Pulp Ink Part 7

I kicked a tire on Zed's car. I was what they call fresh out of leads. Time to start thinking of this as the one that got away. If he was smart he'd be in Florida by now, different name, new mustache, working on six days sober.

Before two nights ago when I got the call I'd have said he wasn't near that smart. Now though...

I searched through the glove box. Nothing there to tell me where he might be. The address on the registration was the one I'd searched first thing. The one he shared with a Haitian night janitor. The Haitian night janitor with those broken thumbs. Guess the twenty-seventh floor will have to wait a few weeks to get their floors polished.

Nothing under the seats that I could see other than the crumbs of a hundred dead cheeseburgers. Nothing under the visors. I popped the hood and found an engine and that's it. Around the back, in the trunk, I found the clue I'd been missing.

Zed.

His body anyway. Hands bound, face beaten, three ragged holes in his jacket over his heart.

I stood back, held my breath from the cloud of stink like a skunk spray. (Follow the scent, idiot. Follow the scent. Guess I'm not a very good b.i.t.c.h.) When I could breathe again I said low so only myself, and my new pal Zed, could hear, "Zed's dead, baby."

They were all right and I'd been all wrong.

I felt no satisfaction. Looking at his face I saw the resemblance QT spoke of. He was curled on his side like a kid taking a nap. I could see the cheek resting on the carpet of the trunk and the red wine colored skin where the blood had all pooled.

I got genuinely p.i.s.sed. We were supposed to be friends. Maybe partners. His genius moves to stay one step ahead of me had been bulls.h.i.+t. He wasn't a genius. He was a f.u.c.king corpse.

I shot him three times for closure, but it didn't work. His body just lay there and took the shots like a pillow.

The new question arose. Who killed him? f.u.c.k if I care. My job was done. Sneaky b.a.s.t.a.r.d had me fooled. Whether he'd gone to Florida or the trunk of his car, that little rat b.a.s.t.a.r.d got me good.

Before I closed the trunk I mimed tipping a hat to him. I know when I've been beat. At least I could get some sleep now. The whole thing was a bit of a dry hump, but d.a.m.n if I didn't feel charged up as h.e.l.l to get to the next one. That sonofab.i.t.c.h I'm gonna find, whoever it might be.

And when I get him, I'll have one h.e.l.l of a story to tell in between busted fingers. And when I get to that last one, when I have that moment of compa.s.sion that makes me pause and think I might let it go and get my tearful hug instead, I'm going to think of Zed and snap that f.u.c.king thumb as hard as I can.

Eric Beetner is co-author (with JB Kohl) of the novels One Too Many Blows To The Head and the sequel, Borrowed Trouble, and is an award-winning short story and screenwriter. Eric's short fiction has appeared in Needle, Thuglit, Pulp Pusher, A Twist of Noir, Crimefactory and many others, including the anthologies Murder In The Wind, Discount Noir, Grimm Tales, and D*cked. Eric lives in Los Angeles with two daughters and a wife who worries about what goes on in his head. For information and links to stories visit ericbeetner.blogspot.com.

Your Mother Should Know.

By Allan Guthrie.

G.o.d took Pa when I was six. An automobile accident. Some folks' religious fervor would have waned. Not my mom's. Pa's early ascent to heaven made Mom even more pa.s.sionate about her faith. She prayed on her knees every night for hours at a time, skin like squashed spiders when she stood up.

"I'm warning you, Masie. If you sin, G.o.d will strike you down." Mom took the black-and-white photo of the old church spire off the wall. Looked at it with tears in her eyes. "Broken in two by a bolt of His glorious lightning." She stared at me. "You want that to happen to you?"

I never did anything wrong till I was sixteen.

When I met Billy, he showed me there was more to life than saying Grace, attending Bible study and sitting on hard benches during evening prayer meetings at the church with the restored spire. Billy took me dancing. Billy took me for long drives in his pickup. Billy took me to see movies I wasn't supposed to see. Billy said middle cla.s.s white folks had invented G.o.d and that He didn't exist.

"Watch your tongue, Billy Rearden," I told him.

