Gloves Off

by Gareth Spark

  *

  The tiny 25-watt bulb illuminating the back booth where Johnny was seated cast a yellow pall over him. His right hand trembled with the effort of raising the tumbler of whiskey. Johnny looked up as I approached. I watched as fear chased surprise across his narrow face, which had gone white as a ghost with my appearance. I pasted a smile I didn’t feel on my mug and slid in to the seat across from him.

  “Hey, Johnny… what’s up, kiddo? You don’t write… you don’t call… you don’t come by…” I shrugged and waited… splashing a generous measure of whiskey in my glass.

  “He…ey, Eddie…” Johnny’s voice quavered as he struggled to keep his composure. “I was gonna… honest… but… but…” he hesitated, probably trying to figure out why I wasn’t laying on some mortician’s slab. “I just thought… with the heat on and all… I oughta lie low… you know?” Hopefulness crept into his voice as he watched the carefully neutral expression on my face.

  “Yeah… probably a good idea… sure… sure…” I nodded. “Hey… I gotta go piss… watch my drink, okay?”

  *

  Staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror, hanging crooked over the chipped and stained lavatory, the doubt I’d seen earlier in my eyes was now replaced with resolve. Any qualms I had about taking Johnny down had vanished as soon as I slid in the booth across from him. In the dull yellow light, his dark brown eyes were mirrors of guilt and shame.

  I pulled the 'throw away' .22 from my jacket pocket, checked the safety and jacked a round in the chamber. Tucking the Colt 1911 up my sleeve, I turned for the door.

  My rubber soled shoes made barely a whisper as I walked back to the booth.

  At the last moment Johnny felt my presence behind him, his body visibly stiffening, but before he could turn around, my finger had tightened that last millimeter and the 29 grain bullet, travelling at 1,200 feet per second, pierced Johnny’s skull, burying itself deep in the grey, gelatinous matter of his traitorous brain. His body slumped over, sending both of our drinks skittering across the battered tabletop and crashing to the floor.

  *

  When Vince returned some time later, the only trace of mine or Johnny’s presence was a small puddle of whiskey on the floor, littered with shards of broken glass glinting in the bar’s dim light.

  And a C-note on the till.

  ~~**~~

  “You bloody bastard!” Nina repeated the curse, but it had no strength now… her arms sagged to her side. My skin prickled as relief washed over me. Treading carefully…

  “I don’t know what came over him, Nina… all that money… it can make a man do crazy shit… turn on his friends… even his… just a matter of time and he’d have come for you too. It’s better this way, doll… you can see that, right? With Johnny out of the way, we won’t be looking over our shoulders all the time, wondering... waiting…”

  “We? We?! You bloody stupid bastard!” Spitting out each syllable, bitter incredulity replaced the sharp anger of a few moments ago and the look now in Nina’s eyes told me I had made a huge miscalculation. An alarm went off in my brain… fuck!

  “There is no ‘we’! There never was! You didn’t seriously think…?” Nina’s face flushed. “You idiot! You killed Johnny because you thought he...? And now… you think…you and I…? God… you’re thick! There is nothing with us! Johnny let me fuck who I wanted because it was the one thing he couldn’t give me. I would never leave him… I loved him! Madly! We had it perfect! I killed for Johnny! And now… you’ve ruined it all!”

  Nina’s voice went cold and hard in the blink of an eye. “Give me the key!” I found myself staring once again at the tiny but lethal barrels of the twin pistols, removing any doubt that she meant business.

  Holding Nina’s gaze with my eyes, I reached slowly in my shirt pocket for the locker key. I put the piece of brass down on the desk and slid it over to her.

  Nina looked down at the key for several moments; then she sat down in the chair facing the desk. Keeping one of the pistols on me, she put the other in her black handbag and reached out for the key… a little smile flitted across her lips… and was gone.

  “I guess this is good-bye then, isn’t it?” She raised the .22 up and pointed it square at my eyes.

  “Guess so, doll.” Something in my voice made Nina hesitate… she tilted her head, eyes questioning. My right hand, unnoticed, had found the cold, hard metal of the Remington 12 gauge strapped to the underside of the heavy oak desktop.

