Trouble In Paradise
Amir sat at a table beneath the famed banyan tree on the ocean side of the Moana Surfrider Hotel in Waikiki . It was December 6th and night had fallen as it usually does in the islands, like a soft curtain of midnight blue velvet. On the veranda stage behind him a small combo worked its way through yet another rendition of “Blue Hawaii.” He sipped his guava juice and watched the lights of a giant container ship about one-half mile off-shore pass behind the eastern flank of Diamond Head . The freighter disappeared into the inky tropical darkness. A moment later he looked up to see an older, Asian man in khakis and an Aloha shirt approach his table.
“Excuse me,” the stranger said, “but you look like a ‘local’. I was wondering if you know of anywhere decent to eat within walking distance of here?”
Amir expected someone younger. The man’s ethnicity was also somewhat perplexing. Nevertheless, he was too well trained to betray his surprise. “Maybe,” he replied. “What type of food are you interested in?”
“I was thinking Thai, perhaps.”
That cinched it. The reference to Thai cuisine was the key. With that, Amir took his pen and, grabbing a cocktail napkin, began writing. A moment or two later, he folded the napkin in half and offered it to the man.
“About five or ten minutes west of here, where Kalakaua and Kuhio Avenues intersect, there’s a place called Keo’s. You can't go wrong.”
“Thank you,” the Asian gentleman said as he accepted the proffered paper. “My family will be quite appreciative.” He turned on his heel and walked away. Amir lost sight of his erstwhile companion as the man mounted the steps to the veranda and made his way across the crowded hotel lobby.
About fifteen minutes later Amir, too, left. He glanced over at the band as he walked past the stage. This time the musicians were attempting to inject new life into “Little Grass Shack” but the tune seemed to be beyond the point of resuscitation. He climbed the main staircase and returned to his room on the second floor of the stately hotel. He showered and then packed. He was in bed and asleep in less than thirty minutes He had an early start in the morning. His flight left at 7:15 A.M. HST.
A quarter-past seven, that was four hours before the president’s motorcade left the airport and headed for the annual December 7th commemoration of the attack on Pearl Harbor. It had taken Amir nearly five months to cultivate his sources and ferret out the exact details of that route. Allah willing, with the information that he had just passed to his contact, the American president would never reach his destination. If all went according to plan, Amir himself would be well on his way back home by that time.
The next morning at 5:00 A.M. he exited the hotel via the marble staircase that led to the porte cochère. He stopped at the bell desk and requested a taxi. As he was waiting, he sensed a presence at his elbow. Slowly, deliberately he turned and came face to face with his contact form the previous evening.
“I wanted to thank you again for the tip about that Thai restaurant. We had a wonderful meal. We’re leaving today as well. I'm just sorry that we didn't discover that place earlier in our stay. We most certainly would have eaten there another time as well.”
Amir was speechless. Either he had made an egregious mistake or this man was one of the boldest and most iconoclastic operatives he had ever encountered.
“By the way,” the man continued, “the directions on that napkin made absolutely no sense whatsoever. I threw it out after spending nearly twenty minutes studying the map in one of those tourist publications you find everywhere here. You must have been confused. Fortunately your verbal instructions were accurate and easy to follow. Again, thank you so much for your kindness. I assumed that you were a resident. For a visitor you're remarkably well informed.”
Amir was rendered speechless. Without really being aware of what he was doing, he bowed in response to the man’s gesture. Once again, the Asian turned and, without another word, walked to the street where he and a group of eight or nine other Japanese climbed aboard a small shuttle bus that, presumably, was taking them to the airport.
Amir turned to the bell captain and explained that his plans had changed. There was no point in returning home. He had failed in his mission and, given the timing and the meager resources at his disposal, redemption was an utter impossibility. It might take days or weeks, but retribution was inevitable. He would welcome it when it came. For now, he would continue to enjoy what remained of his time in paradise He descended the stairs to the street. He turned right and, as he passed the police substation just past Kaiulani Street , he noticed the sun beginning to rise over the ocean to the East. He would find a place on the beach to pray. Then, after a light breakfast, he would look for somewhere more economical to stay until his masters came for him.
THE END
BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 77 - Ron Richardson
THE PAUSE
Grady O’Toole was a born loser. On the up side of sixty, he lived in a seedy neighborhood above a Vietnamese grocery store. His one room flat was as hopeless as he was.
Unable to sleep because of the heat, Grady rose at first light, padded to the open window and stared down on his personal hell. He wiped his brow, scratched his belly, and sucked down the dregs of a longneck left from the night before. Hung over, he was thinking of ice cubes and aspirin when there was a loud knock at the door.
Grady groaned. “Who in the . . .”
Another knock.
“Hold your horses, I’m comin’.” He pulled on a pair of soiled pants and crossed to the door.
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
Grady twisted the key in the lock and cracked the door.
“Ah, good morning, Mister O’Toole.” A tall man smiled and slid a shiny business card through the opening. “ My name is Benjamin, may I come in?”
“No.”
“Please, I have something to show you, it won’t take long.”
Pause.
“What is it?”
“I’ll have to show you,” Benjamin said.
Curious, Grady pulled the door open. “Okay, you gotta minute.”
“Over here,” Grady pointed towards the open window, “catch the breeze.” He dragged a chair across the room. “Sit,” he ordered Benjamin.
Grady leaned against the wall, crossed his arms. “ Show me. Make it quick.”
Benjamin opened his briefcase and removed a laptop and a DVD. He held it up so Grady could see it. “It’s a DVD. Do you agree, Mister O’Toole?”
“Yeah,” he said, “so what?”
“On this DVD is your life in living color. I have been directed by my client to show you one minute of your past, anywhere you choose. Think about it, Sir. Where would you like to spend the next minute?”
Grady jerked a cigarette from a crumpled pack, lit it, inhaled, exhaled, stalling. “Is this some kinda sick joke?”
“No sir,” Benjamin said, “ it’s no joke. Give it a try. What have you got to lose? Now, where would you like to go?”
Grady pushed away from the wall. He cracked his knuckles, opened his mouth, “Uh . . .” closed it. Opened it again, “Okay, okay let me think about it.”
Benjamin smiled. “Take your time.”
Finally, “Lets go to the summer of 1957.”
“A special time Mister O’Toole?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
Pause.
“I was ten,” Grady began, “my dad took me swimming for the first time. He bet me a burger and coke I couldn’t do a back flip off the high dive. He didn’t even know if I could swim.”
Grady stared at the ceiling, remembering, gathering words.
“He was always tryin’ to make me look bad.”
Grady smiled.
