Fourth Victim

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Fourth Victim Page 23

by Coleman, Reed Farrel

Joe closed the nozzle trigger, rechecked the meter, the primer handle and the tank valve, and tried it again. A thunderous clanging rose up from inside the three thousand gallon aluminum tank. Now the pump began straining so loudly he could barely hear the L.I.R.R. train pulling in at the Ronkonkoma Station. Joe had never heard anything like this. He thought he saw the big truck shudder and he immediately closed the pumping trigger. The truck quieted back down.

  “What the fuck was that?” Frank screamed as he came racing out of the office. “Did you open the goddam valve?”

  “C’mon, Frank, you know better than to ask me that.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re lookin’ a little fuckin’ shaky this morning, buddy.”

  Joe thought about denying it, but knew he wasn’t going to fool anybody, least of all Frank. “The valve’s open. Look for yourself.”

  Frank did, put on a spare pair of rubberized orange gloves and opened the pumping trigger. Once again the clanging rose up, the pump straining fiercely.

  “Fuck!”

  “I’ll get up top,” Joe said, already climbing the ladder on the rear of the tank.

  Once up, Joe thought he saw the problem. The top of the truck was still covered in snow and ice. The hatch vents were clogged. If those vents were sufficiently clogged, you could either create enough back pressure buildup to blow out the tank or a powerful vacuum capable of crushing the tank like a soda can. Joe Serpe got down on his hands and knees, brushed the snow away and chipped at the ice to clear the vents.

  “Try it now,” he called down to Frank.

  It was no good. If anything the clanging was worse. Joe could feel the pump shaking the truck. Frank shut it down. Joe opened the hatch and had a look. Even in full summer sunlight, it was dark inside a tank. On a bleak February Monday, it was like looking into a black hole.

  “Throw me up a flashlight,” he yelled.

  “Here she comes,” Frank warned, tossing up a Maglite.

  Joe grabbed it in midair, clicked it on and nestled on his knees in the snow at the side of the hatch. He aimed the beam through a hole in the rear tank baffle.

  “Well …” Frank called up

  He heard Frank, but couldn’t answer. His lips moved, but there was no sound.

  Frank was impatient. “What the fuck is it, Joe? Something caught in there?”

  “Call 911,” Joe thought he heard himself say.

  “What?”

  “Call the cops, Frank. Call ‘em right now.”

  Read more of Hose Monkey

  Tyrus Books, a division of F+W Media, publishes crime and dark literary fiction—offering books from exciting new voices and established, well-loved authors. Centering on deeply provocative and universal human experiences, Tyrus Books is a leader in its genre.

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  Published in Electronic Format by

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  Copyright © 2008 by Bleak HOUSE Books

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-3257-5

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3257-3

  This work has been previously published in print format by:

  Bleak house Books

  a division of Big Earth Publishing, Inc.

  Trade Cloth ISBN: 978-1-60648-009-0

  Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-60648-010-6

 

 

 


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