MELTDOWN by Les Morris

TKnC welcomes Les with this tale about one man pushed too far…

MELTDOWN

The silver BMW crept slowly up and down the seemingly endless lines of cars.  The driver’s head swivelled like it was mounted on a screw thread as he searched for that elusive parking space.

Martin Nicholson had pulled into the car park fifteen minutes earlier and, so far, there was no sign of anyone driving off.  It was ten thirty, his meeting was at eleven.  He’d give it five more minutes and then look somewhere else.  The morning was bright and crisp and the sun was beginning to burn off the early morning spring mist.  He felt good and was looking forward to meeting the sales director for the first time, if only he could find a space.

A middle-aged woman appeared in the car park, this was his chance.  He drove round to where the woman was opening the door of a red hatchback and waited.  She certainly took her time but, eventually, she drove away and Martin claimed his prize.  He’d managed to find a parking space in only twenty minutes. He decided that today was going to be a good day, donned his jacket, picked up his briefcase and locked the car.

He was tall and thin with dark brown hair that was beginning to grey around the temples. His expensive looking suit, briefcase and mobile phone made him look every inch the successful businessman as he strode across the car park towards the office.  Reaching the pedestrian crossing in front of the office block’s main entrance he stopped and waited for the lights to change.  Looking up at the imposing structure, seemingly built entirely of glass, he thought back over the last two months.

He had been unemployed for eighteen months.  Both of his credit cards were up to their limit, he couldn’t even afford the minimum repayment each month.  The building society was about to repossess his house and his wife had been threatening to leave him if he didn't do something to sort the situation out soon.  That was when he saw the advert in the local newspaper.  A pensions and life assurance company were looking for salesmen to join their team.  The wage wasn't great but it was a lot more than his benefits.  He sent off his CV, attended two assessment days and, to his surprise, was taken on to start immediately.  Things were starting to look up.  His first few weeks were filled with paperwork, various courses and learning the ropes.  Now he was ready to meet the big boss.The green man lit up and he crossed to the other side of the busy road.  Entering the air-conditioned office building he looked around for reception.  A girl in her early twenties sat behind a chrome and plastic desk.  The clear perspex sign above her head said "Enquiries" in white etched letters.  He approached and waited for her to finish the phone call she’d taken as he entered the building.  As she replaced the handset he gave his most charming smile.  "My name's Martin Nicholson, I'm here to see Mr Peterson."

She returned his smile. "The lift behind you will take you to the tenth floor; Mr Peterson's office is straight in front of you."

"Thanks." 

He turned and headed for the lift she had pointed to.   

Entering the lift he pressed button ten and listened to the monotonous piped music for a short while until the doors opened and a disembodied voice announced, "Tenth floor."

The office Martin emerged into was light and airy.  There was lots of chrome and plastic with natural light flooding in from every angle.  Just in front of the lift was a desk similar to reception.  With a row of five seats along one side, it reminded him of a doctor’s waiting room.  Beyond the desk was a double, natural wooden door.  Mr Peterson's office he presumed.  He approached the woman sitting behind the desk and, once again, gave his most charming smile.  "Martin Nicholson, I'm here to see Mr Peterson."

"Take a seat Mr Nicholson and I'll let him know you're here."

He sat on one of the five seats and tried not to look too nervous.    As he was examining his fingernails for what seemed like the hundredth time, the wooden doors beyond the desk burst open and a man stormed out of the office and headed towards the lift.  After pressing the call button three or four times he impatiently turned towards the stairs. 

"Mr Peterson will see you now."

Nicholson jumped out of his seat.  He was nervous to start with and that certainly hadn't helped.  He wiped his clammy palms on his jacket, picked up his briefcase and headed for the doors.

"Come in."

The voice was loud, authorative.  He didn't knock.  He walked in.  The inside of the room was a complete contrast to the decor outside.  Lots of leather and dark wood panelling made it look like the library of a grand country house.  This was the office of a man who considered himself better than everyone else.

On one side of the room was a large aquarium stocked with all manner of brightly coloured tropical fish; the other was taken up by a bookshelf and drinks cabinet.  Opposite the door was a huge mahogany desk.  Sitting behind the desk, in a green leather swivel chair, was the company’s sales director.  Peterson had grey hair and a red face.  He was overweight with a red face and, by the looks of him, not too many years away from a heart attack.

"Have a seat, Martin."

"Thank you, Mr Peterson."  He put down his briefcase and sat on the edge of the smaller, red leather seat.  “I just want to say how much I’m enjoying my job.  I’ve been looking forward to meeting you since...”

Peterson cut in, "Look Martin, I won't insult you by beating about the bush.  I'm sure you'll appreciate it if I just come straight to the point."

Nicholson could feel his stomach churning.  He didn't like the sound of this.

"The company hasn’t had a very good year.  Profits are down, and in the current financial climate, our shareholders want to see costs cut."

He started to panic.  He could feel the sweat on his back and he wiped away a bead that was running down his face.    
"We've been told that we have to streamline our department and, as you've only been with us two months...."

He was starting to breathe heavily and his heart was pounding.

"...I'm afraid I'll have to let you go."

The words felt like steel talons ripping into his chest.  The air rushed from his lungs and he started to feel faint as his heart was squeezed by an invisible hand.  "I need this job."  His voice was quiet, faltering.

"We all need our jobs Martin.  I'm sure you'll find something else and, of course, if you need a reference..."

"No!"  The word exploded from him, punctuated by his fists slamming onto the desk.  His eyes were wide and his breath rasping, spittle beginning to froth at the corners of his mouth.  “I’ve seen the financial reports.  You got a bonus that was twice my salary, cut that back.”

"My bonus this year was a lot lower than last year.  We’ve all got to tighten our belts.”

Nicholson looked at him with utter contempt. “You have no idea.”

“I think you should leave now, Martin.  Try and get a grip of yourself.  Things aren't as bad as they seem."

Nicholson stood up, slowly turned and headed for the door.

"Martin, you've forgotten your briefcase."

