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INTERVIEWING A NEW EMPLOYEE Roy Dorman “Damn! That’s gotta hurt,” said
Marisa Turner as she finished pumping gas into her rental car. Marisa
was travelling east on Interstate 10, still a hundred
and fifty miles from New Orleans. She’d
stopped for gas, fast food to go, and a potty break. As she pumped her gas, she’d watched an eighteen-wheeler pull
into the diesel side of the oasis. After the
driver got out of his cab, he’d walked around looking at the front of his truck like
they always do, and then headed into the McDonalds. As soon as the trucker was inside, Marisa saw a man drop from the undercarriage
of the trailer onto the blacktop. The
man who looked to be in his early thirties picked himself
up off the pavement, brushed himself off, and walked in her direction. “You okay, guy?” Marisa
asked. “Need anything?” Marisa
already knew something about this handsome tag-a-long from his clothes. She’d seen the cheap outfits prisons gave to
inmates upon release. She’d been given clothes
like that. More than once. “Yeah.
I’m hungry, thirsty, and could use a nap,” he said with a smile. And after looking Marisa up and down he added,
“And if ya had a mind to — " “Let’s
work on the hungry and thirsty for now,” said
Marisa. They both turned and watched
as a State Patrol cruiser pulled into the parking lot. “Why don’t you get into the
front passenger seat so you don’t attract any unwanted attention,” Marisa stage
whispered. “I’m going into Mickey
D’s. Burger, fries, and a Coke?” “Beggars can’t be choosers.” Marisa returned with the to-go
food and drinks and was pleasantly surprised to see her new friend sitting in her car. “So, you wanna ride with me for
a while, or is this the stop you were lookin’ for?” she asked, leaning in the
front window. “I’ll ride for
a while.” “What’s your
name?” “Jeremy.” “Jeremy what?” “Ya don’t need
my last name. But I already know you’re
Marisa Turner from the rental paperwork in the glove compartment.” “You went through my car while I
was in getting food for you?” “Found yer switchblade
under the driver side floor mat too,” Jeremy said with a smirk. Marisa handed Jeremy his McDonalds and put hers on the
console between them. She then took a .22 from
an ankle holster and leveled it at him. “Give
me my knife,” she said through clenched teeth. “I said I found it; I didn’t
take it.” Marisa stared at him for
a few seconds. “Are you a tough guy?” she asked, putting the .22 back into
its holster. “Yeah,
I’m pretty tough,” said Jeremy. “That important?” “I
need to employ a tough guy for a couple of jobs I’ve
got comin’ up. Interested?” “Well, I — " “I
know you just got out of prison back there someplace. If you don’t wanna get involved in anything
right away that might — " “It
was the clothes, wasn’t it?” said Jeremy,
laughing. “Ain’t we a pair?” “We’re not a pair yet, but we
could be,” said Marisa. “I’m gonna eat
while I drive. Go ahead and nap after you’re
done. I’ll wake you up when we get
to New Orleans.” “It’s Weston,”
Jeremy said around a mouthful of fries. “What’s
Weston?” asked Marisa. “Me. I’m Jeremy Weston.” “Well,
I seriously doubt that,” said Marisa. “But it’s okay, I’m not Marisa Turner, either.” “See,” said Jeremy. “I told ya we were a pair.” Marisa
kept her eyes on the road as she ate her burger. Though she thought Jeremy was cute and could maybe
fill the bill for what she needed as far as hired muscle for a while, she decided it would
be best for now if she didn’t believe a word he said.
And those prison clothes?
She figured she knew why he hadn’t tried hitch-hiking instead of riding under
the trailer. Those clothes may have been
given to him at the time of his release, but more likely he’d commandeered them in
order to make a successful escape. There was probably an alert
out for him up and down the Interstate. That
State Trooper who pulled into the truck stop hadn’t been a coincidence. Jeremy
would need some careful watching during his probationary period. *** They spent the night at a
mom-and-pop motel in a little town thirty miles outside of New Orleans. Rising
early, Marisa gave Jeremy a twenty-dollar bill and sent him up the street to a café for
some breakfast for the road. After he
left, Marisa gathered her things. She’d
paid cash in advance for the room the previous night, and was ready to go. Jeremy made her laugh, was good in bed, and
he may or may not have worked out in New Orleans. But the job was too important
to risk using an unvetted partner. Especially somebody as loosey-goosey as Jeremy. She’d do it alone. Marisa sighed. Sometimes she had thoughts
of what could’ve been. Reaching
into her purse for her keys, she was brought up short.
No keys. Pulling
back the drapes, she looked out the window at the parking lot and saw her car was gone. Stepping out the door, Marisa laughed. “Damn! Ain’t
we a pair?” she said to the quiet morning. A car pulled into the driveway of the parking lot. Her rental. Through the
windshield, Jeremy gave her a big smile and a thumbs up. Marisa smiled back and returned the thumbs up. But she had a decision to
make before they got to New Orleans. What
she needed was a back-up she could trust with her life.
And Jeremy didn’t
fit that bill. He was the type who did
well at the interview, but turned out to be a problem employee once he got the job. *** Two Louisiana State Patrol
cars put on their flashing lights as they pulled onto the shoulder of the road,
scattering a flock of turkey buzzards. Traffic on Interstate 10 slowed and
starting moving single file into the far-left lane. “Looks
like he could be our boy,” said Trooper Lester
Higgins. “Sure does,”
answered Trooper Bonnie Mae Lapierre. “Got
himself quite a ways before he ran into somebody meaner than him.” “One shot from a small caliber
pistol to the forehead,” offered Lester after rolling the body over onto its back. “Might’ve been ridin’ with somebody
who tired of ‘em.” “Or maybe he was standin’
here hitchin’ a ride and said the wrong thing to the wrong person.” “I’ll call New
Orleans for the EMTs,” said Lester, walking back to his squad car. “Tell ‘em they don’t have to
rush. This one here ain’t gonna be
needin’ all that much of their expertise.” THE
END
BAD NEWS OUT OF ATLANTA By Roy Dorman “This place looks like it might be open
already,” said Gordy Stone. “Let’s go in
and have a couple to celebrate, and then find a place for an early dinner.” “Sounds
good,” said Don Pickens. It’s
a little after two-o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon,
and Clarissa McFadden had just opened the doors of Mickey’s Tavern. She often chooses a couple of weekdays to open the place herself. It gives her bartenders time to do their personal
stuff. The first two customers
to come in and sit at the bar are middle-aged men who look professional. Professional like her friend,
mob boss Arnie Bate’s hired help look professional. Clarissa took the bar’s .38 from the drawer and
put it on the shelf under the bar for easy access. She had
a feeling about these two. “Afternoon,
barkeep. Two dry martinis, please.” “Comin’ right
up,” Clarissa said with a smile. The men talk in low tones,
but Clarissa can hear bits and pieces of the conversation from where she’s preparing
the drinks. “Think she’s
Mickey?” asked Stone. “Nah,” answered
Pickens. “From the looks of the architecture of this
place, Mickey’s probably been dead for fifty years.” Clarissa
set the drinks in front of the two. Pickens put a twenty and a ten on the bar. “Thanks,” he said.
“Change is for you. First tip
of the day.” “Thanks much,”
said Clarissa. “So, is Mickey around?”
asked Stone. “Mickey’s been
dead for over fifty years,” Clarissa said with a smirk. “I’m Clarissa.
I own this bar.” “Nice to meetcha,”
said Pickens. “I’m Don, and this is my, ah…, partner,
Gordy. We’re celebratin’.” “What’s the occasion?” asked Clarissa. “Two occasions,” said Stone. “We both retired this week, and we got married an hour ago.” “That’s great.
Any more drinks are on the house. Stay
as long as you like. And if you’re
not from around here, I can tell you about some good restaurants in the Central Park area.” Before either man could reply to Clarissa’s hospitality,
a third man walked in the door. Clarissa moved up tight
against the bar and picked up the .38. She
held it out of sight at her side. “Well,
well, well. Stone and Pickens,” the rough looking
character said, ignoring Clarissa. Of course, there’s
no way he could know this, but Clarissa really hated to be ignored. The new guy drew a Glock from a shoulder
holster and leveled it at Pickens and Stone. Neither
of the men moved. “You don’t retire
until the boss says you can retire. You know
the rules. He sent me up here to make a lesson
outta you two for any others who may think they’re their own bosses.” Clarissa raised her .38
and said to the newcomer, “Drop the Glock or you’re a dead man.” The guy turned toward Clarissa
and she fired, hitting him in the forehead. Falling
back, he managed to get off a reflexive shot that hit Clarissa near the heart. “Let’s
get outta here,” yelled Stone. “Fuck
that,” said Pickens. “Call 911. I’m gonna try and keep her alive until
they get here.” “What???” “Call 911, goddammit! We’re done
runnin’. You and me started a new life
together this morning. We’re joinin’
the ranks of the regular folks. Call!” Stone dialed.
