Fuller shrugged. “Maybe I wanted to use it for something other than fighting for a change.”
“Oh, you bastard. They are going to crucify you, and you’ll deserve it.”
“Give me a break,” Fuller said. “You’re not going to fall on that knife. Get real.”
“Oh, I’m going to do it. You don’t believe I’ll do it?”
“No – you don’t believe you’ll do it. That’s what the gun was for.”
“I’m going to do it.”
“If you were going to do it – if you really believed that you could make it look like I stabbed you – you wouldn’t need the whole shtick with the gun. But you know you can’t do it, and without the gun, you got nothing. ‘He threatened me with a knife!’ ‘My estranged wife is deeply disturbed. It’s very sad.’ On the other hand, with the smoking gun, you got a story even if you chicken out. ‘He shot at me and tried to stab me.’ ‘Uh, no, it was her shot the gun, not me – honest.” That looks like attempted murder. Which, I guess, would serve the purpose of ruining me.”
“That’s not…”
“I’m not saying you thought it through that clearly. But, crazy though you are, you’ve always been smart.”
Alison bit her lip. “In all the time we were together, I don’t think you ever told me I was smart.”
“Then I should have, and I apologize. Do you mind if I get a drink?”
“Sure, why not?” Alison snorted, instantly angry again. “That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? Another drink.”
Fuller opened the cocktail cabinet and took out a bottle of Glenmorangie. “And you’re going to need to be smart. Smart and alive. Because, I have to tell you, this whole thing is way too elaborate, too over-engineered. There’ll be a hole in it somewhere – there’s bound to be.” He took a glass and poured a generous measure. “Real-life cops are not the gullible dullards that your crime library paints them. They’re pretty bright. They’re going to find that hole, and if you’re not around to use your smarts to plug it, I’m going to stroll through it into the sunshine. As indeed I should, what with being innocent and all.”
Alison took a pace away from the dresser, jabbing a finger at Fuller as he leaned against the cocktail cabinet. “No, no, you’re going to pay. You’re going to be humiliated. I’ll make sure of that. And I want to see it. I want to see you brought down.”
“So I imagine,” he said, and knocked back the shot. He turned to pour another. “What’s the rap for attempted murder? Fifteen to twenty?”
“I sure hope so,” Alison said. “That’s plenty.”
“And murder – what, twenty-five to life? I’m fifty-six years old. What difference does it make?”
Alison laughed. “None! You’re dead either way, you bastard! Ha!” In the distance, sirens wailed. Alison stormed across the room, jabbing the finger again. “You hear that? I got you! Admit it! I got you! This is all your fault, and you’re going to pay.”
He swallowed the drink, and handed her the glass, which she took from him simply through twenty years’ habit. As she turned to put it on a coaster on the coffee table, he strolled past her to the dresser.
“You have a point,” he said, “but it’s a self-defeating one.” He opened the drawer and took out the knife. “Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. It doesn’t matter what I go down for, really, does it? And that’s assuming I go down at all.” He turned to face her, as the sirens got louder and cars screeched to a halt outside.
Her face fell. “John…” she murmured, backing away. “John, no.”
“My faith in the intelligent detectives of our city may be misplaced. But that’s a risk I’m ready to take.” He stepped towards her. “It’s in my nature.”
* * * * *
It had been a crazy-busy couple of months, and Detective Pinski knew he’d been neglecting Susie. Too many late nights. Too many skipped events and cancelled plans. He cashed in some vacation days, and arranged a long weekend in the Keys. Susie loved the Keys.
Check-in was smooth, but the line for security check was tiresome. By the time they got airside, they needed a drink.
“I’m going to the powder room,” Susie said, as Pinski took a seat at the bar. “Vodka tonic, please.”
“And for you, sir?” the bartender asked.
“I’ll get a Glenmorangie, thank you,” Pinski said, scooping up some nuts from the bowl.
“I’m afraid we don’t have that. Can I recommend an alternative?”
“You’re out of Glenmorangie?”
“No, sir, we don’t carry that brand at all. I’m sorry.”
“Okay. But they have it at the bar outside – in Departures – right?”
“No, sir. None of our bars carry that brand.”
“They don’t?”
Pinski palmed some more cashews. He gazed at his own reflection in the mirror above the row of liquor bottles.
“I’ll get the lady’s drink while you decide.”
“Sure. Let me think.”
Behind him he heard clicking footsteps that he knew were Susie’s. She slid up on to the stool next to his.
“Well, this is nice.”
“Yeah.”
“I hope the kids are well-behaved with your mom.”
“Sure.”
“Hello? I’m over here?”
Pinski rattled the cashews in his fist, like dice.
“One lie,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry?”
“They don’t serve Glenmorangie at the airport.”
“Hey, get something else. Live a little. We’re on vacation.”
He turned to her, pursing his lips.
“Listen – let me make a suggestion here.”
“Uh-oh,” Susie said. “I know that look. Wait…”
“What’s so special about this particular weekend – you know? There are flights to the Keys every day and…”
Susie raised her hands, pushing back.