One night Billy kissed me. We were standing under a lamppost. It felt real good even though it was raining fit to choke a toad. I loved the feel of his tongue on mine, the little dance, the wriggle, the rub. And the taste of him. Sweet, like grated carrot. After we'd kissed, Billy tilted his head back and opened his mouth and drank the rain that was pouring down. We were wetter than a pair of naked ducks. I held his hand and tilted my head back, too. The rain tasted clean.

It was about a week later that Billy took off his s.h.i.+rt to show me the snake tattooed on his back. When he bunched his muscles, the snake writhed. I squealed like a hog when I saw it. It looked so real. He asked me to get a tattoo. An itsy-bitsy b.u.t.terfly? No?

I didn't want a tattoo.

"You gotta do something," he said. "Prove you love me."

"Okay," I said. "I will."

"What you got in mind?"

Well, I didn't have anything in mind. I pretended I'd thought of something. I put on a smirk and told him to wait and see. A week of that and he was crazier than a dust devil in a bucket of sand. Soon, I told him, hoping an idea would flower in my empty head.

One hot afternoon, sticky with sweat, a sour smell drifting from the cheese shop as we pa.s.sed, I saw a woman who wasn't from around these parts. She was maybe three or four years older than me. Hair dyed black, wearing a black dress, black shoes. She had rings on every finger and each ear was pierced a dozen times. Mr. Dawson, the butcher, threw his door wide open, and the woman started speaking to him. I saw that her tongue had a silver stud in it.

I knew what I had to do.

Next day, I caught a bus to Franklin. Sixteen miles in the sweltering heat. No aircon. I was parched when I arrived, my dress clinging to me in all sorts of places as I walked down the steps. I bought a bottle of Pepsi, took a long drink. Then sipped, letting the bubbles dance on my tongue while I looked for Aldo's.

Pain is unpredictable. That's what Aldo said. Some it hurts, some it don't.

"Try me," I said, and giggled. Unpredictable, I was thinking, minutes later, metal forceps clamping my tongue, my hands shaking. Like the new me.

"Deep breath," he said. "In through your mouth and gently out through your nose."

I did as Aldo asked, balled my fists, squeezed, screwed my eyes shut. The pain lasted a lifetime.

Eventually he said, "Done."

Feeling the stud in my mouth was kinda weird. It was out of place in there, like a hard, raw bean.

My tongue hurt all the way home, but I couldn't stop grinning. I'd done it. Proved I loved Billy.

I hardly recognized him behind the counter at the shoe shop. His hair was combed and he wore smart clothes. He smiled, pretty as sin with those straight white teeth. I told him I had a surprise for him. I couldn't p.r.o.nounce "s" without slurring. I stuck out my tongue.

Billy's smile turned into a sneer. "Why did you do that?" he said. "It's gross."

I wanted to rip my tongue out.

Instead, I turned and ran. Feet thumping the sidewalk, the bones in my toes sc.r.a.ping together. The heat was something terrible, air so humid I could hardly breathe. Dark clouds were gathering. A bad storm was coming. I kept running, my feet hurting, my lungs wet as drowned kittens.

Mom was in the kitchen, baking. The smell of apple pie was enough to make me cry. I threw my arms around her. She said, "Whatever's the matter?"

"Just hold me, Mom."

Her arms circled my back. "What have you done?" she said, after the first flash of lightning lit up the room, making it brighter than the brightest day.

I let go of her and stepped back.

"Look at me," she said.

I tried to look at her.

"Oh my stars." She was angry now. "What have you done?"

I shook my head.

"Speak to me."

I tried to think of a word that didn't have an "s" in it. "Nothing," I said.

She pinched my chin between her finger and thumb and forced my head up. "What in G.o.d's holy name is that in your mouth?" Her eyes blazed with the kind of fury I'd only seen once before, when I skipped Bible cla.s.s. She'd beaten me so hard I had to spend a night in the hospital.

I brushed her hand away. Then I turned and dove into the bathroom. It had a lock. I was safe in there.

She banged on the door, yelling at me and telling me how much of G.o.d's wrath I had invoked.

"Leave me alone," I whispered. She couldn't hear me but G.o.d could.

Through the frosted gla.s.s window I saw another bolt of lightning. Seconds later, a crash of thunder. I hoped the rain would come soon. I loved the rain now, after Billy had shown me how to enjoy it.

I loved Billy. I'd proven it. He'd see that soon. He was fine. As fine as hair on a frog.