"Keep it.”  He threw open the doors, walked through the outer office and pressed the call button for the lift.  It seemed an age before it arrived but he was determined not to look back.  The doors opened and he stepped in.  As the doors closed behind him he sank to his knees as tears of frustration and rage ran down his face.

With his job gone and the economy wrecked, his house would be repossessed, the credit card companies would be chasing him for payments and, worse of all, his wife would follow through on her threat to leave him and take their son with her.  His marriage was in trouble already but, he feared, this would be the last straw.

The lift doors opened on the ground floor and he slowly got to his feet.  A woman, about to enter the lift, backed off and stood aside as he headed for the exit.

Back out on the street he needed a drink.  Stopping only to buy a half bottle of vodka, he headed straight to the nearest pub.

"Double vodka."  Nicholson’s head was spinning as he sat on the barstool.

"You look like you've had some bed news."  The barman poured the drink and placed it on the bar.  "You want a mixer in that?"

Nicholson threw twenty pounds onto the bar before emptying his glass.  The clear liquid burned as it ran down his throat.  He removed his tie and unbuttoned his collar. "Same again, only this time top it up with tonic."

         "You’re in a bad way, mate, you should take it easy."  The barman placed the glass of vodka and tonic on the bar and took the twenty pound note.

Nicholson walked over to a table in the corner by the front window and sat down.  He placed his head in his hands and tried to think.

"You forgot your change, mate."

The barman put the change onto the table but Nicholson was in a world of his own.  What was he going to do?  Where was he going to find another job quickly enough to dig himself out of the hole he had fallen into? 

The car, he still had the keys to his company car.  He drained his glass and left the bar.

He arrived back at the car and opened the door.  Throwing the bottle he had bought onto the passenger seat, he climbed in and turned the engine over.  If he went home and acted as though nothing had happened then he could at least fool his wife for a couple of days.  Maybe sell the car and get some money to tide them over until he found another job. 

Peterson appeared at the door to the office and walked over to the car park.  He had a reserved slot, of course.  His brand new range rover glinted in the sun.  He threw his briefcase onto the back seat and climbed in.  As Peterson drove away, Nicholson decided to follow him.

Exiting the car park, he pulled in behind the Range Rover.  He followed as close as he dare as they drove through the city and out into the suburbs.  The houses became larger and more expensive the further they went.  The four-wheel drive slowed and pulled into the driveway of a particularly large and expensive looking detached house.  Nicholson stopped at the kerb and watched his former boss park next to an identical car, his and hers Range Rovers, very nice.

An attractive woman, in her late forties, and two teenage girls came out of the house to welcome Peterson home.  He had everything that Nicholson didn’t.  He had a large house, two nice cars, a loving family and, most of all, a job.  People like him didn’t understand what it was like living on next to no money.  What it felt like to be unable to pay bills or provide for your family.

He was staring, intently, at the family reunion when the woman looked over and pointed at him.  Peterson, recognising him, started walking down the driveway.

“Nicholson...What is it?  Nicholson!”

He was aware that he was revving the engine loudly as the man approached the car.  Peterson stopped suddenly, sensing a threat.  Nicholson released the clutch, the wheels spun and smoked as he sped away.

Driving towards the motorway, his head was full of bad thoughts of how wrong everything had gone.  He didn't see the lights change to red.  Driving straight across the junction, he clipped another car and almost ran down a young girl on a crossing.  He tried to brake but the damage had already been done.  Over the limit and in no state to be driving, he kept going.  He couldn't afford to be breathalysed now on top of everything else.

Hearing a siren in the distance he panicked, weaving through the traffic and accelerating.  Joining the motorway he couldn't see any flashing lights.  It wasn't far to his house, perhaps if his luck held out...

Then he spotted it, a police Volvo about two hundred yards behind him.  Keep calm, stick to the speed limit and they will just go past.  The car’s blue lights came on, maybe it wasn't him they wanted, keep calm, keep calm.  The Volvo pulled in behind him, there was no doubt now.  He floored the accelerator.  If he could put some traffic between them he could come off at the next exit and lay low for a few hours, report the car stolen or deny moving it from the car park.

He was getting desperate now; he knew he didn't stand a chance of losing the police.  No job and now he was going to lose his licence at least, probably end up in prison.  His world was collapsing around him.

Reaching over to the passenger seat he picked up the bottle of vodka, opened it and took a long drink.  There was only one thing he could do.

He pushed the car to 110mph but the police were still gaining on him, he didn't have long.  The junction was just ahead.  He veered sharply left and onto the slip road.  He wasn’t worried about the other traffic and sped straight across the roundabout, through a red light without stopping and caused a pile up as three cars slammed on their brakes to avoid him.

With the sound of horns blaring behind him Nicholson zigzagged his way through the busy traffic.  Blue lights flashing, the police car’s siren wailed but Nicholson wasn’t stopping now.  He went straight through another red light, then another, across a mini roundabout and turned left into an industrial estate.  He sideswiped a parked car as he took the sharp bend at forty.  Two more turns and, with the police car still behind him, he turned into the dead end at the far side of the estate, the side that bordered the dual carriageway.  His only option now was to ditch the car and run.

The police car screeched to a halt as Nicholson slammed into the chain link fence at the end of the road.  Shaken and bleeding from a gash on his forehead he kicked open the door of the BMW.  The first policeman from the patrol car grabbed him but Nicholson was too fast.  Driving the point of his elbow backwards into the man’s face he dropped him to the floor with blood streaming from his broken nose.

Climbing onto the bonnet of the car, he vaulted the fence as the second policeman tried to grab his legs.  He landed heavily and scrambled up the grass bank.  On the other side of the dual carriageway was a housing estate, a rabbit warren of back yards, gardens and alleyways for him to hide in.  He could rest for a while and think. 

He jumped over the crash barrier and stumbled onto the road.  The driver of the truck would later tell police that he did his best to brake and swerve but it was too late.  Any luck that Nicholson had left had run out.  He had nowhere to go.

At Martin Nicholson’s funeral he was described as a hard working and loving family man.  The police report said that he had suffered some kind of breakdown and acted totally out of character.  His death was a tragic accident. 

His former employers sent a wreath but there was nothing from Peterson.  He didn’t attend or even send a card.  After all, he wasn’t to blame; everyone was suffering because of the financial crisis. Weren’t they?