“Shots fired at Mickey’s Tavern near Central Park. Bartender
down. Need an ambulance. Now!” Pickens grabbed a handful of clean bar rags and
pressed them onto Clarissa’s wound. “Missed her heart,
but it’s gonna be close,” he said between forcing air into her lungs. EMTs came pouring through the door and took
over for Pickens. Uniformed cops followed
the EMTS. “What happened here?”
asked Ritchie Byrnes, the officer in charge. “Damn,
that’s Clarissa McFadden.” And then, “Who’s that?” pointing
at the dead man. “And who are you
two?” “I’m Don Pickens
and this is my husband, Gordy Stone.” That was the first time he’d said that and it
felt good. “We were havin’ a drink and
chattin’ with the bartender when that guy on the floor came in, probably to rob the
joint. The bartender had a .38 behind the
bar, and while this guy was lookin’ to relieve us of our wallets, she told him to
drop his piece. He turned to shoot her and
she shot him. That’s about it. It happened pretty fast.” “Okay if I pat ya down?” asked Officer Byrnes. “Sure, go ahead,” said Stone. Stone and Pickens had decided to start their retirement
and married life without carrying the tools of their trade. They were clean. EMTs hurriedly wheeled Clarissa past Stone,
Pickens, and Byrnes, and out the door. “You did a good job,”
said one of the EMTS to Pickens. “You
in the business?” “Retired,” Pickens
hedged. “Well, you almost
certainly saved her life. Nice work.” “We’re gonna
need you to come to the precinct for statements,” said Byrnes. “We can do that,” said Pickens. “Lead on.” Byrnes left an officer at
the bar to wait for someone to come in and either take over or close the place. *** Pickens
and Stone had saved Clarissa’s life. But before they’d done that, she’d saved theirs. After surgery, Clarissa
told her husband, Carl, everything that had happened, including her thoughts as to why
those two had been targeted. But she hadn’t shared all she suspected with
the police. Pickens and Stone would be looking
over their shoulders for the rest of their lives, and didn’t need any additional
scrutiny from the NYPD right now. When visitors were allowed,
Mickey’s bartenders came in with flowers and cards to cheer her up. The bartenders were handling the scheduling, and things were once
again fine at Mickey’s. Carl was
just leaving Clarissa’s room to go find coffee
when he spotted two big men, one carrying a huge bouquet of flowers, heading his way. “Are you Don Pickens and Gordy Stone?” The men tensed.
“You a cop?” asked Pickens. “No,” said Carl,
extending his hand. “I’m Carl Monroe. Clarissa’s husband.” The two
shook hands with Carl and visibly relaxed. “Your wife saved our
lives,” said Stone. And nodding at the flowers Pickens was
holding, said, “We wanted to thank her.” “I
understand you saved hers. And I want to
thank you for that.” “Yeah, well, if we
wouldn’t’ve been there, she wouldn’t’ve been shot,” said
Pickens. “We feel bad about that. From that little bit of time we had to get to
know her, we got the idea she’s a great person.” “That
she is,” said Carl. “And you
didn’t shoot her, that wiseguy did. Come
on. I’ll take you to her room.” “How’s she doin’?” asked Pickens,
following Carl down the hall. “She’s
recovering. It’ll be a while before she’s her old feisty
self, but she’ll be back to giving me grief when I screw up before too long.” “Don and Gordy. Long
time, no see. And flowers. They’re beautiful.” “Hi,
Ms. McFadden,” said Pickens. “We
wanted to thank you for what ya did for us.” “I don’t like people pulling guns on my
customers,” said Clarissa. “And when they do,
she shoots ‘em,” Carl said, shrugging. “Hey, I told ‘em to drop his piece, didn’t I,
guys?” “Yes, you did,”
said Stone with a chuckle. There was a pregnant pause
until Pickens spoke again. “Gordy
and I would like to ask your permission to continue
with something we’ve been plannin’ to do for some time now.
We have plane tickets to go to Paris out of La Guardia tonight. We’re plannin’ to live there in our retirement. “You’re a smart woman, so you’ve probably
guessed from what you heard the other day as to what we’re retirin’ from.
We’re hopin’ to put some distance between us and that old life —” “What our old selves would do,” Stone cut
in. “Is go after our boss for sending
Walter Dean to execute us, and almost gettin’ you killed in the deal. If you think we should, we will. But we sorta promised each other at our wedding the other day that
we wouldn’t go back to that.” “And,
hey, before I forget, we wanna thank you for not tellin’
the cops everything that was said during those few short minutes,” said Pickens. “I’m assumin’ ya didn’t,
because if ya had, we wouldn’t be free to try and live out our dream.” “I give you my permission, guys,” said Clarissa. “Carl and I wish you all the best.” “Now, our former boss, Jackie Colgate, out of
Atlanta, may not think this is over,” said Stone. “Sometimes, things
like this are never over. We don’t
like leavin’ you in that situation.” “I’ve got this big, strong, handsome, lunk here
to protect me.” “As if she needs protecting—”
said Carl. “Also, Arnie Bates
is a personal friend of ours,” said Clarissa.
“You may’ve heard of him. He just hates it when somebody from
some other territory comes into his territory without checking in with him. Walter Dean didn’t check in.
We’ll ask Arnie to give Colgate a call and tell him what’s expected
in the future.” “Arnie Bates, huh,”
said Pickens. “Heard he’s tough.” “He is,” said Carl.
“And he’ll be glad to hear someone from Atlanta thinks he is.” “Well, thanks again, Ms. McFadden,” said
Stone. “It was nice meetin’ ya even if
the circumstances weren’t ideal. You
too, Carl.” “Send us a postcard
from Paris. Maybe if Carl and I can pull ourselves away
from our work, we’ll fly over and visit.” THE END
THANKS FOR THE HELP Roy Dorman Private Investigator Charlie Richardson left
two cars between himself and the black SUV he was tailing. That was standard
operating procedure. But at the next light, his
mark stopped for the red light for just a second, and then sped off, running the light,
leaving Charlie stuck between those buffer cars. “Damn!” Charlie shouted, hammering his fist on
the steering wheel. There were cars waiting
for the green in the left lane next to him, so his only option would have been to take
the sidewalk. That would have attracted a
lot of attention. Sidewalks have lots of things
that make driving a car on them difficult. Sign
poles, fire hydrants, babies in strollers, sandwich boards, bag-people pushing grocery
carts full of their belongings. Lots of deterrents. He banged the steering wheel again. A two-year old sitting in his car seat in the
car to Charlie’s left had seen him pounding on the steering wheel and thought it
hilarious. Charlie managed a smile and a
wave, but wasn’t in the mood for much more than that. Simmering,
he waited for the light. He figured
he must’ve been spotted. After leaving
the light, the SUV probably made a left or right turn off this main drag and had then taken
an alternate route to wherever they were going. When the light changed, Charlie debated trying
to catch up to his client’s concern or heading back to his office to regroup. He decided to see if he could catch up. He drove for a while, checking his rear-view
mirror for when he could no longer see the stoplight. When it was no longer visible, he took the
first right and accelerated. Charlie figured
a right turn had been the more likely choice as there would’ve been no wait for making
a left turn into oncoming traffic. “Come on, come on. Where are ya?” He’d
been driving for five or six blocks, looking back and
forth at all of the cross streets, when he saw the black SUV coming up fast behind him. An arm with a pistol attached to it snaked out
of the passenger side window. Charlie hit the brakes,
hoping the driver of the SUV would also have to hit his brakes, spoiling the aim of his
partner. It worked. Sort of. Two out of four shots came through the back
window and exited through the windshield. Accelerating again, Charlie
cursed. “That’s the third time I’ve had to replace
those windows in six months. My car insurance
premium’s gonna go through the roof.” Within
a block, the SUV caught up, this time pulling alongside
of Charlie’s old Toyota. As soon as
they were even, Charlie hit the brakes again and made a quick left turn down a side street. The SUV also screeched to a stop, but was hit
head-on by a garbage truck. They’d been
in the wrong lane at the wrong time. Charlie didn’t see
that collision, and he continued on as if he were being followed. He circled the block where his parking garage was located a couple
of times before deciding he’d somehow lost them. He parked his car and walked the four blocks to
his office. *** His insurance agent said they’d send somebody
out to repair the windows. He told Charlie
not to worry about filing a police report. They already had police reports
from the previous incidents. They’d
just use one of them to satisfy the paperwork. “I’m
gonna set ya up with business insurance on that vehicle
instead of personal insurance,” said the agent, Al Sanders. “It’s
cheaper and ya can write off the expense. You
are getting shot at during the course of yer business, right? It’s not a personal thing, is it?” “Yer a funny guy, Al. Do whatever ya can.” “I
think ya should consider adding some life insurance
too,” Al said. “Got anybody you’d
like to leave a little richer? Just in case?” Charlie got up from his desk and walked to the
only window in the office. He stared down
at the street and thought. Out of the corner
of his eye noticed a fly on its back on the window sill slowly kicking its last kicks. An omen? “Nah,
I don’t have anybody like that,” he said.