After a while, Mom stopped banging on the door. I could hear her praying for me.

I opened the window. Another flash of lightning. I stood on the toilet seat and poked my head outside. I felt a heavy raindrop land on my forehead. I craned my neck, twisting sideways to catch the rain as it fell. Subtle honey drops splashed in my mouth. I thought of Billy again and started to cry.

My mouth opened wider, craving more rain to wash away the salt of my tears.

The pain was sudden and intense.

My tongue burst open. My cheeks exploded. Fire tore through my chest. All at the same time.

When I woke up, I was on the bathroom floor, Mom holding my hand. I forced words out through a choked tunnel of pain, gagging on the smell of scorched flesh. "Wha' happen'?"

"A bolt of glorious lightning," Mom said. "I warned you, Masie."

Billy came to see me in the hospital. I think I'd have killed him anyway but he didn't help himself by throwing up the minute he caught sight of me.

Seven weeks later, that's all it was. Soon as I was able, I walked out of there.

Billy first. He cried a lot.

Then Mom. She didn't even struggle. I did her a favor. She missed Pa.

I don't know why I killed Mr. Dawson, the butcher.

I was wore out after that. I sat on the sidewalk in the rain, a real frog-strangler of a downpour. My bandages soaked through and my wounds stung. I thought maybe G.o.d had something more to say, but He seemed happy enough.

Allan Guthrie is an award-winning Scottish crime writer. His debut novel, Two-Way-Split, was shortlisted for the CWA Debut Dagger award and went on to win the Theakstons Crime Novel of the Year in 2007. He is the author of four other novels: Kiss Her Goodbye (nominated for an Edgar), Hard Man, Savage Night and Slammer and three novellas: Kill Clock, Killing Mum and Bye, Bye Baby, an Amazon Kindle Top Ten bestseller. When he's not writing, he's a literary agent with Jenny Brown a.s.sociates.

You Never Can Tell.

By Matthew C. Funk.

Junior was studying Atticus' hands to figure if they were the right ones and Nina wondered how he might tell they were the ones that killed his father.

Would it be something in the crease of the knuckles? In the notches? In their weight? She just knew they weren't the hands Junior had been seeking for these past nine months.

Junior and Nina simmered on folding chairs down a stretch of lakesh.o.r.e from Atticus and watched. Sweat crawled on them like cake frosting. Nina drank Old Mill and fed Bug from her breast. Junior stared at Atticus, shoulders sloped and belly bulging from his open Cabana s.h.i.+rt, apelike with delayed attack.

Atticus smoked and drank from a paper bag. He checked his fis.h.i.+ng lines and his b.a.l.l.s. His eyes were for the lake and for the women in it. His thoughts were for Junior to guess.

The sun was melting deep orange over the haze of Mississippi pines when Junior pulled out the photograph like Nina knew he would. He smoothed open the wad of it. He studied it and studied Atticus.

"He's the one," Junior said like he had three times before. A breath something like the kind she held at the top of the county fair rollercoaster's crest unfurled from Nina.

"You sure?" It took an effort to keep her voice smooth. Nina was a mess of strings inside.

"Sure as I'm going to be."

"How can you tell?"

"I just get a feeling." Junior's hands got restless all motion; no direction. Nina got a chill, even though summer still had its tongue all over her. She thought on the temperature of metal in a morgue.

"You've had such feelings before," Nina scolded, only to be knocked slack-faced by Junior's glare. He wadded the photograph like he could crush it out of the world.

"It doesn't change what I've got to do." Junior spoke with fists on his knees, fists in his eyes. Nina felt desolate. It was a kind of bravery enough to find a voice.

"Explain to me again why you've got to do it. Explain what your Pa dying has to do with us giving up our life in New Orleans to find who done it?"

Junior's answer was to turn away. It so often was. His anger slipped, leaving only the tonnage of despair to stretch down his features. He looked just like a hound dog, Nina thought. Just like a hound dog that got beat and didn't know why.

She reached out, hoping her fingers would smooth some of those lines from his face hide the tenderness raked up in her man. Then Junior hissed and stood.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it," Junior pulled off his round Cuban hat and stripped the wet from his brow with a shaking hand. Nina glanced around. Atticus was gone.