SILENCE By B.R. Stateham

Silence


I walked into the kitchen, shrugged off the sport jacket and draped it over a chair, then slipped out of the shoulder holster and dropped gun, holster, and webbing on the kitchen table before moving over to the fridge. Reaching inside I pulled out a Boston Laeger, flipped the cap off and sat down at the table. From underneath the sink I gripped a small gun-cleaning kit and tossed it onto the table top beside the holster before kicking a chair out from underneath the table and sitting down. Pulling out the 9 mm Kimber I slipped the clip out of the handle and ejected the single round in the firing chamber before laying the gun on the table.

And through all these little distractions I tried not to notice my hands were shaking.

Shaking violently.

Sipping some of the ice cold brew a little of the golden liquid slopped out of the bottle and splashed onto the table top. Setting the bottle down I placed my hands, palms down, onto the surface of the table and held them there. Held them there until they stopped shaking.

I live down in the warehouse district. Up in a long, narrow loft I converted into an apartment. I own the building. It’s a big red brick dump not too far away from the Little Brown River. Used to be a mechanic’s garage downstairs while the upstairs was used as a storage room. But I converted the loft into my living quarters and kept the garage downstairs for my toys. My car collect. I collect Muscle Cars. Have six of’em downstairs. And counting.

The nice thing about living in a loft down in the warehouse district is that there are no neighbors. There’s no lawns to cut every Sunday afternoon. No kids goofing off in their swing sets or trying to run down old people walking on the sidewalks while cruising on their bicycles. No gossiping house wives sitting and talking quietly in the kitchen smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee as they exchange the latest bad news about their ‘other’ neighbors. No boozy ex-jocks lounging round in man-caves watching pro football smoking cigars and reliving youths they really never had.

None of that.

When I come home the district is empty. There’s no truck traffic on the streets. No teenagers cruising around erratically. No mailman walking the sidewalks oblivious to the world around him. Just silence. Silence and emptiness. And there are times . . . like now . . . when I needed silence. When I needed space.

It all began twelve hours ago.

Frank and I were standing in front a Hispanic mother–a woman in her late forties, with a gaggles of small children clinging to her like she was the last life boat on a sinking ship–her hands covering her face and tears making her chubby cheeks glisten under the soft kitchen lights. She was beside herself in agony.

Frank’s my partner in Homicide down at Southside Precinct. We’ve been working together as partners since dirt was invented. First as patrol officers and then as detectives. He’s as big as a Himalayan mountain side with stringy, short, carrot colored hair and tiny little piggish eyes only a mother could love. But he’s married to an Italian that’s stunningly beautiful. And they have kids. Lots of kids.

Lots of . . . kids.

“They have my Jorge,” the woman said between her quiet sobbing. “They took him last night and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

“Who is Jorge,” Frank asked quietly. “And who are they?”

“He is my son. My oldest. Only fourteen, officers. Only fourteen. A nice boy. A good boy. But they wanted him. Wanted him to join their gang. Call themselves the Tenth Street Boys. They came and got him last night. Dragged him out of the house. Threatened me and my little ones. Said if I called the police they would come back and hurt all of us. But . . . but I fear for my Jorge.”

We knew the Tenth Street Boys. Boys no more. A pack of wolves now. Snarling and deadly and muscling in on just about street crime they could get their hands on. Heavy into drug trafficking. Extortion. Murder. If they wanted Jorge bad enough to come and drag him out of his house there was more to the story than what the mother was telling us. Glancing at Frank I said nothing. But we both knew.

“Can you find my Jorge and bring him back to me? Please. Please, can you do that for me?”

We heard the pain in her voice. The fear. The ragged fear of perhaps knowing her Jorge was already dead–but she didn’t want to admit it yet. Still held onto a sliver of hope. Looked at us with her big brown eyes filled with tears. Filled with a need for us to come to her son’s rescue. So we told her we would find her Jorge. We would bring him back to her. Bring him back if at all possible.

I knew better. I knew from long experience working the streets you should never make promises. Promises you can’t keep. I knew. Yet I heard myself saying these words of hope just before we turned and walked out of the house. But outside and waiting for us on the bottom step of the woman’s porch stood the blue uniformed figure of Charles Flattery. A long, lanky Irishman and street smart cop. The look on his mug told me he wasn’t here to give us good news.

“Over on the next block, Turn. Three members of a family found in their bedrooms. Dead. Shotgun blasts to their faces as the slept. Should be four bodies. Found only three.”

“Who’s missing?” Frank asked.

“Fifteen year old girl. She used to be the girlfriend for the leader of the Tenth Street Boys. But word has it she told him to fuck off about a week ago. Apparently the new guy doesn’t take bad news too well.”

“New guy? There’s been a change?” I asked.

“Yep. Found Huey Johnson in an alley off Baxter with his throat cut and a bullet in his forehead. Rumor is the new guy didn't like Huey dissing him in front of the gang members. Decided there had to be a change in the leadership.”

Jesus. Huey Johnson was one crazy sonofabitch. And mean. If someone took out Huey he had to be certifiable psychopath.

“Who’s the new guy?” I asked.

For an answer Flattery glanced at the house and nodded his head in that direction before turning around and walking back to his black-and-white. Turning, I looked at Frank. All the big man could do was shake his head and shrug.

It went down like this:

The Tenth Street Boys owned a garage on the corner of Toledo and Benjamin Streets. The front part of the building was the garage. And like any garage it was littered with junk heaps waiting to be fixed and big open bay doors with cars and trucks up on lifts and people milling about inside. But the back of the building was the hang out for the gang members. Back there maybe ten or fifteen members could be found at any one time. Armed and dangerous. Packing enough fire power to take on a company of marines. It would be suicide for a cop to walk in there alone without backup–lots of backup–and check the place out.

So we called for backup and then drove over to the garage, just the two of us, to check out the place. Climbing out of the car about six of the members came strolling out of the garage. And in the middle of the pack was the new gang leader with a big grin on his young face. Beside him was a girl. A girl much younger than he was. A girl with bruises on her face and terror in her eyes.

“What the hell are cops doing down here in my neighborhood?”

“Came down to take the girl, scooter.” Frank said, nodding toward the girl as we walked around to stand in front of the Mustang we were driving. “And to take you in as well. Seems like you’ve been a bad boy lately. Have some questions to ask you downtown. And then we need to take you home. Get you out of this bad influence.”

“Take me downtown? For what? I haven’t done anything. Get the fuck out of here before you two get hurt.”

“Sorry, scooter. But we’re here for the girl. And for you,” I said, smiling and turning to stare into the face of a particularly large teenage male who carried himself like some kind of wannabe thug. “So how do you want to play it, Jorge. You’re call.”

Behind us came the rumble of a big diesel engine. Turning onto the street leading down to the garage appeared the blocky form of an armored truck with a bumper made of steel plate and about as wide as an aircraft carrier riding on its front.

