Grimm Tales (10 page)

The Master Cat

By John Kenyon

In a way, this is the story that started it all. Reading “Puss in Boots” to my three-year-old for the umpteenth time, my mind wandered. How could I recast this as crime fiction? I wondered.

Ronnie slammed the bottle of Beam down on the bar, sending a fountain of whiskey shooting from the neck and onto his shirt and the floor. “Goddammit! I'm sick of this!” he shouted.

Catherine, a lanky, angular girl with long raven hair, stopped swinging on the pole and stood looking at him. “What's your problem?” she shouted over Motley Crue's “Girls, Girls, Girls” blaring from the club's speakers.

“What's my problem?” Ronnie asked. “Did you happen to notice that you're dancing for one person?” He gestured to Toothless Chuck, who sat with his head down on folded arms, dozing, oblivious to the music, the commotion or the naked woman in worn thigh-high black leather boots gyrating a few feet away.

“So? He's all we get at five on a Thursday. It'll pick up,” Catherine said.

“Sure, pick up to where we have five guys in here buying the cheapest beers they can to meet the minimum so they can stay long enough to get a nice image or maybe even cop a feel to fuel their jerk-off session back at the dorm later. This is ridiculous. I oughta have more to show for my life by now,” he said, slumping against the back of the bar.

“You got me, sugar,” she said, stepping off the stage. She slid behind the bar, threw her arms around Ronnie's shoulders and raised one leg up to rub her thigh against his crotch. He reached down and grabbed under her leg and pulled her close.

“OK, so I got a washed-up lesbian stripper for a best friend who splits the profits with me when she takes a customer back for a handjob,” he said. “Can't wait to go to the high school reunion and watch everyone turn green with envy over the way my life has turned out.”

“You know what? Fuck you. That's uncalled for. I'm an exotic dancer, not a stripper,” she said, smiling. She went around to the front of the bar, pulled out a stool and sat down. The scrape of the metal legs against the floor roused Chuck for a moment, but he looked around, seemed unimpressed by what he saw and settled back down to continue his nap.

“Don't you think I'm tired of this, too?” Catherine said. “But I'm also tired of you bellyaching about it. It's obvious you're not going to do anything for yourself, so I'm going to do it for you. Give me two weeks and promise me a new pair of boots, and I'll make you the king of this town.”

Ronnie raised his eyebrows and gave her a smirk. “Really? You're kingmaker now? This I gotta see.” He opened the cash register and made a sweeping gesture across the till. “It's all yours.”

Daylight spilled through the club's front door as two young men in khakis and pastel button-down shirts entered. Catherine clambered back onto the stage, grabbed the pole and began a slow hip shake to “Superfly.” “Two-drink minimum, gentlemen,” Ronnie said to the customers. “Let me see some ID and we'll get you something to drink while you watch the lovely Puss in Boots do her thing.”

* * *

Catherine came out of the apartment at the same time as her neighbor. He was dressed all in black, his hair exquisitely coiffed, sunglasses perched atop his head. He gave her an appraising up-and-down look and whistled. “You the new tenant?” he said as he pulled his door shut.

“I am,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “I figure a mover like you would pay better attention. I've been here for a few weeks now.”

“Well, I'm noticing now, sugar,” he said. “I'm Tony.”

“Catherine,” she said. “You can call me Cat.”

“So, what's your story?”

“I'm Ronnie Miller's girl,” she said, walking away from him down the hall.

“Miller?” he asked, hurrying now to follow. “Should I know him?”

“If you're at all connected in this town, you should be ashamed if you don't. He's an important man, has his finger in many pies,” she said with a smirk. “So, what's your story? You look like a player, but if you don't even know Ronnie…”

“I run a couple of clubs for Mark Carabas,” he said. “I'm sure you've heard of him.”

“Rings a bell,” she said as they stepped out into the street. “Street thug or something?”