“I tell you, I was scared. He kept yellin’, ‘come on chicken, come on chicken!’ over and over, laughin’at me.”
Grady stubbed out his cigarette, lit another.
“A perfect flip, that’s what it was. I’ll never forget the look on his face. Man, you should have seen it. I think he was disappointed I didn’t belly flop.”
Grady felt good.
“He’s been dead a long time.” He shook his head. “ No matter, that’s what I want to see, that sorry look on his face.”
Benjamin turned on the computer and inserted the DVD. His finger touched rewind.
“So be it, Mister O’Toole.”
The machine whirred and stopped. “Is this the right place?” he asked.
Grady looked at the screen. Bile rose in his throat. Excited he said, “Yeah, it’s the right one.”
“I’ll press play now and for the next sixty seconds you will relive that minute. Are you ready?”
No answer.
“Mister O’Toole?”
“Yeah.”
The figures came alive and began to move. He saw himself wave a skinny arm at his taunting dad. He walked to the end of the diving board, bounced, and jumped. He flew through the air in a perfect back flip. Down he went in slow motion.
Grady watched, waiting for that golden moment.
“Five, four . . .” Benjamin counted the last seconds. “Two . . .”
At one second, a manicured finger touched pause. The machine ground to a stop. Grady’s perfect flip was frozen one inch above the water, forever. He was cruelly robbed by Benjamin of that happy moment, seeing once again his father’s silly face.
“Hey! What’s goin’ on?” Grady blurted.
Without a word, Benjamin switched off the machine and stowed it in his briefcase. He walked to the door, turned and spoke to the shocked Grady, “Your father sends you a message . . . ‘once a loser, always a loser’.”
BIO: Ron is a native Texan. He spent time in the Navy in the early 50's. He is married, a college graduate and a retired air traffic controller. Soon after retirement he began to write mainly as a hobby. He has completed several college level creative writing courses and is active in two fiction writers groups. He is a member of Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc. Ron has been published by LITBITS.CA, ESC! magazine and Powder Burn Flash. He also received an honorable mention in flash fiction from Byline magazine.
Grady O’Toole was a born loser. On the up side of sixty, he lived in a seedy neighborhood above a Vietnamese grocery store. His one room flat was as hopeless as he was.
Unable to sleep because of the heat, Grady rose at first light, padded to the open window and stared down on his personal hell. He wiped his brow, scratched his belly, and sucked down the dregs of a longneck left from the night before. Hung over, he was thinking of ice cubes and aspirin when there was a loud knock at the door.
Grady groaned. “Who in the . . .”
Another knock.
“Hold your horses, I’m comin’.” He pulled on a pair of soiled pants and crossed to the door.
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
Grady twisted the key in the lock and cracked the door.
“Ah, good morning, Mister O’Toole.” A tall man smiled and slid a shiny business card through the opening. “ My name is Benjamin, may I come in?”
“No.”
“Please, I have something to show you, it won’t take long.”
Pause.
“What is it?”
“I’ll have to show you,” Benjamin said.
Curious, Grady pulled the door open. “Okay, you gotta minute.”
“Over here,” Grady pointed towards the open window, “catch the breeze.” He dragged a chair across the room. “Sit,” he ordered Benjamin.
Grady leaned against the wall, crossed his arms. “ Show me. Make it quick.”
Benjamin opened his briefcase and removed a laptop and a DVD. He held it up so Grady could see it. “It’s a DVD. Do you agree, Mister O’Toole?”
“Yeah,” he said, “so what?”
“On this DVD is your life in living color. I have been directed by my client to show you one minute of your past, anywhere you choose. Think about it, Sir. Where would you like to spend the next minute?”
Grady jerked a cigarette from a crumpled pack, lit it, inhaled, exhaled, stalling. “Is this some kinda sick joke?”
“No sir,” Benjamin said, “ it’s no joke. Give it a try. What have you got to lose? Now, where would you like to go?”
Grady pushed away from the wall. He cracked his knuckles, opened his mouth, “Uh . . .” closed it. Opened it again, “Okay, okay let me think about it.”
Benjamin smiled. “Take your time.”
Finally, “Lets go to the summer of 1957.”
“A special time Mister O’Toole?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
Pause.
“I was ten,” Grady began, “my dad took me swimming for the first time. He bet me a burger and coke I couldn’t do a back flip off the high dive. He didn’t even know if I could swim.”
Grady stared at the ceiling, remembering, gathering words.
“He was always tryin’ to make me look bad.”
Grady smiled.
“I tell you, I was scared. He kept yellin’, ‘come on chicken, come on chicken!’ over and over, laughin’at me.”
Grady stubbed out his cigarette, lit another.
“A perfect flip, that’s what it was. I’ll never forget the look on his face. Man, you should have seen it. I think he was disappointed I didn’t belly flop.”
Grady felt good.
“He’s been dead a long time.” He shook his head. “ No matter, that’s what I want to see, that sorry look on his face.”
Benjamin turned on the computer and inserted the DVD. His finger touched rewind.
“So be it, Mister O’Toole.”
The machine whirred and stopped. “Is this the right place?” he asked.
Grady looked at the screen. Bile rose in his throat. Excited he said, “Yeah, it’s the right one.”
“I’ll press play now and for the next sixty seconds you will relive that minute. Are you ready?”
No answer.
“Mister O’Toole?”
“Yeah.”
The figures came alive and began to move. He saw himself wave a skinny arm at his taunting dad. He walked to the end of the diving board, bounced, and jumped. He flew through the air in a perfect back flip. Down he went in slow motion.
Grady watched, waiting for that golden moment.
“Five, four . . .” Benjamin counted the last seconds. “Two . . .”
At one second, a manicured finger touched pause. The machine ground to a stop. Grady’s perfect flip was frozen one inch above the water, forever. He was cruelly robbed by Benjamin of that happy moment, seeing once again his father’s silly face.
“Hey! What’s goin’ on?” Grady blurted.
Without a word, Benjamin switched off the machine and stowed it in his briefcase. He walked to the door, turned and spoke to the shocked Grady, “Your father sends you a message . . . ‘once a loser, always a loser’.”
BIO: Ron is a native Texan. He spent time in the Navy in the early 50's. He is married, a college graduate and a retired air traffic controller. Soon after retirement he began to write mainly as a hobby. He has completed several college level creative writing courses and is active in two fiction writers groups. He is a member of Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc. Ron has been published by LITBITS.CA, ESC! magazine and Powder Burn Flash. He also received an honorable mention in flash fiction from Byline magazine.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 76 - James C. Clar
LOYALTY
“I let it go longer than I should have,” Vince Toscano said to the man in the sport jacket standing in front of the desk, “because you've been such a loyal employee. Anything I've ever asked you to do, you've done.”