“I’m not going anywhere! And I’d like to see . . . .”

“Shut up,” Frank grunted, looking at the small kid named Jorge and not looking happy. “Tell your men to look at their chests.”

“What?” the kid asked, blinking in confusion and starting to say something, but glancing at his men and suddenly growing very pale.

Plastered dead center on the chest of the six goons standing around Jorge and the girl were bright red laser dots–laser range finders from six snipers hidden from view. But close enough to drill each of the six with a 7.56 mm bullet with deadly accuracy.

“Make a wrong move and lot’s of people are going to be hurt,” I said, looking over at the fourteen year old killer and straight into his eyes. “And believe when I tell you you will be the first to go down.”

“You wouldn’t kill a kid,” Jorge grinned, dropping his arm from the shoulder of the girl beside him.

“Think so?”

For several seconds I could see it in his eyes. For several seconds his dark brown eyes stared at me, blinked a couple of times, and then glanced over at Frank. Both Frank and I were standing with are feet slightly apart, our hands down by our sides. On either side of the kid his six goons looked scared shitless as they stared first at the red dots painted on their chest and then up and out toward where the dots were coming from.

But Jorge wasn’t scared. He was grinning. Grinning, blinking his brown eyes, and thinking about doing something crazy. I could see he was going to do it. Going to test me.

He shoved the girl toward Frank violently as he dived behind one of his goons, a hand reaching up to yank a .357 out of the goon’s blue jeans. The kid was fast. Very fast. But not quite fast enough. As he dived toward the ground, raising the Smith & Wesson up at the same time, my lift foot kicked the gun out of the kid’s hand. A hand reached out, grabbed Jorge by the collar, and yanked him up to an upright position where it met the boney knuckles of my other hand as it smashed into the kid’s face. The kid’s eyes rolled up into his head but I didn’t let him go. Twisting him around I pulled both of his hands behind his back and slapped cuffs on him before he shook the cobwebs out of his skull.

We arrested them all. Took their guns. Their dope. Their stolen goods. Took the terrified statement of the girl who had seen her family slaughtered. Booked them all for Murder One downtown. And after the paperwork was done I went home. Went to my loft. Went to drink a beer and clean my gun. And found my hands shaking. Shaking violently. Shaking at the thought of the carnage that might have happened.

Went home to sit alone and think about coming oh-so-close in killing a kid with my own hands.

I heard the collective thuds of several people climbing the wooden stairs leading up from the garage floor to the loft. I recognized the sounds. Frank. Frank and his entire family. Without knocking the Morales clan came striding into the kitchen with grins on their faces and plates of food in their hands.

“Thought we’d drop by and sit down and have supper with you,” Frank grunted as he came over and laid a big hand on my shoulders.

“That sounds great, buddy. But right now I’d just like to be alone for awhile. “

”You big dope,” Frank said, shaking his head but speaking surprisingly gentle to me. “When you gonna learn sitting in this dump alone isn't good for you? Especially so when you know you have family waiting for you. Besides, the little one has a present for you.”

I turned and looked at little Bianca. Bianca Morales. Age six and the spitting image of her beautiful mother. She came walking up to me dressed in a dainty little blue dress, holding in her hands a big yellow envelope. She stood directly in front of me where I was sitting and looked up at me with her beautiful blue eyes and smiled.

“I made this for you, Uncle Turn. With my own hands.”

It was a piece of paper with stick figures drawn in crayons on it. One stick figure was labeled ‘Uncle Turn’ on it. Above it was a big red heart drawn in a child’s jagged script.

“Here, take it Uncle Turn.”

A soft voice. A quiet child’s voice. A tender voice. I dunno . . . for some reason I found myself choking up and my vision blurring. It was hard to breath. Wiping moisture from my eyes I reached down and took the card from her tiny little hands and then picked her up and held her in my arms.

And within me, like a violent thunderstorm suddenly erupting, my soul wept.

BIO:

B.R. Stateham is sixty-one years old yet, if appearance is a factor in determining age, he looks like he must be over two hundred. Still, he has a heart of a kid and writes noir. His homicide detectives, Turner Hahn and Frank Morales, can be found in their first adventure, Murderous Passions. The second book in the series, ATaste of Old Revenge, is still seeking a publisher.

A SOILED AFTERNOON By Sandra Seamans

A SOILED AFTERNOON



Igby Marsh scuffed his sneakers through the powdery dirt, creating clouds of dust as he walked an ever widening loop around the yard. His sister, Lisa, was napping in the shade of the big oak that leaned up against their front porch and he’d been charged with watching her. Well, wasn’t that just a boring waste of a summer afternoon?

Right this minute, he could be swinging out over the water on the rope at Morgan’s Pond with his buddies, but no, Ma needed him to keep watch of Lisa while she ran errands. He glanced at his sister. Odds were, she’d probably be asleep for another hour, plenty enough time to sneak on down through the pasture for a quick dip in the creek.

A few minutes later, Igby was squatting down behind a fall of rocks above the creek trying to get a better look at the couple paddling around in his favorite swimming hole. He had a pretty good suspicion that it might be their next door neighbor, Beau Landry.

Beau had spent many an evening on their porch bragging about the number of girls he’d sweet talked into skinny-dipping with him. After one of his visits, Igby would fall asleep dreaming of the day he’d be grown up enough to talk a girl out of her clothes. Though he wasn’t quite sure what he’d do with her once he got her naked. Still, it was nice to imagine.

Tiny shrieks of laughter and the sound of splashing pulled Igby out of his daydreams. He caught a glimpse of twisting bodies pushing and rolling through the water, almost drowning each other. Holy heck, they were wrestling. Funny, he’d never thought grownups could whoop it up like a couple of kids. Igby belly crawled further down towards the creek trying to get a better look. If Ma found out what he was doing, she’d tan his hide good, but Igby was more than willing to take the risk. After all, he was just a bit shy of twelve, practically a man. And down there in the creek was a real live woman who was most probably naked as a new born. Yep, Igby was more than ready to find out what all the fuss was about.

His breath caught in his throat when the woman stood up and waded out of the water, her red hair gleaming in the sun, water dripping down her freckled back and sliding over her rounded backside. Over the sudden thudding of his heart, he vaguely heard Beau speak her name. Igby’s eyes widened when she turned. The sound of her voice dousing his every fantasy with the force of a fire hose.

“I’ve got to get back to the house,” she said. “My husband will be expecting supper on the table when he gets home. And knowing Igby, he’s probably found all sorts of trouble to get himself into and forgotten all about watching his sister.”

Igby rubbed his fists into his eyeballs, wishing for a bar of soap to wash the image of his naked mother from his brain. Stealing another look, in the hopes that his eyes had betrayed him, he saw his father step out of the stand of pines on the other side of the creek. Daddy had a brace of rabbits slung over one shoulder and the shotgun resting on the other. He caught sight of Igby and nodded him off toward home. Igby didn’t hesitate, he tore out, his feet carrying him lickity-split back the way he’d come.