He laughed. “That's maybe how he got his start, but Mr. Carabas is a diversified businessman now. Of course, I wouldn't want to get on his bad side. He may be more Wall Street than backstreet, but he takes care of business.”

A long, black limo pulled to the curb in front of the building. “That's my ride,” Catherine said. “Be seeing you.” She stepped in and the car sped away, a puzzled Tony watching it weave through traffic.

* * *

“You heard of Ronnie Miller?” Tony asked as Lamar unloaded cases of expensive whiskey in the back room of the Marquee Club.

“Sure,” he said. “Who ain't heard a Ronnie?”

“Seriously?” Tony said, idly counting a stack of bills and sliding it into a bank bag. “What's he do?”

“What doesn't he do?” Lamar said. “Seems like he's into a little bit of everything.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony said. “Just checking. You know, gotta protect Mr. Carabas' interests.”

Lamar settled into the driver's seat of his truck, then pulled out his cell phone. He called the number on the back of a business card tucked in his visor. “Hey, I was just in there and asked about that Ronnie guy,” he said. “Fifty bucks, right? That was the deal.” He listened, then hung up and drove away.

* * *

“Go buy yourself a really nice suit,” Catherine said.

Ronnie, who was washing glasses behind the bar, looked up at her with a frown. “Why the hell would I do that? I hardly make enough to keep this place open and keep you in boots.”

“Just do it. Armani or something. I need you looking good.”

“Are clothing stores open on Sunday? I could go tomorrow.”

“If you're gonna drop a couple grand on a suit, they'll be open,” she said.

“A couple grand! Remind me why I'm doing this again?”

“How would you like to get out of this dump and start earning some serious money?”

“What? I think you know the answer to that one, Cat,” he said. “Tell me what to do and I'll do it.”

* * *

Catherine and Tony were again standing on the curb in front of their building.

“You need a ride?” she asked. “I'm going to run by Ronnie's and do some errands, but I could have the driver take you wherever.”

“That would be great,” Tony said, looking at his watch. The limo pulled up again, and Catherine stepped in. She looked back at Tony. “You coming?”

He climbed in and sat across from her, rubbing his hands slowly across the soft leather seats. “Nice ride. This his?”

Before she could answer, the driver lowered the divider between the front and back. “Where to today, Miz Catherine?”

“Four hundred Castillo, Phillipe,” she said. “We're having an event tonight.”

“Of course, Miss,” he replied, raising the divider.

“An event, huh?” Tony said. “A little dinner party or something?”

“I wouldn't say ‘little,'” Catherine said. “Unless you think four hundred guests is little.”

Tony whistled, then sat back, admiring the interior of the car and his fellow passenger, who slowly crossed one long bare leg over the other. This dame was smokin' hot, he thought. This Miller guy's gotta be doing all right if he can afford to keep a piece of tail like that happy.

The divider lowered. “We're here, Miz Catherine,” said the driver. Tony glanced up and saw what could only be described as a mansion. It was gated, of course, with ornate brickwork everywhere he looked.

“This is Miller's place?”

“Just tell Phillipe where you need to go, and he'll take you there,” she said as she opened the door to get out. “Phillipe, I'll need you back here in an hour.”

Tony nodded at the door as it slammed closed. He saw Catherine give a little wave to the car as it pulled away.

* * *

“Are you sure this is kosher?” Ronnie asked as he nervously straightened his tie. “I mean, these are some high rollers. They're not going to want to rub shoulders with a strip club manager.”

“That's why you're not a strip club manager tonight,” she said, brushing his hands away to fit the dark tie. “Tonight, you're Ronnie Miller, successful businessman. You don't need to say what you do. You just need to insinuate that you're involved in a lot of things, some of them a bit unsavory. These fat, pink stuffed suits will love the idea of having a drink with a mobster and they'll never question you.”

“But I'm no mobster!”

“Exactly!” she said. “You deny it, of course. Every legit businessman envies those on the other side of the law, and every crook aspires to legitimacy. Just wing it and have fun. I'll grab you when the time comes.”