BIO:

It was while Les Morris was at school in Cumbria that, inspired and encouraged by his English teacher, he developed a lifelong love of books and made his first attempts to create his own stories. At 16 he left school and spent most of the 80s and 90s in the Royal Navy where reading and writing helped pass the long, often boring, days and nights at sea. Since then, he has worked in many industries but always continued to write when time allowed. More recently he started to concentrate on writing thrillers and had a short story, "Blood on Their Hands", published in Matt Hilton's anthology "ACTION: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 1". He is currently working on completing a trilogy of stories involving the same character. He lives in Cumbria with his wife and children. http://lesmorris.blogspot.co.uk/

STRANGERS by Joseph Clifford

Joe Clifford opens our doors this August with a story that thrills and chills. Do join us in welcoming Joe back to TK'n'C with...

STRANGERS

Will wasn’t the kind of guy who usually stopped for strangers.  Especially not strangers on desolate, detour roads in the middle of a foreign country after midnight.  But when he passed the flashing hazards in a culvert, something inside made him slow and break from his routine.  This was a test.

He’d been on his way back to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris after three months backpacking, a post graduation gift from his father.  Although the old man would’ve gladly footed the bill for five-star accommodations, Will opted for bunking in hostels and riding third class rail instead, mixing with townsfolk and locals to cultivate a more authentic experience.  Mostly this entailed getting drunk and feeling up girls who spoke little English.  Not that it made any difference what language they spoke.  Everyone in Europe was so goddamn friendly.  Like Devlin, the guy he met on the ferry to Corfu’s Pink Palace, the final stop on his journey.  Really cool dude from…actually, Will couldn’t recall.  He’d been pretty wasted.

Originally majoring in Women’s Studies only as a way to meet girls (and piss off the old man who wanted him in pre-law), Will had been pleasantly surprised to discover the terrific conversation starters and cocktail fodder his course work yielded. 

He’d been holding council with a pack of fellow travelers on the boat, passing a flask and reciting stats about how most acts of violence were actually perpetuated by people you know, as opposed to don’t know, evidence one needn’t have stranger anxiety, when his diatribe caught the attention of the dark, brooding Devlin. 

“Quite a speech,” Devlin said as the ferry docked.  

“I like meeting new people,” said Will.  “Back home they aren’t always so receptive.  Wish I’d studied here.  Folks are a lot nicer.”

“Where’d you get your degree?”

“Columbia.”

Devlin chuckled.  “I was just reading the New York Times.  Unsolved murders, serial killers, women vivisected and videotaped while still alive.”  He swept the greasy black hair from his forehead.  “Perhaps you are picking the wrong city to use an example.” 

“It’s not just New York,” said Will.  “I grew up in Bucketville, Tennessee. Population 1,280.  You know what they say about the South being friendly?  Bullshit.  It’s no safer.  When I was boy, there was a sicko going around strangling little girls.  And we’re talking white-picket, God-fearing, everyone-knows-his-neighbor USA.”

“All the more reason to be cautious,” Devlin said.

 “No, that’s what I’m telling you.  It’s because Americans are so scared of the other that they create this climate of paranoia and hostility.”

“Self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Exactly,” Will said.  “Everyone is so suspicious of the unknown, the pent-up rage and resentment eventually makes it impossible to connect in a way other than antagonistic.”

The two men stepped off the dock as the fat orange sun sank into the Mediterranean.  Bouncing behinds, shrink-wrapped in teeny shorts and bikini bottoms, raced along the dusty trail to the Pink Palace.

“Interesting theory,” Devlin said.  “But there are bad people everywhere.”  He gestured over hill and harbor.  “Even here.  You can’t be too trusting.” 

“Trusting isn’t the same as gullible.”

Devlin’s face washed grave.  “Oh, shit,” he said, patting down his pockets.  “You have €40?  I’ll give it right back to you.”

Without hesitation, Will opened his fanny pack, passing along two bills.

Devlin snatched the money, waving it high.  “See?  You just handed over money to a stranger!”

“But you’re not a stranger anymore!” Will said, flinging an arm around him. “We’re friends!”   

                                                                       

*

           

It had been a crazy drug- and alcohol-fueled three days and nights at the Palace. Palladium pumping electronica, sweaty, promiscuous girls with pierced tongues popping pills, ready to party.  Shots of ouzo and jelly wrestling, everyone half naked come dawn. Will would never forget it.  At least the parts he could still remember.  The only negative, sometime during the festivities, he’d lost track of Devlin.  Didn’t even know the guy’s last name to look him up on Facebook later.

Leaving Corfu, Will felt like the dragging hindquarters of a dog, and by the time he made Rome he couldn’t take another minute on crowded, smelly public transportation.  He was going to switch his departing flight to the da Vinci Airport but then decided to rent a car instead and drive to France.  He wasn’t exactly itching to get back home.  Once there, he’d start work in the old man’s firm.  More and more he suspected law wasn’t for him. 

Zipping along the Autostrada in a Mercedes E 200, Will made good time to Genoa, but crossing the Apennines at night, a landslide forced a detour, and Will soon found himself on a winding country road to the nexus of nowhere, which is when he encountered the stranded motorist, forcing Will to face an ugly truth.  For all his big talk, Will rarely took a chance on a stranger.  A friendly hello or bar banter, sure, but how often did he make himself truly vulnerable?  It was time to put his money where his mouth was.

A little after two a.m., he hadn’t seen another car on the dark one-lane for hours. Will checked his iPhone.  No service.  If he didn’t stop, poor bastard could be out there all night in the cold.

He popped the car in reverse, figuring if it was some scary dude, he’d have plenty of time to punch it and go, but when he caught sight of the soft blonde curls, he realized the Universe was immediately paying dividends on his newfound altruism.

The girl acted surprised to see anyone out that time of night.  

Will showed his hands, then dumbly pointed at his chest, and in his best Me Tarzan You Jane said, “Americano.  Studente universitari.”

The girl relaxed.  “It’s OK.  I speak English.”  

