Book Title Mash-Up

Do Some Damage is the best collaborative blog I know of. Couple of weeks ago, Brian Lindemuth put out a flash fiction challenge: Write a story using as many book titles as possible (or makes sense). Check out the movie mash-up on display there while you’re at it. Great fun.

My piece is below. Follow the link back to DSD to read the other submissions. Given the clientele there, they should be good.

The rumrunners holed up in a collection of strategically-situated trailers across the Whiplash River from town that everyone called Black Rock. Geezer didn’t care much for Whit’s plan.

“Why not just let it ride, man? Place is hard enough to get into, but the bitch is getting out, after you’ve messed with them. That place is trigger city, man. Those are difficult men to handle, and they all live by night. Hell, they’s the ones put the lady in the lake last summer. When did you decide you had to be the last of the independents, anyway? And how’s it gonna look, people know you talked to me before?”

Whit still staring out the window. “What do you care what other people think? Those cheapskates have been screwing me—both of us—for years. I don’t want to be boss, just a little more free. They got to sleep sometimes. I’ll sneak in so I get the drop, sucker punch them, and in the morning I’ll be gone. I don’t need you to go in, just drive the getaway car.”

“Alls I know is, you don’t get in and out of there pronto, you might as well dig two graves for us. That’s some big mojo you’re going up against. You’re wading into war there, man. From here it look like a one-way ticket to the big nowhere.”

“What the fuck, Geezer? You got those Miami blues again? I thought we got past that. You used to be one tough hombre.”

Geezer spit in the sink. “I used to say crime always pays, too. Look where that got me. What you’re planning here will bring nothing but trouble, forever. Sucker punch them, my ass. This set-up calls for the walkaway.”

“Fuck trouble. Trouble is my business.” Whit let the smile fade. Geezer had a point. “Listen, buddy. Remember that girl I met last year? Lives down to Mercer’s Hollow?”

“The hollow girl? Yeah, I remember. You talked about her for a month.”

“She was the last good kiss I had, and it’s been a year. I need a fresh start to get her back, and this is my chance. You in?”

Geezer was in. Clear all day, late rain moved in as they crossed the river, drove past the big O that marked the abandoned Oberg mine. They made it past the first three sentries, but the fourth watcher spotted them. The guards gathered quick once word got out, and by dawn, Whit’s perfect hatred for some toothless, Prohibition-era gangsters left him and Geezer as road kill.

Pennsylvania Man’s Tastes Get Him Into Trouble

Mike Adams, born Michael Adamski when Penns River still had a hospital; a/k/a Mike the Fence, Mike the Kike (for the small shylock business he ran on the side), and White Mike (to distinguish him from Black Mike, also a fence). Five-foot-ten, one-eighty. Worked more or less full-time as a bartender at Fat Jimmy’s, where Jimmy let him conduct business, so long as no cash or merchandise changed hands, and no drugs. His day off, so he ran errands and made collections. Home for a shower, then out to see if Luann Czekalski would make an appearance at Ricki’s Lime. With luck, bring her home and show off his new tattoo.

A hundred yards from his house he saw the light bars. Two Penns River patrol units, plus one unmarked. Two uniformed cops with their thumbs up their asses between the cars and his front door. Another uniform and two plainclothes coming and going from the unmarked to the house. Mike had seen search warrants served before. He drove by, never turned his head to look.

He had his Go bag in the trunk. Eight grand in tens, twenties, and fifties he collected and banded himself; no bank straps. An ID he bought in New York that came with a number prospective employers could call for a job reference, one call per ID. Fancied himself the incarnation of DeNiro in the movie Heat. “Don't let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in thirty seconds flat.” Mike beat Bobby D by at least twenty seconds.

Almost stopped at Glen’s on Leechburg Road for frozen custard. Best ice cream in the world, even better than the Wisconsin Dells, where Mike made a detour during his long-haul trucking days just to try it. One last large Flavor of the Day would have been nice. Too risky. That self-righteous detective asshole—Dougherty?—knew about Mike’s ice cream jones, probably had someone there already.

Mike knew a guy in Chicago, said he could set him up in Rockford, and the way to get there was the PA Turnpike to I-80, then I-90. Eight, nine hours, depending on traffic. Nearest Turnpike interchange in Harmarville, next to Cheswick, home of the original Glen’s. Mike doubted Penns River would call neighboring jurisdictions to look for him. Or, he would have doubted it if he thought they wanted him for fencing or juice.