The thought saddened him. “Well, ya could leave
it to a charity of yer choice,” continued Al.
“The way you do business, ya could have somebody killin’ ya anytime. Think about it. I gotta go. Watch yer back.” Charlie
ended the call. He was still staring down at the street when
the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. “Watch yer back,”
his agent had said. Charlie turned from the
window to face his office door. He watched
as the knob was slowly rotated and the door opened an inch or so. That wasn’t the way
clients entered his office. He heard someone whisper,
“One, two, three.” The door flew open and two
thugs rushed in, guns drawn, scanning the office.
Charlie’d already pulled his Glock, and he nailed them both before either
had a chance to get off a shot. Maybe tailing people wasn’t
his strong suit, but he’d always been able to shoot straight. He stared at the two men bleeding out on his
cheap carpet. “….
ya could have somebody killin’ ya anytime.” *** “Yeah, Al, it’s
Charlie again. I guess I’d like to go with some of that life
insurance you mentioned.” “That was quick,”
Al said. “Those guys who shot
out my windows? They’re dead on the floor in my office. I’m waitin’ on Chicago’s finest. Set me
up for $50,000.” “I’ll have Maddie
do up the paperwork for yer signature, and I’ll bring it over after lunch. Who do ya wanna designate as beneficiary?” “You, Al.
You’ve been takin’ care of me for years.” “Ya
sure? That’s sweet of ya and all,
but a little irregular. Probably raise some
eyebrows at home office.” “Well, I don’t
wanna get ya in trouble —" Nah, that’s okay. Give ‘em something to talk about. Stuffed
shirts.” *** Things were quiet for the next few weeks. There was enough business, but it mostly involved staking out hotel
parking lots and taking pictures of wayward spouses meeting to do things with other people’s
wayward spouses. It paid well, but it often
left Charlie questioning his career choice. It
was often so boring. After working late one night,
he walked to his parking garage. Whenever
he walked to his car at night, he always had horror movie scenes playing in his mind. He was alone, his footfalls echoing on the
pavement were the only sounds, and he searched for the killer among the few remaining cars
on the floor. And there he was!
How exciting! Standing behind a pillar near his car! Charlie reached for his Glock and fired just as
the shadow stepped out from behind the pillar. The assailant had gotten
off a shot, but it hadn’t come close to Charlie. Charlie walked over and kicked the Sig Sauer
from the guy’s hand. He turned him over
to check for vitals. It was Al! “Shit, Al. What
are you doin’ here?” Al didn’t respond. He was dead.
Charlie called 911. After talking to the dispatcher,
he looked down at Al and gently nudged his shoulder with his foot. “Thanks for the help over the years. I don’t suppose you had a policy with me as beneficiary, did
ya?” *** “So, Maddie, I ain’t ever had any life
insurance before. What do I do now? My
beneficiary’s dead.” “I can bring over
a new beneficiary form for your signature.” “I don’t have anybody.
Yer home office would have a hissy fit if I named you.” “Well, there’s this soup kitchen for homeless
folks over off Rush Street I volunteer at. They’re
good people.” “Let’s do that,”
said Charlie. “And, hey.
Thanks for the help.” “No problemo, Charlie. Watch yer back.” Charlie
ended the call and sat back in his chair, staring at
his office door. “Watch yer back? Really.” THE END
JUST A SMALL TOWN
BOY Roy Dorman Eddie Johnson listened with dismay as the techy voice of his GPS
informed him of the accident on the Interstate twenty miles ahead that would cause an hour
delay due to the back-up it caused. It told
him to take the next exit and offered an alternate route around the crash site and its
delay. Eddie had been travelling
north on I-75 from Miami after finishing a job there.
He was headed back to his home base in Detroit. It was almost 10:00 P.M.
and he’d been planning to stop soon at a hotel off the Interstate for the night. Now he’d have to see
if the alternate route had anything, or wait until his GPS guided him back to I-75. He’d just entered
Kentucky. He took the exit with a number of other cars
who obviously also had their GPS giving them instructions. A county highway
took him through a couple of small towns, all dark for the evening, and he didn’t
see any signs for hotels. The route took Eddie back
to his youth. Though for the last twenty
years he’d lived in New York, Los Angeles, Miami, Detroit, and other big cities,
he’d grown up in rural Wisconsin. Driving
narrow, twisting highways in total darkness came back to him after a bit and he relaxed. But he was still dog-tired. And he no longer was getting any Internet service. No GPS. So much for the
alternate route. He knew the odds of a hotel
this far off the Interstate were slim, so he decided to stop in the next town and
catch a few hours of sleep in a grocery store parking lot. He’d
only been asleep for an hour or so when he heard a tapping
on his windshield. Before he even opened
his eyes, he could tell a flashlight was shining in his face. Eddie sat up and let down the driver’s
side window a crack. “Yeah,” he said. “What can I do for ya?” “I’d
like you to step out of the car.” The flashlight still shone in
his face, but Eddie could see that his visitor was a cop. “Sorry,
officer. I was just catchin’ a nap.
I’ll be movin’ along.” “This ain’t a Rest Area.
It’s private property. And
I asked you to get out of the car.” Eddie took a second to compose
himself. He was tired and now he was also
pissed off. What he wanted to do was smack
this pompous asshole in the face, but he knew that wouldn’t be smart. And
Eddie was smart. He had to be in his chosen profession. He got out of the car and
faced the cop who now had the flashlight in his left hand and his service revolver in
his right. “Seriously?
I don’t think you really need that,’ said Eddie pointing at the pistol. “I’ll decide what I need,” said
the cop. Eddie saw the name plate
above the cop’s badge said “Clemmons.” “Look, Officer Clemmons, I was
on the Interstate and got rerouted here because of some accident back-up. By
tomorrow at this time, I’ll be in Michigan.
I don’t wanna cause you a lot of unnecessary paperwork —” “Put both hands on the top of
the car, feet back, and spread ‘em. Pretty
sure you know the drill.” Eddie had a Glock in a shoulder
holster and a small Smith and Wesson in an ankle holster. No more Mr. Nice Guy. He figured Officer Clemmons
would have to put the flashlight away before patting him down and he’d take control
at that point. But Clemmons skipped the
patting down and hit Eddie on the head with the butt of his revolver. Eddie went down and went back to the
interrupted nap. *** He woke up on a cot in a small cell. It looked like it was the only cell in the town’s
jail. “Hey,” he called.
“Do I get my one phone call?” After a
bit, Officer Clemmons came in with his gun drawn and opened the cell door. “The Chief says you get one
call. You can make it in his office. Come on.” The
Chief, Ed Balistreri, according to the name tag, sat at his desk like a well-fed toad. “Make yer call and make it
short,” he said, pointing at the phone on the desk. “No
privacy, huh?” asked Eddie. “Ya
don’t need no privacy.” Clemmons
stood next to the Chief, smiling like a Cheshire cat. It was an old dial phone and Eddie
made the call. Actually, he didn’t
want privacy. He wanted these two,
and the dispatcher in the other room, to hear the call.
“Yo, Jake. It’s
Eddie Johnson. Yeah, long time, no see.
I’m here in Camden Station, Kentucky, in a bit of a bind. It’s off I-75 on County Highway B. I’m on my way to Detroit.
