Crimson

By BAM

Gangsters owned Brooklyn, New York in 1939. Lister Blunt, the largest money launderer in town, was one of them. He had a soft spot for his seventeen-year-old, Matilda.

Lister Blunt loved his daughter too much, freakishly. She ran. He had paid off a pair of fuzz detectives, Clyde and Dick, to find her. “Bring her back.”

The two wound up at a well-known brothel called “Crimson.” It was supposed to be an easy job.

          “I hate prostitutes—bats, the lot of ’em,” Clyde said.

They marched toward the door. “Your mother one?” Dick cackled.

          “Yeah. Ma loved dope. Some pimp overdosed her. That’s why I joined the fuzz.”

          “I didn’t know, Clyde. Sorry. Some are earners. I met a few who was gonna be nurses.”

          “Lines they told you to get yer dough. Soulless broads. They’ll murder ya over two dollars.”

          “But not Audrey. Madame here.”

            “She’s Madame Larue now. How’d you two meet anyway?”       

“When she started turning.”

          “One of her regulars, were ya?”

          “No. I pistol-whipped her pimp good for leaning on her too hard. She never thanked me. Still we got history, us two. Audrey’s the marrying type. Trust me.” 

          Clyde banged on the door. “Keep dreaming, pally. I’d better do the talking.”

          A man twice the size of both detectives glanced down at them. “Got an appointment?”

          Clyde flashed his badge. Dick stepped up front. “We need to ask Audrey about a missing girl we heard was here.”

          “Audrey? Madame Larue, you mean.”

          Dick slicked his greasy bangs. “We go way back.”

          They heard a raspy yet gentle voice through a speaker, “Officer Dick Binghymer? Long time.”

“Detective now.”

“Let them in, Hector.”

          The doorman stepped aside. Mahogany stairwells spiraled around the walls. Both led to the center of the second floor where there were red rooms galore. The men were led up to meet Madame.

          “I take it there’s tricks in all them bedrooms with a bunch of cheap bats.” Clyde tightened his tie.

          “Bats?” Audrey squinted her fiery auburn eyes. Her vermilion dress glistened when she rose from her seat. “We have demitasses here. They are all syphilis-free and happy. That’s how I keep the lights on. I pay the bills with happiness.”

          A man moaned loudly from one of the rooms.

“See?”

          “We only care about one of your bats. Matilda Blunt. You know? The minor you got working for ya.” Clyde stared Audrey down.

          Madame shook her head at her doorman, approaching. “No need, Hector. Back. Little Miss Maddie happens to be eighteen. I’d never hire a minor. She’s here of her own volition. The girl did live under my protection while she was seventeen.”

          “Lies!” Clyde gripped her arm. “Tell us which room she’s in. Her daddy needs her.”

          “I’ll prove her age.” Audrey yanked her arm away and pulled Matilda’s identification out of a drawer from her desk. “Here you go.”

          Dick confirmed what Madame said. “Well, if she’s doing this willingly, and is legal, there’s nothing we can do. Sorry to have disturbed you, Audrey.”

Clyde grabbed her thin elbows and shook her. “Tell me where Matilda Blunt is, whore! I’ll search every room if I have to.”

          Hector rushed, then froze when Dick grabbed Clyde and spun him around.

Clyde punched Dick in the eye and went for his gun.

Dick chopped the pistol from Clyde’s hand, which fell near Madame. He grabbed his firearm.

Clyde sprinted forward.

Dick shot his partner dead. “Clyde! What have I done? Mr. Blunt’s gonna kill me.” He bent to his knees and covered his welling eyes.

Audrey lifted Clyde’s revolver and pulled the trigger.

Dick took a slug to the back, and fell to his stomach.

“We can’t have a bunch of unwelcomed fuzz coming and going. Return their bodies to that vile child molester, Mr. Blunt, as a warning.” She held her wounded wrist.

Hector nodded.

Dick reached up for Madame. “Audrey, I saved your life. How could you?”

by BAM

“A long time ago.”

 “Like the 1980s?”

 “What? The ’80s weren’t a long time ago.”

“Ya-huh.”

“Geez. A long time ago this local in Nagano dressed as Santa Claus. His katana sliced through a head.”

“Oh, no. I’m scared.”

“Of a pumpkin.”

“Hmm. Uh-huh. And then?”

“He cut through intestines.”

“Yuck.”

“Meaning naughty children’s present boxes.”

“Tsk. I see.”

“They called him, ‘Samurai Santa.’ ”

“Papa, Japan hasn’t been doing Christmas long. I don’t believe a word. Tell me a different story.”

“You want Samurai Santa to destroy your presents?”

“No. Please tell me his story.”

“His name wasn’t always Samurai Santa.”

“You don’t say?”

“Smart aleck.”

“Whatever. Go on.”

“His name was Purettsu Kurisu. His day job: fireman. Kurisu san was trapped in a blaze caused by bad children. He died a violent death when an inflamed bookshelf crashed on his skull.”

“Would Mommy be okay with you telling me this story, Dad?”

“Semantics. Ever since, his spirit would appear. All of the bad children in Nagano found destroyed presents on Christmas Day. His blade was so thin you wouldn’t see the steel until your new bike was diced into pieces.”

“Daddy. Did you say I got a new bike?”

“Shh. No. Lie down and close your eyes while I finish the story. Legend tells he waits until Santa Claus makes his rounds, then Samurai Claus . . .”

“I thought you said his name was Samurai Santa.”

 “Eh-hem, Samurai Santa does his business before everyone wakes up. He’s a fast ghost. No one sees him. Bad children face his wrath when he mutilates body upon body of presents. One time, a child found the remains of his box below the Christmas tree. He didn’t do his chores.”

“What’d he find?”

“Red liquid and a massacred gift.”

 “I’m screaming for Mommy in five, four—”

“No. No, wait. They were tomatoes from his grandmother.”

“Phew. What about good kids?”

“The ones who do their homework, go to bed after their first bedtime story, and study hard to make perfect grades?”

“Yep. What do we get?”

“He blesses good children with one more year of luck.”

“Luck?”

“Did I hear an echo?”

“You mean not a thing?”

“When I was a child, a blessed year of luck was a huge deal.”

“This isn’t the ’80s anymore, Dad.”

“Thanks for the reminder. Go to bed.”

“Okay, I love you—Samurai Santa.”

“Who?”

“C’mon, Dad. You’ve got that long katana sword in your study and you love anime. The character is you. This was a trick to get me to be good for another year.”

“A coincidence. We’re both avid sword enthusiasts. Besides, he’s a go-go-ghost. Now go-go-go to bed, or Samurai Santa will slice away your gifts.”

“Merry Christmas, Dad.”

“A ho, ho, ho, and a stab, stab, stab to you, Kiddo.”

Bertram Allan Mullin aka BAM's noir story, “Crimson,” can also be found in Yellow Mama. His works are with various journals, magazines, and anthologies such as HellBound Books’ Shopping List and MacKenzie Publications Two Eyes Open Anthology. Website: bamwrites.com