Jimmy had warned him not to mention the meth package at work. “Don’t even let on you have something else going,” how he said it. Jimmy tolerated what he called “victimless crimes” in his bar. He didn’t care who used drugs, so long as they didn’t use or sell on the premises and paid their tabs. No bones about it: Jimmy wasn’t losing his license so some toothless tweaker could ride a high.

The thing with Jimmy, he wasn’t so tolerant and open-minded he wouldn’t drop a dime if warnings went unheeded. The bent guys let him get away with it because Fat Jimmy’s worked so well as a clearinghouse to make connections; they told complainers not to shit where they ate, make their transactions elsewhere. The cops ignored the criminal element because he’d dish for the proper occasion. The sophomore at Penn State Penns River who ODed on speed from the package Mike brokered made for a borderline occasion; him dying pushed it over the line into a fucking Orthodox wedding. Mike assumed his warrant had Jimmy’s CI number on it.

Mike didn’t remember if he’d ever mentioned this Rockford thing to Jimmy. If he had, the cops might figure he’d go there, and the quickest way was through Harmarville.

So, no Glen’s.

He still had to get to Chicago, which meant I-80. Mike doubted they’d post a BOLO across state lines. Even if they did, the odds of a cop from Ohio or points west spotting this one car were slim and less than slim, if he behaved himself. PA-28 north would take him to 80 in Brookville. Mike took back roads through the Flats, the 356 bypass past Leechburg and hooked up with 28 the other side of Freeport.

Jordan’s Soft Serve never entered his mind until the expressway ended outside Kittanning and reminded him. Stopped there all the time coming back from his uncle’s camp in East Brady. No more than a mile from where he was, quick in and out, then on his way. Fifteen minutes, tops. Made the small detour past the par three golf course and parked along the side, next to an SUV that hid his car from the street.

A cop drove past as Mike came around the front of Jordan’s. He hesitated—almost went back—shook it off. This wasn’t even the metropolis of Kittanning, population 4,000; this was West Kittanning. A thousand people and two cops, tops. Town this size, a cop probably drove by once an hour.

Ordered a large chocolate cone, took a lick. Depending on his mood, this was as good as Glen’s. No cops in sight when he stepped out the door. Turned the corner back to his car, licking around the edge of the cone. Had his keys out, lock fob in his hand, when he passed the SUV and saw the West Kittanning cop leaning against Mike’s driver side door, his police car blocking any exit. Two state troopers rested on their own cars behind him.

The local cop smiled. “Mike Adamski, right?” Mike stared and swallowed. Took another lick. “Detective Dougherty in Penns River said you might stop here. He told me to let you finish your cone. Said the next one’s going to be a while.”

Frank Jr.

Patti Abbott has another flash fiction challenge on her blog, pattinase. Her mandate was succinct:
Write a story of 1000 words or less entitled Frank, Jr.
Here’s mine:

Frank, Jr.

Frank was a Junior. Hated it from the day he learned what “junior” meant. Frank Senior drove like he’d wrapped the car in eggs. Junior drove like Hell would close in ten minutes, the St. Christopher statue his ma gave him hanging on to the dashboard for dear life. The old man nibbled around the periphery of life; Junior headed straight to the top.

That’s how he met Marti—Martha, her mother called her, why Marti left when she was sixteen. She gave him the usual, “I don’t usually do this the first time I meet a guy.” He told her, “You close that door behind you and we’ll do a lot of things you don’t usually do.”

She had to work in the morning. “Please wake me up.”

Frank snorted. “Wake yourself up. I’ll be gone.”

He wasn’t, though. Marti woke up and he was there. Sleeping on his side, eyelids fluttering. Mumbling something she couldn’t make out. He opened his eyes and saw her looking at him.

“What?”

“Your face. It’s different when you sleep.”

“How?”

Marti thought a few seconds. “You were dreaming. You’re innocent when you dream.”

“I never dream,” Frank said. “I do.” Never dream. Do. Frank’s theme for life.

Frank drank. He smoked. He snorted. He sped. He walked into rooms full of people and made them wonder if they were about to regret things they’d forgotten they’d done. Yesterday is here. Pay up, bitch. Told Marti to call in sick, breakfast on him. He knew a place. She said the weather was bad. He said let’s go.

More than rain came in when Frank opened the door. Hail, sleet, whatever. Marti shrank back. Frank stepped into it. Shook his fist. “Come on, blow wind. Blow.” Speeding at eight in the morning.