What was that accent?  Austrian?  Swiss?  Very slight.  Sexy as hell.  This whole trip he hadn’t had a girl from either country.  How great would it be to cap this adventure with that notch on his belt?

“What happened?” he asked.

“Don’t know.  Just start losing power.  I push accelerator, no go.”

“Pop the hood.”  It sounded like something a man was supposed to say, even though Will hadn’t the first clue what to look for.  Using his cell for light, he studied an engine full of oily gears, feebly wiggling plugs and hoses, poking nuts.  He had her try starting it again.  Couple dry clicks, nothing more.  He slammed the hood.

“Do you want me to call someone?” he asked.

The girl extracted her own phone from her tight jeans.  “No service,” she said, presenting it as evidence.

“Can I give you a lift into town?”  Will paused.  “That is, if you know where a town might be.”

She giggled.  “Lost?”

  

“A little.”

“Varese is about sixty kilometers.”  She bit her lip.  “I was on my way to my friend’s.  She lives not far from here.  You come?  You like her.  People say we look like sisters.”

                                                                      

*

           

Pia reclined on her haunches beside Will on the antique sofa, her friend, Joelle, in a soft, worn leather chair opposite them.  Nylon folk crackled from an old record player and candles flickered dimly in sconces, bathing the cozy quarters in comforting, buttery hues. Secluded in the heavy black forest, the cottage resembled something ripped from a Grimm Fairy Tale.  The only thing missing was the peppermint windmills and gumdrop stairs.  And cackling old witch.  Pia hadn’t been lying, either.  The two could pass for sisters, alabaster skin and lithe little bodies, hair so light it was almost white. 

“Lawyer?” Pia repeated, refilling everyone’s port, their second bottle.

“Not exactly,” said Will.  “My father is an attorney.  I’d still have to go to law school, pass the bar.  Not sure I’d love it.  I mean, that’s the secret, right?  Do what you love?”

Pia leaned closer.  He could see down her shirt that she wasn’t wearing a bra, rosebud nipples hard as a new pencil’s eraser. 

“What do you love?” she asked, placing a hand on his thigh, turning coyly to Joelle, who took her cue and pounced, curling like a cat on the couch, sandwiching Will between them.

“I certainly love this,” he said. 

The two girls giggled. 

“What is this place?” he asked.  “It’s so off the map.”

“It was my father’s childhood home,” Joelle said. 

Will felt his heart drop.  “Are your parents…here?”

Pia and Joelle exchanged another look.  Will didn’t like that.  It made him feel like he was missing the joke.

“Did I say something funny?”

“No,” said Pia, taking his hand and stroking it like a pet.  “We are alone.”

“Is my house now,” Joelle said.  “My father give it to me.”  She gave Will’s knee a gentle squeeze.  “Is romantic out here, no?”

Pia moved in and kissed his neck.  On the other side, Joelle did the same.

“We’ll be right back,” cooed Pia, hopping up.

Joelle joined her, nodding toward the fireplace, where sat a cord of wood and pile of old newspapers.  “You start fire?”

Hands clasped, the girls ran from the room.

Will arose and crouched before the fireplace, removed the screen and carefully began stacking logs.  He reached into his hip pocket, pulling out a matchbook along with a pair of crumpled, red-stained Euros.  He struck a head and the fire caught.  With the poker, he stoked the flames.  How lucky could one guy get?

He almost didn’t hear the girls come in until they were looming behind him.

Two for the price of one.

Will gripped the poker tighter, then spun and swung.

Even after he’d finished tying and tightening, setting up the camera, adjusting the lighting, Pia and Joelle still hadn’t stirred.  Sometimes Will didn’t know his own strength.  It had always been like that.  Even as a boy in Tennessee.  He’d never meant to harm those girls.  He only wanted to touch them, explore their naked, alien bodies.  But when they’d cry, he’d have to make them stop.  When his father discovered what he’d done, he took great pains to ensure no one else would.  Couldn’t have his good name sullied, after all. He uprooted the family to New York, hired a full-time nanny, got Will the help he needed. Sure, he did.  Pathogens don’t stand out in the big city.  Not when they can blend in with the disease.

Will heard one of the girls struggle with her restraints.  He couldn’t tell which one since he taped their mouths and placed bags over their heads, and without clothes their bodies were remarkably similar, right down to cup size and shaved pubic region. 

He laid his tools on the old wood table. 

“I normally don’t do this,” Will said, both girls now whimpering behind potato sacks, “take the time out and talk.  Always thought it would make it too hard.  Wanted to keep it clinical, not get emotional.  That was a mistake.”

Will switched on the video recorder and a red light blinked. 

“I’m glad we got acquainted first.  Makes this whole process feel more…intimate.”  Will unfolded the canvas pouch.  The cutlery and scalpels glimmered in the candlelight.  “We are not strangers anymore.  We are friends.” 

He extracted a long carving knife from its sheath. 

“I suppose that’s the thing,” Will said, continuing their conversation from earlier as though no time had passed.  “Don’t think I’m cut out for law.” 

Will double fisted the knife, raising it high above his head. 

“I think I'd make a better doctor.”

_____________________________________

Bio: Joe Clifford is the producer of Lip Service West, a “gritty, real, raw” reading series in Oakland, CA.

His work has appeared in Big Bridge, the Bryant Review, the Connecticut Review, Drunken Boat, Fringe, Opium, Thuglit, Word Riot, and Underground Voices, among others. 

Joe’s writing can be found at www.joeclifford.com. 

He has been to jail, but never prison.

DIA DE LOS MUERTOS by John L. Thompson

John débuts in fine style with the hardboiled... 

     Día de los Muertos

“It’s a cake job Mitch.”  Jack leans back in his porch chair sipping on a tumbler of Jack Daniels while puffing on a cigarette.  The smoke blows from thick lips as he speaks reminding me of a car with a bad cylinder.
    

“Sitting in the back of a moving box truck with a suitcase loaded with hard currency just doesn’t sound too appealing.  I’m supposed to sit there with no firearm?  What‘s my function in all of this Jack?”

“You sit in the back and play ‘guard the money‘.  It’s as easy as it gets and yes, the bad guys will be searching you so no gun, not even a back up pistol.”