Catherine was right, Ronnie thought later. No one wanted specifics. As long as he had a drink in his hands and whispered about his, um, diverse interests, while giving a knowing wink, no one questioned him. In fact, they would offer their own sly signal—a raised eyebrow, smirk or thoughtful “hmmm”—to indicate that they knew what he was.

Catherine came around from time to time to check on him, but Ronnie still had no idea what was going on. Her only advice? Be yourself.

About an hour into the party, there was a commotion by the front door. Cat swept by, gathering Ronnie by the lapel as she went. They went to the door and Cat, whispering something to a couple of beefy security-looking guys, pushed through the door and onto the expansive front porch, Ronnie trailing behind.

“Hello, Tony,” she said to the man who wasn't Mark Carabas. Ronnie recognized the crime boss; it would be hard not to, what with his mug in the newspapers and television reports on a regular basis.

“Hey, Cat. You made it sound like this was the place to be tonight, so I figured you wouldn't mind if Mr. Carabas and I came to Mr. Miller's party.”

“My party?” Ronnie said. “Cat, what's going on?”

“I believe there's been some mistake, Tony. I never said this was Mr. Miller's party. You misconstrued,” Catherine said. She turned to Carabas. “I'm terribly sorry, sir. I'm just the event planner for this symphony fundraiser. Mr. Miller here,” she turned to gesture to Ronnie, “is my guest.”

Carabas appeared to be chewing something, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He grabbed Tony by the arm. “This is what I get from my number one guy? You have me on some blueblood's front stoop begging to get into some fundraiser? You outta your mind?”

“But boss, you said I should keep my eye open for new talent, and I thought…”

“Actually, the talent here is pretty obvious,” he said, wagging his chin at Catherine. “This young lady has obviously got it together. Maybe I should hire her.”

“Oh, Mr. Carabas, I'm afraid I'm not on the market. Mr. Miller, however, has considerable management experience, and as you can see, he is obviously quite successful,” Catherine said.

“Oh yeah?” Carabas said, turning to Ronnie. “You ever run a club?”

“I have, sir,” he said.

“Sir? I like this guy!” Carabas said. “Listen, Tony, you dumb ogre, why don't you take a hike. You've embarrassed me one time too many.”

“But sir, there's some mistake,” Tony sputtered.

“Now he makes with the ‘sir' stuff,” Carabas said.

Just then, as if silently summoned, the two beefy security guys stepped onto the porch. Tony looked up at the wall of muscled flesh in front of him, ducked his head and turned to walk away. Carabas threw an arm around Ronnie's shoulder and let out a laugh.

“How would you like to come work for me, kid? You could start by running the Marquee, and we'll see where things go from there.”

* * *

Ronnie leaned back against the bar, a glass of Glenlivet on ice in his hand. He looked up to see the door to the Marquee open as Cat walked in, weaving her way through the after-five crowd of stockbrokers and hedge-fund managers to get to the bar.

“How's it goin', King?” she said. “You liking your new gig?”

“Loving it,” Ronnie said. “I don't know how you did it, but somehow this all worked out.”

“Ah, that's what I was waiting to hear,” she said. “I believe you owe me a pair of boots.”

The Bacon Blues

By BV Lawson

Thanks to some motherly inspiration and a damnedly catchy “Lay's Three Little Pigs” TV jingle for sausage that haunted BV's childhood, she hopes “The Bacon Blues” will provide the writing and pork-product catharsis she's been dreaming of.

Mike took one look at his younger brother passed out on the futon surrounded by beer cans, then ambled to the refrigerator and grabbed a malt. He shook up the can for a full minute, pulled the tab and sprayed the brown liquid all over Mr. Sleeping Beauty. Chet jumped up with a yelp, grabbed the TV remote and swung it around blindly like a gun.

“Serves you right, bro.” Mike tossed the can onto the futon to join its aluminum brethren.

