Monday, January 15, 2018

Bang, Bang by Jaap Boekestein


Bang, Bang

Of all the women in the state, Freddy had to bang the wife of Bobby Wings.

Yes, that Bobby Wings.

Freddy is my brother and all, and I love him, but hell sometimes he is such an utter stupid piece of dog shit. I reckon Laura was hot, a former Miss Louisiana or something, but whatever, she was Bobby Wings' wife! And my lovely little brother was banging her. Right in her hubbies bedroom, I gathered.

Bad idea. I told him so, and Freddy laughed.

“You worry too much Carl. You need to get laid once in while yourself. Make you less uptight.”
I had a few girls ever since Katey left me. The paying kind. I... It was not what I was looking for. So basically my brother nailed every pussy between Charleston and Galveston and I was living like a monk. Well, that's life.

We did a pawnshop in Baton Rouge at the end of the second Sunday in May, Mother's Day weekend. At the right moment, the right pawnshop has lots of cash and nice and easy things like coins and jewelry. Pawnshops usually also plenty of security and guns, but you can overcome that with timing and plenty of firepowers. You need body armor and tactical face masks modified AR-15's and a quick getaway car. Come in shooting, leave quickly. Something like that is a three men job, but Freddy and I always pulled it off together. A bigger piece of the pie and you know who you can trust.

It was a pretty good job and while we were driving back, Freddy decided it was a great time to visit Laura Wings.

“She lives nearby. You should see the mansion. It's like a Disney palace. She has a mirror on her bedroom ceiling,” Freddy said. “And a bathroom with a jacuzzi and a big ass television. I once nailed her in the tub while watching porn.”

“I don't care if they have flying pigs and a golden plated piss hole. You're not going to fuck the wife of one of biggest crime bosses in the state while I'm waiting outside with a car full of guns and loot.”
“Nobody will expect us there. It's the perfect place to stay wait out any roadblocks.”

“We stick to the plan,” I said. “We load the stuff in our boat and do some fishing for a few days.”
“I want to fish for something else. And I'm gonna. I need to, Carl. I'm tight as a fiddle string strung between two monster trucks.”

“You're a fucking sex addict. We're not gonna,” I said. “No way in Hell or Heaven.”

Of course, Freddy found a way in between Hell or Heaven. How did he convince me? I wasn't sure myself, but somehow I ended up listening to songs on the car radio a bit down the road of Bobby Wings' mansion while Freddy was inside fucking the brains out of the former Miss whatever. He had messaged her and she had told him her big sweet hubby was out for business, leaving her all alone on Mother's Day. Which was a shame.

Yeah, yeah, blah, blah.

I should have known better. Damn it, I should have.

But Freddy is my brother. I'm my brother's keeper, and he's mine.

How long was he gone? If was at least half an hour before this big black fellow knocked politely on the driver's window of the car. The gun in his other hand looked less polite.

I noticed the three other guys surrounding the car. They didn't bother with handguns. One shotgun, two machine guns. German or Austrian or something. By all means very deadly. They all were pointed straight at me.

I didn't move, I kept my hands where they could see them. Reaching for my gun would be suicide.

The first fellow, the polite one, opened the car door.

“Mr. Wings would like to see you, Carl.”

Shit. They knew my knew which meant they had Freddy. Of course, they had.

I came with them. I didn't have much choice.

We should have gone fishing instead of fucking.

A rich man's home: lots of marble and gold and glass, African voodoo hoodoo stuff on the walls. 

Mask, sculptures, tapestries.  Probably worth a million bucks, but I wouldn't know. It gave me the creeps.

Bobby Wing used to play football, long ago. He never made it the big league but he was a big bass ass mean motherfucker. He was sitting in a white leather chair, an automatic in his lap. His wife Laura sat on the left of him, looking worried. She was a looker and wore nothing but a black silk robe. She had Latino blood in her, long black hair, big eyes, beautiful face.

Freddy sat bud naked on some steel chair, his hands chained behind his back. He was alive. He wasn't even beat up, but he looked worried as hell.

Way too fucking late, if you ask me.

The boss looked at his boys.

“He's clean, Mr. Wings.”

They had taken everything, even my knife and the little .380 Smith & Wesson in my ankle holster. 

They had been thorough.

Bobby waved the guys away and gestured at an empty chair right beside my brother. Over ten feet away from Bobby Wings. Before I could rise and jump him, he would have shot me half a dozen times.

I sat down. Freddy was still alive and so was I. So far, so good.

“Freddy, Carl. Nice to meet you in the flesh,” Bobby Wings said. The big man looked at me. “I gather you're not married anymore, Carl?”