Drove to Esther’s Diner soaking wet. Marti not wearing any more than last night, freezing. She had coffee. Frank had coffee. Frank ate eggs. Frank ate bacon. Frank ate toast. Dipped a piece in his coffee, slopped up his eggs with it. Marti watched him eat.

Everyone knew him. Everyone said hello. No one looked like they wanted to. Frank acknowledged them all. “Yeah.” “Sure.” “Uh-huh.” “Go fuck yourself.”

Marti said, “You live here long?”

Frank said, “Long enough.”

Marti said, “You like it?”

Frank said, “I’ll take New York.”

Frank stood. Pointed to the empty plate. “Take care of this. I’ll be right back.”

Marti said, “Where are you going?”

Frank turned for the men’s room. “I got an important telephone call. From Istanbul. Need some privacy.”

Marti paid the check. Frank did three lines off the lid of the toilet tank. Nine in the morning. Came out of the shitter wired. Took Marti by the elbow. “Let’s go.”

Marti said, “Where?”

Frank said, “Someplace else.”

Took her outside. The rain had stopped. The sun tried to come out, not hard enough. Frank opened the driver’s door. Marti held back.

Frank said, “What?”

Marti said, “I can get a cab.”

Frank said, “Get in,” like those might be the last two words she’d hear from him. Temptation won. Marti got in.

Frank started the car. Turned on the sound, all the way. Tom Waits. Frank’s Wild Years. Frank’s musical theme. Music too loud. Waits singing Cold Cold Ground. Where they put Frank when the Waits song drowned out the train song.

Marti came to the funeral. She made three. Esther was there. Some guy. No one said a word while two workmen put Frank way down in the hole.

Everyone left together, separately.

Sanctuary

Dan O'Shea has a flash fiction challenge over at his blog, Going Ballistic. My contribution is below; hop on over to Dan's blog for links to the rest.

SANCTUARY

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

"How long has it been since your last confession?"

Pause. "Long time. Twenty years, anyway."

"And now you've done something so bad you feel you have to come in?"

Another pause. "No, it's not that. There's something I'm going to do. Nothing bad. I just want to, you know, clear my conscience."

"What do you want to confess?"

An even longer pause. "I've done a lot of bad things. I never hurt anyone that didn't deserve it. I kinda fell into things and, well, I mean, times were tough and I was doing what I had to do. Pretty soon you're working for people you shouldn't be spending time with, and—look, I ain't proud of any of this, but I was making a living. A good living."

Late at night, the settling of a beam ricocheted through the empty church.

"That's pretty vague for a confession. If you're done, that is."

"This is hard to talk about."

"It's supposed to be. Contrition is the first step toward absolution."

Silence. The clearing of a throat. "You're saying I have to be sorry for what I did?"

"Going to confession doesn't hand you a Get Out of Hell Free card. Your sins can't be forgiven unless you repent."

"I wish I never did any of that stuff. Does that count?"

"Any of what stuff?"

"Jesus Christ, Father, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Watch your mouth, and yes, you do."

A deep breath let out through the nose. Shifting feet. "I don't know where to start."

"Let's start with why you're here tonight."

"What do you think I came here for? I came to confess."

"Why tonight, of all nights? You said you haven't been to confession for at least twenty years. What's special about tonight?"

"I'm in trouble. In case things go wrong I want to be in a—what do you call it?—a state of grace."

"Are you in danger?"

"Yeah."

"Because of the things you came to confess?"

"Yes. No. It's complicated."

"You said before you were going to do something, but it wasn't bad. Is that why you came now?"

"In a way. Yeah, I guess." He blew his nose. "I said before I worked for people I shouldn't a spent time with. There's this guy, Mike Mannarino. People call him The Hook. Anyway, I started doing little things for him and he liked me. At least I thought he liked me. Worked for the guy twenty years, then I find out he sent me to do a job might be a set up, you know, to be sure everything was jake before he really committed to it. Like I was contrary in a mineshaft, or something.

"So he was right, and the job was screwed up and I got pinched. He either forgot or didn't care I had some things over my head, I couldn't take a fall. The cops bring me in, keep me there almost a week, I can't make bail. Talk to me every day, twice a day, and I stand up the whole time. I wouldn't tell them if they asked me who the quarterback for the Steelers was. They offered me deals. New life. All charges dropped. Uh-uh. I'm looking at five years and I don't say a word."