Got hit on the head and put in a cell for sleeping in my car in a grocery parking
lot…., Yeah, yeah, long story. Anyhow,
I’d like ya to come and get me out. Bring
what ya need to raise some hell and don’t feel like ya need to use any restraint. Except if ya run into an Officer Clemmons. Don’t kill ‘em. He’s
mine. Thanks, buddy. Tell Arnie to put it on my tab.” The Chief’s jaw had dropped and Officer
Clemmons was no longer smiling. The dispatcher, Mary Simms,
poked her head into the office. “Ah, Chief? I need to take the rest of the day off and tomorrow too. My aunt over in Briggsville died, and I have to go help out with family
stuff.” “Go,” said the
Chief. Clemmons opened his mouth
to say something, then snapped it shut when Balistreri glared at him. “Give Mr. Johnson his artillery,
phone, and wallet, Clemmons. He better get
started if he wants to get to Detroit tonight.” “But
I haven’t seen anything of Camden Station except
the inside of my cell and your office,” said Eddie. “Get
a twenty out of the cash box so that Mr. Johnson can
get some breakfast at the diner before he heads out.” “Sure thing, Chief.” “There’s
not much to see in Camden Station, Mr. Johnson. If you continue on Highway B for about six miles,
take a left when you get to Sutherland Road. In another three miles there’ll be an
on ramp for I-75. We good?” Eddie just stared at him. Good? Hardly. “Ya
wanna make another call?” Eddie
smiled. “I could make another call.” Balistreri pushed the phone over
to him. “Hey Jake. Eddie
again. We got things taken care of all nice
like here in Camden Station. Yeah, I’m
sure. You know I’m just a small-town boy at
heart. No, no. If I had a gun
to my head, I’d tell ya and ya could still make the trip. I’ll call ya later today when I stop for lunch and tell ya all
about it. Thanks to you and tell Arnie hey from me.” On his way out, Officer Clemmons
handed him his things and the twenty. He
put out his hand for Eddie to shake and Eddie faked a quick jab to his solar plexus. Clemmons jumped back and almost fell on his butt. “See ya around, Clemmons. Be cool.” THE
END
Bein’
Superstitious Don’t Pay the Rent Roy Dorman Eddie Johnson was glad to be back in
Detroit. The job had gone
well in Miami. And except for that little
snafu in Southern Kentucky involving an overzealous small town police force, the drive
home had been pretty routine. He parked his
car a block from his residence as he always did. He’s never experienced any trouble at this
address, but in his business one never knows. The
Corktown Neighborhood was the oldest surviving neighborhood in Detroit. His
one-bedroom apartment was on the second floor of a century-old house in the middle of the
block on a quiet street. His landlady had the entire first floor and there’s one
other apartment across from Eddie’s on the second. Eddie walked a side-street until he came to the
alley that led past the rear of his house. “Alleys are so cool,” he thought to himself,
walking slowly, checking out the backs of the houses to his right and left. “Wonder
why housing developers don’t put them in anymore.
Pity.” When he got to
the back of his house, he looked up at the three windows
that faced the back alley. Not good.
He’d left the shade in the living room only halfway down so his cactus could
have some afternoon sunlight. Now
that shade was all the way down like its two neighbors
in the bedroom. Company? As he walked around the house toward the front
porch, plans were developing in his head. It
was possible he was being watched, so he’d just let himself in as he always had. Except to maybe be a little
quieter in case he wasn’t being watched.
The element of surprise has its advantages. He knew which of the stairs creaked the most
and avoided them. When he got to his door,
he saw light under the space at the bottom. “Made themselves at
home,” he mused. Now, did he want to kick
in the door and go in shooting, or use the key and give his visitor a chance to explain? He walked down the short
hall until he came to the light switch on the wall.
He flipped the switch to off and went back to his door. Crouching to the right of it against the wall in a hunkered down
position, he noisily jangled his keys and muttered under his breath. “Damn
light’s burned out. How am I supposed
to see the stupid keyhole,” he said in what he hoped was a drunken voice. The light under his door went out. Two shots fired from a pistol equipped with a
silencer pierced the center of the door about chest high, the slugs continuing into the
door across the hall. Eddie waited. The door opened a few inches as if trying to
draw him in, in the event the shots had missed.
After a couple of seconds, it opened all the way and a large somebody stepped out
into the darkened hallway. The door across the hall
flew open, throwing light everywhere, and a shot from a large caliber pistol hit the guy
in the forehead, sending him back into Eddie’s apartment. “What the hell?” Eddie shouted. “Well, hey, don’t mention it. I’m sure yer very welcome,” said an older man dressed in
his pajamas. An older man with a Glock. “Who are you?” asked Eddie. “Claude de Pere. Yer neighbor. Pleased to meetcha.” “Did ya call 911?” “The few
times I’ve seen ya around, ya never struck me
as the 911-type of guy, so, no, I didn’t.” Eddie stared
at Claude. “Wanna come in for a nightcap?” he said. “Don’t mind if I do,” said Claude.
“Lemme get my robe on and I’ll be right
over.” After going through his
would-be assailant’s pockets, Eddie propped him up against the living room wall. He was sitting at his little dining room
table when Claude knocked on the door. “Come in. It’s open.” Claude
looked at the body by the wall. “Big
son of a gun, ain’t he?” he said. “Yeah, he is. Driver’s license says he’s Rollie Dawson from Cincinnati.” “Course that don’t mean it’s true,
right?” said Claude. Eddie stared
at Claude again. Who was this guy?
“Ya think ol’ Mrs. Connors heard yer shot?” “Nah, it’s way past her bedtime. She told me once she takes her hearing aids out when she goes to bed
and sleeps like a baby until the sun wakes her.” Eddie
poured two tumblers of Jack Daniels. “To
us,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast. “To us,” said Claude. Eddie wondered where he was going to go with
this. First, he’d
have to get rid of the body. There were a
couple of guys in town he could trust with that job. He’d also have to call his boss, explain the
situation, and wait to hear back from them what they’d managed to find out about
one Rollie Dawson from Cincinnati. But what about Claude? “Sorry about yer door,” said Eddie, sipping
his Jack. “No problemo,”
said Claude. “Gives it a little character, right? And it matches yers.” “That it
does,” Eddie said, nodding sagely. For
a few minutes, the two sat and sipped, saying nothing
as old friends are often able to do. Except they weren’t
old friends. “So ya said I didn’t
seem to be the 911-type of guy. What did
ya mean by that?” “Oh, I don’t
know. Odd hours.
Parking down the street. Shoulder holster….” “Hmmm. How come I never saw you seein’ me?” Claude smiled, but didn’t say anything. “Well?” asked Eddie. “I imagine you’ve got some calls to make,”
said Claude, standing and finishing his drink.
“I’ll be up for about an hour if ya need anything.” “Ya
didn’t answer my question,” said Eddie. “I used to be in the business,” said
Claude. “Good night.” *** The next morning, Eddie
knocked on Claude’s door. “Morning,
Claude. After ya left, it occurred to me that I
didn’t thank you for last night. Here,
this is for you. Half of what was in Rollie’s
wallet. Figured he didn’t need it where
he was going. Claude looked at the three
hundred-dollar bills in Eddie’s hand, but made no move to take them. “Appreciate it, but no thanks.” “Superstitious?” “Might
say that.” “If I’m right
about what ya meant about bein’ in the business once, ya must’ve had the occasion
now and then to help yourself to money like this.” “Many a time,” Claude said wistfully. “But toward the end, when I was thinkin’ about gettin’
out, I started to give that kinda money away. Just didn’t
want it anymore. Know what I mean?” “I think I do, Claude. And when it comes time for
me to start windin’ down, I may do the same.” Eddie folded the bills and stuffed them in his
pocket. “Tell ya what,”
he said. “How ‘bout we go out to dinner tonight? I’ll buy and I’ll use my own money, not Rollie’s.” “I’d like that,” said Claude. “I don’t get out enough anymore.” *** It was a nice
night, so Eddie and Claude walked the four blocks to
Mama Rosita’s Italian Restaurant. Mama Rosita’s was
a small family-owned place with secluded booths along a back wall that were just right
for private dining. After dinners
of Seafood Tetrazzini for Eddie and Spaghetti and Meatballs
for Claude, they were having coffee. Eddie’s
phone lit up with an incoming call. Marty
Paulson. “Sorry,
Claude, but I gotta take this. It’s
my boss.” Eddie stepped away from
their booth. “Hey, boss.
What’s up?” “Got some info for
ya, Eddie. Seems yer deader, Rollie Dawson, wasn’t after
you after all. Just using yer apartment. Billy Larson in Cincinnati says Dawson was stakin’
out yer neighbor, Johnny Adams, one of their guys who took a powder about a year ago. This Adams guy had taken the money for his last
three hits, but had tipped off his targets instead of doin’ ‘em. They managed to pull disappearin’ acts and then so did Adams.
Nuts, right?
Anyhow, yer neighbor is using the name Claude de Pere. Be careful, he’s
probably unstable.” “Thanks, Marty. Yer not gonna believe this, but I’m havin’ dinner with
Claude as we speak. He’s lookin’
at me kinda funny right now, and I don’t see the bulge under his sportscoat anymore. I’ll call ya back.” “Wait, Eddie, I already sent —” Eddie walked back to the booth and sat down. “Yer phone’s ringin’ again,”
said Claude. “I don’t wanna
talk to him, Claude. I wanna talk to you.” “Yeah?” “How long
was Dawson in my apartment?” “He
got there early yesterday afternoon.” “The
call I just got told me he mighta been waitin’
for you, not me. Is that about right?” “Yup.