Lisa was still napping under the oak tree, her pink blankie crumpled under her freckled cheek and a pudgy thumb jammed in her mouth. Igby touched one of her red curls gently with his finger, tears tracking through the dirt on his face. He swiped at the tears with his the back of his hand, then gently shook Lisa awake.

“C’mon, brat, it’s time to go in,” he said.

He made her play in the corner while he set the table for supper. He poured them some milk, cut slices from the fresh loaves of bread their mother had baked that morning and slathered them butter and jam. Lisa chattered away at him while they ate, but Igby’s ears were on the listen for his father.

When the clock chimed eight, he got Lisa ready for bed, made her say her prayers, then tucked her in. And still daddy wasn’t home. Igby turned out the lights and sat in the dark, waiting.

The slap of the screen door woke him. Igby watched his father walk across to the kitchen cupboards. He pulled out a bowl and tossed the skinned rabbits in, then set it the fridge. He walked over to the sink and held his hands under the faucet scrubbing the dried blood and dirt off his hands.

Igby sat quietly while his father poured himself a glass of milk and tossed some left over venison steaks on thick slabs of bread. Over the top of his sandwich he caught sight of Igby.

“This ain’t something we’ve got to talk about, is it, boy?”

“No, sir.”

“Good, then get yourself upstairs, it’s past your bedtime.”

END

Bio:
Sandra is a short writer. You'll find her stories scattered about the Internet in zines like Beat to a Pulp, Spinetingler, and A Twist of Noir. She blogs about short stories and writing at http://sandraseamans.blogspot.com/

NIGHT GAMES By Sean Patrick Reardon

Night Games

The display on the answering machine indicated one new message. Evan stabbed the stop button with his finger as soon the voice identified itself.

“I know, I know. I’ll be there."

Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Should never have got involved.

He grabbed the remote off the coffee table, pointed it at the CD player, and Incubus got into “Stellar”. The volume low, so it wouldn't disturb the neighbors in the adjacent apartments.

The curtains open, he looked across the darkness at a third floor apartment seventy-five yards across the way. She was walking around dressed in a silky half kimono, fluffing her mane of blonde hair, and getting ready to start the nightly game play.

Right on schedule.

Evan had been behind Crystal in line at Starbucks three weeks ago. She had already ordered, but when the Barista asked for the money, she realized the ATM card was out in the car. Evan came to the rescue, paid her tab, and they ended up getting friendly. She turned him on to voyeurism. Tonight would make it seven nights in a row.

Crystal always went first, Evan returning the favor when she finished.

He put a chair up close to the window, pulled the curtains closed, until they were a foot apart from each other. He grabbed the Nikon 10x42 binoculars off the bookcase, turned off the lights, and sat down. The time on the cable box changed to ten o'clock.

Game on.

Evan sighted her, made some quick adjustments on the focus knob, and watched.

“Come to papa.”

Just as the kimono dropped to the floor, Incubus started into “Wish You Were Here”.

The lights went dark in her apartment.

“What the-” Evan leaned forward, gently adjusting the fine tune knob, the Nikon’s almost touching the glass as he tried to find out what happened.

His head flinched. The vision in his left eye went dark..."

***

Kenny Sullivan banged on the door a few times, identifying himself as police officer, but no one answered.

“What do you think?” He looked at his partner Rick Sherman.

“Well, his car’s here, but he ain’t. Let’s go in.”

Sully turned around, looked at the building super standing behind them.

“You heard him, open it.”

The super unlocked the door, started to go inside, but Sherm grabbed his shoulder, holding him back. “Thanks, we’ll lock it up when we’re done.”

Sully closed the door and they stood in the kitchen, trying to determine which room the music was coming from.

“He must be sleeping, or passed out somewhere in here.” Sully sniffed the air, recognized the familiar stench.

Sherm's face soured when his nostrils got their share.

They pulled their guns. Sully gave Sherm the shush signal with his finger across his lips.

“Hey, anybody home? Mister Cosgrove…NYPD…hello.” Sherm moved slowly toward the music, Sully following couple a feet behind him.

“God…damn.” Sherm stopped, looked back at Sully.

“Holy shit.” Sully moved closer. “No wonder he didn’t testify this morning.”

They looked down at Evan's body on the floor, pants around his ankles, feet resting on an overturned chair. Blood saturated the rug around his head. What used to be his left eyeball, now a hole covered in dark, crusted blood.

Sherm pulled a pen from his jacket, bent over, and used it to pick up the binoculars off the floor. He held them up in front of Sully's face. The left side tube was destroyed.

Sully pointed at the hole in the window. “Check it out. Definitely a professional hit. No doubt about it.”

"You bet your ass it was." Sherm looked down at Evan. "Poor bastard, just trying to do the right thing. And this is what he gets."

"Fondini's nephew is going to walk now without this guy's testimony.” Sully shook his head. “It's a shame. Just what we need, another fuckin' pervert back on the streets."

Sherm cracked a half smile, pointed his shoe at Evan’s head. “And maybe another one off the streets."

Bio:
Sean Patrick Reardon is the author of the crime thriller novel "Mindjacker". He's blogging at: http://seanpatrickreardon.blogspot.com/

REALITY By Nick Boldock

Reality

The police had arrived outside. Loads of them, all the way up and down the street, some of them with futuristic looking guns and those black helmets that make them look like Nazi stormtroopers, crouched down behind hedges and the posh four-by-fours in the neighbouring driveways.

“Please,” said Steven Powell, tied to the chair on the other side of the room, “Please stop this.”

The police weren’t the only ones with guns. I had one too. It was old, seventy years old to be precise, but it had been well looked after over the years, regularly cleaned, and it still worked as well as it had in the 1940s when my grandfather had put it to good use in the Second World War. He’d done his bit to fight the Germans. He’d been a hero, yet nobody knew his name, what he looked like, what sacrifice he’d made. He gave his life for his country and still nobody knew who he was.

But they’d know who I was.

“Now... sign the fucking contract,” I said to Powell, pushing the barrel of the gun hard against the back of his head.

“Brian, I... there’s no point... this isn’t a proper contract, I’ve told you. Please... stop this while you can...”

I stepped to the side and smashed the butt of the gun into Powell’s nose. He yelped in pain like a kicked dog and his head whipped back as blood erupted from his nostrils, running down over his mouth and chin. There was already blood matting his hair and staining the back of his shirt from where I’d hit him over the head after I’d first got into the house. Unfortunately, the bastard had already pressed his fancy alarm button and now here we were, with half the police in the Home Counties camped outside waiting for an opportunity to shoot me. But I could handle that. If anything, it was better with the police than without them.