“I know that, ‘Mr. T’, I know that.” Freddie Zito replied. He resisted the urge to reach up and wipe the sweat off his brow. God knows he'd seen lots of these kinds of meetings over the years. This was the first time he'd been the one on the “business end.” It gave him a whole new perspective on things, that’s for damn sure.
“The thing is, Freddie, if I let you get away with it, well, you know how it goes. Discipline, that’s what it’s all about in this business. I have to set an example. Not even one of ‘my boys’ can get a break. You owe $25,000 in gambling debts plus the ‘vig. With your habit, you'll never make good on the money. God only knows what you'll do, who you'll talk to, in order to get out from under. I can't take those kinds of chances. Never have, never will. No one lasts very long if they do. You know it’s nothing personal.”
Toscano clapped his hands and two guys, each the size of your average office building, moved quietly into the room. They took up positions on either side of Zito … and just behind him.
“Please, Mr. Toscano, give me another week. I swear on my mother’s grave I'll get you your money.”
“Freddie, it’s not about the money any more. You understand. I promise you we'll take good care of your wife and kids. I haven't forgotten the way you looked after Mrs. Toscano when I was in the hospital last year. Somebody else might have taken advantage of the situation, you know what I mean?” Sally Toscano was in her early-thirties, nearly half the age of her husband. She was also hot enough to melt the polar ice-caps. “Boys ...”
With that the two behemoths flanking Zito moved forward. Instead of grabbing hold of the hapless man, however, they both drew weapons.
“Easy, boys,” Toscano said with surprise in his voice. He had used these two guys before and they were good. “What the hell are you doing? Not here. You know better. And listen … make it quick and clean. I owe him that.”
The two thugs didn't respond. Instead, they leveled their guns at Toscano.
“What was I gonna do, ‘Mr. T’? Zito began. I owe you and I owe Falcone. He offered me a way out. Said if I took care of you he'd forgive my debt and pay me enough so that I could take a little vacation in the Caribbean and give Sal and Johnny here a cut as well. Maybe if you'd given me more time? But, hey, like you said, it’s just business.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Toscano chuckled nervously. “I should have seen this coming. I should have taken care of it sooner.”
“Yea, well, everybody makes mistakes. Listen, as far as Mrs. Toscano is concerned, you can rest easy. She'll be in good hands.”
At the mention of his wife, Toscano’s eyes blazed. Almost imperceptibly he moved his right hand toward the drawer of his desk. Just as his fingertips reached their destination, two gunshots sounded. One bullet struck Toscano in the middle of his forehead. The other caught him in the throat. He was dead before he tumbled backward out of his chair.
“Get this mess cleaned up,” Zito told Sal and Johnny as he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. The smell of cordite was strong in the small confines of the room. “Do just what we talked about. And remember, loyalty means everything in this business … Sally, yea, it’s me …”
END
BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, A LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).
“I let it go longer than I should have,” Vince Toscano said to the man in the sport jacket standing in front of the desk, “because you've been such a loyal employee. Anything I've ever asked you to do, you've done.”
“I know that, ‘Mr. T’, I know that.” Freddie Zito replied. He resisted the urge to reach up and wipe the sweat off his brow. God knows he'd seen lots of these kinds of meetings over the years. This was the first time he'd been the one on the “business end.” It gave him a whole new perspective on things, that’s for damn sure.
“The thing is, Freddie, if I let you get away with it, well, you know how it goes. Discipline, that’s what it’s all about in this business. I have to set an example. Not even one of ‘my boys’ can get a break. You owe $25,000 in gambling debts plus the ‘vig. With your habit, you'll never make good on the money. God only knows what you'll do, who you'll talk to, in order to get out from under. I can't take those kinds of chances. Never have, never will. No one lasts very long if they do. You know it’s nothing personal.”
Toscano clapped his hands and two guys, each the size of your average office building, moved quietly into the room. They took up positions on either side of Zito … and just behind him.
“Please, Mr. Toscano, give me another week. I swear on my mother’s grave I'll get you your money.”
“Freddie, it’s not about the money any more. You understand. I promise you we'll take good care of your wife and kids. I haven't forgotten the way you looked after Mrs. Toscano when I was in the hospital last year. Somebody else might have taken advantage of the situation, you know what I mean?” Sally Toscano was in her early-thirties, nearly half the age of her husband. She was also hot enough to melt the polar ice-caps. “Boys ...”
With that the two behemoths flanking Zito moved forward. Instead of grabbing hold of the hapless man, however, they both drew weapons.
“Easy, boys,” Toscano said with surprise in his voice. He had used these two guys before and they were good. “What the hell are you doing? Not here. You know better. And listen … make it quick and clean. I owe him that.”
The two thugs didn't respond. Instead, they leveled their guns at Toscano.
“What was I gonna do, ‘Mr. T’? Zito began. I owe you and I owe Falcone. He offered me a way out. Said if I took care of you he'd forgive my debt and pay me enough so that I could take a little vacation in the Caribbean and give Sal and Johnny here a cut as well. Maybe if you'd given me more time? But, hey, like you said, it’s just business.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Toscano chuckled nervously. “I should have seen this coming. I should have taken care of it sooner.”
“Yea, well, everybody makes mistakes. Listen, as far as Mrs. Toscano is concerned, you can rest easy. She'll be in good hands.”
At the mention of his wife, Toscano’s eyes blazed. Almost imperceptibly he moved his right hand toward the drawer of his desk. Just as his fingertips reached their destination, two gunshots sounded. One bullet struck Toscano in the middle of his forehead. The other caught him in the throat. He was dead before he tumbled backward out of his chair.
“Get this mess cleaned up,” Zito told Sal and Johnny as he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. The smell of cordite was strong in the small confines of the room. “Do just what we talked about. And remember, loyalty means everything in this business … Sally, yea, it’s me …”
END
BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, A LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).
Friday, April 4, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 75 - William Brazill
Taking Back the Night
“Foreign Legion,” she thought as she saw the four young men approaching on the dusk-dimmed street.
They were dressed in civilian clothes but she could easily identify them. Their close-cropped hair, their forearms muscled, developed, carrying the intimation of power unchecked and intimidating. But more. They wore their clothes awkwardly, as if being used to uniforms made them uneasy in anything else, men in disguise, animals wearing borrowed skins that did not alter their identity. There was the almost-strut, straight-backed, as if the parade ground were the natural environment and its step the natural gait, a stride meant to signal ownership, this place is ours. And the smirking way they leered at women, their military status awarding them the entitlement to see any female as an object of use and abuse, as if there were no more to a female than her anatomy, the contours of her body meant for the pleasure of their explorations.
