Pulp Ink Part 4

"Can we have Earl up here to announce these two lovely young people's names?"

"Surrreee can! Just wait 'til I get these blue suede shoes on, Pearl!"

The crowd laughed. Between bobbed heads, I saw Hank's guys with made up wives. They were looking at the stage and laughing.

Shasta looked back at me. We both thought it.

Coincidence and opportunity.

One hundred feet to that swinging door of freedom. We both walked casually. I chewed my gum. Faster. Faster.

Earl's voice. "Looks like our winners are Mia Wallace and a Vince Vega."

I glanced back at the stage. Earl tap-danced like a dorky Elvis. The couple on stage smiled at each other, wide half moons on their faces. Yeah, they were smashed all right. c.o.ke? Heroin? Both? I felt a mild jealousy. They took their trophies and bowed. Everyone clapped.

Shasta reached the door first, pulled it open, looked at me, slipped through. I grabbed the door, heard a "Where the f.u.c.k are they...?"

"Get 'em!"

And then I felt it. A bullet. IN MY a.s.s. I ran out the door.

Shasta Star was gone.

I barreled towards the alley, knocking over trashcans, almost slipping, kept on.

"Stop your mothaf.u.c.kin' a.s.s, Moody!"

Two gunshots belted over my head, whistled beside me. A sting hit my shoulder. I slowed but kept running, then hit the end of the alley. Motors roared behind me. Buildings all around. There was nowhere to go but west on Main Street toward Saint Mary's. I sprinted left with a limp.

I pumped my legs like I hadn't done in years. A slow tired ache pulsed through my bones. It wasn't just the sting and throb of bullets. This wasn't what I wanted to do anymore, who I wanted to be.

Empty a moment before, Main Street swarmed with traffic like bees to a hive.

A car gunned up behind me. Voices.

Stoplight ahead. Law abiding citizens braked. Hank's guys. .h.i.t the gas. Vehicles collided and crashed in the intersection. More gunshots rang out.

I kept running right down the middle lane. I chewed gum.

Another car sped up behind me. I heard it weave in and around traffic. Fast. Cars honked. I looked around. Tried to dash off to the side. Get off the road. A semi laid on the horn. Bad idea. I jumped back to the middle and kept on running. I could feel blood leaking down my shoulder, thigh. My entire body ached. I kept chewing gum like a locomotive chugging on coal.

A red Thunderbird bolted ahead of me, twisted into a half moon turn and skidded to a stop. The pa.s.senger window rolled down.

"Moody!"

The prettiest site I ever saw.

"How about a cigar?" Shasta held a Cuban in the same hand she was gonna use to toss knives at dwarves on spinning wheels for a living.

Coincidence? Opportunity? h.e.l.l if I know. I dove through the open window.

Before I was upright in my seat, she'd left Hank's goons in the dust. I lit my cigar as Shasta drove west toward Saint Mary's, into the sunset. We had a demon door to open and a circus to catch.

Jodi MacArthur drives fast cars, blows bubbles, and tickles naughty dwarves while tripping the dark fantastic. Her fiction has won multiple contests and recently was nominated for a Spinetingler Award. Read on at www.jodimacarthur.blogspot.com

Padre.

By AJ Hayes.

It's midnight when the cell phone rings. I scramble awake to answer. Only one person got that number. h.e.l.lo Padre I say. How you doing? He talks a while. I say okay and hang up. Jimmy looks at me.

Padre needs us I say. Jimmy's already out the door.

We get to the docks and I almost miss him standing back in the shadows. Jimmy don't. He makes a bee line and grabs the old priest in a bear hug. Padre hugs him back tight and waits for me to catch up.

h.e.l.lo Bobby he says. His creased, leather face wrinkles up in a smile and he pats Jimmy on the top of the head. Good boy James he says. It's time to work now.

The kid moves away a little bit and gives him full attention. Like n.o.body else in the world exists right now. For an autistic twelve-year-old like Jimmy I guess that's true.

Only thing that tells you Padre's a priest is the collar. Otherwise he looks like an old club fighter. Crew cut. Flat nose. Cobweb of scars around the eyes. Black turtleneck and washed-out jeans with scuffed knees. The eyes though. They tell you. That kind of blue like old Mexican tiles. Sometimes they look right inside and see everything there is. Everything that's ever been. People don't forget those eyes. Some see them in their dreams. Some see them in their nightmares.

