Kwik Krimes (29 page)

An hour later, Kevin delivered the envelope to the downtown hotel designated by the blackmailer. The next day, he was arrested for murder.

The case was smartly presented. First, the prosecutor described how Kevin had withdrawn $5,000 in cash to buy the bomb. Next, he presented security footage of him handing the envelope to a hotel desk clerk who passed it to a bellhop. The bellhop testified that he carried it to room 4786 and gave it to Roger Torrance. Finally, the medical examiner explained how Torrance opened the letter, detonating the bomb that killed him as well as the woman he had been meeting at the hotel once a week for six months—Kevin’s wife, Lisa.

Kevin blamed Emma. Emma denied everything, and since the letters and photographs had somehow gone missing, Kevin couldn’t even prove they’d had an affair much less that it was she who plotted the crime.

“I loved my husband,” a teary-eyed Emma testified at a pretrial hearing. “It broke my heart when I learned he was cheating on me.”

Kevin believed her. In the end, he exchanged a guilty plea for a chance at parole in 210 months. That same week Emma inherited half of her husband’s estate.

A reformed newspaper reporter and ad man, David Housewright has published fourteen crime novels.
Penance
won the Edgar Allan Poe Award from the Mystery Writers of America and
Practice to Deceive
and
Jelly’s Gold
won Minnesota Book Awards.
The Dark Side of Midnight
will be published in June 2013. Find a complete list of his books and stories at
DavidHousewright.com
. Follow him on Twitter and Facebook.

Dana C. Kabel

F
armer was sweating like a bastard. Goddamned Thailand. The native sitting across from him must have been born without sweat glands; he was dry as a bone.

The guy didn’t speak a word of English. And Farmer didn’t speak Thai. That was okay, the game they were playing didn’t require the opponents to speak to each other.

The Thai pushed the deck of cards across the table. Farmer reached out with a trembling hand and drew a card. He flipped it over and shouted. “Fuck me!”

The Thai smiled, showing a row of crooked and rotting teeth. On the card there was a picture of a hand. Farmer sighed and took a couple of deep breaths. He spread his hand out on the table, palm down.

The Thai was so fast that Farmer saw a blur of motion and didn’t know what hit him. The Thai’s knife stabbed through Farmer’s hand and stuck in the wooden tabletop.

Farmer pounded his other fist on the table. He didn’t want to scream, didn’t want to give the bastards that.

“Out…out…take the fucking thing out already.”

The referee, satisfied that all of the bettors around the table had seen Farmer’s bleeding hand, pulled the blade out. Coming out was definitely more painful than going in.

Farmer’s hand bled profusely, and he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to stanch the blood. Some of the bettors cheered; their fast-spoken chatter language sounded like an orchestra of giant birds. How the hell did they understand each other?

It was the Thai’s turn to draw. He flipped the card over and breathed a sigh of relief; the card was blank.

Farmer drew the next card. He flipped it and saw a picture of an arm. “Fuck my luck,” he said.

The Thai grinned and said something to the men around him. There was laughter and more chattering until the General ordered silence.

The effect was immediate. The General spoke rough English to Farmer. “You want quit now before bleed to death? I put you back in rat cage if you like.”

Farmer growled, not in response to the General’s offer, but in an effort to push the pain away. He still had enough blood left to keep going.

He took deep breaths, tried to relax. He held out his left arm and nodded.

The Thai yelped and sunk the blade into Farmer’s flesh. This time there was no controlling it; Farmer screamed. The blade went right between his bicep and tricep.

“Out, you little yellow motherfucker.”

The ref nodded; although he spoke no English, he knew he was being disrespected, and when he pulled the blade out of Farmer’s arm he used a little torque to increase the pain and damage.

Farmer jumped out of his chair and smashed his elbow into the referee’s nose. It crunched and blood gushed out of his nostrils.

The ref shouted and drew his gun. He jammed the barrel against Farmer’s forehead. He chattered at the General. The General chattered back. The ref put the gun away.

The Thai drew. His card had a picture of an eyeball. The Thai cursed, and Farmer laughed at him.

“Ain’t so funny now, is it?”

The Thai spit on the dirt floor.

“Close your eyes, sweetheart. This’s going to hurt.”

Farmer thrust his blade into the Thai’s right eyeball and made him scream. Farmer laughed and held on to the knife until the referee slapped him in the face.

The ref pulled the knife out, and the ruined eyeball came out with it. Farmer started singing the Popeye song.

The one-eyed Thai shouted something in his face. Farmer figured the guy was telling him to shut up.

“I’m gonna call you Si. Si, the one-eyed Thai.” Farmer almost fell off his seat laughing.

Tears streamed down his face. He was losing his sanity over their lack of humanity.

He drew the next card. It was a picture of a pinky. How the hell was his opponent going to stab his finger? The light clicked. “Oh…no, no, no, no, no,” he said.

The General nodded, and one of the men standing next to Farmer grabbed his arm and clamped it to the table.

It was the one-eyed Thai’s turn to laugh. He stood up and grabbed Farmer’s pinky. He used his knife like a saw to cut through the tissue and bone.

Farmer screamed and banged his head against the table.

“Whiskey,” he shouted. “Now! I want some fucking whiskey.”

The General nodded and said something to one of his men. The guy left and returned with a bottle. It was some kind of liquor he had never seen before. There was a small viper in the bottom of the bottle, the same as a worm in the bottom of a tequila bottle.