Chet wiped his eyes with the tail of his shirt, the only part that was still dry. “What the hell you do that for?”

“You're staying in my house, you play by my rules.”

Chet examined the futon, which had yellow, red and black stains older than he was. “You worried about that sack of shit? Then why'd you just spray it with barley pop?”

“Naw, that thing's seen worse.” Mike nodded at the handcuffs hanging down from the railings at the end. “I'm talking about rule number one, to wit, thou shalt not smoke in my pad. I don't want a repeat of what happened at your flimsy shack going down here.”

“I told you, man, it weren't no cigarette.” Mike grabbed the remains of a potato-chip bag he was using as an ashtray, rolled it up and tucked it into his pants pocket. A gray dust cloud spewed into the air like a mini Mount St. Helens. “I smelled gasoline before everything went to hell.”

“Big deal. So you got some gas on your shoes. Don't prove a thing.”

Chet parked himself in front of the window and lifted a corner of the sheet Mike used as a curtain just enough to scan the street in both directions. Looked clean. A kid on a bike. A mixed-race geezer walking a mixed-breed mutt. A few cars—Chet's, Mike's, a black one with tinted windows.

Mike laughed at him. “Never seen you this jumpy, junior. This thing's really got you spooked. One of your bitches got herself a boyfriend out for revenge?”

Chet shook his head. “That's why I like 'em young. No baggage.” Returning to the futon, he sagged down onto the wet fabric and reached for a pack of cigarettes lying on the floor. He almost had one in his mouth when he caught Mike's glare. With his hands shaking, he put the cigarette back slowly.

“He knows, Mike. He fuckin' knows.”

“Who knows?”

“Loup, that's who. He probably sussed we're skimming off the top.”

“No way. We've been too careful. All that beer gave you nightmares. Or maybe it's just your imagination. You always were the creative one, making up stories to get us out of trouble. It's not Loup, it can't be.”

Mike joined Chet on the futon, ignoring the wetness seeping through the seat of his pants, thinking hard.
Could
Loup have found out? It seemed like the perfect setup. Raise the rates a little on their clients without telling Loup and keep the extra. He'd be none the wiser. The old Chinaman who owned the laundry knew to keep his mouth shut. Maybe that spic woman at the bakery, the one with all those kids? Nah.

“You ain't heard of Loup getting new bag men, have you, Chet?”

Chet grabbed a beer can that was still half full and gulped down the stale malt. “He wouldn't. Just the other day he said we were the best.”

“You got it wrong. He said, ‘you boys are good at what you do.' Could mean a lot of things.”

Mike's stomach started growling, so he got up long enough to raid the refrigerator and pulled out a box of week-old pizza, which he threw onto the coffee table. “Breakfast,” he said.

They both grabbed a slice, Chet picking off a piece of cheese with mold on it. “It's gotta be that artsy bitch, the blond with the attitude.”

“The one that called you a fat pig, junior?”

“That's the one. We should go have a nice long talk with her.”

Mike laughed again. “Yeah, talk. Like you talked with her last time, when she didn't want to pay our new rate? Sure had nice legs, though.”

“Bitch should be grateful she still got those legs intact, though she ain't so pretty no more.” Chet had been happy for a chance to try out his new pair of brass knuckles.

Mike's laughter faded, and he started sniffing the air. “Chet—you smell something?”

“Other than your cheap cologne?”

“I'm serious.”

Chet sniffed the air, terrier-style, and his eyes bugged out. “That's what I smelled the other day. Just like I told you. Gasoline.”

They didn't wait to see the blue-tongued flames coming out of the back bedroom. The smell from burning wood and insulation was enough to make them barrel out the front door where they could only gape at the blazing inferno from the sidewalk.

Chet shivered, despite the hot, muggy air of the August morning. “Shouldn't we call 911 or something?”