The phone was ringing somewhere in the house. Police negotiator on the other end no doubt, or maybe just one of Powell’s high profile associates ringing to arrange another night out at some trendy wine bar or other. Either way I wasn’t going to answer. There was nothing to negotiate. I had it all planned and nothing else mattered.

“You’re going to sign this contract whether you like it or not. Because if you don’t... I’m going to shoot you in the kneecap. And if you still don’t want to sign it... I’ll shoot you in the other one too. And well... if that doesn’t work... then I’ll kill you.”

Powell’s nose was making bubbling noises as he struggled for breath, blood and snot still dribbling out of it. His face was a mess but it was going to get a lot worse if he didn’t sign the document on the desk in front of him.

“For God’s sake... what good is it now anyway?”

I smacked him in the face again with the gun, this time right on the cheek bone. A purple bruise sprang up almost immediately. Hefty things, these old handguns were. He cried out in pain again, whimpering, almost crying. In the background, the bloody phone was ringing again.

“Steven... did you hear me? You need to sign the contract.”

He actually was crying now. I pushed the muzzle of the gun against his cheek where I’d just hit him, moved it up and down his face, over his eyes, down and under his chin. I pushed his head back with the gun.

“Why are you doing this?” he said, his voice high-pitched through the tears. Not so fucking arrogant now, the smarmy bastard.

“You know why. You made me look a fool. You humiliated me. I could have been something, and you took it away from me, you took it away and you twisted it and you spat on it and you looked at me like I was shit on your shoe! You made me a laughing stock, Steven... but you’re not laughing now, are you?”

And he really had done all of those things. Steven Powell, the man himself, the big shot, had made me look a complete idiot. People pointed at me in the street and sniggered like I was nobody. Well, not anymore. Now I was going to be somebody. Big time.

“Brian, I didn’t...it wasn’t like that. You have to understand, I wasn’t trying to hurt you, you’ve got it wrong. Please, please let me go. Please.”

Begging. There it was, Steven Powell in his fancy designer house, with his fancy designer wallpaper and his fancy designer everything else, sitting in front of me and begging. I picked up the contract from the desk. I took the pen from my back pocket and put it in Powell’s hand. His arm was gaffer-taped to the chair so he couldn’t move much but he’d be able to scribble his signature on the paper if I held it up next to his hand. I leant over, my face right in front of his.

“SIGN THE FUCKING CONTRACT!”

He was sobbing now, full-on wracking sobs, and as I held up the paper he flexed his hand and scribbled on the paper. He had signed the contract.

“Thank you Steven. Thank you. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

I took out my mobile phone, crouched down next to Powell again, and held up the contract between us. Smiling a great big grin, I took a photo with the phone. Me, Powell, and my signed contract.

I stood up, took two paces back, levelled the gun, and shot Steven Powell in the face.

*

Daily Mirror, August 23rd, 2010
TV Star Powell Murdered By Former Contestant

Britain was in shock today at the news of the violent death of Pop Factor judge Steven Powell. Powell, who also produced the show, was allegedly shot dead by Brian Folan, a former contestant on the Pop Factor show. Folan had been one of the show’s infamous “failures” and was the subject of a harsh tirade from Powell live on air. Powell told the would-be singer “I’ve seen more singing talent in a farmyard” and told Folan to “give up this ridiculous fantasy before your loved ones disown you”. He also described Folan as “an embarrassment” and “a clown” in an outburst which even regular viewers of the show found shocking.

After his performance, Folan was shown on television in tears, being comforted backstage by a fellow contestant. He is thought to have travelled to the filming of the show alone.

Yesterday morning, Brian Folan, armed with a handgun, gained entry into Powell’s home before taking him hostage and forcing him to sign what Folan allegedly claims is a recording contract. A two-hour siege situation ensued, but after gunshots were heard coming from the house, armed police stormed the property.

Steven Powell was found dead at the scene, allegedly killed by a bullet to the head.

Brian Folan is in police custody and will appear in court to be charged with murder.


BIO:

Find out more about Nick Boldock here http://www.nickboldock.co.uk/

THE ALLEY By Robert John Miller

The Alley


After midnight and I'm in the Mexican fast food drive-thru ordering coffee, black, with a packet of salt. The drive-thru because years ago all the 24-hour diners shut down for the night, the salt to take the bitterness out of the day-old brew they're serving reheated. What bitterness the salt can't take out, the whiskey kills.

Earlier tonight I dropped by the office, found my partner hanging by his own belt. I would've joined him, but I couldn't find his note. He didn't leave one, so I knew he didn't do it. Executed, pretty-like, so no police investigation. We had discussed a lot of details over the years, and now the last words he didn't leave told me that this was no suicide, that his dying solace would be thoughts of me taking revenge.

It could've been anybody, but I knew who it was, maybe because I’m that good and maybe because she was that sloppy. People get lazy when they think they'll never get noticed, and that's one of their more endearing qualities. This one, she left her scent on his collar, and I was trailing it. I'm a bloodhound, and the bitch smelled like strawberries.

She worked at my next stop, Needle's, as a dancer. I was showing my face, signaling her friends that I knew. I didn't think she'd be in, but there she was. Dancing, like any other night. I guess a killer still has to eat. Or at least, I do. And her body was making me hungry.

"Sweetheart," I said. "You killed my partner." She didn't stop. "You killed my partner," I said. "I wish you hadn't done that."

She leveraged herself up the pole and I let her take me in closer, her legs gripping my neck, knowing that in public she was harmless, giving her a false sense of dominance. She pinned me into a chair and gave me a personal dance, pulling my gun, the one I keep unloaded, out of its holster, pushing the barrel into the underside of my chin. She whispered into my ear with a flick of her tongue on my lobe, "Now what would make me do a thing like that?"

That's when I looked around the club, realized the crowd was missing, was maybe never there. The coffee was weak, the whiskey was dulling me, my partner was dead. It hit me that he was never the target, she killed him to lure me here, to catch me off guard. But I'm never off guard, and when I am, I recover.

I threw her off me. She landed on her back, firing two clicks from the unloaded pistol. I pulled the revolver strapped to my calf, shot, didn't miss. Whoever else was there didn't miss either, but I still made it outside, long enough to leave this message. Don't send help, because I'm dangerous, and I don't want it.

This is it for me, in the same alley I was born and mostly lived.

***
Bio:

Robert John Miller's work has recently appeared in Camroc Press Review and AlienSkin Magazine. This is his first piece of crime fiction. You can read more at http://bobsoldout.com/work

SIGHT By Pixie J. King

Sight


A silence descended over the neighbourhood like an ominous veil, the moon covered by inky coloured clouds. I waited in the darkness, poised; hidden in the shadows surrounding the one bedroom flat, patiently waiting in the cold.

I took a deep breath and exhaled, the air coiling around me. I sipped my hot coffee, the liquid scorching my tongue and warmed my insides. Did I really want to do this?

Her light flickered on. She didn’t close the curtains.

I looked up.