  Unlike Nina… I didn’t hesitate.

  Born in Lisboa, Portugal to parents of Portuguese/Russian descent, Veronica Marie and her partner of six and a half years, Christina Anne, call the Pacific Northwest home. The couple, married in October 2010, are “still very much on honeymoon!”

  Part time teacher/barista/student, Veronica’s long fascination with noir fiction prompted her to try her own hand at writing fiction – “the last two years have been a roller coaster!”, where she honed her ‘writing chops’ on an unsuspecting public over at Flash Fiction Friday and Phil Ambler's (formerly Lily Childs’) Friday Prediction.

  Veronica has been published in Pulp Metal Magazine, The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology, Cruentus Libri Press’s horror anthology, 100 Horrors, and the inaugural issue of Literary Orphans magazine. She also appears in Katherine Tomlinson's charity anthology, NIGHTFALLS: Notes From The End Of The World, and Paul D. Brazill’?s DRUNK ON THE MOON 2: A Roman Dalton Anthology.

  Veronica counts among her mentors - Carole A Parker, Lily Childs, Paul D Brazill, Richard Godwin and Joyce Juzwik. She is currently ‘polishing’ her first novel – a memoir – and working on the second draft of a second novel, as well as publishing a collection of her flash fiction and short stories.

  Veronica’s writings can be found at:

  www.veronicathepajamathief.wordpress.com

  and

  www.veronicathepajamathiefwritespoetry.blogspot.com.

  By Mike Monson

  I didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with Jen.

  We were in a beautiful suite at Caesar’s Palace on the Strip in Vegas. It was our goddamn twentieth wedding anniversary and all she wanted to do was lie on the bed and watch Jerry Springer and Ellen.

  “Babe,” I said as gently as possible, “Whatdya say we get dressed up. Go get some drinks. Do a little gambling. Have some more drinks. Get a nice dinner at Wolfgang Pucks in the mall here while we watch the fake sky change color. Have some more drinks, do a little more gambling, then go out dancing until dawn. Maybe check out one of those couples’ strip joints I told you about? Huh? Sound like fun?”

  “I don’t know,” she said like a freaking little mouse, “Can’t we just hang out here tonight? Get room service or something? Tonight is the finale of Big Brother and the first episode of the new season of Survivor.”

  God! She loved those reality shows. She’d even insisted that we make a quick visit to the actual shop from the Pawn Stars TV show on the way here from the airport, this afternoon.

  I could not believe this. This was the trip we’d both dreamed about, all these years. We’d finally made it; we finally had some cash to show for all our hard work and had a chance to have some real fun in Sin City and she wanted to do the same shit she did all day back in Ohio.

  “I’m going to play some blackjack and toss back a few,” I told her, as I put on the expensive new sport coat I’d bought, especially for this trip, “If you aren’t down in an hour I’m going out and exploring the town without your sorry ass.”

  I checked myself in the mirror and put on some cologne.

  “I’ll be at the ten dollar tables.”

  After an hour – no Jen. I was up about a grand. Players get free drinks and I’d had more than my share and I was getting angry.

  A hot young thing at the bar kept staring at me.

  She looked kind of like Cher did around 1975, after she dumped Sonny and was getting with Gregg Allman. She had long straight black hair, an amazing tan, cheekbones, beautiful big d
ark eyes, and long, long lashes. She was wearing some kind of fringy, white, buckskin pantsuit thing, just like Cher would’ve worn back then. She even had earrings made out of long feathers.

  Fuck Jen, I thought. I’m in love.

  I grabbed my chips and went over.

  “Looks like things are going good for you,” she said. “You must be a helluva blackjack player.”

  “I just got lucky,” I said. “What are you drinking?”

  Her name was Cherokee (I loved that) and she drank scotch rocks just like me. We sat a while and I bought her drinks. I could tell by how friendly she was – meaningful glances, lots of touching – and by the way she kept staring at all the chips I’d laid out on the bar that she was a hooker, or some kid of scam artist.