"Loyalty is admirable, even when it's misplaced."

"Loyalty, huh? Let me tell you about loyalty. This Mannarino, he bailed me out this afternoon."

"Didn't you want him to?"

"Yeah, a week ago. Today, maybe two hours after I'm out, I'm leaving Big Boy and someone takes a run at me. Like the word's out I talked, or something."

"You said you didn't."

"I didn't. That don't appear to be the word that got out."

"It could just be a misunderstanding."

"Guns don't misunderstand, Father. What I think happened is, Joe Rienstra let slip what happened that night I got picked up. He got a case hanging over him, too, and I was what they call collateral damage. Joe got to Mike first, with me in jail, and told him I talked, that's why bail was so low. Which it wasn't, or I woulda bonded myself out."

"I don't understand how any of this brought you here tonight."

"Because I ain't safe anyplace else, Father. I want to get good with God, then tomorrow I'm going to make the deal. Fuck Mike Mannarino, and fuck Joey Rienstra. I never did anything but stand up and this is what I get. I want my soul clean in case they get to me before I can get protection."

"I understand. I think your willingness to make things right with the police counts as contrition. Say a Hail Mary for me, and I'll pray for you."

"Just one Hail Mary? Thanks, Father. That seems pretty light."

"It's all you got time for, you rat bastard." Two shots from a .22 sounded like not much more than a couple of hard hand claps in the hollowness of the church.

Stretch Dolewicz eased himself out of the booth. Not squeamish, but sitting in a confessional for forty-five minutes with a dead priest who thought he was a hero not his idea of a good time. And now The Hook would want him to take care of Rienstra.

Fucking job.

Shoeless Joe

Dan O'Shea has a flash fiction challenge going on at his blog, Going Ballistic. Check out the links for the premise and other stories. Mine is below.

SHOELESS JOE

Only in America do you take off your shoes. I was in Mexico last year, standing in line for a flight, and the guy comes running up to me, practically laughing. “Señor, por favor, there is no need to remove sus zapatas. That is only in America.” Made me feel like the only Protestant at Mass, standing or sitting when I wasn’t supposed to. Parents smacked small children for laughing at the ignorant gringo.

So this time I was getting on a plane in Miami and I do have to take off my shoes. I bent over to take them off and the woman in front of me was wearing an ankle bracelet. Those things are sexy, I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because only women with nice ankles ever wear them, which I wish some of those who wear belly shirts would think of once in a while. My eye moved up to her calf, which was time well spent. She had knee dimples, which I also think are sexy as hell. By the time I took a peek at her thighs she had her shoes off and caught me. I looked away, though she didn’t seem to mind. A gentleman’s gotta show some class.

I hit the bar until they called for boarding. Southwest flight, no reserved seats, everyone lined up like we’re catching helicopters out of Saigon, and there she was, in my group. Shorts exactly long enough to hide her cheeks and one of those things I think they call a camisole that covered her belly but never touched it, not the way her rack held it out. No sign of a bra. No sign she needed one, either.

I showed my pass and took a seat on the aisle so I could stretch my legs and she stops at my row and asks do I mind if she sits in the seat next to me. Please do, I say. I offered to move into the aisle but she said there’s room and slid in facing me so the nipples poking through that silky top were close enough for a taste if I was so inclined. Which I’m not, this being a public place and me a gentleman like I am. But, still.

She said flying made her nervous and she talked when she was nervous and would I mind some conversation to keep her mind off it? Conversation was fine with me, but it wasn’t likely to keep my mind off of what I was nervous about, which was whether she’d notice the front of my pants getting as tight as the back of her shorts. She patted my hand and said I was a nice guy, which I am, as you may have noticed by now.

We talked the whole flight. About the friend she’d been visiting and her job, which was, believe it or not, hospitality. She had a couple of drinks and made a few comments that would have lent themselves to inappropriate rejoinders from a man less simpatico to women than me. Told me again what a nice guy I was and wrapped her hand around mine when things got bumpy. By that time my tray table was down and I was happy to let her hold my hand anywhere she wanted.

She stood well inside what might be classically defined as my personal space while we waited for our luggage. Hers came first and I picked it up for her, of course. She stayed until mine arrived, which I thought was real nice. Said how she couldn’t remember enjoying a flight so much.