That’s right.” “You have yer Glock
in yer lap?” “Yup.” “Gonna use it?” “Don’t
rightly know.” “Ya know
they’re gonna send somebody else from Cincinnati
to get you, right?” “Somebody’s
probably on the way.” “I’ve got a
place in Costa Rica and a couple a hundred thousand in the bank. I could help ya get set up there if yer serious about retirin’,”
said Eddie. “Why would
ya do that?” “I dunno.
Maybe I see a little of me in you. A
little of me in ten years or so.” “Let’s talk
about it on the walk home,” said Claude. They
paid their bill and started back. Eddie
turned onto the side street and they headed toward his
alley. “Better safe than
sorry,” he said. When they got to the back
of the house, they were startled by someone saying their names. “Eddie and Johnny. How ya doin’?” Both men reached for their
guns. “Don’t,”
the voice said. “Alicia?” said
Eddie. A trim, thirty-something
woman stepped out of the shadows, holding a Sig Sauer.
Her smile seemed genuine, but it was somewhat compromised by the pistol. “Yeah, Eddie. Long time no see. Still
like alleys?” “What are
you doin’ here?” “Marty
told his counterpart in Cincy that I would help you
take care of cleanin’ things up here. Said he owed the
guy a favor. And then to Johnny: “Sorry, Johnny, but ya
know how it is. Business is business.” And then back to Eddie: “I’m not gonna
have a problem with you, am I?” “This guy, here, is
a good guy. He just wanted to retire.” “Maybe he shoulda just gave his two weeks’
notice.” Thinking Eddie was trying
to distract Alicia, Claude started to back away from the two and reached for his Glock. But Alicia was quick and she shot him. Eddie went for his piece, but stopped, knowing he didn’t have
a chance. “We had a good thing
once, Alicia.” “True dat, Eddie. We did.” “Ya gonna shoot me
too?” “I’m thinkin’. Turn around and put yer hands over yer head.” Eddie turned around as told. His mind was
racing, frantically trying to find the right thing to say.
He and Alica had been lovers a number of times over the years when their paths
crossed. He’d try and go with
that. “I still have feelings
for you, ya know,” he said. “Don’t
you for me?” Nothing. “Alicia?” Eddie turned and…
Alicia was gone. “I guess she still
had feelings,” he said, laughing. Eddie
called the two guys who’d taken care of disposing
of Rollie Dawson. He went through Claude’s
wallet, and then tossed his apartment looking for anything of value. Eddie
wasn’t superstitious. THE END
THERE’S
MORE THAN ONE WAY TO CATCH A BANK ROBBER Roy Dorman SALLY O’ Her name’s
Sally O’Malley, And she lives in the valley, But doesn’t much care to go home. Because when she gets there She’s tied to a chair To stifle her desire to
roam. Pub song possibly written
by Sally’s husband, Tommy. Circa
1850, Dublin, Ireland “I need you! Need you! Gawd, how
I want you so much!” Alison O’Malley held the
wanted poster in front of her face, staring intently at Robert Weston. Weston was wanted for bank robbery in four
states and the District of Columbia and there was a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for
information leading to his capture. Alison planted a kiss on his
photo and carefully placed it on the corner of her desk. The O’Malley Detective Agency was going to
experience a makeover soon, she was sure of it. The agency actually did more
car repossessions and bail jumper work than detective work, but Alison was a dreamer. Since Robert Weston hadn’t robbed a bank
in Florida yet, she figured he would soon. And Alison planned to nab him
when he did. *** It was getting
on toward noon and Alison hadn’t really done any
work this morning. Because she
didn’t have any work to do. She locked
up her office and headed down two flights of stairs
to the street. She would have lunch at the
St. George Tavern and then hang around there for the afternoon to see if she could pick
up some business. The St. George usually
drew a pretty good Friday lunch crowd. Snowbirds
mixed with locals, and that in itself sometimes generated a client or two. “Hey, Conrad. I’ll
have a Smithwick’s Red Ale and a burger and fries, please,” Alison said plunking
herself down onto the last available bar stool and opening her laptop. “So it’s gonna be Conrad today, is it?”
answered the bartender, Connie Dugan, with a smile. Connie was a big guy, over
six-five, who ran a tight ship and enjoyed his quirky regulars. “Yeah, I’m workin’ ‘till four, so it’ll be Conrad
‘till then.” The handsome guy sitting on the
stool next to her chuckled. “Nice work
if you can get it,” he said. “Takes
that working from home thing to a whole new level.” “Yeah, I’m the boss and the only employee, so I
get to make the work rules. No pesky HR people
keeping track of timecards, ya know?” “I’m Paul,”
he said extending his hand. “You a writer or something?” “Alison. I’m
a private detective. Drummin’ up business,”
she said, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake. “Private
detective? Cool.
I went with a corporate law firm straight out of law school five years ago and sometimes
I feel a little….” “Stifled?” “I guess you could put it that way —” “Private detectives can sometimes feel a little
stifled too,” said the guy on the stool to Alison’s right. Like
Lawyer Paul, he extended his hand and Alison shook it.
“Carl Vincent. Vincent-Showers
Detective Agency, New York City.” “Hey,
guy, we were having a conversation here,” Paul
said to Carl, puffing himself up. “Oh, my bad,” said
Carl. “Didn’t know you two were together.” Carl made like he was defusing the situation,
but actually he was aware that the way he put it could cause trouble. He enjoyed
the small dramas in afternoon bar life. Carl was in St. Augustine for a month with his
wife, Melinda, to get away from the New York City January weather. He was in the St. George
Tavern, the oldest tavern in St. Augustine, which was the oldest city in the USA. It was a great little bar for people watching. “We’re not together,” Alison
interjected. “We just met. Like
you and I just met.” All three now looked at each
other in the back bar mirror and Carl was the first to smile. Alison followed suit, but Paul remained stoney-faced. Alison was enjoying the attention and said to
the mirror, “So, Paul, Carl, your paths ever cross? In business, I mean. Not here at the St. George.” Paul continued
to stare at Alison and Carl in the mirror. Carl turned to Alison and said, “My partner and I don’t
get asked into corporate stuff, unless maybe somebody’s having marital difficulties.” Paul took his left hand off the bar and let it
drop to his side. Alison and Carl saw Paul’s
move to hide his wedding band in the mirror and both smirked. They were
thinking that Paul, or more likely Paul’s wife,
might be a client sometime soon. Connie brought Alison’s
burger. Alison thanked him and turned her attention to it.
Paul finished his beer and stood
up to leave. “Here’s my card, Paul,”
said Carl. “Give me a call if I can help with
something.” Paul looked at the card and then at
Carl. “No thanks,” he said.
And he walked out without another word to either Alison or Carl. “So, you workin’ this afternoon too, Carl?” “No, I’m down here on vacation. I enjoy the neighborhood bar scene during the hours from noon ‘til
about four. Meet some interesting people.” “Like our friend, Paul?” asked Alison with a shrug. “I was thinking of people like you.” When Alison stiffened and frowned, Carl quickly
held up his left hand to show his wedding band.
“No, no, I’m not hitting on you.
Happily married. Just meant it might
be fun to talk a little shop.” Alison relaxed and smiled.
She finished her burger and offered Carl some of her fries. “A couple more beers here, please, Conrad,” Carl
said as Connie walked past. “Comin’ right up,”
Connie said with a wink. “Whatcha working on?”
Carl asked pointing at Alison’s laptop. “If
I tell ya, ya have to promise not to laugh.” “Something offbeat? My partner, Julie, and I love
the weird cases. Beats the hell out of slinking
around shooting Kodak moments outside hotels.” “It’s a dream. Maybe a fantasy.
Ya ever hear of Robert Weston?” “The
bank robber? Sure, I’ve heard of him.” “Well, I’d like to bring
‘em in,” Alison said, looking at the mirror.
“Nuts, huh?” “Not nuts at all.
Somebody’s gotta get him some day. Could be you. So, have ya got a line on him?” “No,
but I’m doing research,” said Alison.
“One thing I’ve found is that he doesn’t have
a pattern. Different times of the day. Different days of the week. Nothing
I’ve found so far to help me anticipate his moves.” “If he’s doing that on purpose, that in itself
tells you something about him,” Carl mused.