Still, as they maneuvered the street, their eyes were watchful, distrustful, ever-scanning, as if they sensed they were in a world that could suddenly dissolve into chaos, into something incomprehensible and menacing. Fear, she suddenly understood, underlay their arrogance.
She slowed her walk, aware that, sloe-eyed and high-cheekboned, her skin toned the color of rich mocha, she cast an aura of exotic sensuality that readily ensnared European men.
She turned her back to them, sensing their eyes scanning her body and measuring her supple movements as they imagined the lithe body draped inside the sensuously swaying folds of silk. One of them shouted at her in words that she could not comprehend, in a language she did not know. But they did not speak to one another, only making sounds, grunts, as if lust had reduced them to the primitive level of pre-speech, as if words were too complex, too civilized to express the throb of what they felt.
She walked slowly, confident that they would follow. With the lapse of each minute they surrendered more and more of their wariness, their helpless attraction to her became a depth that swallowed their minds and wills. Her barefoot steps took her along the street, down alleys, into shuttered walkways, through one turn after another, leading them into the serpentine labyrinth of the Quartier Bouna, where the indigenous population, the natives, lived. They followed, propelled by visions of the night of savage sex that awaited them. The air changed, new scents that stimulated their imaginations, shadows darkening into blackness, unfamiliar sounds that diminished finally into a silence that wariness should have identified as a warning.
Her pace lessened slightly as she passed through a gateway into a courtyard. The four followed, the closeness of lust-to-be-fulfilled dulling all their instincts and training. As she passed through the gate on the far end of the courtyard, she heard new sounds behind her, bodies colliding, struggle, muted cries, the distinctive sounds of violence committed with a lethality meant to be delivered with little noise. Then the suddenness of total silence.
She continued. Her pace now became a stride, the parade step of conquest. Her mind raced not in thoughts but in slogans: “Four more victims! Another victory of the Armed Front for National Liberation in its struggle for independence! Ownership of our country being re-established!” Slogans were now her language.
She made her way back to the square in the central city, knowing that other victims awaited and the night offered unlimited opportunities to be taken back.
BIO: William Brazill lives and writes fiction on the banks of the Potomac River in Virginia. His most recent stories have been published in LitBits, Amsterdam Scriptum, Electric Acorn, and Long Story Short.
“Foreign Legion,” she thought as she saw the four young men approaching on the dusk-dimmed street.
They were dressed in civilian clothes but she could easily identify them. Their close-cropped hair, their forearms muscled, developed, carrying the intimation of power unchecked and intimidating. But more. They wore their clothes awkwardly, as if being used to uniforms made them uneasy in anything else, men in disguise, animals wearing borrowed skins that did not alter their identity. There was the almost-strut, straight-backed, as if the parade ground were the natural environment and its step the natural gait, a stride meant to signal ownership, this place is ours. And the smirking way they leered at women, their military status awarding them the entitlement to see any female as an object of use and abuse, as if there were no more to a female than her anatomy, the contours of her body meant for the pleasure of their explorations.
Still, as they maneuvered the street, their eyes were watchful, distrustful, ever-scanning, as if they sensed they were in a world that could suddenly dissolve into chaos, into something incomprehensible and menacing. Fear, she suddenly understood, underlay their arrogance.
She slowed her walk, aware that, sloe-eyed and high-cheekboned, her skin toned the color of rich mocha, she cast an aura of exotic sensuality that readily ensnared European men.
She turned her back to them, sensing their eyes scanning her body and measuring her supple movements as they imagined the lithe body draped inside the sensuously swaying folds of silk. One of them shouted at her in words that she could not comprehend, in a language she did not know. But they did not speak to one another, only making sounds, grunts, as if lust had reduced them to the primitive level of pre-speech, as if words were too complex, too civilized to express the throb of what they felt.
She walked slowly, confident that they would follow. With the lapse of each minute they surrendered more and more of their wariness, their helpless attraction to her became a depth that swallowed their minds and wills. Her barefoot steps took her along the street, down alleys, into shuttered walkways, through one turn after another, leading them into the serpentine labyrinth of the Quartier Bouna, where the indigenous population, the natives, lived. They followed, propelled by visions of the night of savage sex that awaited them. The air changed, new scents that stimulated their imaginations, shadows darkening into blackness, unfamiliar sounds that diminished finally into a silence that wariness should have identified as a warning.
Her pace lessened slightly as she passed through a gateway into a courtyard. The four followed, the closeness of lust-to-be-fulfilled dulling all their instincts and training. As she passed through the gate on the far end of the courtyard, she heard new sounds behind her, bodies colliding, struggle, muted cries, the distinctive sounds of violence committed with a lethality meant to be delivered with little noise. Then the suddenness of total silence.
She continued. Her pace now became a stride, the parade step of conquest. Her mind raced not in thoughts but in slogans: “Four more victims! Another victory of the Armed Front for National Liberation in its struggle for independence! Ownership of our country being re-established!” Slogans were now her language.
She made her way back to the square in the central city, knowing that other victims awaited and the night offered unlimited opportunities to be taken back.
BIO: William Brazill lives and writes fiction on the banks of the Potomac River in Virginia. His most recent stories have been published in LitBits, Amsterdam Scriptum, Electric Acorn, and Long Story Short.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 74 - Pearce Hansen
PARAPLEGIC KILLER CHIMP
You heard me. See, my wife cheats. That ain’t automatically bad: Her hygiene’s always been out of left field, and she craves dick like a goat on Spanish Fly. Wants it way more than I can supply if you catch my drift. Suffice it to say I’m no Ron Jeremy.
I don’t mind as long as she’s discrete. But when I find the strange’s smelly drawers in my bathroom, or I pass guys on the stoop exiting my house still tugging up their zippers and thanking me for my wife’s skills? You can imagine what goes through a guy’s pulsing brain.
So I’m reading this article in the paper about some Chimpanzee at the local Zoo that’s had a spinal injury. Poor Chimpo’s paralyzed from the waist down, they’ve even given him a wheelchair.
I get to feeling sorry for that chimp. I mean, his only job in the world was for zoo-goers to gawk at him, and to throw occasional clumps of his own shit at them to liven things up. Now he can’t even do that minimalism. He’s as useless as me. He’ll push himself around in that wheel chair until he dies, probably in protective custody from the other chimps. See, I’d heard chimps even commit murder on their own kind; they’re advanced that way just like us humans.
That’s when it occurs to me: maybe me and Chimpo could help each other out.