What the...? I looked at Freddy who made a face like I-didn't-tell-him-that!

“I divorced over a year ago,” I answered. Was he going after Katey after he had finished with us? 

Shit, she was my ex, but she didn't deserve to die because Freddy couldn't keep his dick in his pants.

“Yes, she moved up north, back to Boston,” Bobby Wings said.

I felt light-headed. Bobby Wings knew a lot about us. He couldn't have gotten this information in a mere thirty minutes time. He checked us out beforehand. Which was bad.

The crime boss took up a remote and pushed a button. At one end of the room, a television screen came to life. One moment of dark gray nothingness, the next moment my brother was fucking Laura Wings on the big screen. It had been recorded with a fixed camera, a hidden camera I guessed. Freddy and Lauren were really hitting it off.

The big man with the big gun pushed another button. A different time, still Freddy and Laura.
And again, and again, and again. Freddy fucking Laura in the bed, in the bathroom, in the living room, somewhere in a stable, everywhere. She had been giving him the whole tour, of the house and herself.

I could tell from the look on Mrs. Wings' face she hadn't been aware of the hidden camera's. She looked really worried now. Being caught with some moron dick head once was bad, but having a whole porn channel worth of wild sex with a guy who was definitely not her husband, was beyond bad.

Freddy looked worried too.

I guessed I even looked worried. And pissed off. I certainly was both.

“You like to fuck my wife, Freddy?” Bobby Wings asked. The gun was still in his lap.

From the corner of my eyes, I watched my brother. Maybe, very maybe I could jump the big man while he was shooting Freddy. Maybe, very maybe I could wrestle the gun from him and shoot the crime boss before his men took me out.

There was a lot of maybes and however it worked out, Freddy and I would be dead, but if I could I would take Bobby Wings with me. He would kill my brother and I would try to kill him. That was how it worked.

“She is an okay lay,” Freddy answered. He knew he would be dead soon. He wasn't going to beg.
I knew he wouldn't.

Bobby Wings nodded, his big head going up and down like some of those little Buddha's they sell at these Asian shops. “She is, isn't she? And I understand why she fucked you, Freddy. I haven't fucked her for almost twelve months, you know. I fully understand she had needs.”

Uh, yes? What was this? Telling the guys you were going to kill your domestic troubles before you shot a bullet through their heads? This was getting a bit weird.

“I don't care about fucking anymore,” the big man continued. “But I like to watch.”

He nodded towards the screen where my brother was banging Bobby Wings' wife on a desk. If I had to guess it was the big man's own desk. It probably had seemed a very hot idea back then.

“And that's where you two come in.”


***

Bang bang.

That was the way how it went down.

Freddy fucks Laura.

I fuck Laura.

Sometimes we both fuck Laura together.

And Bobby watches. Sometimes he is present in the flesh, sometimes he is watching the live stream, sometimes he watches us later.

It took some getting used too, but hey, it actually works pretty well.

Bobby is happy, Laura is happy, Freddy is happy and even I am happy. Laura is a fun woman, and drop-dead gorgeous. And she has a big heart. And damn, that ceiling, and jacuzzi, the coke and all the other shit. Very nice.

The one thing I worry about is Freddy.

I think he is cheating on Laura.

I'm not sure how Bobby will take it.

Damn my dumb ass brother.


-End-

Bio Jaap Boekestein (1968) is an award-winning Dutch writer of science fiction, fantasy, horror, thrillers and whatever takes his fancy. He usually writes his stories in trains, coffeehouses and in the 16th-century taverns of his native The Hague, the Netherlands. Over the years he has made his living as a bouncer, working for a detective agency and as an editor. Currently, he works for the Dutch Ministry of Security and Justice. His English publications include stories in: Cyäegha, Nonbianary Review, Strange Shifters, Lovecraft after Dark, Surreal Nightmares, Urban Temples of Cthulhu, Sirens Call, Mystery Weekly Magazine, Double Feature Magazine, After The Happily Ever After, Cliterature, No Safe Word, Sex & Sorcery 3 and Switblade 2.
http://jlboekestein.wixsite.com/jaap-boekestein
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Monday, January 1, 2018

Moonlight Sonata, With Scissors by Darrell Z. Grizzle



Moonlight Sonata, With Scissors

I was jolted awake by what sounded like a gunshot in my front yard.

I lay in bed for a few seconds, wondering if I’d heard an actual noise or if it was part of a dream I couldn’t remember. I can’t always tell when I’m awake or dreaming, especially in those liminal moments before I’m fully awake. I looked beside me and saw my black cat, Wolfbane, sound asleep and snoring beside me like a small panther. Maybe the gunshot noise had just been a dream.
    
