts, whiskey back.

  "Y'all mind if I drink with ya?" I said.

  "Not one bit! Put her there!"

  I did.

  "You got soft hands," Jed said, and gave my hand the crusher. His wedding ring dug in.

  "Pulling taps and pouring whiskey ain't that hard," I smiled.

  "Huh." He threw back his shot, followed with a slug of beer. His pals followed suit.

  I sipped mine, savoring the fire.

  "Ya ain't warshed many glasses, then," Jed said. "Ollie's hands got more cracks than a plumber's ass. Where is Ollie, anyway?"

  "I do believe he is gettin' rode hard and put away wet," I said, "by a member of the female persuasion."

  "That's Ollie," he said, hoisting his beer. "Regular ol' pussy hound."

  "He does like to brag about his belt notches."

  "He's even had a taste of what I'm gettin'," Jed laughed. When I raised my eyebrows, he added, "I couldn't say no to the price!"

  His friends whistled, like they'd had a taste, too.

  "You sound like a local boy, Zeke."

  "Ya got me, Jed. I used to live round here." I said.

  "Why would you ever leave?" he asked, and they laughed.

  "I'm not cut out for hard work," I said. "I got a job up in Pittsburgh."

  "What kinda work? I know you ain't no bartender."

  "Well, let's just say Ollie kicks up to the fella I work for. He does real well, but boss says he's gotta expand a little."

  Jed and his boys looked around the place. It wasn't much more than a trailer with a few deer heads, neon signs and a busted Trophy Hunter arcade game.

  "Y'all fixin' to bring in poker machines?"

  It was my turn to laugh. "If you mean poker in front and liquor in the rear," I said. "We figure you factory boys need to let off some steam. We're gonna have girls out back."

  "We got truck stop bunnies by the Interstate," Jed said, with a knowing grin.

  "This is high quality merchandise," I said. "Ol
lie's giving her a test drive. Redheaded girl, with pipe fitter lips and a set of freckled melons that'll make you sit up and beg for buttermilk."

  They looked at each other, dug in their pockets for cash. Jed said, "Zeke, ain't it customary for the first round to be on the house?"

  "A free ride?" I rubbed my chin. "Aw, hell. I like you boys. And you'll want more."

  They laughed, and we headed out back to Ollie's pad. It was a small trailer with a lean to it. One sickly yellow light glowed at the dirty window. We heard humping and moaning through the thin walls.

  "She sounds wild! Headboard's bangin' like mad!" Jed hooted. "I'm goin' first."

  The twins grumbled amongst themselves.

  "No rough stuff," I said. "Boss don't want damaged goods."

  "Can I smack her fine ass a little?" Jed asked.

  "You leave a bruise, you'll meet the boys who got rough hands," I said. "From ax handles and bolt cutters."

  They chuckled nervously.

  I knocked hard on the door. "Finish him off, Susan," I hollered.

  The banging stopped. A curvy silhouette appeared in the window.

  The boys sucked air through their teeth, eyes locked on the door.

  It swung inward, and a creamy white leg slid out. Toenails painted blue, thighs full and firm, leading up to Daisy Dukes cut like bikini bottoms. Tight bare midriff, shirt cut ragged exposing the heavy crescent swells of her breasts.

  "Damn," Jed said.

  "Lord," the twins echoed.

  She stepped into the light and snarled with scabbed lips, below two smoldering black eyes. She held a bloody shovel, looked up at us and hissed like a pissed-off raccoon.

  Jed stammered. "Katie Sue?"

  I thumbed back the hammer of my Colt. Two flat cracks and Jed's knees spat streams of red. He fell with his hands in the dirt.

  The twins froze, piss blooming on the front of their jeans.

  "Y'all got four knees, and I got four shells."

  They gave me a look like I was the devil waving his pecker, and took off toward the road.

  Jed looked up, moaning through puke bubbles.

  "I'd say it's nice to meet you, brother-in-law," I said, "but it ain't."

  Jed tried to speak, and threw up in the dirt.

  I turned to Katie Sue. "Sis, you go right ahead."

  She swung without a word. The shovel's blade clanged off his temple, sent an eye to right field.

  I took the shovel, and started digging.

  Jed watched with his one good eye, and pawed at the dirt.

  "What do you say to a woman with two black eyes? When she's my kin, you beg her to shoot, so you don't get buried alive."

  Thomas Pluck writes unflinching fiction with heart. His story "Black-Eyed Susan" won the 1st place Bullet Award in September 2011. He has been published in Pulp Modern, Crimespree Magazine, BEAT to a PULP, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, The Utne Reader and elsewhere. He is co-editor of The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology, and he is working on his first novel. His home on the web is www.pluckyoutoo.com.

  The Blooming of Lester

  Brad Green

  Three things Lester Leroy Haight knew without a doubt: peanut butter tasted like dandelions, a woman's voice curved, and he was going to kill Hilton Fishtrap. Ever since Hilton had clubbed him with a tire iron and wooed away his sweet Evaleen, the world had been awry. Snow filled his eyes when the sun shined. The soft blush of water drops splintered ice into his thumb. Everything was backwards and wrong, but, most of all, Lester Leroy Haight had lost his love. For that, Hilton Fishtrap had to die.

  * * *

  Lester had taken to writing what he wanted to say on a chalk board since the tire iron had left his tongue permanently confused.

  GUN, he wrote, shoving the board across the counter.

  Mr. Kaufman of Kaufman's Mercantile had a neck baggy with skin. "What you planning on doing with a gun, Lester?"