I rent a second story Industrial, and break Chimpo out of the zoo, wheelchair and all. I set him up in that rental and take care of him. Get him to trust me. It ain’t fun: Did you know chimps can’t be potty trained? Chimpo has a grand time crapping his wheelchair until I finally stock up on disposable diapers.
I’ll spare you the details of our training program, but graduation goes like this: At night, when no one’s around, I take Chimpo outside into the alley and give him a boost to the fire escape. See, his lower body is useless, but that upper body of his works just fine.
He climbs up hand over hand, and then crawls through the window with his legs dragging and dead. He clambers up the bed that’s in there, reaches into the gunny sack hanging from his shoulder, and pulls out the 38 that’s in there and shoots all six of the blanks it’s loaded with. He empties that pistol full of blanks into the department store mannequin I have lying under the covers. I even have a wig on the mannequin, about the color and texture of my slut wife’s hair.
Chimpo’s easy to train, he’s smart. I teach him that if he does all those steps right and in order, that he gets a pack of smokes and an eighth of Old Overcoat to suck on. Yeah, it’s hilarious watching Chimpo chain smoke and chug at his bottle. Guess I’m just lucky he doesn’t have more expensive taste in his alcohol.
So then it’s the night. I take Chimpo to the building me and my wife lived in. I listen long enough to know she doesn’t have any gentlemen callers – I can tell because she’s a screamer, the whole building knows when she’s entertaining.
But our apartment is silent as the tomb.
Up the fire escape and through the window Chimpo goes, only this time the 38 in his bag is loaded with live rounds. I wait for the gun shots signaling my wife’s departure to hell. When those shots come I’ll fade and Chimpo will be left holding the bag, literally I suppose.
I wait, but no shots come. So I creep up the fire escape and peek in the window. It’s dim inside, but something’s happening on the bed, shapes are thrashing around. Then the screaming starts.
It’s my wife screaming, and Chimpo too, like they’re killing each other. Then the lamp next to the bed goes on and I see what’s happening in my bed.
My wife has a strap-on dildo buckled around Chimpo’s waist and she’s riding him cowgirl style; staring me right in the eyes. Fuckin monkey’s dick may be limp and paralyzed; but he knows exactly what’s happening, they’re both screaming jungle love at each other. As I cringe away, I realize she knows I’m out there, and she turned on the light deliberately, she wants me to see.
Those monkey house orgy screams mock me as I stumble away down the street.
But never say die, right? I heard about this gorilla at a Zoo in the next town over. Old Kong there has a spinal cord injury like my Chimpo, but way worse. Kong’s a quadriplegic; they’re training him to make his electric wheelchair go by blowing in a plastic tube. Kong is especially useless, just like me. Just like Chimpo before my wife turned him into a sex toy.
I’ll break Kong out of his zoo, I’ll put a remote control unit in his electric wheelchair and then I’ll strap a plastic explosive suicide vest on his chest, just like those towel-heads do over in Iraq.
Problem is, I’ll only be able to get at Chimpo and my wife when they’re in a handicap access area -- but that's where they'll be anyways, right?.
You heard me. See, my wife cheats. That ain’t automatically bad: Her hygiene’s always been out of left field, and she craves dick like a goat on Spanish Fly. Wants it way more than I can supply if you catch my drift. Suffice it to say I’m no Ron Jeremy.
I don’t mind as long as she’s discrete. But when I find the strange’s smelly drawers in my bathroom, or I pass guys on the stoop exiting my house still tugging up their zippers and thanking me for my wife’s skills? You can imagine what goes through a guy’s pulsing brain.
So I’m reading this article in the paper about some Chimpanzee at the local Zoo that’s had a spinal injury. Poor Chimpo’s paralyzed from the waist down, they’ve even given him a wheelchair.
I get to feeling sorry for that chimp. I mean, his only job in the world was for zoo-goers to gawk at him, and to throw occasional clumps of his own shit at them to liven things up. Now he can’t even do that minimalism. He’s as useless as me. He’ll push himself around in that wheel chair until he dies, probably in protective custody from the other chimps. See, I’d heard chimps even commit murder on their own kind; they’re advanced that way just like us humans.
That’s when it occurs to me: maybe me and Chimpo could help each other out.
I rent a second story Industrial, and break Chimpo out of the zoo, wheelchair and all. I set him up in that rental and take care of him. Get him to trust me. It ain’t fun: Did you know chimps can’t be potty trained? Chimpo has a grand time crapping his wheelchair until I finally stock up on disposable diapers.
I’ll spare you the details of our training program, but graduation goes like this: At night, when no one’s around, I take Chimpo outside into the alley and give him a boost to the fire escape. See, his lower body is useless, but that upper body of his works just fine.
He climbs up hand over hand, and then crawls through the window with his legs dragging and dead. He clambers up the bed that’s in there, reaches into the gunny sack hanging from his shoulder, and pulls out the 38 that’s in there and shoots all six of the blanks it’s loaded with. He empties that pistol full of blanks into the department store mannequin I have lying under the covers. I even have a wig on the mannequin, about the color and texture of my slut wife’s hair.
Chimpo’s easy to train, he’s smart. I teach him that if he does all those steps right and in order, that he gets a pack of smokes and an eighth of Old Overcoat to suck on. Yeah, it’s hilarious watching Chimpo chain smoke and chug at his bottle. Guess I’m just lucky he doesn’t have more expensive taste in his alcohol.
So then it’s the night. I take Chimpo to the building me and my wife lived in. I listen long enough to know she doesn’t have any gentlemen callers – I can tell because she’s a screamer, the whole building knows when she’s entertaining.
But our apartment is silent as the tomb.
Up the fire escape and through the window Chimpo goes, only this time the 38 in his bag is loaded with live rounds. I wait for the gun shots signaling my wife’s departure to hell. When those shots come I’ll fade and Chimpo will be left holding the bag, literally I suppose.
I wait, but no shots come. So I creep up the fire escape and peek in the window. It’s dim inside, but something’s happening on the bed, shapes are thrashing around. Then the screaming starts.
It’s my wife screaming, and Chimpo too, like they’re killing each other. Then the lamp next to the bed goes on and I see what’s happening in my bed.
My wife has a strap-on dildo buckled around Chimpo’s waist and she’s riding him cowgirl style; staring me right in the eyes. Fuckin monkey’s dick may be limp and paralyzed; but he knows exactly what’s happening, they’re both screaming jungle love at each other. As I cringe away, I realize she knows I’m out there, and she turned on the light deliberately, she wants me to see.
Those monkey house orgy screams mock me as I stumble away down the street.