Through the eye of my telescope I saw her nimble body as she moved around her room, unaware of my presence.

I smiled, felt my heart flutter.

Her well lit room made it easy for me to watch her disrobe – her hair was wet and her blue eyes were filled deep with lust. Her moist skin seemed to shimmer in her light like golden dust.

Her pale naked body pranced about, treating my eyes to a feast. I could smell those aromas; jasmine and orange flower. I could almost taste her sweet innocence. I needed to taste her.

I wiped perspiration from my brow, licked my lips as she danced in the middle of the room, nude. Wasn’t she aware that she was showing her perfectly rounded breasts to a hidden audience?

I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she frolicked around her room, her hips sending me into a trance, a sensual sway that sent shivers down my spine.

I felt my groin throb; my heart ached for her to be mine.

She moved towards the window, peering out into the darkened night. Her body was exposed; my breath became raspier as my eyes honed in on her breasts. I had to have her.

What was she trying to do to me? Maybe she was teasing me, trying to drive me wild. With every move she made, my cravings deepened. My eyes grazed over her body, from her toes all the way to her eyes; those deep blue eyes were mesmerising to look at. They made my heart melt.

But then she saw me.

Shit.

She looked directly at my window, a few houses up the hill. She wasn’t meant to know of my nightly fixation, my greatest pleasure.

I moved.

I looked through the sight of my M40A5 rifle that I had acquired from a friend who owed me a favour.

She had betrayed me, exposed me. She would tell the police. I couldn’t let her escape the grasp I had on her, I had to have her.

The touch of the metal soothed my conscience and calmed my soul. I felt the chilled wind strike my skin as I opened the window.

Adrenaline sent a bolt down my spine as I lined the crosshairs against her head, my finger poised over the trigger.

‘Come to Daddy,’ I whispered, and saw the red specks fly like fireworks. She jarred to the floor, dead. Her mother was gone. I killed her too.

I groaned softly as the tingling sensations pulsed through my body, the brooding desire grew deep inside my stomach. The thought of touching her moist skin in a night of passion made my heart race.

I took my keys and ran out my apartment door and onto the street. The mother had no idea I kept her key after the divorce settlement.

I could now collect my prize; the 16 year old was mine.

Bio:

Pixie is a student who is new to the writing world, and writes when she can, where she can. Her work is mainly flash fiction and poems with the occasional short story. She is now however embarking on the mammoth task of writing two completely different novels, and is finding it very daunting and time consuming.

Pixie’s work can be found at http://theworksofpixiejking.blogspot.com/

The darkness falls...

As I write this the sky outside is grey and the wind is up and already some of the leaves and flowers in my garden aren't as vibrant as they were a couple of weeks ago. It's a sight to herald in dark nights, crisp frosts and drifts of fallen leaves along roadsides. It makes me start to think of autumn and the long winter that follows. But I love this time of year because it hits some sort of creative switch in my brain and lets loose all the horrors that bright sunshine fails to conjure (though that's a rarety here in the eternal grey shroud that is northern England). And I'm guessing that it has a similar impact on you the readers and authors that inhabit this unhallowed space that is TKnC.

So here's the rub:

Get your creative juices flowing and come up with some themed stories for the upcoming dark nights. First up is Halloween. Give us your best crime, noir, horror or thriller stories based upon the idea of Halloween or even as a backdrop to the story. Recalling last year we had some top scary tales submitted around that time, so let's try and surpass them shall we?

Then us Brits have bonfire night to use for inspiration in early November, with our American friends celebrating Thanksgiving shortly afterwards. If you have any stories around those themes, think about sending them in a couple of weeks before hand.

December is Christmas month - wherever you hail from - so start thinking now about what you can do to thrill or chill us over the 'festive' season.

Submission guidelines are in the tab above.

Happy writing

Ye Olde(st) editor

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, HAWAIIAN STYLE By James C. Clar

The latest in the Higa and Kanahele series...

Happy Anniversary, Hawaiian Style!



From where HPD detectives Jake Higa and Ray Kanahele sat on padded folding chairs, the spacious lawn sloped in front of them until it met the ocean two hundred yards or so below. Out over the water and beyond the reach of the light generated by the tiki torches that had served to illuminate the once festive scene around them, the moon etched the breakers a phosphorescent silver and white as it played celestial tag with a patch of wispy clouds.

“This is some truly upscale real estate here, my friend,” Kanahele had remarked earlier as the two men drove past Fort Ruger and continued on toward the little park where Kahala Avenue met Diamond Head Road. Barely visible, the looming mass of Koko Head on the other side of Maunalua Bay receded beyond them. Had it still been daylight, both men would have looked instinctively over their shoulders for the distant outline of Molokai on the horizon a few degrees further to the south.

It was early September and most of the lawns they passed sported campaign signs.

“The mayor wants to be governor and every councilman and assemblyman in the in the county wants to be mayor,” Higa remarked offhandedly. “They’re like monkeys climbing trees, each one trying to get to the next highest branch. What do they do when they get to the top?”

“Throw shit on the rest of the troop,” Kanahele responded. “Just like monkeys do out on the savannah or in the jungle or wherever the hell it is monkeys live.”

Higa nodded as he guided the car to the right and up the makai flank of Diamond Head, Hawaii’s most iconic landmark. In a moment, he turned left onto a short driveway that led to an estate situated just above Black Point.

A wrought iron gate which was decorated with the images of palm trees, waves and leaping dolphins stood open. The grounds were already swarming with uniformed officers, scene-of-crime technicians and emergency personnel. There was nowhere to park so he simply stopped the car and left it with its ass-end sticking out into Diamond Head Road.

“This guy was my dentist,” Kanahele announced as the two men slammed their doors and regarded one another over the roof of their vehicle.

“Really?”

“No shit. Remember that root canal and crown I had done last February?”

“I do remember that, now that you mention it,” Higa had agreed with a wry smile. “The only reason is because you were moaning and groaning for days. Maile threatened to leave you unless you got it taken care of.”

“Yeah well, Maile’s always threatening to leave me. Besides, what really hurt was paying for it. The department’s plan only covered a third of the cost or something. It was still a bundle. It would have been cheaper to have the friggin’ tooth pulled. But that might have ruined my movie star looks.”

Unconsciously, the stocky detective rubbed his cheek in the vicinity of a molar on the upper left. “Anyhow, this is the guy who fixed me up.” Motioning with his beefy hands he indicated the almost palatial aspect of the home toward which they were walking. “At least the bruddah put my money to good use, huh?”

Now, an hour later, they sat opposite a silver haired woman in her early sixties. Like the home in which she lived, she could best be described as stately, well-tended.

Kanahele, for his part, had eyes only for the large, edible arrangements of tropical fruit that adorned the linen covered tables that dotted the lawn all around him. Some were sculpted to look like palm trees, others surfboards and even members of Hawaiian royalty. A fair number of the bananas and mangoes that made up the figure on his right were missing but, even so, its identity as King Kamehameha – feather cape and kāhili included – was unmistakable.