“Who’s the back up and where’s the drop off point?”

“Dillon’s got a team assembled and will be situated around the drop area just on this side of the border near the Ysleta point of entry, but we’ll be taking the back roads in.  When the doors open you hand over the suitcase over to one of Alfred Gomez’s men and from there we spring the trap. It’s as simple as it gets.”

“And you’re driving?”

“Of course. I‘ve got a few years more with the DEA than you so that gives me seniority and I‘m pulling it here.”

“Who else is in on this?”

“Johnson is leading this operation to bag Gomez. It’s a big deal and it’s all hush hush from the top on down. Only those in the know need to know so don’t go blabbing it to anyone. The entire DEA people are sitting on pins and needles on this one. We been wanting to bag that bastard for years now.”

“Gomez huh?”  I’ve been with the DEA for ten years now, still stuck at the bottom of the totem pole.  Nailing Alfred Gomez, one of Mexico’s most notorious cartel leaders, would sure as hell move me up the ladder of power and out of the Southwest.  It might even land me a soft desk job somewhere in Virginia telling war stories around the water cooler.  I go ahead and give in.  I don‘t need Jack getting all the glory.  I slam back my own glass of Jack Daniels feeling the amber fluid settling in my gut as a warm glow.  “I’m in.”

A few hours into dusk, Jack swings by the pick up point where I’m waiting.  I hop in the back and the door slams down and I’m bouncing around the darkness of the box truck, hoping to God that all the other agents are in place.  I swear Jack is trying to make it as uncomfortable a ride as possible.  The cool metal brief case is my only companion and I take a chance at looking inside.  Within are bundled twenties and fifties and I thumb through and count the bundles.  A cool quarter mill?  Wonder how many strings had to be pulled to gather this much dough?  I feel the truck making a few turns down sections of wash board roads before slowing to a stop.  I pocket a few fifties toward my child support bill which I‘m late on.  Nothing new to me and the loss can be attributed to accounting error.  I’ve got more than three times the amount of the briefcase stashed away for my own retirement.  Slapping the briefcase shut, I’m waiting for the door to roll open.  I’m sweating my ass off waiting for the next moment and prepare to hand over the brief case before flashing my DEA badge.
    

I got the briefcase and the door rolls opens and quickly realize something’s wrong.  I thought all of this would be happening out in the middle of nowhere, but instead I’m seeing the familiar green glow of the city lights of Juarez and a lot of busted up adobe buildings.  This is not on the American side of the border.  To make matters worse, a Mexican is standing there with a battered Winchester ’97 pump pointed up at me and adrenaline blasts through my body, just as he pulls the trigger.  I doubled over from the hit to the gut.  Rough hands grab hold and throw me to the hard dusty ground.

I’m gasping, trying to suck in life giving air and checking myself over, expecting to find blood running out of me before I realize I’d been shot with a bean bag round.  Several other Mexicans dog pile me, quickly binding up my hands and feet with ropes.  Jack is standing there chomping on a stick of gum with a wide smile.     

“What the hells going on Jack? Some kinda sick joke?” 

Jack smiles.  “You sold out Mitch. Don’t try to lie to me. I got knowledge of every dirty shit thing you been doing. You’ve been working both sides of the fence taking payoffs from the local cartels. Remember that incident a few years back in El Paso?  The incident where you gave heads up to the local gang and our buddies Chico and Roberts got killed doing that bust?”

I’m staggering. The worlds a twisted blur and I retch my guts out. Set up, and no one knows we’re here except for Jack. Or is this a set up to force me into confessing?  For years now I had collected money, made deals, traded information to the cartels allowing some big shipments across the borders for pay.  Were there agents waiting nearby, recording the exchange of conversation?

“Its nothing personal I assure you. It took me time to put this thing together. A few contacts and chats with the local cartels, a little internal networking. The laws in the US are just loaded with loopholes so I couldn’t chance turning you in. I made a promise to Chico‘s wife I‘d personally get the guys responsible. Imagine my surprise when I found out it was you.”  

“I have money. I can pay you big.”  I rasp, my throat’s dry like it’s been swabbed with cotton.

Jack kneels down.  “This is the difference between you and me. I’m the good guy and you’re the bad guy. The bad guy is supposed to get his in the end, and this, my friend, is the end.”  He stands up and starts to leave, but then turns back to me. 

“Oh…one last thing…”

“Fuck you, Jack.”

“Not in a million years, Mitch. That money in the suitcase…”  He wipes his nose with thick fingers.  “I also found your stash of bank accounts. You sure made a shit-load of money, my friend. I took the liberty of taking it and split some of that with the widows, you know for their kid’s college funds when they get old enough. The rest I gave to your new friends here. It’s hush money kinda thing. Thanks for helping out, and I‘ll let you guys get acquainted.”  He turns and strides away, like Humphrey Bogart all slick and smooth.  

Of course, I knew what he was talking about.  The El Paso gig just went sideways and a couple of DEA agents were killed.  I made a ton of money off of the bad deal and just so happens the Latino gang that murdered Chico and Roberts, also worked for Alfred Gomez’s Cartel group.  I don‘t want to die and beg the Mexicans standing around me to speak with Alfred Gomez. 

“He has no wish to speak with you. He only says you are bad for his business.”  A couple of Mexicans take hold of my feet then drag me off into a near by warehouse filled with blinding lights and stacks of bundled marijuana slated for shipping into the US.   In the far corner is a large vat that’s been painted several shades of opaque pink and thick pipes are plumbed in and out of it.

The bigger Mexican kneels down, flashes a gold-toothed smile.  “Senor, I have nothing against you, but your amigo was very clear in what he wanted.”

“I have money.”  I’m sure Jack could not have gotten to all the money.  “Right here in my pocket, I got some.”  I’m nodding my head towards my trouser pocket.   

He eyes me with suspicion, leans over and digs his fingers around in my pocket.  He holds up the few fifties.  “You are joking, yes?”  The others laugh at the small joke.

“No, I got more in an account but it’s in El Paso.”