But never say die, right? I heard about this gorilla at a Zoo in the next town over. Old Kong there has a spinal cord injury like my Chimpo, but way worse. Kong’s a quadriplegic; they’re training him to make his electric wheelchair go by blowing in a plastic tube. Kong is especially useless, just like me. Just like Chimpo before my wife turned him into a sex toy.
I’ll break Kong out of his zoo, I’ll put a remote control unit in his electric wheelchair and then I’ll strap a plastic explosive suicide vest on his chest, just like those towel-heads do over in Iraq.
Problem is, I’ll only be able to get at Chimpo and my wife when they’re in a handicap access area -- but that's where they'll be anyways, right?.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 73 - Clair Dickson
FAMILY RESEMBLANCE
A Bo Fexler Short Story
She put her head in her hands and sobbed. "You lied to me!" she wailed to the table.
"Yeah. Sure." I wanted a cigarette, but the little cafeteria nestled into the front corner of the retail giant prohibited most vices. "Explain that to me, if you would?"
"You said you'd find my real father!"
"I said I would investigate your claim that your father is not your biological father."
She shook her head and lifted it to give me an angry, childish glare. She was barely eighteen, with a body that would be great for nubile porn, but a tendency to act like prepubescent. She was, in spite of her appearance, still a child. I don't remember being that young or juvenile. "He's NOT!" she growled at me through a clenched jaw.
"You wanna keep paying me, I'll keep talking to people. I already talked to your aunts, your mother's friends from high school, other folks who went to school with her, a long-lost boyfriend, a former best friend, college roommates. No one has any reason to even think that your mother slept with anyone but your father after senior prom. I also talked to a lab that, for a nice, hefty fee, will do a paternity test. I also have a current address for your father."
"I know where he lives!"
"Ah. Wasn't sure about that. I read those letters your mother wrote, and talked to your father about them--"
"He's NOT my father!"
A few people were staring. I was tempted to write up a sign indicating that I was a private investigator. For all this drama, maybe I could drum up some business. But I kept my fingers woven together, my expression impassive. "Your father told me what the secret was that your mother was referring to. It was that she had cheated on her Algebra final. Remember she had all As. Because of the pregnancy, she'd been kind of freaked out and cheated on the final. She got away with it, but it weighed on her conscience."
"No. That's a lie."
"Do you want to do a paternity test?"
She glared at me, tears running down her face like they were fleeing the intensity of her emotion. "Why don't you believe me!"
"I believe that you think you're father's not really your father."
"I don't look anything like him!"
"Great. I'm a genetic freak myself! I don't look anything like either of my parents, who are dark haired. My father has hazel eyes. I am a collection of all the recessive traits in my family."
"Maybe you're not really their kid, you ever think of that?"
"Is this because your father left your mother? You don't want to be related to this man?"
"I'm not related to him!"
"Then let's do a paternity test. Shit, I'll pay."
Her lower lip was trembling. She lowered her head and her dark hair swung forward, hiding her face from me.
"What's the problem?"
"I-- I don't like needles."
"Cotton swab in the mouth. No needle."
"My mother told me when she was dying that family is more than shared blood. She meant something by that!"
"That's the trigger, isn't it? That's the catalyst that sent you hunting for your 'real' father. Did it ever occur to you that you made the wrong hasty conclusion?"
"What are you talking about?" She snuffled and ran the back of her hand across her nose. And I would probably shake that hand when I left.
"Your mother and her friend Abby both got pregnant on prom night. Not entirely uncommon, in my experience. I found Abby and she doesn't have a child. She told me that she lost the baby at birth. But I looked it up. There's no record of her birthing a still born. In fact, there's no record of her having a baby at all."
"So what?" She'd lost interest like a cat asked to fetch.
"So. I went back to talk to her. She admitted that she gave the baby up for adoption. It's not uncommon for a new birth certificate to be drawn up, thus hiding the evidence. Then she explained that your father talked her and your mother into a three some on prom night. Abby got pregnant. She knew who the father was. Your father. She didn't want the baby, and a scheme was hatched. Your mother and Abby carried out this ruse, making your father think that your mother was the one carrying his child, from their prom night romp. They kept your father out of the delivery room. Your mother adopted the baby-- you. And Abby told everyone that she lost her baby in childbirth. Not entirely a lie."
"Why-- why wouldn't my mother tell me this?"
"Well, according to Abby, your mother rather liked the threesome."
"Oh. She was pretty… straight-laced," she said with a small smile.
"No. You misunderstand. She liked having sex with another woman. That is why your father left. Because your mother told him she was a lesbian and therefore their marriage was a sham. He only admitted it in a fit of anger after I badgered the shit out of him. He's not real fond of homosexuality."
"My mother-- a dyke?" Her face contorted.
"Well, see-- you are your father's daughter!"
I didn't shake her hand as I stood up and strode out, long black sweater duster fluttering after me.
THE END
BIO: Clair writes Bo Fexler short stories when she's not teaching alternative high school. More than thirty other Bo Fexler stories have darkened doorways with their presence. Short stories certainly have more of that instant gratification Clair needs some days after teaching her darling students. Or trying to teach them. Keep up with Bo at http://www.bofexler.blogspot.com/
A Bo Fexler Short Story
She put her head in her hands and sobbed. "You lied to me!" she wailed to the table.
"Yeah. Sure." I wanted a cigarette, but the little cafeteria nestled into the front corner of the retail giant prohibited most vices. "Explain that to me, if you would?"
"You said you'd find my real father!"
"I said I would investigate your claim that your father is not your biological father."
She shook her head and lifted it to give me an angry, childish glare. She was barely eighteen, with a body that would be great for nubile porn, but a tendency to act like prepubescent. She was, in spite of her appearance, still a child. I don't remember being that young or juvenile. "He's NOT!" she growled at me through a clenched jaw.
"You wanna keep paying me, I'll keep talking to people. I already talked to your aunts, your mother's friends from high school, other folks who went to school with her, a long-lost boyfriend, a former best friend, college roommates. No one has any reason to even think that your mother slept with anyone but your father after senior prom. I also talked to a lab that, for a nice, hefty fee, will do a paternity test. I also have a current address for your father."
"I know where he lives!"
"Ah. Wasn't sure about that. I read those letters your mother wrote, and talked to your father about them--"
"He's NOT my father!"
A few people were staring. I was tempted to write up a sign indicating that I was a private investigator. For all this drama, maybe I could drum up some business. But I kept my fingers woven together, my expression impassive. "Your father told me what the secret was that your mother was referring to. It was that she had cheated on her Algebra final. Remember she had all As. Because of the pregnancy, she'd been kind of freaked out and cheated on the final. She got away with it, but it weighed on her conscience."