“He’s a smart guy. If he plans
the times of his robberies that carefully he probably also plans his escape route closely
too.” “Yeah, I suppose so.” “And
there must be quite a few banks in the St. Augustine
area,” said Carl. “Can’t just
stake out a different bank each day, right? We’re
gonna have to catch him after he does a job.” “There
are about 25 banks, including branches, in the area. And what’s this ‘we’re gonna’
business?” Alison said, looking Carl in the eye. “I’m not trying to
horn in on your dream, Alison. Just professional
curiosity. I always get enthusiastic at the
beginning of a case.” “Well, I guess I could
use any help I can get with this if it’s gonna be more than a dream. My little agency could really use the money and ….. Connie! Connie!
Turn up the sound on the TV!” “…. and Memphis Police
say Robert Weston is now in custody. He was
captured after leaving a gas station on Interstate-40 outside of Memphis after an employee
recognized him. The employee, Tammy Sue Rogers,
had this to say: “I saw this guy and right away knew it was him. I
don’t have any idea what I’ll do with all that money. Assuming I get it, that is …..” “No, no, no!” Alison yelled. “He
was mine!” Connie turned down the sound
and came over and patted Alison on the hand. “Don’t worry, honey. There’ll be other bank robbers.” Alison slammed her fists on the bar. “I
don’t want another bank robber, goddammit! I wanted him!” On her way to the restroom, Alison knocked over
a couple of bar stools. From the restroom
came a crash as the waste basket was the recipient of her wrath. It would be a while before she was fit company. Carl put a twenty on the bar and nodded good-bye
to Connie. He felt bad for Alison’s lost
dream. *** Back in New York City, Carl was
at the office catching up on paperwork with his partner, Julie Showers. “Didn’t you say you ran into a private
detective in St. Augustine when you were down there with Melinda?” Julie asked. “Yeah,”
said Carl. “A young woman named Alison.” Julie held up her phone. “Listen
to this,” she said, reading from her phone.
“St. Augustine Police say they have captured Ronnie Dawson after he robbed
the Chase Bank on King Street in downtown St. Augustine.
Police say Dawson robbed the bank and was headed out on the A1A Byway. At a stoplight, he rear-ended the car
belonging to St. Augustine Private Detective, Alison O’Malley, who recognized him
and drew her Glock when he stepped out of his car to survey the damage. O’Malley held him there until police arrived to take him into
custody. O’Malley is eligible to receive
the fifty-thousand-dollar reward for Dawson’s arrest.” “Alison’s dream came true,” said Carl. “I’ll have to send a note of congratulations.” “Catching bank robbers pays pretty well,” mused
Julie. “And the publicity from catching
one has to be great for business. Maybe we
should devote one day a week trying to snag one ourselves.” “You’re a dreamer,
Julie,” Carl said laughing. “You and Alison would work great together.” THE END
DEAD IS DEAD Roy Dorman
“I was in a neighborhood
tavern with a tumbler of Irish whiskey and a Mickey Spillane paperback for company when
the heart attack hit. You?” “In Folsom Prison
doin’ life for murder when a dirtbag named Larry Sanders shivved me after he caught
me cheatin’ at cards.” “So, where the hell
are we?” “I’m thinkin’
you’re probably close with that thought, buddy.” “Yeah? Ya think so? Hey, I’m Richard Clarke.” “Eddie Johnson. Meetcha.” “What
say we look around a bit and see what’s up,”
said Richard. “I’m game, but
I think we’re dead,” answered Eddie.
“And maybe it’s just the two of us.
If we’re lucky.” It
was close to pitch-black with just a faint light every
fifteen or twenty seconds as something off in the distance flared. The flaring coincided with a rumbling noise that was also in the distance. There didn’t appear to be anything else at all
in the near vicinity. The two walked toward the
light and noise. In the brief flashes of
light, Richard noticed they both had on matching t-shirts, jeans, work boots, and leather
jackets. “Odd,”
he thought to himself. “Who dressed
us? And why?” He decided to let it go for now. “That could be a volcano up ahead,” he
speculated. “What the hell do
you know about volcanos?” Eddie snorted. “Only what I saw in the movies when I was a
kid. You got any better ideas?” “Yeah, we’re dead, that’s what.” “You’re kinda stuck on that notion, aren’t
ya,” said Richard. Eddie stopped
and stared at Richard. “You sayin’
I’m some kinda nut-job?” “No, no. It’s just that….” Eddie hit Richard in the nose with a sharp
right jab causing blood to flow. “Nut-job, huh?”
said Eddie. “Well, fuck you. I
say we’re dead.” “You broke by dose,”
Richard said holding his nose to try and stop the bleeding.
“What’s the matter with you?” Eddie didn’t say anything as a look of
puzzlement appeared on his rugged face. “We’re not dead
— ” he started to say. “Oh, for chrissakes,
knock it off with the dead business,” said Richard massaging his nose. “And if ya hit me again, I’ll hit ya back.” “No, listen,”
said Eddie. “Yer bleeding. It
hurt when I socked ya. We ain’t dead.” Just then a ring-tone went off in Richard’s
jacket. “You gotta phone?”
asked Eddie with a look of suspicion. “I
guess I do,” said Richard, taking the phone from
his pocket. “Hello?” A mechanical voice intoned: Put this on speaker mode. Richard shrugged and did as he was told. “Done,” he said. “Who’s
this?” Eddie still
had a wary expression on his face. He didn’t like this at all. This is a recording that was activated from the future. This is not a cell phone. It’s a preset recording. I won’t be replying to your comments or
questions. You are 45,000 years in the past
in a territory that is now Southern France. You will be given everything
you need to help with a very complicated set of circumstances. Richard and Eddie exchanged looks and shrugged. You were chosen to be brought
back to life because of your unique abilities. Richard
Clarke, you enjoy a good mystery and like to problem solve.
Eddie Johnson, you don’t care one way or another about mysteries, but enjoy
solving a problem in more direct ways. You
two are considered an assault team. Eddie
Johnson will be the leader of the assault team. Richard Clarke
will be his back-up and advisor in all things related to the assault. You are in a cave
in a hillside close to a nearly inactive volcano. Richard raised an eyebrow at Eddie and mouthed
“see?” Near
the entrance of the cave there are supplies under a tarp. Some of the supplies
you will take with you, and some will remain under the tarp if you should need them later
on. There are two automatic pistols, both
Glocks, and holsters for them for each of you.
Also, a sawed-off shotgun and hip holster for Eddie’s use. There
is more ammunition than you will need. If
you run out, it’s probably because the assault has failed. You may think you will be the only ones with that type of firepower
in the time period of 45,000 years ago. You
are not. As I will explain, there are others
with weapons more advanced than simple spears and bows and arrows. Richard
and Eddie exchanged looks again. Richard
looked worried, but Eddie had a big grin on his face.
He was in charge of an assault team with more ammunition than he might need. He was in heaven, not hell. Cro-Magnon man has become
a dominant species in this part of Europe. and the Neanderthals,
a dead-end offshoot of an earlier common ancestor, have been slowly dying out. That is, until about a year ago when an
extraterrestrial ship monitoring the Earth crashed in the vicinity you are in. Of the sixteen crewmembers, eight females and eight males, ten survived
the crash, and three of those were injured seriously. “You believe this shit?” asked Eddie. “I don’t know,” said Richard. “Sounds pretty far-fetched.” These alien visitors have taken it upon
themselves to support the Neanderthals. It may be because they feel the less intelligent
species of humans would be easier to control if their staying on Earth becomes long term. Your mission is to capture these ten aliens
and bring them back to this cave where they can be transported into the future. When
the mission is completed, Richard, you will be returned to your time period and to a hospital
where you will have recovered from your heart attack. Eddie, you
will also return to your time period, but will be given a new identity and be a free man. That is the end of this message. Good luck. “Let’s
go get the guns,” said Eddie. “I’m
ready to round up some aliens.” “Remember, Eddie,
the messenger said they’ll have weapons as good as ours.” “Yeah, but they don’t have me,” said
Eddie. They found the tarp and
gathered the weapons. Eddie checked the guns
out for both of them and declared them loaded and ready to use. “Ready to rock ‘n’ roll,” he
said with a big smile. The two
walked the few steps to the tunnel’s entrance
and Eddie stopped Richard from going out. It was nighttime and except
for the occasional flare from the volcano, it was very dark. “I’ll check to see if anybody’s waitin’
for us. They may figure to ambush us.” He cautiously stepped out and checked the
immediate area. Suddenly, a bright spotlight
beamed onto the tunnel’s entrance and Eddie was blinded. He
drew the shotgun and fired it toward the spotlight as laser fire cut him in half. Richard ran out from the cover of the cave
entrance to help Eddie and was also cut down. Eddie and Richard were dead. Again. *** Three Neanderthals stood with laser weapons in
their hands. There was some garbled vocalization
and hopping around on their part signifying success. They were
led away by a tall, thin being who gave them pats on the back. It would have
been helpful for Eddie and Richard to know that this
was the fourth failed mission in the last three months. Somebody far in the future needed to come up
with a Plan B before this past became a part of their reality. THE END
LEAVE ME ALONE by Roy Dorman
“Anybody sittin’
here?” “Nope.” “Buy me a drink?” Eddie Dawson
looked up from his book and stared at the woman who
had sat on the bar stool next to his. She was attractive and probably about his age. Late
twenties, early thirties. “Sure.
