Kwik Krimes (37 page)

Smooth as a matador, I stepped to the right. Hammered his liver as he barreled past. Tried not to sneer as he dropped to the deck. Ignored the booing jeers of the crowd around me.

“You’ll pay for that,” he bellowed, both hands on his knee as he struggled to stand.

He came in again. Fists tight to his chin. Elbows tucked to his shit-sack body. Shoulders hunched like a wiseguy in the wrong
part of town. Sweat leaking from his bald head thirty seconds into the fight.

For the joy of the crowd I made my move. Ducked and weaved around his death-slow haymakers. Tested his guard to the rhythm of jab-jab-hook. Rapped on his skull with a Witness’s insistence. Shit bricks when a cross took him square on the jaw.

My hands dropped with my chin. I watched him stagger. Saw every ripple in his bulky gut. Watched his bat-wing triceps flap in the breeze of his windmilling arms. Watched his eyes roll back to white. Felt my guts clench around pig iron.

“Don’t.” A one-word prayer to whatever power would listen.

I threw a look to Donny Yip, saw his glacial cool replaced with a question. Knew the answer and turned back to the game.

Malone brushed off his second. Came at me like an elephant trying on a salsa dance. Swung low like a chariot. Swung high like an idiot. Tried to focus with KO eyes.

I ducked back in. Choked on his body odor. Drummed a limp-wristed tattoo against his arms and stomach. Wound up for a big right. Telegraphed it to my ma back home in New Zealand.

The smart fucker read it.

My world turned red as Malone slammed his forehead into my face. Blood and snot filled my mouth with bitter copper. I hit the deck like an insane DJ. Felt my ribs buckle under Malone’s stamping kicks. Heard the crowd roar before it all went black.

I could have taken him. Could have sent him home to his caravan with one less eye and an important lesson. But Donny Yip asked me a favor. And when Donny asks, the kids ain’t safe till you say yes.

T
HIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN
S
HOTGUN
H
ONEY
.

Jim Spry lives in Europe’s most densely populated city. He writes about what he sees on a daily basis, but tones things down so no one gets upset. He’s currently putting together a collection of his own works, tentatively titled
Dirty Words.

J.M. Vogel

D
arius jumped up on a table and began leading a chorus of an old Irish drinking tune. I looked at Bill, who just shrugged. The normally demure twentysomething appeared to be giving it his all. The crowd seemed to enjoy the performance and joined in with gusto. When he sloshed down his pint in between verses, the crowd roared with delight. We, however, were not quite as amused.

“So this is what one beer does to him?” Bill asked. Bill had suggested the beer when Darius’s nerves about our upcoming encounter appeared to be getting the best of him. It was clear he now thought better of the idea. “Well, he’ll never go undercover as a singer of any kind. And we also need to work on his tolerance. One drink and the enemy will know any secret we have.” I rolled my eyes. Bill didn’t really like our new colleague, and Darius wasn’t doing much to ingratiate himself. “Go up there and get him,” he said, nudging me with his elbow. “We’re trying to keep a low profile here.”

Although he was right, I didn’t want to even attempt plucking him from the grips of his adoring public. It was kind of nice to see this side of the nervous newbie. “I’m not his keeper,” I said, returning the nudge with a little too much vigor. Bill glared but
continued watching Darius’s one-man show. He didn’t want to go up there either.

“If our contact shows up here and he’s in midperformance, we’ve not only lost our jobs, we’ve quite possibly lost our lives,” Bill said as Darius began singing “My Wild Irish Rose.”

I sighed. It was still early, but he was right. Being a spy was all about discretion. “Fine.” I wormed my way through the crowd to Darius’s makeshift stage. I pushed between two girls at the foot of the table and tugged on his pant leg.

“Get down here!” I yelled, my voice barely audible over the din of the crowd.

He smiled and started the crowd singing “Danny Boy.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a note, and let it float to the floor. To anyone else, the action would have looked accidental. I bent down, picked it up, and unfolded it hastily.

Cover blown. Contact not coming. Best to be somewhere public until help can arrive. Shan’t be terribly long.—A.F.

I searched the pub until I recognized someone vaguely familiar ducking out the door. Albert Filmore, our messenger. I looked up at Darius, who winked and extended a hand to help me up on the table. I grabbed his hand, stumbled slightly to hint at inebriation, and giggled as he pulled me up beside him. I grabbed his beer, took a swig, and joined in the chorus.

My heart started racing as I surveyed the crowd to see who our assassin might be. If he were there, I couldn’t pick him out. He was playing his part as well as we were playing ours. Despite my trepidation, I kept on singing, as sloppily and off tune as possible. I knew that public drunkenness might just save my life that night, so I tried my best to be convincing. Over the heads of our fans I noticed Bill, his hands raised in confusion.

“Come on up, Bill!” I slurred, motioning wildly. Darius laughed and did the same before convincing the crowd to chant
his name. Bill shook his head and crossed his arms in defiance. He just wasn’t getting it.

I began a rousing chorus of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” and started to jump down to retrieve Bill when Darius’s hand restrained me. I looked up and saw him give a very subtle shake of his head. I stood back up, continued singing and swaying, and looked out over the crowd again in search of Bill. It took a few minutes before I finally found him, slumped over the bar. To a patron or bartender, he appeared to be passed out. Darius and I knew, however, that Bill was dead.