“Oh, no, Sammie. No. No, no, no…”
MEET MARK BASTABLE
A London-based writer of novels and short stories, a musician and composer, a drinker of wine, a maker of sandwiches, the English husband of an American wife and three children. And he also has a straight job that he seems to avoid talking about.
—-
Praise for THE PENNY FALLS, now available for your e-reader.
“A highly gifted and entertaining writer, Bastable is hard to categorize. His writing reveals glimpses of the somewhat skewed imagination of John Irving, an ear for the crafted language of Martin Amis, along with a willingness to go to uncomfortable places with both the humor and the candor of Philip Roth. Through it all, Bastable manages to be funny without being comic, and emotionally moving without becoming sentimental. It's a potent and engaging combination.”
LAST REQUEST
by
J.A. KONRATH
I picked up a transsexual hooker named Thor, all six feet of her, at the off ramp to Eau Claire, Wisconsin, as I was driving up north to kill a man.
She had on thigh-high black vinyl boots, red fishnet stockings, a pink mini skirt, a neon green spandex tube top, and a huge blonde wig that reminded me of an octopus. I could have spotted her from clear across the county.
“You looking for action?” she said after introducing herself.
“I’m always looking for action.”
“Tonight’s your lucky night, handsome. I’m getting out of this biz. You give me a ride, you can have whatever you want for free.”
I opened the door, rolled up the window, and got back on the road.
Thor spent five miles trying to pay for her ride, but the painkillers had rendered me numb and useless in that area, and eventually she gave up and reclined her seat back, settling instead for conversation.
“So where are you headed?” she asked. She sounded like she’d been sucking helium. Hormone therapy, I guessed. I couldn’t tell if her breasts were real under the tube top, but her pink micro mini revealed legs that were nice no matt
er which sex she was.
“Rice Lake.”
I yawned, and shifted in my seat. It was past one in the morning, but the oppressive July heat stuck around even when the sun didn’t. I had the air conditioning in the Ford Ranger cranked up, but it didn’t help much.
“Why are you going to Rice Lake?” she asked.
I searched around for the drink holder, picked up the coffee I’d bought back in the Dells, and forced down the remaining cold dregs, sucking every last molecule of caffeine from the grit that caught in my teeth.
“Business.”
She touched my arm, hairless like the rest of me.
“You don’t look like a businessman.”
The road stretched out ahead of us, an endless black snake. Mile after mile of nothing to look at. I should have gotten a vehicle with a manual transmission, given my hand something to do.
“My briefcase and power ties are in the back seat.”
Thor didn’t bother to look. Which was a good thing.
“What sort of business are you in?”
I considered it. “Customer relations.”
“From Chicago,” Thor said.
She noticed the plates before climbing in. Observant girl. I wondered, obliquely, how far she’d take this line of questioning.
“Don’t act much like a businessman, either.”
“How do businessmen act?” I said.
“They’re all after one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“Me.”
She tried to purr, and wound up sounding like Mickey Mouse. Personally, I didn’t find her attractive. I had no idea if she was pre-op, post-op, or a work in progress, but Thor and I weren’t going to happen, ever.
I didn’t tell her this. I might be a killer, but I’m not mean.
“Where are you headed?” I asked.
She sighed, scratching her neck, posture changing from demure seductress to one of the guys.
“Anywhere. Nowhere. I don’t have a clue. This was a spur of the moment thing. One of my girlfriends just called, said my former pimp was coming after me.”
“How former?”
“I left him yesterday. He was a selfish bastard.”
She was quiet for a while. I fumbled to crank the air higher, forgetting where the knob was. It was already up all the way. I glanced over at Thor, watched her shoulders quiver in time with her sobs.
“You love him,” I said.
She sniffled, lifted up her chin.
“He didn’t care about me. He just cared that I took his shit.”
This got my attention.
“You holding?” I asked. Codeine didn’t do as good a job as coke or heroin.
“No. Never so much as smoked a joint, if you can believe it.”
I would have raised an eyebrow, but they hadn’t grown back yet. Maybe I’d be dead before they did.
“It’s true, handsome. Every perverted little thing I’ve ever done I’ve done stone cold sober. Lots of men think girls like me are all messed up in the head. I’m not. I have zero identity issues, and my self esteem is fine, thank you.”
“I’ve never met a hooker with any self esteem,” I said.
“And I’ve never met a car thief on chemotherapy.”
I glanced at her again. Waited for the explanation.
“You couldn’t find the climate control,” Thor said. “And you’re so stoned on something you never bothered to adjust the seat or the mirrors. Vicodin?”
I nodded, yawned.
“You okay to drive?”
“I managed to pick you up without running you over.”
Thor clicked open a silver-sequined clutch purse and produced a compact. She fussed with her make-up as she spoke, dabbing at her tears with a foundation sponge.
“So why did you pick me up?” she asked. “You’re not the type who’s into transgender.”
“You’re smart. Figure it out.”
She studied me, staring for almost a full minute. I shifted in my seat. Being scrutinized was a lot of work.