“So, Mrs. Brillande,” Higa began as he glanced quickly at his notebook. “This was a celebration in honor of your thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. Is that correct?”

Helen Brillande paused for a moment before answering. She seemed to be doing nothing so much as taking in the beautiful evening around her. The lingering smell of kiawe wood smoke mingled with the headier scents of plumeria, tiare and night-blooming cereus. Just discernible on the light breeze was the more acrid tang of iodine from the warm, primordial waters of the Pacific.

“Yes, that’s right detective.” Nearby, uniformed officers were taking statements from the guests and the catering staff. No one, of course, had been allowed to leave. “I chose a luau theme, as you can see,” the woman elaborated. “I checked with Robert of course but he was completely indifferent to the idea and left it entirely up to me.”

“’Indifferent’, how?” Higa pressed gently.

“Well, if you must know, our wedding anniversary was a matter of very little consequence to Robert.”

“Because he was so caught up in his work?” Kanahele suggested while running his tongue surreptitiously over his porcelain-capped molar.

Helen Brillande laughed. It was a cold, humorless laugh that, unaccountably, sent chills down the Hawaiian detective’s powerful frame.

“Good Lord, no.” Brillande produced a cigarette from somewhere and lit it with a silver lighter that looked like it cost more than Kanahele made in a week. “Our marriage was simply a matter of convenience to Robert, a means of climbing up the social pecking order when you get right down to it. And, of course, there was the money that my father left me some years ago. He was in the shipping business.”

At first, Higa was tempted to re-direct the line of questioning that his partner had initiated. Something, however, an instinct bred from years on the job, maybe, prompted him to plow ahead.

“But surely your husband made good money in his practice?” The slender Japanese-American’s eyes met Kanahele’s briefly. “I mean, I’ve been told that Dr. Brillande did quite well for himself. And, too, divorce was certainly an option. There’s very little by way of social stigma attached to that these days. Even in the, um, circles you and your husband travelled in.”

“You’re quite competent at what you do, aren’t you officer?” Helene Brillande asked rhetorically. “You come right to the point yet you do so with great tact, even diplomacy.” Mrs. Brillande stubbed out her cigarette.

“In any case, to answer your questions, let’s just say that my husband was a man of enormous appetites. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as ‘too much’ money.” Involuntarily, Kanahele let out a brief humph and gave his partner an “I told you so” look.

“As far as divorce is concerned, it was out of the question for both of us. To Robert, I was something that he earned; I might even say ‘won’ but that sounds egotistical. What I mean to say is that once my husband acquired something which he considered to be of value, no power on earth could take it away from him … even after he’d lost all use for it.”

“What about you, though?” Higa urged.

“I won’t presume to guess your age, detective, but I’m confident you’re not quite there yet. Soon enough, though, you’ll reach a point in your life when inertia takes over. There’s also the fact that, for better or worse, memory and association become ties that bind … to places, to things and even to people.”

The moon had passed behind the clouds and the tiki torches that were just beginning to sputter cast surreal shadows over the remnants of the traditional luau that had come to such an abrupt halt earlier. On the table to Helen Brillande’s left was a multi-tiered anniversary cake that, judging by the manner in which its shape had been morphed and transformed, had clearly succumbed to the heat and humidity of the evening.

Kanahele adjusted his considerable bulk, leaned forward, and spoke.

“Listen, Mrs. Brillande. I have to ask. Earlier, you said that your husband held onto things even after he, like, lost interest in them or something. Obviously, you were talking about your relationship with him, or his relationship with you. So, what I need to know is this. Were you implying that he was seeing someone else, that he was cheating on you?”

“I can see why you two make such a formidable team.” Helen Brillande lit another cigarette and blew smoke up into the soft, tropical night. Overhead the palms sang a dry, rustling chorus in rhythm with the wind. “It’s not ‘good cop-bad cop’, exactly, but it’s close. I’m an avid reader of mysteries, you see.”

“Anyhow, detectives, my husband was a hopeless philanderer. It was a game. It might not be too much of a stretch to suggest that he kept score somewhere. If anyone ever found his ‘little black book’, or ‘books’ more likely, it’d make for some interesting reading I’m sure. Since we’re speaking so frankly, let me just tell you that more than a few of his conquests bitterly resented the way they were treated afterwards.” Brillande chuckled mirthlessly again. “Imagine the wife of a cheating husband having sympathy for the ‘other women’!”

“Were any of those women in attendance here tonight?” Higa inquired.

“Of course they were. Everyone I knew or strongly suspected him of having a dalliance with was invited. That’s what gave me the idea for a luau in the first place.”

Higa tilted his notebook so that he could read it in the flickering torch light. Almost at the same time, it became clear to him that he and Ray had been missing something essential. He also now understood why Helen Brillande seemed so unfazed by the events of the evening. He looked up.

“Mrs. Brillande,” he spoke without emotion or inflection. “This is the second time you’ve mentioned the fact that having a luau was your idea. No one else was involved with the planning or preparations?”

“Absolutely not. I saw to everything myself. I must say, it all went just according to plan too.”

Higa and Kanahele exchanged glances. The lights had come on for Ray now as well. He stood quietly and caught the attention of two HPD uniforms who were finishing up nearby. He motioned for them to come closer.

“You know, detectives, it’s not all that easy to plan a luau in Hawaii. I mean, for heaven’s sake, you’d think it would be a very simple matter. It was especially difficult to find a caterer who’d allow me to prepare the main course myself. This firm agreed but they refused to give me a discount on their set price. Oh well. It was the best I could do.”

“There’s still something I’m not getting, Mrs. Brillande” Higa stated as he, too, stood and directed HPD’s finest to take up positions on both sides of Helen Brillande. “I mean, didn’t anyone wonder where your husband was all evening?”

“Not at all. My husband was noted for being ‘fashionably late’. Besides, everyone was having such a wonderful time, I don’t think they even noticed.”

“I’ll bet they noticed when it came time to eat,” Kanahele interjected unable to restrain himself.

“Of course they did, detective. That was the point after all, wasn’t it? Even so, I can’t understand it. When the time came to remove the banana leaves and uncover the imu, a number of the guests screamed. A few even fainted. As far as I’m concerned, Robert never looked so good! True, the apple in the mouth may have been a bit much. But, then, as I said, he was a man of enormous appetites.” Helen Brillande emitted her characteristic chuckle. “Some might even have gone so far as to call him a pig.”

***

“Who’s gonna work on my teeth now?” Kanahele asked as the two detectives drove down Diamond Head Road past Kuilei Cliffs and the lighthouse.

“Don’t sweat that, Ray. Plenty of good dentists in Honolulu. Besides, you’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

Kanahele glanced at his partner with incomprehension and concern. “What are you talkin’ about, Jake?”