"No. That's a lie."
"Do you want to do a paternity test?"
She glared at me, tears running down her face like they were fleeing the intensity of her emotion. "Why don't you believe me!"
"I believe that you think you're father's not really your father."
"I don't look anything like him!"
"Great. I'm a genetic freak myself! I don't look anything like either of my parents, who are dark haired. My father has hazel eyes. I am a collection of all the recessive traits in my family."
"Maybe you're not really their kid, you ever think of that?"
"Is this because your father left your mother? You don't want to be related to this man?"
"I'm not related to him!"
"Then let's do a paternity test. Shit, I'll pay."
Her lower lip was trembling. She lowered her head and her dark hair swung forward, hiding her face from me.
"What's the problem?"
"I-- I don't like needles."
"Cotton swab in the mouth. No needle."
"My mother told me when she was dying that family is more than shared blood. She meant something by that!"
"That's the trigger, isn't it? That's the catalyst that sent you hunting for your 'real' father. Did it ever occur to you that you made the wrong hasty conclusion?"
"What are you talking about?" She snuffled and ran the back of her hand across her nose. And I would probably shake that hand when I left.
"Your mother and her friend Abby both got pregnant on prom night. Not entirely uncommon, in my experience. I found Abby and she doesn't have a child. She told me that she lost the baby at birth. But I looked it up. There's no record of her birthing a still born. In fact, there's no record of her having a baby at all."
"So what?" She'd lost interest like a cat asked to fetch.
"So. I went back to talk to her. She admitted that she gave the baby up for adoption. It's not uncommon for a new birth certificate to be drawn up, thus hiding the evidence. Then she explained that your father talked her and your mother into a three some on prom night. Abby got pregnant. She knew who the father was. Your father. She didn't want the baby, and a scheme was hatched. Your mother and Abby carried out this ruse, making your father think that your mother was the one carrying his child, from their prom night romp. They kept your father out of the delivery room. Your mother adopted the baby-- you. And Abby told everyone that she lost her baby in childbirth. Not entirely a lie."
"Why-- why wouldn't my mother tell me this?"
"Well, according to Abby, your mother rather liked the threesome."
"Oh. She was pretty… straight-laced," she said with a small smile.
"No. You misunderstand. She liked having sex with another woman. That is why your father left. Because your mother told him she was a lesbian and therefore their marriage was a sham. He only admitted it in a fit of anger after I badgered the shit out of him. He's not real fond of homosexuality."
"My mother-- a dyke?" Her face contorted.
"Well, see-- you are your father's daughter!"
I didn't shake her hand as I stood up and strode out, long black sweater duster fluttering after me.
THE END
BIO: Clair writes Bo Fexler short stories when she's not teaching alternative high school. More than thirty other Bo Fexler stories have darkened doorways with their presence. Short stories certainly have more of that instant gratification Clair needs some days after teaching her darling students. Or trying to teach them. Keep up with Bo at http://www.bofexler.blogspot.com/
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Powder Burn Flash # 72 - James C. Clar
BAND OF BROTHERS
Ed Dodd sat on a bench behind the Waikiki Aquarium and watched the waves crash against the break wall in front of him. The coconut palms rustled dryly overhead in the trade winds. The power at his condo down where Kalakaua and Coconut Avenues intersected had been out since earlier that morning. Grabbing his mail on the way down the stairs, he had walked to the Starbucks on Kapahulu to get coffee. He stopped on the way back home to watch the surfers just off shore. A power outage; of all days for something freaky like that to happen! After all, it was forty-five years ago to the day that Ed Dodd had murdered his older brother.
Sitting in the bright sunshine absentmindedly sorting through his mail, Ed remembered it like it was yesterday. He and Mike had been jumping off a railroad bridge into the canal back home in upstate New York . Ed had been fifteen. Two years older, Mike had been taunting his younger sibling and showing off. While Mike was standing on the railing ready to dive, Ed ran up behind his brother and pushed. The older boy’s wet feet slipped and he tumbled. His head slammed against the trestle on the way down. Ed could still hear the hollow, ringing sound. They never recovered his body. Of course Ed lied to the police and fire-rescue crew. He said simply that Mike had been clowning around and fell awkwardly. The story had been all-too plausible and no one had any reason to doubt his word. Ed had been living with and running from that lie ever since.
The stress of their son’s death had been too much for Ed’s parents. They divorced shortly after that tragic day. His father went AWOL and the teenager lived with his mother amid constant recrimination and a succession of men she called her “boyfriend.” When he turned eighteen in 1966, Ed joined the Marines. He served three tours with the 1st Military Division in Vietnam . He almost hoped that he’d “buy the farm” in-country, but he survived. He was still waiting for his “luck” to run out. Karma might be one slow-moving bitch, but she was inexorable.
Ed sipped his coffee and worked his way through the pile of mail on his lap. One item caught his attention. It was a small envelope bearing only his name and address in red. The postmark was from somewhere in California . Ed read the message inside: “Eddie, my brother, remember what happened all those years ago? Pretty soon, everybody else is going to know too.”
Ed’s heart skipped a beat and he started to perspire. It couldn't be! True, they never found Mike’s body. He often wondered what it might be like if his brother had survived only to reappear some day, but there had to be another explanation. Shit, he had to relax. His doctor had warned him that he was a stroke or a heart attack waiting to happen. Ed put the mysterious note in his shirt pocket and continued opening the rest of his mail. At the bottom of the stack was a postcard emblazoned with the 1st Military Division insignia. It was an invitation to a reunion next month at the Sheraton Waikiki.
Suddenly, it all made sense. The enigmatic note had to be from his old friend Pat O’Sullivan. He and ‘Sully had spent three memorable days of R & R here on Oahu in 1969. Ed hadn't seen him in forty years. ‘Sully must have tracked him to Hawaii and figured that they'd meet up at the reunion. He recalled that his buddy was forever quoting some bullshit speech from Shakespeare about how the men in their division were a “band of brothers.” 'Sully hadn't known how ironic that was!
O’Sullivan must be talking about that wild night they picked up those two girls vacationing from Texas . That visit had been the reason why, after leaving the Corps, Ed decided to settle on Oahu . That plus the fact that Hawaii was as far away from New York as you could get and still speak English.
Breathing easier, Ed finished his coffee and stood up. He made his way to the sidewalk that ran along Kalakaua Avenue . The midday sun was blindingly bright but the iron wood tress that grew on this stretch of the broad roadway offered at least some shade. Five minutes later, he began climbing the steps to the second floor of his building. As he reached the landing, something niggled uncomfortably at his memory. Ed seemed to recall seeing Pat O’Sullivan’s name a few years ago in the necrology section of a 1st MDIV newsletter. Son-of-a-bitch, if he was right, ‘Sully had died back in ’05 or ’06.