Whatever ya want.” Eddie went
back to his book. The bartender brought the woman her
drink and winked at her. “I’m Candy,”
the woman said. “Of course you are,”
Eddie said, without looking up from his book. “Don’t
wanna talk, huh?” “Nope.
I like being alone.” You come
to a bar to be alone?” Candy asked, finishing
her drink and pushing her glass toward the bartender. “I
like to be alone around other people,” said Eddie,
looking Candy in the eye. “It’s kind of a Zen thing.” He
motioned to the bartender to get Candy another drink. “Zen? Is that like religious?”
asked Candy. “More spiritual than
religious,” said Eddie. “Now, how about leavin’ me alone?” The bartender, Toby Windsor, had
a smirk on his face. He was enjoying this. He drew another tap for Eddie and placed it
and a shot of Tullamore Dew in front of him. Toby’s a betting man and he’s
betting on Candy. “House’ll comp
this round,” he said. Candy still
looked a little puzzled from the Zen thing, but she
was determined. “So, ya never said
what yer name was —”
“There ya are, ya
crazy bitch! Get yer ass back out on the street!” A tall, nastyl-ooking guy had come
in and now stood next to Eddie and Candy. Eddie
thought he was too close. Eddie’s right elbow was just inches away from the guy’s
solar plexus. His elbow itched. “You know this guy?”
Eddie asked Candy, already knowing the answer and what the relationship probably was. “Yeah, I used to work
for ‘em. He’s Johnny Clarke. But I quit.” “Well, I guess you can leave
now,” Eddie said. “Sounds like Candy, here, wants to be left alone.” Clarke turned to Eddie. “Who the
fuck are you?” “You don’t need
to know who I am,” said Eddie. “We’re not gonna be friends.” Before Clarke could throw
his punch, Eddie elbowed him in the solar plexus and bent him over. The bartender
came around from behind the bar and walked Clarke out the door. “Ya
shouldna done that,” said Candy. “Ya just
made him mad. He’s got an awful temper —” Clarke
came back into the bar with a Glock in his hand. Crouched
in a shooter’s stance, he shot Eddie three times in the chest, Candy twice, and ran
back out the door. Eddie and Candy fell to
the floor together, dead upon arrival. *** Except
for the easy banter between the County Coroner, Sandra Shaw, and her assistant, Carl Drew,
the Cook County Morgue was quiet. One could say dead quiet. “Here’s two more that’ll be by themselves
in their own drawers with the rest of ‘em until somebody claims them,” Shaw
said to Drew, as the two looked down at Eddie and Candy. “It’s
kinda quirky when ya think about it,” said Drew.
“They’re in here by themselves, but surrounded by other people.” “You’re a deep one, aren’t ya,
Drew?” said Shaw, closing Eddie’s and Candy’s drawers. That
brought a blush to Drew’s cheeks. He didn’t
like being around people much, but he liked being around Sandra Shaw.
PIGEONS
IN THE PARK by Roy Dorman “I knew your parents, grandparents, and
probably some of your great-grandparents,” said the old man as he threw popcorn to
the dozen or more pigeons that had gathered around him by the park bench. A
few of the birds stopped eating popcorn and turned their
heads questioningly at him in that way birds will do. Oscar
Brinkman had been feeding pigeons in this park for many
years. While he was employed as a bank teller, he’d done it during his lunch break.
Now that he was retired, he gave out popcorn any time he chose to. “I wanted to let you know that there may be a
time soon when I won’t be giving out popcorn,” he said. This
time, more of the birds stopped eating to look up at
him. “My son and his wife
moved in with me recently. My house had just gotten too much for me to maintain by myself.
My son is a great kid, but his wife is not a nice person. She’s nasty to me and I
know he feels badly about it.” Almost
all of the birds were now listening. “I
think he’s afraid of her, but I’m not,”
Oscar continued. “But that’s probably gonna cause me to have an ‘accident’ one
of these days. One of those fatal accidents. I can tell by the way she looks at me sometimes.
Like she’s sizing me up.” All of the pigeons were
now facing Oscar. He’d stopped throwing popcorn. People passing by gave the group
a wide berth as if they could sense something not quite right was going on here. “We live at 304 South Street. She’s usually
laying on a blanket in the backyard sunning herself about this time of day. If ya wanted
to, ya know, go and meet her.” Heads were now cocked to
the side as though the pigeons were listening to something only they could hear. Then, as one, the flock rose and flew away from
the park. *** Oscar
was still on the bench when the pigeons returned. He’d
been throwing popcorn to a couple of squirrels, but they skedaddled when the flock landed. The birds were damp from getting cleaned up in
the park’s fountain. Some of them still had traces of blood on their beaks and breasts. Oscar started throwing popcorn to them again,
and the pigeons pecked away, strutting and cooing. “I’m
going to be meeting with my financial planner here tomorrow
at noon,” Oscar told them. “I think he’s been stealing from my retirement
account. He says I’m making money, that there are always ups and downs in the market,
but I don’t know. Maybe since you’ve got a vested interest in my popcorn money
you could be here. Ya know, listen in to what he has to say.” Now the late afternoon sun was warming Oscar’s
face, and he closed his eyes. He dozed. The pigeons continued pecking at the crumbs.
When no new popcorn had been thrown, a large male looked up at Oscar with a questioning
look. Ascertaining that Oscar was asleep, it hopped up onto his lap and snatched the almost
empty brown paper bag from his hand. It threw it to the pavement
and there was a raucous free-for-all for a few minutes until the bag was finally empty. The birds took a few seconds
to look up at the sleeping Oscar and then took off for who knows where. But they’d be back tomorrow at noon. They fully
intended to check out that financial planner fellow. There were
future generations to consider. Children, grandchildren,
maybe even great-grandchildren.
THE OLD SEWALL HOUSE ON HOWARD AVENUE Dirt be
dirt. But some
dirt be dirtier than other dirt. Robert M. May the
19th 1695 (Graffiti found on
a basement wall in a mansion in Salem, Massachusetts, during its demolishment in 2025)
May, 2024
“But it’s the middle of May,” groused Bridget Bishop. “Why
isn’t anything out there growing?” She’s standing at the kitchen
window by the sink looking out at the backyard.
Her husband, Sam Sewall, is at the kitchen table having coffee and reading the morning
paper.
“Maybe it has to do with the late Spring,” he said without looking up.
“The lows were in the thirties last week.” “Well, it was sixty yesterday
and it’s supposed to be sixty-five today,” answered Bridget. “I want to see a
green lawn and some flowers.”
“Relax, Bridget. We’ve only been here two months. We can plant some
annuals. I like Salem. It’s a great old city with a lot of history. And they still
have a real morning newspaper. Delivered by a kid on a bike, no less. Way better than having
to read the news on my phone.” “There was a foot of snow on
the ground when the realtor showed it to us last November,” said Bridget, unable
to let it go. “We never thought to ask what was under the snow. And look at
the neighbor’s yard. They have both a lawn and flowers. We’ve got dirt.
Ugly gray dirt.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll go out and look at it,” said Sam.
“Not that I’d know what to look for.” “You’re just humoring
me,” said Bridget.
“Yes, I am, sweetcakes. Yes, I am.” ***
Sam walked the length and breadth of the yard and couldn’t see anything unusual.
Except for the fact that there was no greenery. Not even any dead weeds along the fence
from last year. And shouldn’t an old house like theirs have some trees? Stately old
maples, oaks, or elms?
“Morning. Whatcha lookin’ for?” came a voice from across the
fence. “Good morning to you too,”
said Sam.
“I’m John Sharp, yer neighbor. Sorry the missus and I didn’t get
around to welcoming ya like we shoulda.” “Oh, that’s okay. I’m Sam
Sewall,” Sam said, extending his hand over the picket fence. “Nice to meetcha. It
was Winter. Probably everybody around here pretty much stays inside until it gets warmer.” “Ayuh, that’s the truth,”
said John. “But we still shoulda stopped over.” “Well, my wife and I
are from California. We’re not used to two months of below freezing temperatures,
so we’re glad it’s finally Spring.” John looked down at his shoes
like he was weighing what to say next.