“You stole the car in Chicago, so you’ve been on the road for about six hours. You’re zonked out on painkillers, probably sick from chemotherapy, but you’re still driving at two in the morning. I’d say you just robbed a bank, but you don’t seem jumpy or paranoid like you’re running from something. That means you’re running to something. How am I doing so far?”
“If I had any gold stars, you’d get one.”
She stared a bit longer, then asked.
“What’s your name?”
“Phineas Troutt. People call me Phin.”
“Sort of a strange name.”
“This from a girl named Thor.”
“My father loved comic books. Wanted a tough, macho, manly son, thought the name would make me strong.”
I glanced at her. “It did.”
Thor smiled. A real smile, not a hooker smile.
“Are you going to Rice Lake to commit some sort of crime, Phin?”
“That isn’t the question. The question is why I picked you up.”
“Fair enough. If I still believed in knights in shining armor, I’d say you picked me up because you felt bad for me and wanted to help. But I think your reason was purely selfish.”
“And that reason is?”
“You were falling asleep behind the wheel, and needed something to keep you awake.”
I smiled, and it morphed into a yawn.
“That’s a damn good guess.”
“But is it true?”
“I’m definitely enjoying the company.”
She kept watching me, but it was more comfortable this time.
“So who are you going to kill in Rice Lake, Phin?”
I stayed quiet.
“No whore ever gets into a car without checking the back seat,” Thor said. “A forty dollar trick can turn into a gang rape freebie, a girl’s not careful.”
I wondered what she meant, then remembered what was lying on the back seat. What I hadn’t bothered to put away. “You saw the gun.”
“People normally keep those things hidden. You should try to be inconspicuous.”
“I’m not big on inconspicuous.”
“That box of baby wipes. Are you a proud papa, or are they for something else?”
“Sometimes things get messy.” Which was an understatement. “So if you saw the gun, why did you get in?”
Thor laughed, throaty and seductive. She could shrug the whore act on and off like it was a pair of shoes.
“The streets are dangerous, Phin. A working girl has to carry more protection than condoms.”
She reached into the top of her knee high black vinyl boot, showed me the butt of a revolver.
“Mine’s bigger,” I said.
“Mine’s closer.”
I nodded. The road stretched onward, no end in sight.
“So how much do you charge, for your services?” Thor asked.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“The job. How much I need the money.”
“Does it matter who the person is?”
“No.”
“Don’t you think that’s cold?”
“Everyone has to die sometime,” I said. “Some of us sooner than others.”
Another stretch of silence. Another stretch of road.
“I’ve got eight hundred bucks,” Thor said. “Is that enough?”
“For your pimp. The selfish bastard.”
“He is. I earned this money. Earned every cent. But in this area, every whore, from the trailer girls to the high class escorts, has to pay Jordan a cut.”
“And you didn’t pay.”
“He knows how important my transformation is. One more operation, and I’m all woman. Holding out was the only way I could make it.”
“I thought you loved him.”
“Just like he says, love and business are two separate things.”
Her breathing sped up. Over the hum of the engine, I thought I he
ard her heart beating. Or maybe it was mine.
“Why don’t you kill him yourself, with your little boot revolver.” I said.
“Jordan has the cops in his pocket. They’d catch me.”
“Unless you had an alibi when it happened.”
Thor nodded. “Exactly. You drop me off at a diner. I spend three hours with a cup of coffee. We both get something we need.”
I considered it. Eight hundred was twice as much as I was making on this job. Years ago, if someone told me that one day I’d drive twelve hours both ways to kill a man for a lousy four hundred bucks, I would have laughed it off.
Things change.
The pinch in my side, growing bit by bit as the minutes passed, would eventually blossom into a raw explosion of pain. I was down to my last three Vicodin, and only had twenty-eight cents left to my name. I needed more pills, along with a bottle of tequila and a few grams of coke.
Codeine for the physical. Cocaine and booze for the mental. Dying isn’t easy.
“So what do you say?” Thor asked.
“What kind of man is Jordan?”
“You said it doesn’t matter. Does it?”
“No.”
I waited. The car ate more road. The gas gage hovered over the E.
“He’s a jerk. A charming jerk, but one just the same. I thought I loved him, once. Maybe I did. Or maybe I just loved to have a good looking man pay attention to me, make me feel special.”
“Murder will pretty much ruin any chance of you two getting back together.”
“I’ll try to carry on,” she said, reapplying her lipstick.
Gas station, next exit. I made up my mind. A starving dog doesn’t question why his belly is empty. His only thought is filling it.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Thor smiled big, then gave me a hug.
“Thanks, Phin. You’re my knight in shining armor after all.”
“I’ll need the money up front,” I said. “You got it on you?”
“Yeah. Take this exit. There’s a Denny’s. You can drop me off there.”
I took the exit.
We pulled into the parking lot. It was close to empty, but I killed the lights and rolled behind the restaurant near the Dumpsters, so no one would see us together. When I hit the breaks, Thor stayed where she was.
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