Ed’s heart was pounding again. He began walking down the open-air hallway to the door of his apartment. Suddenly he heard footsteps behind him. He spun round but, as his eyes hadn't adjusted to the dimness of the corridor, he couldn't really see who it was.
“Hey, brother,” the figure seemed to be saying in a gruff voice. Ed never heard the rest. His heart exploded in his chest as he collapsed to the floor.
“Listen,” the guy from the Hawaiian Electric Company said thirty minutes later to the policeman taking his statement, “I just got to the second floor and saw this dude walkin’ in front of me. I figured he was a tenant. I wanted to tell him that the power would be back on in fifteen minutes. I said ‘hey, bruddah’ and he dropped dead. How ya figure dat?”
“Don't sweat it, man. It wasn't your fault. When your number’s up, your number’s up.”
“I guess you're right,” the shaken utility man said as he turned to leave. He mouthed the words “Hang loose” as he descended the stairs to the street.
The cop made a fist and, extending his pinky and thumb, gave it a shake in return. ”You too, bruddah. You too.”
The End
BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, A LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, MYSTERY REVIEW and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).
Ed Dodd sat on a bench behind the Waikiki Aquarium and watched the waves crash against the break wall in front of him. The coconut palms rustled dryly overhead in the trade winds. The power at his condo down where Kalakaua and Coconut Avenues intersected had been out since earlier that morning. Grabbing his mail on the way down the stairs, he had walked to the Starbucks on Kapahulu to get coffee. He stopped on the way back home to watch the surfers just off shore. A power outage; of all days for something freaky like that to happen! After all, it was forty-five years ago to the day that Ed Dodd had murdered his older brother.
Sitting in the bright sunshine absentmindedly sorting through his mail, Ed remembered it like it was yesterday. He and Mike had been jumping off a railroad bridge into the canal back home in upstate New York . Ed had been fifteen. Two years older, Mike had been taunting his younger sibling and showing off. While Mike was standing on the railing ready to dive, Ed ran up behind his brother and pushed. The older boy’s wet feet slipped and he tumbled. His head slammed against the trestle on the way down. Ed could still hear the hollow, ringing sound. They never recovered his body. Of course Ed lied to the police and fire-rescue crew. He said simply that Mike had been clowning around and fell awkwardly. The story had been all-too plausible and no one had any reason to doubt his word. Ed had been living with and running from that lie ever since.
The stress of their son’s death had been too much for Ed’s parents. They divorced shortly after that tragic day. His father went AWOL and the teenager lived with his mother amid constant recrimination and a succession of men she called her “boyfriend.” When he turned eighteen in 1966, Ed joined the Marines. He served three tours with the 1st Military Division in Vietnam . He almost hoped that he’d “buy the farm” in-country, but he survived. He was still waiting for his “luck” to run out. Karma might be one slow-moving bitch, but she was inexorable.
Ed sipped his coffee and worked his way through the pile of mail on his lap. One item caught his attention. It was a small envelope bearing only his name and address in red. The postmark was from somewhere in California . Ed read the message inside: “Eddie, my brother, remember what happened all those years ago? Pretty soon, everybody else is going to know too.”
Ed’s heart skipped a beat and he started to perspire. It couldn't be! True, they never found Mike’s body. He often wondered what it might be like if his brother had survived only to reappear some day, but there had to be another explanation. Shit, he had to relax. His doctor had warned him that he was a stroke or a heart attack waiting to happen. Ed put the mysterious note in his shirt pocket and continued opening the rest of his mail. At the bottom of the stack was a postcard emblazoned with the 1st Military Division insignia. It was an invitation to a reunion next month at the Sheraton Waikiki.
Suddenly, it all made sense. The enigmatic note had to be from his old friend Pat O’Sullivan. He and ‘Sully had spent three memorable days of R & R here on Oahu in 1969. Ed hadn't seen him in forty years. ‘Sully must have tracked him to Hawaii and figured that they'd meet up at the reunion. He recalled that his buddy was forever quoting some bullshit speech from Shakespeare about how the men in their division were a “band of brothers.” 'Sully hadn't known how ironic that was!
O’Sullivan must be talking about that wild night they picked up those two girls vacationing from Texas . That visit had been the reason why, after leaving the Corps, Ed decided to settle on Oahu . That plus the fact that Hawaii was as far away from New York as you could get and still speak English.
Breathing easier, Ed finished his coffee and stood up. He made his way to the sidewalk that ran along Kalakaua Avenue . The midday sun was blindingly bright but the iron wood tress that grew on this stretch of the broad roadway offered at least some shade. Five minutes later, he began climbing the steps to the second floor of his building. As he reached the landing, something niggled uncomfortably at his memory. Ed seemed to recall seeing Pat O’Sullivan’s name a few years ago in the necrology section of a 1st MDIV newsletter. Son-of-a-bitch, if he was right, ‘Sully had died back in ’05 or ’06.
Ed’s heart was pounding again. He began walking down the open-air hallway to the door of his apartment. Suddenly he heard footsteps behind him. He spun round but, as his eyes hadn't adjusted to the dimness of the corridor, he couldn't really see who it was.
“Hey, brother,” the figure seemed to be saying in a gruff voice. Ed never heard the rest. His heart exploded in his chest as he collapsed to the floor.
“Listen,” the guy from the Hawaiian Electric Company said thirty minutes later to the policeman taking his statement, “I just got to the second floor and saw this dude walkin’ in front of me. I figured he was a tenant. I wanted to tell him that the power would be back on in fifteen minutes. I said ‘hey, bruddah’ and he dropped dead. How ya figure dat?”
“Don't sweat it, man. It wasn't your fault. When your number’s up, your number’s up.”
“I guess you're right,” the shaken utility man said as he turned to leave. He mouthed the words “Hang loose” as he descended the stairs to the street.
The cop made a fist and, extending his pinky and thumb, gave it a shake in return. ”You too, bruddah. You too.”
The End
BIO: James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who lives in upstate NY. His book reviews, articles and author interviews appear regularly in the pages of MYSTERY NEWS. His work, including short fiction, has also appeared in the CRIME & SUSPENSE EZINE, MYSTERYAUTHORS.COM, WORD CATALYST, HACKWRITERS, A LONG STORY, SHORT, CRIMESCENE:SCOTLAND, MYSTERY REVIEW and CRIME TIME MAGAZINE (UK).
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