He eyes the money.  “You have none. Your friend said this. This is good for a funeral amigo. I will bury you in a prominent plot reserved for the town’s politicians and cartels. Let me see…”  He furrows his eyebrows in thought.  “…a name… Zapata… Jose Zapata, for your gravestone. We will celebrate you on Día de los Muertos.”

I spit a chunk of phlegm at him.  “Fuck you!”  I scream repeatedly, while the other two Mexicans hook my feet up to an overhead hoist and slowly I’m raised up.  I’m thinking their going to beat on me like a Piñata, but it’s the large vat I’m swinging over.  It’s filled with a liquid that emits a wave of caustic stench that‘s familiar.

Acid.  

They lower me in head first and I’m screaming out every obscenity known to man, until the fluid begins to burn.  I’m thrashing about trying to get away from the new agony that’s tearing at my skin.  I’m screaming bubbles and muffled curses into an angry hissing void of hot pins stabbing and tearing at every nerve in my head, and the skin blisters.  All I can do is watch the acid turn red and melting flesh floating away to the murky bottom before I’m blinded.  I’m lifted out of the stew pot, left hanging to wither in agony for a few moments before being dipped in again. I realize that the dying is going to take a while.

 

BIO: John Thompson currently lives in New Mexico.  He works the ungodly grind by day and becomes a chain smoking writer at night.  He has stories and poetry published or forthcoming in such publications as Yellow Mama, Adobe Walls Poetry Anthologies, RuneWrights Best Served Cold: An Eye for an Eye Vol 1, Science Fiction Trails, Static Movement Press Anthologies Undead Space and Noir to name a few.

BOTTLED IN CHICAGO by DB Cox

DB Cox returns to TKnC with this atmospheric tale of driftin'...

BOTTLED IN CHICAGO
--- For Rod Serling and Charles Beaumont

Robert Bro Brown stands in front of the Club Indigo, “windy-city” cold blowing into his bloodshot eyes. How long since he’s closed his eyes - months, maybe even years. He looks up and down the boulevard - not a car in sight. Quiet, except for the sound of a dog howling in the distance.

Mournful wailing. The baying of a hound tracking a scent.

A shiver tracks his spine. Bro reaches inside his overcoat pocket, pulls out a bottle, and downs the dregs. He wipes his lips with his sleeve and drops the empty into the gutter. The bottle does not break. It spins around on its side a couple of times and comes to a stop - bottleneck pointing in his direction. Mephisto Gin - Bottled in Chicago. Bro picks up his guitar and turns toward the club entrance.

*****

At a little past 9:30 P.M., Bro, carrying his ancient guitar case, walks through the front door of Club Indigo. The bald bouncer glances up from his chair and waves him through.

Robert Brown is dragging around a lot of history. He was once a sideman with the great Howlin’ Wolf, and in the 1950s, he recorded two solo albums, “A Minor Blues” and “Whiskey Talking.” Both of these albums were once considered to be blues classics. Now, mostly forgotten, he works as a bar musician playing a style of blues shaped by the great Mississippi Delta players like Charley Patton - one man with an acoustic guitar - nowhere to hide.

Bro walks slowly down the entranceway that leads into the club. He eyes the assorted old photos of renowned blues performers that line the wall to his right - familiar faces from a better time and a better place. On the opposite wall, Club Indigo jackets, t-shirts, and caps, in various colors, hang like masterpieces in a museum.

Inside, the bar is a fusion of neon beer signs, tinted lights, and cigarette smoke. The booths are like something from the 1950s.

As Bro makes his way through a group of people chatting in front of the bar, Shaky Jake, one of the club managers, is on stage with a microphone giving his usual pre-show pitch:

“Ladies and gentleman, I want to remind you to tip your waitresses and bartenders, who are working real hard for you. And don’t forget to pick up a blues souvenir! We have T-shirts, baseball caps, and jackets. We also have CDs by famous Chicago blues artists. In the meantime, sit tight, because the great bluesman, Robert Brown, will be out shortly!”

Bro walks past the stage and into the dressing room - a cheap panel and plaster hangout for the band during breaks. Almost every inch of wall-space is covered with graffiti left by the hundreds of unknown bar musicians that have passed through over the years. On the wall, somebody has scrawled:

“We’re still getting the blues and Clapton’s still getting the money.”

John Keyes, the club owner, is sitting at a small table in the middle of the room. He has an empty whiskey glass in his hand.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Brown,” says Keyes.

He gets up, walks over to where Bro is leaning on his guitar case, and says,

“Robert, you and I have to talk.”

“What about?” asks Bro.

“Business,” says Keyes, “We can’t afford to go on any longer, the way we’re going now. Times are bad. The crowd is down. The club has got to make a change.”

“And I’m the change,” says Bro.

“Listen Robert, you’re a great, old blues musician, but there’s no audience for traditional, black, blues guys. Hell, I couldn’t even sell Robert Johnson these days. The young audience wants to hear electric guitar slingers, like Stevie Ray. You know what I mean.”

Bro stares directly into John Keyes’ eyes and smiles. For a few seconds, everything in the room moves away. A white light breaks like a wave over Bro’s brain, and stops just behind his eyes - a blurred message. And then, just as quickly, it's gone.

“Yeah, John. I know what you mean.”

Bro props his guitar in the corner and walks out - headed for the bar.

*****

Bro tries to recall the bartender’s name, then gives up and calls out:

“Barkeep, what about another double?”

“Hey man, aren’t you Robert Brown, the blues musician?” someone says behind him.

Bro turns on his stool and looks into the face of a young black man. He has on a White Sox baseball cap twisted to one side. He’s certain that he’s never seen this man before.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“I’m Stick James,” the man says, as if the name might mean something, “You might have heard of me. I’m a RAP artist for Scratch Records.”

“Well Mr. James, there’s a goddamn artist on every street corner in every city, and I’ve never heard of you. So, how is it that you know me?”

“Oh, I recognize the face from your album cover. You’re a little gray around the edges, but I’d know you anywhere - your face is burned into my brain.”

“Bullshit, says Bro, “I didn’t make but two records, and you don’t look like you’re old enough to have owned either one.”