I hoped that Darius’s knowledge of Irish drinking tunes was more extensive than mine because I was about out and we were going to be here awhile.

T
HIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN
E
VERY
D
AY
F
ICTION
.

J.M. Vogel lives in a suburb of Columbus, Ohio. She is setting out to show the world that a degree in English does not predestine one to life in the unemployment line. Keep up with J.M. Vogel by following her blog at
JMVogel.blogspot.com
.

Andrew Waters

T
he day started at four a.m. Waking up in the humid July heat, I was on the road to Raleigh even before the fast-food restaurants opened. During the drive he thought about the day she gave him the painting. Senile, angry about something—not him, thank God—but raging nonetheless. It was Mother’s Day and he was in the neighborhood, thought he’d drop by, ask about the painting.

“Mortimer,” she said, calling him by his father’s name. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to see you, Noni. I just thought I’d stop by. You know I like to admire the painting.”

“Yes, the painting,” she agreed. She led him to it. A storm-tossed sea, a boat in the distance struggling against the waves, a trim sailing sloop with yachting flags. Sunlight just breaking in the foreground, off the canvas. But, oh, what light, golden and pink, illuminating the storm and the sea with unearthly magnitude.

“I wish you’d just take the thing. You’re the only one who truly loves it,” she said. Was this insanity or was this real? He searched her face for the answer. She nodded competently.

“You boys will just fight over it when I’m gone anyway.” She walked to the wall, stared at it one last time. “Its ghosts are gone now.”

That was the last time he saw her. Dead from a stroke two months later. Anthony was furious when he found out, of course, but it was a year later and his older brother had not yet launched his retaliation.

And now he was to have it appraised on
Antiques Roadshow
. He’d done his homework: the signature on the painting belonged to a Russian émigré, French trained, who lived in Brighton Beach and painted on Long Island in the 1900s, known for his depictions of yachts. One of the artist’s pieces had sold at Sotheby’s for $25,000 several years before, but that was the only auction sale he could find on the Internet. His grandmother’s family were Russian émigrés in Coney Island about this same period, could easily have known the artist. Nothing but scoundrels and thieves, Noni always called her family, which she’d escaped after a mysterious incident she would not discuss; but he always considered it possible the painting was traded for some good or service rendered long ago in the slums of Brooklyn.

He waited for hours until he finally got to the table for American Impressionism, less grand than he’d imagined, in the far back corner of the coliseum. But the appraiser was Lesley St. Clair, one of his favorites, a lively, intelligent brunette with a Brahmin accent. Not as renowned as Nigel Higginbotham, the Scottish appraiser from Christie’s, famous for his accent, but feistier, more thorough in her research.

“What have we got here?” St. Clair said with a clipped smile. “Mhhmmmm.” She took the piece from him carefully and placed it on an easel for examination. “Interesting,” she said, studying the signature. “You’re familiar with the artist?”

“I believe the signature is Vladimir Roikoff,” he responded. “I think he was an associate of my great-grandfather.”

She smiled knowingly. “I believe you’re right. Certainly in his style, and the signature looks good. I think I recognize the flag. New York Yacht Club, I believe.”

She asked him a few more questions about his relationship to the piece, how he came to acquire it, then excused herself to consult the computer. He tried to contain himself while she was gone. This was as good as he could have possibly imagined. Better. He could finally pay off his credit card and get Donna that surgery she wanted.

But St. Clair was huddled over her computer, typing furiously. Then she made a call on her cell phone. Something was wrong; maybe the painting was a fake. Impossible to believe, really, the way the gold washed over the angry waves, the luminosity of the lightning on the far horizon. But these things happened all the time, and deep down, he always wondered how his grandmother had come to possess such a fantastic piece of art.

St. Clair put down her phone and came back to the easel, her smile more clipped now. “Well, I know you have a long history with this piece, with the connection to your grandmother,” she said in what now seemed like a television persona. “The good news is that the painting is absolutely authentic, a fine example of Roikoff’s work. One of his most famous pieces, in fact. Its value is estimated at more than two hundred thousand dollars.”

He forced himself to smile. His mind was a blur. The news was fantastic, a miracle, yet this created new complications. He would have to cut Anthony in now, no question about that, and maybe he and Donna should separate for a while, see how things go after he gets the money. But despite his rehearsed response, despite watching others a million times before, he expressed only the most obvious. “Are you kidding me?”

She nodded enthusiastically, happy to be sharing with him in this moment of revelation. Expensive art was thrilling. Everyone knew that, Lesley St. Clair most of all. But her demeanor saddened as she took him by the arm. “Unfortunately, I’m sorry to tell you this painting was stolen from the New York Yacht Club in 1916. Under US and international law, the piece must be returned to them. There are some gentlemen from the FBI on their way here to see you. I’m sure there won’t be a problem.”

Security men in blue blazers approached him from behind. He thought about his grandmother’s last words. The ghosts! Russian ghosts, scoundrels and thieves. His grandmother had escaped them somehow with the painting. In that moment, he glimpsed the untold story of her life, something dark and mysterious at the heart of it. He turned toward the men, resisting the impulse to snatch the painting and run. His grandmother’s haunting may be over, he realized, but his had just begun.