“Idiot.” Mike took keys from his pocket and pressed the button on the remote to open his car doors. “I got stuff in my house I don't want no cop to see. Better it should burn. Besides, we got worse troubles.”

“So what do we do?”

“We go see Lyle, that's what we do.”

They drove off in such a hurry, they didn't see the black car with tinted windows across the street pull away from the curb and start following. The red-haired man inside the black car took his time, knowing where they were headed. There was only one place they'd feel safe. In fact, he was counting on it.

Mike and Chet made it through town in record time, toward the waterfront and into the new development that was part of the mayor's pet “revitalization” project. Gleaming new shops, most still empty, alongside brand-spanking brick McMansions in various stages of construction.

They parked in front of Lyle's place and banged on the front door.

After a minute of banging, the door finally opened, and a man's head poked out. “I've got a doorbell, morons. And anyway, I told you not to come here. This is a respectable area. And respectable, you ain't.”

Mike pushed his way past. “Blood's thicker than water.”

As white as Chet's face was, it looked like all his blood had drained out. “You got any malt, Lyle? Better yet, how 'bout some blow? I could really use a hit right now.”

Lyle frowned at his two siblings and reached over to wipe a black smudge from Chet's forehead, rolling the black soot between his fingers. “How big a mess am I going to have to clean up this time?”

“You got a burglar alarm in this thing?” Mike took in the high ceilings, marble fireplace and new furniture, still wrapped in plastic.

“State of the art. Motion detectors, cameras, the works.”

“You're gonna need it. Loup knows, Lyle.”

Lyle inherited most of the brains from the genetic tree, but definitely not the looks, his snub-nosed face drooping down into his double jowls as he frowned even deeper. “That's impossible. We've been handing over the same amount each month. We do his dirty work, he keeps his hands clean. He never talks to any of the marks himself.”

“We just barely escaped from what is now the smoking ruins of my house. And Chet here had his shack burn to the ground yesterday. You said it yourself—no such thing as coinkidinks in this racket.”

Mike peered out the blinds, aping what Chet had done at Mike's. Everything looked normal, as far as he could tell. Real peaceful like. Being a Sunday, even the construction workers were nowhere to be seen. Just a few birds and a couple of cars, Mike's and a black one across the street with tinted windows.

“No one can get in here without you knowing it?”

“I told you. New security system. Paid big bucks for it. The guy came the other day and installed it.”

“You know him personally?”

“Who? Loup?”

“The guy who installed all those bells and whistles.”

“Well, no, but he came highly recommended.”

Chet joined Mike at the window. “Yeah, by who?”

When Lyle didn't answer, Chet and Mike turned toward him. Lyle's mouth was open, but the only noise he made came out like a gurgle.

Across the street, the man in the black car glanced in the rearview mirror long enough to rub his hand through his thick red hair. He picked up a little box on the passenger seat and palmed it lovingly. A bracelet on his wrist caught a piece of early-morning sunlight, making him recall when Gina had given it to him after a long weekend they'd spent mostly in bed. With his free hand, he traced the four letters on the bracelet, starting with the W, then moving on to the O, the L and the F. Her nickname for him. Gina was such an artist. Amazing legs, too.

Back inside Lyle's house, Mike and Chet waited for Lyle's answer, oblivious to their observer. Chet asked again. “Who recommended your security guy, Lyle?”

They had to move closer to hear his whispered words. “Riley did.”

Mike looked over at Chet, who stared back at him like a guy in the crosshairs of your car headlights right before you hit him. “Riley, as in Loup's brother, Riley?”

Lyle's expression was enough to make Chet streak toward the door.

The man in the black car pressed the red button on the little box in his hand. Within seconds, pieces of brick and marble and singed wood were littering the street, chasing the birds away. The man had seen the front door crack open a split-second before he detonated the bomb, but they weren't going to find much left of the house or those two-timing pigs. Such a shame. Lovely neighborhood and all. Maybe he and Gina would buy a place here. Apparently, there was going to be a new house going up soon.