“I didn’t, but my father did. He had ’em both - loved ‘em madly. And when he took to the highway, those old records were all he left behind.”

Bro turns, stares into the bar-length mirror, and says nothing.

“You know, Mr. Brown, my mother played those two albums until the grooves were smooth as a baby’s butt - the perfect background music for an alcoholic junky to wallow in.”

When he gets no reply from Bro, he continues his rant.

“Yeah, ain’t nothing sets the proper mood like some good ol’ chicken-shack, chicken-shit, juke-joint slave music. Man, all that hard living you sing about, I’m surprised to see you’re still around.”

Bro feels something inside coming unraveled, and this time the message is plain.

“Kid, if I were you, I wouldn’t push it any further,” says Bro.

But Stick James, RAP artist, can’t stop talking.

“Fact is, I’ve never known who to hate more, my would-be father, or you and your blues crap. If my mother’s habit hadn’t finally killed her, she’d probably still be drinking, shootin’ up, and playing those sorry-ass records of yours.”

Bro moves inside himself - beyond the possibility of reason. He slides his right hand down to his boot, pulls up the leg of his pants, and finds the handle of a survival knife. He spins on the barstool and jams the blade all the way in and back out of Stick James’ chest.

The wounded man opens his mouth as if to scream, but instead begins to howl - lupine eyes burning yellow in the dark.

Bro drops the bloody knife on the barroom floor. Oblivious of the woeful sound, he closes his eyes and considers the meaning of eternity - ceaseless existence without a break. The jukebox in the corner plays:

“I got to keep moving, I got to keep moving
Blues falling down like hail, blues falling down like hail
And the day keeps on remindin’ me
There’s a hellhound on my trail…”

*****

Robert Bro Brown stands in front of the Club Indigo, “windy-city” cold blowing into his bloodshot eyes. How long since he’s closed his eyes - months, maybe even years. He looks up and down the boulevard - not a car in sight. Quiet, except for the sound of a dog howling in the distance.

Mournful wailing. The baying of a hound tracking a scent.

A shiver tracks his spine. Bro reaches inside his overcoat pocket, pulls out a bottle, and downs the dregs. He wipes his lips with his sleeve and drops the empty into the gutter. The bottle does not break. It spins around on its side a couple of times and comes to a stop - bottleneck pointing in his direction. Mephisto Gin - Bottled in Chicago. Bro picks up his guitar and turns toward the club entrance…..

________________________________

BIO: DB Cox is a blues musician/writer from South Carolina. His poems and short stories have been published extensively in the small press, in the US, and abroad. 

He has published five books of poetry: “Passing For Blue,” “Lowdown,” “Ordinary Sorrows,” “Nightwatch,” and “Empty Frames.” Rank Stranger Press recently published his new collection of short stories, called “Unaccustomed Mercy.” 

He has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize.

SONNY BLUE by William J Fedigan

Please welcome William J Fedigan to TKnC with this tragic and insane ride...

SONNY BLUE

His wife gave it to him straight: You should be locked up, strapped down, balls cut off, and fed to the pigs.

He moved toward her…

-Get away from me…

He reached out…

-Don’t touch me, motherfucker…

He touched her.

She screamed. She slapped. She scratched. She pushed him hard. He got mad. He saw red. He shot her two times. The gun wasn’t real; it was a water pistol, Sonny’s water pistol. It squirted her blouse.

She grabbed her chest. She fell down and she died. Just like that.

-Heart attack, he thought. Runs in her family. Father, mother, both brothers… all dropped like shit out of a donkey’s ass…

He looked down at her. Her face had turned blue. It stopped him dead. It was magical. It was spiritual. It was life-changing. It was a gift from God. It was perfect… the color was perfect… Perfect…

-It’s like the sky, the sea, my hydrangeas… It’s like the color of Sonny’s eyes… I can’t live without it… The color is perfect… Perfect.

He trembled. He kneeled. He kissed her blue nose. He kissed her blue ears. He wept. He looked for his camera to capture the moment in living color.

-I’ll take photos, he thought. I’ll shoot ten rolls. I’ll shoot twenty. I’ll put photos upstairs, downstairs, attic, basement, garage, in the bathroom above the toilet. I’ll surround myself, drown myself in it… in the color… The color is a gift from God… The color is perfect.

He aimed the camera. He zoomed. He was about to click when the smell stopped him…

Something came loose in her stomach and flowed onto the living room carpet. The carpet was green. She was leaking brown.

He dropped the camera. His stomach flipped. He gagged. He held his breath. He held his nose. The smell covered him, smothered him. It smelled like Sonny in the morning, dirty diapers in the morning. It smelled like death in the morning.

He opened a window. He took a deep breath. He cleared his head. He looked down at her. Her face had changed color. Her face had turned gray. His legs wobbled. He felt weak.

-No, no, no. I’ve lost it, he thought. I can’t live without it. It was perfect. The color was perfect… It’s like the sky, the sea, my hydrangeas… MY HYDRANGEAS…

He went outside to visit his hydrangeas, to pick them all, to arrange bouquets, to place them in the house, everywhere in the house, to surround himself, drown himself in it… in the color. The color was perfect… perfect… It was a gift from God.

His hydrangeas were dead. He had forgotten. The cops murdered them. The cops dug up the garden looking for Sonny. They didn’t find Sonny, but they killed his hydrangeas. They killed every one.

Now what? he thought. I’ve lost it. I can’t live without it. It was perfect. The color was perfect… like the color of Sonny’s eyes…

He hated playgrounds. At nite, shadows made the jungle gym look like bones, skeletons, Halloween shit. It spooked him, but he dug anyway. He knew the spot.

-Sonny, it’s Daddy. Where are you?

No answer. He dug deeper.

-Daddy can’t find you.

No answer. He dug deeper.

-Daddy needs something.

No answer. He dug deeper. Blisters popped on his hands.  

-Be a good boy, Sonny. Daddy needs something from you.

No answer.

-Daddy needs something from you… Just one little thing…

His hands hurt. He was desperate.  

-OK Sonny, let’s make a deal. Daddy will bring Mommy for a visit if Daddy can have one of your pretty blue peepers. Just one. Daddy will rip it out of your head so fast you’ll hardly feel a thing. How’s that sound, Sonny? 

