Kwik Krimes (35 page)

He thought about how his coworkers might react when they heard the news. Some would express shock. Others would smugly declare they saw it coming. He placed his spoon next to the gun on the kitchen table and took a sip of the hot liquid.

He wasn’t bothered this time when she burst into the house with all the grace of a water buffalo, slamming the front door and dropping her bags and shoes in the hall with her usual disregard. She would assume, of course, that he would put them away, as he always did. As he placed his cup down on the table
and rose from his chair, he wished she knew just how wrong she was.

He was curious as to why she seemed shocked when he grabbed her around the neck and put the gun to her head. She was intelligent. Her vision was good. Hadn’t she discerned in his voice, seen in his eyes, the smoldering, bottomless, rabid hatred that had been brewing in him for so long?

He wondered how long it would take the neighbors to call the police after hearing the gunshot. Given that the nosy hag next door reveled in knowing their every move, he figured it was just a matter of minutes. He set the gun down to take one last sip of his lukewarm coffee, ignoring the blood and bits of gray matter that covered his hand.

He listened numbly to the shriek of the approaching sirens. He hoped when they came in, they wouldn’t trip on the clutter in the hall; there just wasn’t time to clean up. He set his cup down, picked up the gun, put the barrel to his temple, and pulled the trigger. He sighed when it jammed and blamed that on her, too. Even in death, the bitch. Holding the gun in plain view, he headed for the door.

He wondered if the young cop shakily pointing his gun at him liked his coffee black or with cream. Maybe he didn’t even drink coffee, as young as he was. Probably fresh out of the academy. He raised his bloodied pistol and hoped the rookie had scored well during his firearms training.

He needn’t have worried. The double-tapped bullets found their target. As incoming waves of unconsciousness slowly but steadily smothered the fire in his chest and the light in his eyes, he had one last thought. He wondered, did he remember to turn off the coffeepot?

Not that it mattered.

T
HIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN
Y
ELLOW
M
AMA
.

M.B. Manteufel is a freelance writer with published credits in a variety of print and online magazines. A former federal law enforcement agent, she has always been drawn to things dangerous, deviant, and disturbing. In her current incarnation as a writer, she now enjoys indulging those interests worry free of being shot, stabbed, maimed, or sued. She makes her home on the dry side of Washington State.

Paul Newman

“W
addaya mean he’s not dead? We all saw him hanging up there! He was up there all damned day!” Peter said.

Thomas shook his head. “Don’t take it out on me. I’m just telling you what Luke said. It looks like he’s gonna pull through!”

There were cheers in the small room. Peter shook his head and buried his face in his hands.

Matthew was the only other one that seemed to understand. “Shut up, you idiots, shut up all of you! Don’t you get it?” He turned to Peter. “Is it too late to call it off? At least a delay?”

Peter did some figuring on his fingers before he slumped his meaty shoulders and shook his head. “Nope, it’s too late. The girls are supposed to meet us there in just a couple hours. You know what we have to do, don’t you?”

Matthew cleared his throat and looked away.

Peter thought a moment. “John? Hey, John? Come up here for a minute.” A young man in the back looked up from his drink. His eyes were red and his face streaked from crying. He sniffled before he answered.

“Is it true? Is he really alive?” The wine and tears slurred his words into mush.

Peter reached in his belt and pulled out a couple of silvers. He handed them to the boy. “I’m sure we’ll get it all figured out. Never mind that for now; we’re almost out of wine, and it’s your turn to run and get it. Why don’t you pick up some chips while you’re out?”

John trudged up to the front table and pocketed the money, then slunk out the door. Peter waited to make sure he was gone, then continued.

“All right, everybody; listen up! We don’t have a lot of time. I guess you guys heard what Thomas had to say.”

A few heads bobbed up and down.

“You all know the plan. You all know what was supposed to happen next.”

More nods.

“Then you know that this mucks everything up. We all took the oath—you know what we’re gonna have to do.” He picked up a clump of straw from the floor and sorted out a handful of pieces, each a few inches long. He took one out and snapped it in half, then bundled them all in his closed fist so no one could tell the difference. “Everybody’s gonna draw a straw. It’s the only way to be fair. The short straw has to do it. Come on up, all of you. One line. Single file.”

Matthew went first. Peter made sure it was a long one. Thomas drew a long straw and let out a deep sigh. Judas went next and pulled out half a straw.

“Aw, dammit! Me again? Why do I always get stuck with the shit duty?”

Peter smiled over at Matthew. “Must just be bad luck, Judas. Do you know what you need to do?”

The other man nodded, then reached in his belt for a long, curved dagger. He grinned so wide it showed his back teeth.

“Put that thing away! Now hurry, before John gets back!” Judas nodded and hurried out the door into the night.