He tells us what he wants.

We round the corner of a warehouse and Demitri's standing under a work light by a sea container at the end of the dock. Big f.u.c.ker. Russian. Got those gulag tats tell what kind of a bad motherf.u.c.ker he is. Looks by himself but I know better. Son of a b.i.t.c.h'es never alone. There's a kind of swoosh by my side. Jimmy's gone. We keep walkin' Padre and me.

What you want priest Demitri says. I'm watchin' close. Ready to hit the ground.

Padre says I want to buy your merchandise.

The Russian laughs big like it's the best joke he ever heard. Buy? he says. What you going to buy with Priest? Little Sisters of the Poor money? You steal from the nuns? Another big laugh.

Show me the merchandise Padre says. If it's not damaged then we'll talk payment.

Demitri scowls. You not trust me Priest? You think I'm cheat? But he turns and motions us to follow him to the container.

He removes the padlock on a rusty door and pulls it open. He reaches inside and flips a switch. Harsh fluorescents light up and we see six young women all so pregnant they look like beach b.a.l.l.s. They're crammed together tight as far back into the container as they can get. The place reeks so high with the smell of p.i.s.s and s.h.i.+t it burns my eyes. The youngest of them looks about fourteen. The Russian closes the door and steps away.

There he says you see? All alive. Healthy. No problems. Everything good. You buy now?

Padre nods. Yes he says I'll buy them. What's your price?

Hm, he says. Let me see. He looks up. Like he's making calculations in his head. Smiles.

Okay he says. They all Afghani. Good Muslim girls. Clean. But. He holds up his index finger. They all got G.I. babies inside. Soldiers you know. All same when Glorious Soviet Invasion happening only then Russian babies.

His grin shows off gold teeth in front. Good Muslim parents gonna kill these not so good Muslim daughters. But I buy. I save good Muslim girls for five hundred US dollars each. Family happy. Girls happy. I'm great man. Humanitarian you know?

He shrugs. But I'm businessman too. So I sell girls for wh.o.r.es. But wh.o.r.es cheap. Wh.o.r.es everywhere in US. He winks at Padre and me. Wh.o.r.e only bring two three thousand each. Maybe more if young and pretty. So for six wh.o.r.es I get maybe thirty-five hundred each. Makes total of twenty-one thousand. He looks at Padre.

But it gets better he says. Babies come before we sell the wh.o.r.es. I get babies right after they are born and take away. Take to doctor I know. He chop up babies and sell parts to a place. You know parts. Blood cells. Skin. Organs. Stem cells. Stem cells very popular. Save lots of American babies. n.o.body care where come from. Newborn. Pure. No defects. Docs think this is feast of healing. Think this is some serious gourmet s.h.i.+t.

His grin gets wider. I'm great humanitarian again he says. See? Get easy fifty thousand for parts times six make three hundred thousand. He looks at Padre with dead black eyes. So. Priest. You got three hundred twenty one thousand US to buy merchandise?

Padre smiles his gentle smile. No my son he says. Something far more valuable.

The Russian's laughter doesn't reach his shark-dead eyes. Make your offer Priest he says.

I can save your soul from the eternal fire that waits for you. Padre's voice is soft and sad.

The gun's in Demitri's hand faster than a blink. Looks like a forty-five but f.u.c.king end of the world bigger.

Soul he yells. My soul? You come down here and waste my time? Blabber religion? My time worth more than that. Much more. Maybe my time worth your lives you f.u.c.ks.

The gun swings my way. The hole in the end black and dark as a tunnel to h.e.l.l.

What you think altar boy? Think priest parts and altar boy parts bring good price huh?

Not so much I think. But who knows.

He clicks the hammer back.

Padre don't move. Just shakes his head. I'm sorry he says.

From behind him something arches up and over. Looks like a small flock of birds fluttering down on the asphalt. Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop. We all look down. Six severed hands. Three matched pairs leaking small pools of blood. So much for the hired help I think.