Farmer opened it and took a long pull. When the guy who brought the bottle tried to take it back, Farmer hugged it against
his chest to let him know he intended to drink more. The General nodded, and the man backed off.

The one-eyed Thai drew and howled. It was a picture of a family. Worst card in the deck.

“This mean, you go his home. Kill wife and children. Brothers, sister, whoever in house.”

Farmer knew what the card meant. His brother-in-law drew the family card playing in this same game a week earlier. His opponent killed the brother-in-law’s wife and children. Unfortunately, Farmer’s wife and children were in the house and the guy took them out, too.

That was what brought Farmer into the game. He had nothing left to lose.

T
HIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN
O
UT OF THE
G
UTTER
.

Dana Kabel has written several short stories for such online publications as
The Flash Fiction Offensive, Yellow Mama, Shotgun Honey, A Twist of Noir,
and
Out of the Gutter,
to name a few. He recently relocated to New Jersey with his wife and youngest daughter, where he plans to continue work on his novel.

Michael Kardos

B
y evening he’d erected the volleyball net, scraped the grill, and stuffed the fridge with potato salad, slaw, hot dogs, thirty pounds of ground beef. He’d bought Kool-Aid and cola. A keg of Heineken. Burlap sacks for races.

He’d even rented a PA system, twelve hundred watts of ass-kicking power, and a stage for the lawn. Bill Valero’s band had never gigged before. The point was always to jam in the garage and drink beer. But it was now or never. Eons ago, the big bang had ushered everybody into the world. Tomorrow night, as the planet spun toward its fierce conclusion, the Rusted Wheels would usher everybody out.

Now, eleven thirty p.m., Bill sat on the bed. Allie lay beside him, running her hand up the thigh of his jeans, stopping at his limp cock.

“I should’ve bought horseshoes,” he said.

“You’ve done plenty.” Allie believed he was throwing himself a birthday bash a week early. He didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.

“You know horseshoes is the best outdoor game.” He slapped his leg. “And I need to get the porch umbrella out of the shed!”

He was almost at the door when she said, “Bill.” She’d lit candles. Worn the black, crotchless number from Frederick’s of Hollywood. “You’ll be right back—deal?”

He felt revved up, like on speed, only this wasn’t chemical. It was cosmic, and bigger than sex. Bigger than everything.

“Wish I could,” he said, “but you can’t imagine how much ground beef is downstairs.”

After opening the umbrella and sweeping the porch, he started pounding beef into patties in the kitchen. Easy to imagine each patty as the face of David Magruder, a TV weatherman living around the corner, who was screwing Allie while Bill was on the road. Easy to imagine enacting every revenge.

But no need. Tomorrow, all nine planets would line up—a “superconjunction,” it was called—and suck away the Earth’s gravity until there was no life left.

He’d learned about the superconjunction that same October day when he learned about Magruder. After hearing a new Aerosmith song on the radio, he’d pulled his big rig over at a gas station, called his drummer from the pay phone, and informed him that they must learn this song right away, and if he
hadn’t
heard it yet—

“Shut up a minute,” his drummer said. “Listen, buddy…I saw something.”

Driving past Bill’s house, he’d seen Allie in the walkway with Magruder, his arm around her waist. Before going inside, they’d kissed.

“A real kiss?” Bill asked.

“What do
you
think?”

Driving west across Pennsylvania, Bill imagined Allie in bed with Magruder and wondered: Were there
other
other men? He stopped seeing the highway and saw Allie with every leering
accountant and dentist in the neighborhood. He saw the tools in his shed—blunt tools, sharp tools—and imagined using them on her when he returned home.

How lucky for everyone, then, that before the day was out he’d meet this fellow trucker outside Pittsburgh who’d lend Bill his paperback full of science—solar flares, plate tectonics—long enough to read the underlined parts. Armed with the knowledge of scientific prophesy, Bill knew that he wouldn’t have to do one damn thing. On the night of April 23, 1983, in just six months, God would take his own tools out of the shed and set everything right.

After refrigerating the burgers, he wiped down the counters, scrubbed the downstairs bathroom, and went into the den with his Gibson guitar and a pair of headphones. He shut his eyes and strummed—the Stones, Skynyrd, the Doors, the Dead—nothing less than the soundtrack to his whole life, everything electric and tinged with blue.

Come on, baby, light my fire.

Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.

Lately he’d sensed all the human struggles—wives and husbands, rich and poor, Communists and capitalists—fading away like the diminishing squawk of his CB radio. He’d begun to feel a current in the atmosphere, always—the tug of galactic forces nudging everything into place, including him.

As he strummed he thought about his childhood: the bruises, the bags of weed, the stolen Corvette, the night of his sixteenth birthday spent in the drunk tank. Plenty to regret, yet this rough start had led him to Allie, candy-striping where he was recuperating from a bar fight. Their love led him to a job, a peaceful home, and, of course, to Maddie. He imagined their daughter, now asleep upstairs, all grown up. A school principal, maybe, doling out punishments to delinquents like Bill.

Sad, how this future would never come to be. But not overly sad. The superconjunction made him realize that we were but small critters on a small planet in a huge universe with laws that existed regardless of our understanding of them. A planet forms and then it dies, end of story. The closer the end came, the more Bill felt resigned, like when a movie’s credits roll and you accept the ending, even if it’s not the ending you’d choose.