Matthew cleared his throat and got Peter’s attention. He asked a question with his eyes, Peter nodded. Matthew stood and spoke.

“I know it’s been a long night, brothers. It’s been hard on all of us, but sometimes the hard choices have to be made. Remember why we’re doing this! Remember the greater good! Remember your oaths to Yahweh and the Glorious People’s Revolution!” Peter saw a few of them start to nod as Matthew continued. “Now, there’s just one more piece of bad business, and then we can get back on track. We’re going to have to deal with Brother Judas.” He paused and looked around the room. “Any volunteers?”

Every hand in the room went up, even the ones in the back. Matthew and Peter smiled at each other over their heads. Maybe they had a chance after all.

T
HIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN
G
RIFT
M
AGAZINE
.

Paul Newman lives in Northern California with his wife, daughter, and a neurotic beagle. He sleeps with the closet light on and keeps a cricket bat next to the bed…just in case.

Tom Pitts

“I
’m telling you, when he’s out, he’s out cold. All we gotta do is get someone to buzz us inside the building.”

“It’ll never work.”

“It’ll work, I’m telling you. He keeps his shit in that little plastic box with his scale.” Jeff envisioned it, a fat sticky lump of Mexican heroin. Enough to keep him, Ricky, and Crystal high for days.

“What if the door is locked?”

“I have the goddamn key to the front door. I made a copy last week when he sent me out to the store for cigarettes. Fucking asshole, making me fetch him shit like some kind of gopher. Serves him right.”

“I mean, what if there’s a dead bolt or chain or something on the door?”

“So what? Then we walk away. He’s not gonna wake up, that’s for sure. That prick sleeps like he’s dead.”

“What if he’s not alone?”

“He’s alone. Who the fuck in their right mind would sleep with that arrogant piece of shit?”

“I dunno, man. Sounds risky.”

“Risky? Ricky, are you kidding me? Fuck this asshole. He takes our goddamn money every day, makes us wait forever, treats us
like children. Do you wanna get well or not? I got Crystal waiting for me at home, and she’s gonna wake up sick, and I’m not coming back to my baby empty-handed.”

“Yeah.” Ricky’s tone was sheepish.

“All right then.”

The two junkies walked up the marble steps and studied the intercom bank for a button to push.

“Pick one on the third floor.”

“What if they walk down to check?”

“Just fuckin’ pick one and stop being such a chicken-shit.”

Ricky hit a random button on the third floor. No response. He hit another. Same. Jeff reached past him and, using all four fingers, hit four at once. The front door buzzed. They were in. They walked down the first-floor hallway, light on their feet. They could hear sounds of life from the other apartments: TV, dishes clamoring, a small dog yelping. The apartment they wanted was toward the back of the building.

They came to the door. Jeff turned toward Ricky and whispered, “I work too hard hustling all day to keep giving this prick my money for those tiny slivers of dope. He might as well just factor my goddamn dignity into the price.” From his pocket he pulled out a single bronze key. He slid the key into the lock and turned the knob. They were met with stale cigarette smoke, body odor, and darkness.

With a plastic disposable lighter for a torch, they entered the dealer’s apartment. Jeff knew right where the dope was stashed, beside the computer monitor in a pale-green plastic box. He put away the lighter and picked up the box. He opened it up, felt inside for the lump of dope, and found it. Ecstatic, his heart skipped a beat. The lid to the box fell loudly onto the keyboard in front of the monitor. The blank screen flashed on brightly, illuminating their horrified faces.

“Shit,” mouthed Ricky.

“Hello?” They heard a voice say. A female voice. “Hello, is there anyone there?”

The two junkies froze. The bare lightbulb above their heads flared, and they stood looking at a woman with a small silver handgun pointed toward them. She was in one of the dealer’s ugly paisley dress shirts, unbuttoned, no bra, no panties.

“Jeff?”

“Crystal?” said Jeff. It was his girlfriend, fiancée in fact, the love of his miserable life. It wasn’t registering. His mind raced to find a reason for her to be there. Maybe she was doing what he was doing—working hard to bring home some dope so the both of them could have wake-ups tomorrow. Working hard—with no panties.

“What the fuck?”

She said nothing.

The two junkies knew at once they weren’t going to be shot. But it didn’t matter. Jeff looked like he’d already been shot.

“C’mon!” said Ricky. The two fiends ran out the front door of the apartment, down the hallway, and out into the cool night air. It was blocks before they slowed down to a walk. Ricky finally said it.

“You’re right, Jeff, dignity is factored into the price.”

T
HIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN
T
HE
F
LASH
F
ICTION
O
FFENSIVE
.

Tom Pitts received his education on the streets of San Francisco. He remains there, working, writing, and trying to survive. His novella,
Piggyback,
is published by Snubnose Press. Find links to more of his work at
Tom-Pitts.blogspot.com
.

Stephen D. Rogers