The normally reserved Higa was determined, for once, to have the last word in a conversation with the loquacious Hawaiian.

“When Maile reads about this in the Star-Advertiser, you know she’ll want to have a luau for your next anniversary. It’s your tenth, right?”

“Our eighth.” Kanahele arched his eyebrows and smiled impishly. “Hey, that’s actually good news. Now I won’t have to worry about where to take her for dinner.”

The End

BIO:
James C. Clar's short fiction has been published in places like Flashshot, The Taj Mahal Review, Golden Visions Magazine, Apollo's Lyre, Word Catalyst Magazine, Everyday Fiction, Long Story, Short and Antipodean SF. Stories featuring HPD Detectives Jake Higa and Ray Kanahele have appeared previously here on Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers as well as on A Twist of Noir and Powder Burn Flash.

ARE YOU ROGER? by Harris Tobias

Are You Roger?

I hear them upstairs. Bands of costumed kids coming to the door for handouts.

“Trick or treat,” they yell in chorus and thrust out their bags for filling. Each kid dressed as something outlandish, something not real. In fact, the more unreal the better the people like it. I wonder what they’d think if they saw me. It makes me laugh to think how they’d react if they knew that I wasn’t wearing a costume. No, no costume, this is how I look. Like some special effects monster from a grade B movie. 

Halloween is the only night of the year I can go out and be with other kids without frightening them to death.

It’s getting dark. Soon mother will come down and unlock my cage and let me out. I can go outside and pretend I’m a normal kid instead of a horror movie freak. The joke in all this trick or treat nonsense is that I don’t even like candy. I still have the bag I collected last year. Oh well, you can’t expect them to hand out raw steaks now can you?

Well, the candy is beside the point. It’s being outside with real kids for a few precious hours. It’s all I have to look forward to. They always want to know where I got my costume and ask me to take off my mask. They wonder if they know me. I tell them my mother made my costume which I guess is more or less the truth. They'll say things like, “I remember you from last year.” or “Are you from around here? Are you Roger?” Sometimes I say no, sometimes yes. It all depends on how I feel.

I hear mother coming to unlock my cage. She keeps me locked up for my own protection. She says the state would take me away for medical testing if they knew about me. I wouldn’t want that to happen so I live in the basement. It’s not really so bad. I have a TV and books to read. Mom home-schools me. I have crayons and paints. I’m good at drawing. I’d like to be an artist.

Mother puts a cape around my shoulders. “To keep off the chill,” she says. The cape really completes my costume. I look like a werewolf trying to be a vampire. Well at least the fangs are real. I might look like a wolf but I’m a normal kid. At least that’s what Mom keeps telling me. I’m a normal kid that just happens to look like everyone’s idea of a Hollywood werewolf. It’s not my fault. I don’t thirst for blood or anything like that, although lately the idea doesn’t seem quite as yucky as it used to.

Mother gives me a pat on the rear and sees me to the door. “Have fun,” she calls after me and then adds, “Be careful.” She worries about me. I join a bunch of goblins, ghosts and comic book superheroes and I’m off on my one night of freedom.

The other kids are curious about me. Some of them ask what school I go to or what grade I’m in. I don’t answer. After a while they leave me alone and we go from door to door. Things are fun until we run into some big kids who are working our street. The big kids aren’t even wearing costumes. They push us aside and take our candy. I hold on to mine. This annoys one of the bullies and he calls his friends over. “Mr. Dog-Face here doesn’t want to share his loot,” he says to the others. Three big kids surround me and block my escape.

“I remember you from last year,” one of them says. “You wore that same stupid costume. What’s the matter, you can’t afford another costume?” Then they all start pushing me around. I drop my candy and run but they chase me into a vacant lot and one of them tackles me and knocks me to the ground. They’re all older and bigger than me. I’m scared but I’m angry too. I just want to be left alone, to be a normal kid for a couple of hours. But the bullies don’t let up.

“We want to see who you are,” one of them says. 

Two of them hold my arms while the biggest and fattest sits on my chest. He starts pulling at my face as if it was a mask. How I wish it was a mask but of course it isn’t. All he gets is a handful of fur for all his pulling. It hurts and I snap and growl. I bite his hand and he really gets mad. “Why you little freak. I’ll show you.” and he starts slapping me around and the two holding my arms join him in punching me. They hurt me. I taste blood but I don’t know whose. I’m thrashing and snapping with all my might but there are too many of them.

“Hold him down boys. I think we caught us a real werewolf. Hold him while I look for something to kill it with. Any of you know how to kill a werewolf?”

They try to remember what they know about werewolves. Whether it's wooden stakes or silver bullets. One of them is pretty sure it’s fire. By now I’m really frightened. I feel like crying but I don’t want to give them the satisfaction. I’m angry too. Angrier than I’ve ever been. What right do these kids have to torment me? I never did anything to them.

The ringleader is looking around for a weapon. The two holding me down are saying how they can’t let me grow up to kill innocent people. “You got to kill werewolves and vampires. It’s the law.”

The third bully comes back holding a big rock with both arms. I can see it’s heavy as he’s straining to lift it to his chest. I wish I was back in my cage. I want my mother to protect me. I look at the sky. The last thing I’ll ever see. The moon comes out from behind the clouds. It’s nearly full. It fills me with a funny feeling. I feel a surge of exaltation. I am suddenly very strong. I lift my voice in a glorious howl and the three bullies freeze, their bravado drains away. I have no trouble getting to my feet. Their weight is like so much paper to me now; it is their turn to be afraid. I look them in the eye and a deep growl rumbles in my throat. They turn to run but it is too late.

I don’t remember what happened next. I think I might have really hurt those kids. I don’t remember. When I got home, there was blood all over my face and hands. Mother washed off the blood. She kept asking me what happened but I didn’t know. She locked me in the basement. I can hear her crying upstairs. I’m afraid I did a bad thing to those kids. I’m afraid I might do it again. I’m afraid of what I might be. I can’t wait for next Halloween.

Bio

Harris Tobias was raised by robots disguised as New Yorkers. Despite an awkward childhood he learned to read and write. To date Mr. Tobias has published two detective novels, The Greer Agency and A Felony of Birds, to critical acclaim. In addition he has published short stories in Down in the Dirt Magazine, Literal Translations, Electric Flash and Ray Gun Revival. He currently lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia.

DEVIL IN HIS HEART by Nick Quantrill

Nick takes a break from novel writing with the...


Devil In His Heart


Danny counted the money. Nodded to the BMW driver.

‘Quick hand job?’ the driver said.