The Russian swings the gun and lets off a round into the darkness behind him then goes down hard with a scream of pain. The gun skitters away across the dock and I hear it splash into the dark water.

Jimmy rises from the shadows behind him and walks toward us wiping his straight razor on his red hoodie. Bad man fall down he says.

Yeah I think. Bad men tend to do that when their Achilles tendons have been cut clear through.

Padre walks quickly to Demitri. He kneels beside the big man and bends his head to hear what the Russian's trying to say. The dead black eyes are showing something now. Maybe fear I think. Maybe something he sees coming.

Priest he says so low I can hardly hear him. You keep promise. You got girls now. You save me. His eyes look past Padre staring at that something in the dark. You keep promise. You are priest. He clutches Padre's forearm. Breathing hard. The black light is fading fast from his eyes.

You keep promise he says. Padre gently lifts the big man's head and stares deep into his eyes. He smiles his gentle smile.

I lied he says and watches the light fade to nothing.

Back at Padre's church I settle down and listen to the river outside. It's warm and the old building whispers to itself. Small creaks and groans and every now and then a little sound like baby birds chirruping softly. Candles throw patterns of light and shadow across the walls. It's a good place that church. A peaceful place. I'm dozing as dawn begins and Jimmy and Padre come out of the confessional. Jimmy's smiling and Padre he looks like Padre always does. He walks us to the door and Jimmy darts off down the sidewalk.

The girls will be all right I ask. Padre nods. My friends have a lot of experience at this kind of thing he says. Good I say and turn to go. A thought hits me and I turn back to the old priest as he's shutting the door.

Padre I say what does Jimmy confess to? He laughs quietly. You have it wrong my son he says. I don't hear Jimmy's confession. He hears mine.

The door closes behind me and I walk to the corner where my friend is waiting.

AJ Hayes lives in Southern California and admires the citizens of that particular patch of crazy a lot. They are a never ending source of WTF! Fiction is an art form that puzzles him but against the advice of friends and family he keeps tryin'. AJ's stories and poems have appeared in A Twist Of Noir, Yellow Mama, Muck and Muse, t.i.tle Fights, Acorn Review, Flashshot, The Hard Nosed Sleuth, Shotgun Honey, Apollo's Lyre and Black Heart Magazine's Noir Issue.

The Creation of Ice.

By Sandra Seamans.

Madelyn Cooper awoke to find herself duct taped to a straight back chair. An elderly woman, who looked like a bag of cotton b.a.l.l.s had exploded on her head, stood with her arms crossed over her sagging b.r.e.a.s.t.s clutching a cast iron frying pan in her hand. Madelyn moaned, the frying pan certainly explained the pounding headache.

c.o.o.n Randall, the reason she was duct taped to the chair, was lying dead on the floor near Madelyn's feet. If it hadn't been for the housekeeper and that lethal frying pan, she would have been long gone. d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l, what was she thinking, coming back to Stillwater? For twenty-five years she'd managed to keep this place in her rearview mirror. Now here she was, trussed up like an UPS package. Bad luck was about the only thing that thrived in this s.h.i.+thole of a town.

The sound of heavy boots and the slap of a screen door on the doorframe caught her attention. She tried to turn but the tape held her fast.

"She's awake, Sheriff," said the ferocious watchdog with the frying pan. "You want I should slap her upside the head again?"

Madelyn could hear the smile in his voice. "Thanks anyway, Sadie, from the looks of it, you took the fight right out her. We'll take it from here."

Sadie looked thoroughly disgusted. "Tain't right, you know, the likes of her coming in here and shootin' c.o.o.n like she done. Weren't no cause for her to do that." Sadie paused her rant long enough to spit in Madelyn's direction. "d.a.m.n wh.o.r.e, you shoulda stayed gone."

Madelyn couldn't have agreed more.

Chuckles came from the sheriff and his deputy as Sadie shook the frying pan in Madelyn's face then shuffled out of the room still sputtering about wh.o.r.es and c.o.o.n's death.

"Your turn, Kid, are you sure you're up for this interrogation?"

"I've been waiting for this moment all my life, Jackson."

"Yeah, but are you sure you can do what needs doing?"

"Have you ever known me to fail when I put my mind to something?"