“Don’t get me wrong, we love the house and Salem,” said Sam, thinking
he may have offended John by complaining. “Really —" “Yer wife’s name’s
Bishop, ain’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Bridget Bishop.”
“Jesus Pleezus,” said John, shuddering. “A Sewall and a Bishop
married and livin’ next door to me in that…, that house.” “Is something wrong with
that?”
“Everything’s wrong with that,” said
John, staring Sam in the face with what looked like menace. “Don’t ya know
where yer originally from? Right here! Yer ancestors were born and raised in that house.” Sam’s mouth dropped open.
Neither he nor Bridget were into genealogy and had never thought about where their
families had lived before California. Both of their parents and all of their grandparents
had died years ago. Before he and Bridget had met.
Now that he thought about it, there were a number of odd coincidences. “Do you have any idea
as to why we don’t have any grass or plants in our yard,” Sam asked, trying
to change the subject.
The anger on John’s face seemed to loosen a bit. “It’s the damned
dirt. It’s cursed. Nothin’ will ever grow there unless…, never mind,
it’s cursed. Leave it at that.” Now it was Sam’s turn to get a
little angry. “What do you mean, cursed? Is this some kind of ‘Yankee pulling
the leg of the stranger in town’ thing?”
“Do ya know how many people have owned that house in the last three hundred
plus years? More than a hundred. And it’s been vacant most of that time too. Nobody
stays for more than a few months. They just up and leave and it sits until some realtor
buys it from the county for back taxes. And sells it to somebody from somewhere far
away. Like California.”
After that little speech, John turned to leave. “Now, wait just a minute,”
said Sam. “I’ve got more questions.” “You can Google ‘Samuel
Sewall and Bridget Bishop from Salem,’” John said over his shoulder.
“You were gonna say something about a curse and then changed your mind. What
were you gonna tell me?” John stopped and turned back. “The
curse can be lifted for the current owners if there is a sacrifice,” John intoned
in a sonorous voice. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. “I won’t say
no more. I shouldna said that. It made me say that. I was too close to that fuckin’
dirt for too long.”
Sam watched John walk to his back door and go inside. He slammed the door as if
to say something was done. “Now, that was odd,” Sam said
to himself. And then, “Would I sacrifice somebody to keep this house?” That last thought caused him
to smile.
And that caused him to shudder. ***
Sam went from the yard straight to his laptop. There were plenty of hits for “Samuel
Sewall and Bridget Bishop from Salem,” all of them relating to the Salem Witch Trials.
“Son of a bitch,” Sam muttered.
“Find something on the Internet about why our yard is dead?” Bridget asked, coming up behind him. “Maybe,” said Sam. “Oh, my gosh!”
said Bridget. “We’re all over that page. Click on one and see what it says.”
Bridget pulled up a chair and the two of them spent the next twenty minutes learning
about what had gone on in Salem in 1692. “So, my namesake was the first
witch to be hanged in the 1692 Salem Witch Trials,” said Bridget. “Some claim
to fame, huh?”
“And mine was one of the judges at the time. Apparently, even though he apologized
and agonized over his part in the trials after they were over, his family suffered for
it as if…,”
“As if what?” asked Bridget.
“Oh, it was just something our neighbor said out by the fence. Nothing, really.” “Come on. Give,”
Bridget said, elbowing Sam in the side. “He said nothing grew on our
property because the land and the house were cursed. Silly, huh?” Bridget frowned in
concentration. “What else did he say?”
Sam hesitated. How much should he tell her? If she got freaked out, would she insist
on going back to California?
“He implied that we’re the descendants of those two from the trials.
They’re not just our namesakes. They’re family. And he said it was wrong for
the two of us to be married and living in this house.” He sat there waiting for the
explosion.
“Well, that’s just nuts,” Bridget said, laughing. “Whacko
City, right?”
“Yup, it is,” Sam said, relieved. “People mixing history with
superstition.”
But he wasn’t as sure of what he was saying as he was trying to sound. While at first he’d thought
he’d maybe said too much, at least he hadn’t mentioned the weird intonation
about the need for a sacrifice. He’d talk to John Sharp tonight after dinner and
pry more out of him.
“What say we go to that nursery down by that strip mall and pick up some plants?”
he said.
“Let’s do it. We can have lunch at that little Italian restaurant.” ***
“Saw ya planting them flowers. Seems like maybe ya didn’t hear me when
I was talkin’ to ya earlier today.”
“Oh, I heard you, all right,” Sam replied. “I just don’t
know how much of what you said isn’t a load of crap.” “Maybe you should sign
on with one of them ancestry organizations. Ya don’t have to take my word on things.” “They gonna tell me about
curses and sacrifices?”
John’s lips got very thin. “Forget about the sacrifice. Forget I said
it. Know why? Because out of those hundred or so people who owned that house before you,
there were at least ten unsolved disappearances. Unsolved murders is what I think. Attempted sacrifices, ya might say. And a
number of suicides.
“Where did you hear about all this?” John stared at Sam and didn’t
say anything. Sam walked over to his porch where he’d left the spade after planting
the flowers. He walked back to where John was still standing on the other side of the fence
and started digging up dirt and throwing it over the fence onto John’s lawn. After four shovel fulls,
John finally yelled, “Okay, okay! Enough! Stop! I got it from the last guy who lived
here. Almost fifteen years ago. Completely off his rocker. He told me he killed his wife
and then the house had accepted him. They never did find his wife. Six months later he
was a suicide. He’d told me the sacrifice deal was temporary and he’d been
right.”
As if not trusting himself to stay another minute, John turned and hurried to his
back door.
When Sam was back in the house, he found Bridget packing suitcases in the bedroom.
There was a Glock on the bed by one of the suitcases. “What the hell are you
doing?” asked Sam. “And whose gun is that?” “Go look in the bathroom,”
Bridget said, not answering either of Sam’s questions. Sam shrugged and went into the bathroom. On the mirror,
written in Bridget’s red lipstick, were the words: THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A
WITCH TO LIVE “Did
you write this?” Sam yelled from the bathroom to the bedroom. “No, of course I didn’t,”
said Bridget, as she continued packing. “Edith Sharp was over while you were out
by the fence throwing dirt around. She told me a little about the history of this
place and gave me the Glock. Someone, or something, wrote that while we were in
the living room talking.”
“Why the Glock?”
Bridget stopped packing and looked Sam in the eye. “For protection. The last
guy who lived here killed his wife and then some months later, himself. Some nonsense about
a sacrifice. I’m going back to California. I hope you’ll come with me, but
I am going. Today. Now. I won’t be some kind of sacrifice for this house.” *** “It's been two days since
we’ve seen either of ‘em,” said John. “Ya think we should go over
and, ya know, see if everything’s okay.” “You know damn well
everything’s not ‘okay’ over there, John. We both heard the shots that night
after I left yer Glock over there. One or both of ‘em’s dead.” ***
A couple of days later, Edith is finishing up the morning dishes. “I talked to Bridget
this morning while you were at the hardware store,” said Edith. “She was out
weeding the flowers her husband planted. They actually seem to be growing. She was singing some song about strawberry
fields. It sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it.”
“So, she wasn’t the one who got –-” “No, it was him. She
said she shot ‘em when she caught ‘em putting something in her drink after
dinner that night. Turns out he’d bought some poison for moles when they went to
the nursery for those flowers. As if moles could live in that dirt.”
“Is he still, ya know, in the house?” “That’s the funny
thing,” Edith said, drying her hands on her apron. “She said that night something
told her to drag ‘em out into the yard and leave ‘em there. She did, and in
the morning, he was gone. She says the dirt ate ‘em. She said that’s why the
dirt’s so nasty. A lot of angry dead bodies in it. Nuts, huh?” “Everything’s nuts
about that place,” John replied, nodding his head thoughtfully. “So, what do
we do now? You and me?”
“I’m thinking we should sell our
house and move to Florida ASAP. Have you looked at the spot recently where he threw dirt
onto our lawn?”
“Can’t say as I have. Why?” “Because the lawn is dead
there. And the dead spot is getting bigger.” THE END
Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits
Office and has been a voracious reader for over 65 years. At the prompting of an old
high school friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now a voracious
writer. He has had flash fiction and poetry published in Black Petals,
Bewildering Stories, One Sentence Poems, Yellow Mama,
Drunk Monkeys, Literally Stories, Dark Dossier, The Rye
Whiskey Review, Near to the Knuckle, Theme of Absence, Shotgun
Honey, and a number of other online and print journals. Unweaving a Tangled
Web, published by Hekate Publishing, is his first novel.
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