  Lester tapped the word he'd written, said "Sausage patty."

  Kaufman pushed the chalk board back across the counter. "I can't help you."

  Skunk was what Lester wanted to say. Kaufman should believe that. After all, Lester lived in Skunk Hollow, but each time Lester opened his mouth, sausage patty came out. He couldn't help thinking of the gun turning Hilton Fishtrap's face into a red mist, but he didn't trust his hand to not confess on the board. He gripped the chalk in his fist, trying to untangle his mind enough to speak.

  "Sausage patty," Lester repeated.

  Kaufman shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

  * * *

  It'd been four years since Lester had last seen his brother Malcolm. Malcolm wore round glasses that turned his eyes vague. His mouth was small and red, like a woman's.

  Lester knocked on his door and waited. A warm stripe of sunshine turned his back golden. He hoped Malcolm didn't hold a grudge.

  When the door opened, Lester instinctively ducked, but Malcolm just stood there rubbing the bald dome of his head. "Lester, it's four fucking a.m."

  "Cockatoo," Lester said, then shook his head. Four a.m. reminded him of nights with Evaleen, her shuddering marshmallow thighs. Lester scratched the chalk against the board while Malcolm squinted his eyes and yawned.

  HEAD GOT BUSTED, Lester wrote. CAN'T TALK STRAIGHT.

  "I heard," Malcolm said. "You went after a Fishtrap brother."

  The side of his fist wiped the board clean and Lester scratched out a message, showing the board to Malcolm.

  "No. The Fishtrap brothers have been good to me," Malcolm said.

  Lester shook the chalkboard at his brother's face.

  "I'm not giving you a gun." Malcolm closed the door.

  * * *

  Lester worked the prybar under the back window of Kaufman's Mercantile. Wood splintered and, when the window raised, a cough of air smelling like mildew and vanilla spilled out. Inside was a long room of shelves with silver eyes of glass on the floor. Lester stepped so the glass didn't crack under his boots.

  He found the .38 snubnose. He rattled a box of ammunition against his ear. On his way back to the broken window, he stopped before the candy shelf. Something grape sounded good. He'd missed grape since the tire iron. The wrapper crinkled. Lester thumbed one of the purple candies into his mouth and spit. Tasted like it was full of hair.

  He pulled the chalk from his pocket and scratched the word SORRY on the counter.

  * * *

  The gun was cool and light in his hand, like the breast of a witch. The black handle grew slick in Lester's palm while he crouched in the rectangular shadow of a garbage bin. Heat oozed from the bin's metal. Lester watched the barber shop across the street. Every Tuesday, Hilton arrived a bit after noon to have his hair trimmed.

  "Falling skies," Lester whispered.

  Evaleen had cut his hair last. Her cool fingers against his scalp. The warm pillow of her belly against his shoulder.

  Sometime later, Hilton Fishtrap's '41 Olds creaked to a stop in front of the barber shop. Lester pulled the hammer back, settled his elbow on his knee and pointed the gun. Sunlight glinted on the window glass as the door swung open. This was it, Lester thought. No one crosses Lester Leroy Haight.

  When a head appeared, the gun bucked.

  * * *

  Lester Leroy Haight ran as fast as he could. A bullet chipped the brick and left a warm scratch across his cheek as he ducked into an alley. Damn the sun. He'd only missed because of the window glare. Lester glanced around. The back door to the Nickel and Dime was ajar. Lester pushed inside.

  The Nickle and Dime was where he'd first seen Evaleen drinking beer through a straw, that yellow dress tight across her thighs. There was nothing more wondrous than the curve of Evaleen's calf or the dark, moist flesh under her left breast. Lester tried to catch his breath while two men in the bar narrowed their eyes at the .38.

  "What are you doing, Lester?" The bartender's tee-shirt was yellowed under the arms and he worked a gray rag against a wet glass. "Don't even think about robbing me." />
  "Buzz buzz," Lester said quickly, gulping air.

  The bartender chuckled. "Where's your chalk board, Lester?"

  Lester heard the back door squeak open at the same time Eliot Fishtrap walked past the front window.

  Lester Leroy Haight was not going to end like this. He raised the .38. Hilton first, then Eliot. That was the plan. He'd have to be fast. Ridding Button of both Fishtrap brothers would make him a hero. There might be a parade, the air full of ribbon and color. Thunderous clapping. Cheers.

  The bartender clocked him in the temple with the glass and Lester fell to the ground.

  * * *

  Bouncing over a road. A sliver of light sparking, fading away, sparking again. A rip in a tarp? Or his eyes opening? His arms were snakes, his belly fat with black rocks. Lester moaned.

  "Hit him again, Eliot. We're almost there."

  The sliver of light closed.

  * * *

  A yellow light bulb swung from a black cord in the ceiling. Naked, Lester was strapped to a cold metal table in a green and white tiled room. Malcolm's clean room. Lester thrashed against the straps but froze when Hilton Fishtrap's long face leaned into his vision.

  Hilton smiled. "Malcolm here has found a doctor in Templeton willing to pay cash money for livers, spleens, hearts. You,"—Hilton tapped Lester on the nose—"will be launching this new venture for me."

  Malcolm rolled over a cart with a squeaky wheel. Toothy saws. Grinning, silver scalpels. Lester watched his brother's vague eyes blink. "Sorry, Lester," Malcolm said. "Mr. Fishtrap has offered to send me to veterinary school. You think I forgot about four years ago?"