Nothing.  

His hands bled. His spirits plunged. He was losing hope. He prayed: Please help me, God. You gave me a gift and I lost it. I can’t live without it. I don’t want to live without it. Please help me find it again. It was perfect… Perfect…

That nite, he dreamed blue. He dreamed blue sky, blue sea, blue hydrangeas, Sonny’s blue eyes… His wife’s blue nose, ears, face… blue  blue  BLUE…

He woke up with an idea. It was perfect.  

He found the water pistol, Sonny’s water pistol. He filled it to the top, ice-cold water.

-I’ll go to Mrs. Spleen’s house, he thought. She’s old. She’s sick. She looks like shit.  When she opens the door, I’ll hit her with a fucking tsunami. Fifty squirts. Ice-cold. With luck, she’ll drop like a bag of hammers, turn blue and I’ll be back in business.  If not, I’ll go to the next house, then the next, then the next…. I won’t give up… Never… I’ll find it again… It was  perfect… The color was perfect… Perfect… I can’t live without it, won’t live without it. It’s a gift from God… A gift…

He put the water pistol in his pocket… and he went shopping.  

____________________________

Copyright © 2012 by William J Fedigan

Bio: William J Fedigan writes about who he is, what he knows, where he’s been. 

STAR STRUCK SHOOTER By Graham Smith

TKnC is always happy to welcome back old friends. This time we get double the pleasure with Graham Smith and a character from his previously published 'Shooting Stars' in...

Star Struck Shooter

   She’d escaped the bullet I’d fired at her. Now my moral code wouldn’t let me kill her myself. I allowed myself one bullet per target and I’d missed when I shot at her. I’d killed a bystander, which further breached my professional ethics. An assassin shouldn’t feel remorse but I hated that I’d killed an innocent. At least it was one of those bloody mime artists.

   I had a solution though. I’d merely stepped up my apprentice’s training and passed the job to him. I’d broken my code over that bitch once. I’d sooner die than break my code a second time for the same target.

   Jessica wouldn’t escape this time. We’d make sure of that. We’d followed her to the beach house where she was relaxing between movies.

   I knew her routine very well after the idyllic month we’d shared here. There were no bodyguards, assistants or staff. She went native in every respect. Cooked her own food, did her own laundry and refused contact with anyone who wasn’t invited onto her island.

   We’d arrived late the night before, rowing the last mile to be sure of silence. Out here sound didn’t just carry over the water it amplified. A cough became a gunshot, a gunshot a thunderclap and all because of the night air’s papal purity.

   Soon she’d be going for her morning jog. Twice round the two mile perimeter, running at the waters edge where the sand was firmer.

   The plan was simple, the apprentice would wait until she was nearly finished her second lap. She would be breathless, sweaty and low on energy as she always drove herself to near exhaustion when exercising.

   Then he would sprint out from the mango grove, grab her and then drown her in the shallow breakers rolling in from the east. Her body would be left at the high tide mark to be found by the locals who brought her daily provisions at noon.

   As she rounded the southerly point for the second time I reached across to the apprentice and gently tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention without startling him.

   I pointed out a pleasure yacht which had just hove into view from behind the neighbouring island.

   The younger man relaxed back from his sprinters crouch and lifted his thumb from his fist to show his understanding. We would fall back to the first of our reserve plans.

   I’d been on enough missions to know never to rely on just one plan. The second plan was almost as straightforward although there was more risk to it. We would wait on her reaching the house. I knew she would go straight for a shower and that would be his chance to pounce.

   OK so it couldn’t be passed off as an accident like drowning but she would still die and that was all I cared about.

   She ran past us. Dressed in baggy shorts and t-shirt, hair matted to her head, face and clothes drenched in sweat as she puffed her way, red faced past our hiding place among the trees. No wonder she was the highest paid actress in the world, even in the bedraggled state she had presented as she ran by, she was still eye wateringly beautiful.

  Giving her a hundred yards head start, we jogged through the woods until she entered the house. The yacht had passed the island and was arrowing its way through the calm seas.

   I entered the house via the sliding windows which fronted the beach. My apprentice was hot on my heels with the knife ready in his gloved hand. I led him through the house to the bathroom which adjoined the master bedroom. We could hear running water. I signalled to my apprentice to go in.

   After adjusting his grip on the knife he burst through the door and slashed and stabbed at the figure in the open shower cubicle. In my mind I could hear the screeching wheek from the classic Hitchcock film. I kicked my attention back towards what was happening in the bathroom only to see a female body fall to the floor.

   We made our getaway that night. Our dingy easily covered the five miles to the nearby island where we’d set up our base. After cleaning everything down which may have held a trace of us we boarded the plane back to Miami.

   I was on cloud nine. I‘d hated her ever since she’d told an entire table in a crowded L.A. restaurant of my erectile dysfunction.

   It had taken years for me to perfect my assassins’ craft, and make enough money to stalk her around the globe until I finally had my chance. Now however, she was dead.  My apprentice came good and killed for me. I would always remember him favourably for the way he unquestioningly settled the score my code wouldn’t allow me to.

   As we exited Miami International Airport I bought a newspaper to see if her death had yet been discovered.

   Right there on the front page was her picture, underneath the chastising headline “Movie Star’s Twin Found Slain”.

© Graham Smith 2012

BIO:

Graham Smith is married with a young son. A time served joiner he has built bridges, houses, dug drains and slated roofs to make ends meet. For the last eleven years he has been manager of a busy hotel and wedding venue near Gretna Green, Scotland.

An avid fan of crime fiction since being given one of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five books at the age of eight, he has also been a regular reviewer for the well respected review site Crimesquad.com for over two years.

As well as reviewing for Crimesquad.com Graham has also interviewed such stellar names as David Baldacci, Jeffrey Deaver, Dennis Lehane, Lee Child, Matt Hilton, current CWA Chair Peter James, Mark Billingham and many others.

When not working, his time is spent reading, writing and playing games with his son. He enjoys socialising and spending time with friends and family.

http://grahamsmithwriter.blogspot.com/