Danny had heard the joke too many times. Just nodded and took the money. He threw soapy water onto the car, chased it around with his sponge. Danny glanced at the driver. He was on his mobile. It was like Danny didn’t exist. He hated dealing with people who think their own lives are so busy they don’t have the time to wash their own cars. They’ve plenty of time to drive out to this miserable industrial estate to watch me do it for them, though, he thought. He tapped the driver’s window, got his attention, and told him to drive forward. They were done. Danny watched the BMW drive away. Hated the man, even though he didn’t know him. But a job’s a job in this town. Especially when the town is a dying seaside resort. Even Hull was too far away to get to every day. Not that there were any jobs to be had there, either.

‘What time do you call this, man?’

Danny looked and nodded. Sheldon. ‘Just about done for the day,’ he said to him. Danny checked the time on his phone. The phone he wasn’t supposed to have on him when he was working. It was nearly knocking off time. Just needed the Latvians, or whatever they were, to turn up.

Sheldon sat down on one of the deckchairs next to him, passed him the newspaper. ‘Seen this? Is it that mate of yours?’

Danny read the report. A body had been found in a cave to the north of the town. Police were on the scene. The body had been there a while. It made sense. It was an isolated spot. You weren’t going to stumble across it by accident.

‘Here we go,’ shouted Sheldon, pointing to the Latvians. ‘Watch out, Ant and Dec are here.’

Danny stood up and passed them the keys. ‘Don’t forget to lock up when you’re finished, lads.’ They nodded back. They never spoke a single word.

***

‘Coming down the arcade for a bit, then?’ Sheldon asked.

‘Why not,’ said Danny. They left the industrial estate behind and walked down the main road towards the sea front.

‘Keep you away from Keeley for a bit, won’t it? Let her clear the mess up, I reckon. It’s her kid after all.’

‘It was a decent party, though.’ Jo-Jo’s seventh birthday. Danny had loved it. It had been a great morning. Pass the parcel and all the other games he’s played when he was a kid. It was a shame he had to leave to go to work.

‘If watching a load of screaming kids running around the place is your bag, it was alright,’ Sheldon said. ‘Couldn’t wait to get out of there.’

‘It’s called growing up. It can’t always be about you.’

Sheldon laughed. ‘It’s always about me.’

‘Can’t believe Jo-Jo was dressed up like that, though.’ Danny said. False nails and make-up on. Seven years old. Who does that to a kid? ‘I nearly said something to her.’ If Jo-Jo was his, he’d have drawn the line. You’ve got to have standards. Not that Keeley would have listened to him.

***

Mid-October. The sea front was desolate. Only the hardcore were left in town. Even the residents had more sense and stayed indoors. Even the faded soap-stars had packed up and left the crumbling theatre now the summer season had finished, no doubt touting for panto work by now. Most of the shops were shut, mothballed until next year. Only a handful of arcades and fast food places stayed open to entertain the local kids. All that was left was middle-aged couples walking their dogs on the beach. And even the dogs looked bored.

Danny and Sheldon walked into ‘Big Fun Arcade’, Sheldon’s place of employment. Danny looked around. It was quiet. Groups of teenagers huddled around the machines, watching each other play, but always keeping an eye on what was going on around them. One of them eyeballed Danny. He turned away. Didn’t need the bother.

‘Don’t worry about them,’ Sheldon said. ‘They’re looking for me.’

Before Danny could reply, the arcade owner appeared and took Sheldon aside. Vince Taylor, or Violent Vince as he was known around the town. Danny watched as they spoke out of earshot. Sheldon nodded his head, agreeing with what was said. Once Violent Vince had left the arcade, Sheldon beckoned Danny over. Danny watched him get set up in the money changing booth. People would give you a pound coin, you pressed a button and it came out in silver of copper. Your choice. It wasn’t much of a job. But it was a job.

Sheldon smiled. ‘Thinks if he clicks his fingers, I’ll come running.’

‘He’s your boss.’

‘In his dreams he is.’

Darren knew you didn’t mess with Violent Vince. Not in this town. Everyone knew that. Even Sheldon knew that.

Sheldon raised his eyebrows, signalling to Danny that he should leave. Danny turned around. One of the teenagers had wondered across the room. Taking the hint, Danny stepped aside and watched as Sheldon took the money. A ten pound note. No money was handed back. But a small package was. What else was there to do in this town? The teenager shuffled off back to his gang.

Danny walked back to the booth. ‘I thought you’d stopped all that?’

Sheldon shrugged. ‘Need the money, man.’

‘Vince will go mental.’

‘He’s too busy making money elsewhere. He won’t care. Besides, I don’t sell to the tourists, do I? It’s only a couple of joints being sold to kids, isn’t it? Look, give us a fiver.’

‘Why?’

‘Just give us one.’

Danny rummaged around in his pocket. Took the note out. Last one until payday. Still three days away. Keeley was whinging this morning that there was nothing in the house. Like it was all his fault. He did his best. He’d taken the job at her Dad’s car wash. He was making the effort. Maybe less time and money spent dressing the kid up like a doll and more spent looking for a job herself and things might be different. He handed the fiver over to Sheldon.

Sheldon pressed some buttons, handed the coins back to Danny.

Danny counted them. Ten. He looked at Sheldon. Sheldon pointed to a fruit machine, right at the end of the arcade. ‘Have a go on that one. I’ve got a feeling it’s your lucky day.’

‘What makes you say that, then?’ Danny asked.

Sheldon just smiled. ‘Give it a go.’

Danny walked over to the machine. Sheldon left the booth and followed. Danny put the first pound coin in. It lit up. ‘Look,’ he said, laughing. ‘I was right. Who'd have thought it?’ He walked back to his booth, shouted ‘We’ll share the money. You need to get out of that car washing business, mate. Waste of time. Leave it to Ant and Dec. It’s for mugs. This is where the money is.’

***

Danny waited for the end of Sheldon’s shift. Spent some time just walking, the cold air from the sea slapping his face as he walked. He liked that. Cleared the head and no mistake. It was grim, but it was home. He’d used some of the fruit machine winnings to buy a burger. What Keeley didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. He sat outside of the arcade until Sheldon joined him.

‘How much did you make, then?’ Sheldon asked.

They started walking. Danny took the coins out his pocket. ‘Jackpot.’

Sheldon took half the coins out of his hand. ‘Told you, didn’t I. The leisure and tourism industry is the one to be in. Suits me right down to the ground.’

They turned down a small road, behind the arcade. A cut through back to the town. Danny stopped and let Sheldon move ahead. The transit van was in place, back doors wide open, engine running. Violent Vince stood at the side of the van. ‘I think we need a chat, Sheldon,’ he said. ‘Get in.’ Sheldon got in.

Danny nodded to Vince. A job’s a job in this town. You’ve got to do what you can to do to earn some extra. Especially when you’ve got a kid at home who’s seven going on seventeen. He zipped his coat up and shuddered. The caves were probably cold at this time of the year.


BIO:
Nick Quantrill is a crime writer from Hull. His debut novel, 'Broken Dreams', was published by Caffeine Nights, March 2010. For more information - www.hullcrimefiction.co.uk