  Hey, I’m not an idiot: 27-year-old Cher-in-her-prime look-a-likes sitting all bright and shiny in Vegas casinos don’t go after obese, balding, 50 year old, plumbing contractors from Akron, without having an ulterior motive. I didn’t care though. Shit. I was bored. My wife wanted to lie around all day eating room service and watching the tube. I decided to let things play out; let her think I was a Midwestern doofus, see what happens. Make my own reality show.

  “So where are you from, Phil?” Cherokee asked me.

  “Akron, Ohio,” I told her, “It used to be the Rubber Capitol of America, but now, it’s called ‘The City of Invention.’”

  “Why is that, Phil?” she asked.

  “The tire companies mostly moved away,” I told her, knowing this was boring as shit, “And now the University of Akron has this polymer research center which is supposed to be just the greatest thing ever. They say that polymers are the future.”

  “Where do you see our future going, Phil?”

  “‘Our future, Cherokee?” I said. “We just met. Right?”

  “I meant our immediate future,” she said almost demurely (the whore), “Like right now?”

  “What are you saying?” I asked. This was getting interesting. “Do you have a room here, Phil?” She brushed her long nails along the top of my hand.

  “I do,” I answered, “But it is currently occupied by my wife, and if I know her, she is laying in bed right now, eating shrimp cocktails and watching Oprah.”

  “That’s a shame,” she said.

  “How about you,” I asked, “Do you have somewhere we can go and get better acquainted?”

  “If you want to see my apartment,” Cherokee said, “You’ll have to give me five of those one hundred dollar chips.”

  I slid the chips over and we got a cab.

  In the taxi she was real friendly, practically sitting on my lap. She touched me all over and breathed into my ear.

  Her apartment was in a crummy little complex over by the Liberace Museum. As I followed her up the stairs I could see by the way she handled the steps in her high heels that she wasn’t at all drunk. Amazing after all the scotch I’d bought her. I wasn’t drunk either – holding my liquor is one of my few talents.

  I had a six inch knife in the left inside pocket of my jacket that I’d picked up at the pawn shop earlier, and as we went inside I grabbed hold of the handle with my right hand. This was a good move on my part since a rather large man tried to jump me as soon as the door was closed and locked.

  This didn’t surprise me at all but you should’ve seen the look on his face when I stabbed him in the eye and then deep into his neck. I pulled the knife out and he fell to the floor, blood gushing from his severed artery.

  I watched him squirm and then cough out his last breath, before I turned to face the whimpering Cherokee.

  When I do a hooker back home in Akron, it’s usually somewhere dark and semi public, like behind a building or in an alley. So it was a pleasure to be able to take my time with Cherokee and to really concentrate on what I was doing.

  Afterwards, I grabbed my chips, tried to clean myself up enough to be presentable, and then went back to our suite at Caesar’s, where Jen was transfixed by the closing scene of Survivor.

  I went into the bathroom and got out of my jacket and clothes. I saw little flecks of blood on everything. I put my pants, shirt, socks and jacket in one of the hotel’s plastic laundry bags. I’d deal with all that in the morning before the maid arrived.

  I joined my wife as the credits were playing.

  “Sorry, Phil,” Jen said. “I was just so tired from the flight, you know?”

  “That’s okay, babe,” I said. “I understand. Sorry I was such a dick.”

  “Did you have a nice time?” she asked.

  “It was okay,” I said. “But I missed you.”

  Then I lay in bed next to Jen.

  “Let’s go out tomorrow night, okay?” she said. “I really do want to try that Wolfgang Puck’s.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Let’s do that.”

  She turned off the TV. I turned off the light.

  “Phil? Did you get your new jacket dirty tonight?” She asked.

  “Sorry, babe,” I said, “I’m afraid it’s ruined.”

  Mike Monson works as a paralegal in San Francisco and lives in Modesto California. He started writing fiction in June of 2012 and so far his stories have appeared or are scheduled to appear in Literary Orphans, Flash Fiction Offensive, Shotgun Honey, Yellow Mama and in anthologies from Out of the Gutter and All Due Respect. Visit him at mikemonson.org

  By Alan Griffiths

  Priest moves in front of the mirror and recoils. A hotchpotch of livid bruises and a patchwork of raw, scabbed slashes reflect back.

  Thinking: Razorblade kisses I’ll wear for the rest of my days.