She didn’t know where to get a cab and, since it was getting late, I asked where she needed to go. As luck would have it, her place was no more than forty miles from mine, so it was no inconvenience to give her a lift. She said she didn’t want to put me out and I said it was my pleasure, and she hooked the nail of her pinkie finger in the corner of her mouth and smiled at me and said okay, she’d make it up to me. She had one quick stop to make, but it was on the way.

We got to her stop and I waited in the car. She came out at a jog, slammed the door behind her and screamed about getting the fuck out of here now! There was a stop sign at the corner I figured I’d roll through even though it was a residential area, her being in a hurry. She reached her left foot over when I slowed down and stomped on the gas and asked did I hear those sirens or not?

She went quiet and damned if I didn’t hear sirens. Getting closer, too. We were moving pretty good—sixty-five or seventy in a twenty-five mile zone—me getting antsy because I’m a good driver and all but I’m no Jimmy Johnson. She’s the one looks like Danica Patrick, maybe she should drive. I don’t remember what happened next. One second I’m driving, then the air bag is in my lap, I’m staring at a tree through a broken windshield, the inside of my car smells like a shotgun went off, and the chick is gone. There were a lot of cops, though. One reached under the passenger seat and held up what looked like a brick wrapped in cellophane. Hard to make out what they were saying; “Miranda” and “asshole” stood out.

Now I’m bunking with this guy named Junior who says he can tell I’m cherry and he’ll take care of me, but it’s gonna cost. All because I had to take off my fucking shoes.

One Stop Shopping

Patti Abbott has issued another flash fiction challenge. This time the theme is, "Wal-Mart, I Love You." Links to all the stories can be found on Patti's blog.

My contribution is called, "One Stop Shopping."

Enid didn’t have enough make-up to hide the mouse under her eye. She had make-up, just not the kind she liked for the job. She daubed on her second choice, decided it was good enough. This was her day off. Shopping day. Wal-Mart would have more.

Enid loved Wal-Mart. Everything she needed was there. Said hello to Dean, the greeter. Retired fireman, Korean War vet, always pretended to flirt with her. She knew he saw the bruise. His eyes flickered, and he licked his lips like he might say something. Enid went on before he’d feel like he had to.

Got the make-up first, so she wouldn’t forget. She felt underdressed with Plan B on her face, knew it didn’t cover as well, and no one could mistake what was under her eye for anything but what it was. Jimbo’s miscalculation. He rarely hit her where it showed.

She picked up shampoo, coloring, and conditioner. New rubber gloves. She definitely needed Epsom salts. Put back her regular bubble bath, got the more expensive stuff. Went into the grocery section for Jimbo’s steak. He told her on his way out that morning, after the shit she pulled last night she might as well throw herself down the stairs this time if she didn’t have one for his supper, save him the trouble. Picked the baking potatoes individual, didn’t just buy the bag. Real sour cream. Bacon bits. Went back into the general merchandise part of the store for a couple of other things she needed. Jolene Starling checked her out, commented on how nice her blouse looked. Jolene was a sweetheart.

Enid got the potatoes in the oven and made a green salad with the Eye-talian dressing Jimbo liked. Lit the hibachi behind the house in time for his steak to be ready for his first beer. Cut in to make sure it was done enough as the front door opened.

Jimbo smelled the steak and kept whatever he almost said to himself. Enid got him a beer, set it on the table. Neither talked while they ate. She cleared the table after they finished; Jimbo went into the living room to watch SportsCenter with his second beer.

Enid washed the dishes, put everything away. Cleaned the grill. Sat on the back steps and smoked a cigarette while it got dark. Jimbo was snoring when she came back into the house, the beer can balanced on the arm of his chair, that guy who did all that yelling about college basketball on the television. She walked in front of the TV to pick up a magazine and got no notice from Jimbo. Went back into the kitchen and opened her large parcel from Wal-Mart. Then she went back into living room, placed the muzzle of the Winchester 12 gauge shotgun three inches from Jimbo’s right ear and blew the bastard’s head all over the wall. Almost dislocated her shoulder when it went off. Jacked in another round and shoved the muzzle inside his collarbone and shot him again. Practically blew what was left of him apart, knocked the shotgun clean out of her hands.

She went into the bathroom and shut the door. Ran the bath with plenty of bubbles and salts, water as hot as she could bear it. Slid herself into the tub and felt the hot water take hold of her. Didn’t bother washing. Sat in the tub, let the water soak into her and waited for the sirens.