  Until this is settled, his constant companions will be a junky's craving for revenge and anger in the pit of his stomach, burning like a pus filled ulcer, fit to burst.

  Thinking: I really don't mind the scars. It’s betrayal that cuts to the friggin’ bone.

  He’s been double crossed after a successful little tickle in leafy Surrey suburbia. Beaten senseless and carved up like an oily kebab by Nick the Nonce and his goons.

  Thinking: Left for dead, amongst the mud and the cow shit like an unwanted mongrel.

  He forms a gun with his right hand and points it at the mirror. He cocks a thumb and drops it, “Ka-fucking-pow!”

  The sound of car tyres on slick tarmac interrupts his reverie.

  He sneaks into the garage, unscrews the centre light bulb and crouches in a darkened corner. A prehistoric croc awaits unsuspecting prey.

  Rain beats a tattoo, cleansing the Saturday night detritus. A torrent of water flushing all the piss, puke and blood from the London gutters.

  Thinking: Could it purify my dark soul?

  The garage doors swing up. Sixty grand’s worth of shiny BMW 7 Series saloon purrs like a fat contented cat. It edges into the garage and comes to a halt. The headlights go out and the fat pussy stops purring.

  Rainwater: drip, drip, drips, onto the concrete floor.

  “It’s bloody dark, Ernie.”

  “Shut it, you tart. Where’s the bleedin’ light switch?”

  Ernie Bradshaw, the Nonce’s six-foot-six enforcer, gets out of the motor.

  “Switch the headlights on, Razorblade. I can’t see a fuckin’ thing. It’s as black as Newgate's knocker in here.”

  White light blazes. Priest swings a Louisville Slugger, splitting Ernie’s skull down the middle like a walnut.

  “Timber!” Priest says, pulling a Glock from his coat pocket. “So much as sneeze, Razorblade and I’ll blow your swede clean off. Now get out!”

  On a good day Razorblade’s mean, angry feral mug is akin to a boss-eyed robber’s dog with a hair lip chewing on a bunch of nettles. Now it’s as white as the front row of a BNP meeting.

  He gets out.

  “You’ve got this coming, Razorblade,” Priest says. “Tell me where the Nonce is and I’ll do it quick? Boy Scout's honour, my old son.”

  “Y... Yo…You know the b… bo… boss d… do… don’t like that n… na… name….”

  No
t a patient man at the best of times Priest throws a sledge hammer of a punch and cuts the stammering short. The blow spreads Razorblade’s nose like thick strawberry jam across his cheek and dumps him on his scrawny backside.

  Razorblade spits claret and rattles off, “A…A… At the club b… bu… but he’ll be here later.” An attempted dirty laugh comes out as a whimper. “W… W… We came ahead with a little s… som… something in the car boot.”

  “Who’s gonna be with him?” Priest asks, pushing the Glock into his waistband.

  “S… Sy… Syd the Syrup.”

  “Well, I’d best get ready then,” Priest says. “Chop, chop my old son, lots to do. People to meet and greet and all that.”

  He hefts the Slugger and beats Razorblade to a pulp, adding; “Now that’s what I call a homerun.”

  He drags Ernie and then Razorblade through to the utility room, stuffing the two bodies into a chest freezer. He slams the top shut, sits down and sparks up a Silk Cut. Puffing and sweating like a politician on the fiddle he wipes his brow. “Blimey, it’s all go around here,” he says.

  Priest makes a brew and a cheese and pickle sandwich. He eats half and sups a mug of builders’ tea in the dark, thinking dark thoughts.

  The blade sinks deep. Grazing cheekbone and paring back a long ribbon of stubbly pink skin. A bloated creamy coloured maggot wriggles out from beneath…

  He jolts awake, sheathed with perspiration. He’d only closed his eyes for a few seconds, but it was enough. He drinks deep from the neck of a bottle of Chivas Regal and gasps and berates himself for his carelessness.

  “Must’ve been the friggin’ cheese!”

  Night is turning to day when he hears the revving of a throaty car engine. A Porsche reverses into a parking space on the other side of the swanky West End mews. In the centre of Priest’s brain, blue touch-paper lights. A firework ignites. It shoots skywards and explodes in a multitude of colours.