But then came the banging of a fist on my front door. “Zed! Wake up! Zed!” I recognized the voice. Shit. That would be Corey, a former – associate, I guess would be the word. I knew him from a couple of years back, when I’d gotten involved in some business with some shady characters and then, thankfully, got uninvolved. Corey was not someone I’d choose to associate with socially. Especially not at 3 o’clock in the middle of the night.
    
I got out of bed and pulled on some khaki shorts. Wolfbane stirred and stared at me indignantly for waking her up. “Sorry,” I said. She glared at me like she wasn’t accepting my apology.
    
I went to the front door and flung it open. “Was that a damn gunshot I heard?”
    
Corey started to answer but stopped and stepped backwards abruptly. I guess this was the first time he’d ever seen me without a shirt on. Yeah, I lift. And yeah, I got those tattoos in prison. Most of them, at least.
    
“N-no,” he stammered. “That was just the car backfiring. But I’m in a bad jam, Zed. I really need your help.”
    
“What is it?” I demanded, hoping he had taken note that I hadn’t invited him inside.
    
“I’ve got a—” He lowered his voice. “Well, I’ve got a dead body in the trunk of my car.”
    
A dead body. In the middle of the night. Great. “Anyone I know?”
    
“No. It was – a job. It was supposed to be a collection job, just scare the guy, you know, but he must’ve had a heart attack or something.”
    
“And you had the bright idea to bring his dead body to my house?”
    
“I didn’t know where else to go, Zed. Honest. And I thought with you living out in the woods like this, with nobody around—” 
    
“There are people who live on the other side of those woods, Corey. And your car backfire probably woke them up like it did me.”
    
“I’m sorry about that, Zed, really I am. But please. I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t know what to do!”
    
“Did you call whoever hired you and tell him what happened?”
    
“No. I didn’t want to wake—” He stopped and grimaced when he realized what my response would be to that.
    
I said it anyway. “No, of course not. Me you can wake up in the middle of the fucking night, but the gangster wannabe who hired you for the collection job? No, let’s not bother his beauty sleep at all.” I sighed heavily. 
    
“Listen,” said Corey, “I freaked. I didn’t know where to go. You know I’m still on parole. I can’t get caught with a dead body.”
    
“Something you probably should have considered before you took the job. Let me put on some shoes and I’ll come take a look.” I closed the door, leaving him outside in the moonlight.
    
The moon was full so I didn’t need a flashlight to walk past the kudzu to my driveway where his car was parked. It was a big old Buick LeSabre, about twenty years old and nearly rusted out. Big and bulky, with a trunk large enough for the cargo he was carrying. “OK, pop the trunk and let’s see what you got.”
    
What he had was the body of a man about fifty years old. His legs were folded behind him awkwardly, jammed into the trunk, and his arms were at a weird angle to the body. I wondered if rigor mortis had set in. There was a strange look of surprise and bewilderment on the man’s face. A face that looked familiar. “Holy shit,” I said. “Do you know who this is?”
    
“I know his name, that’s all. Charles Gandy. I don’t know anything else about him, except he owed some bookies fifteen grand.”
    
I turned and stared at Corey. “This guy was my parole officer. He helped me get my first legit job when I got out of the pen.” I’d been off parole for five years but Officer Gandy still looked the same as he did back then.
    
“You mean I – you mean he’s—”
    
“Law enforcement. Yes, you have a dead peace officer in the trunk of your car.”
    
Corey started breathing heavy and mumbling “Oh shit oh shit oh shit” to himself.  I started to go through Officer Gandy’s pockets but realized I should put on some gloves before doing so. 
    
“Wait here while I go get my gloves.”
    
“Gloves!” he exclaimed. “I shoulda worn gloves when I carried him out to my trunk! My prints are prob’ly all over him!”
    
By the time I got back, my camo hunting gloves on both hands, Corey was almost in a state of panic. I ignored him for the moment and went through the dead man’s pockets. “Yep, here’s his badge,” I said, holding it up. Corey looked like he was about to faint.
    
I noticed some sort of netting was wrapped around the back of Officer Gandy’s clothes. “What’s all this?” I asked.
    
Corey collected himself enough to answer, “That’s some mosquito netting for when I go camping. It was in the trunk when I put in – the body.”
    
“It’s starting to get tangled up in his clothes,” I said. “Do you have a knife or something so I can cut it off?”
    
“I think I might have something. Here.” He pulled a pair of scissors out of the front pocket of his pants. I took the scissors and started to cut the netting but suddenly I stopped and looked at the scissors in my hand.
    
“Wait a minute. Where did you get these?”
    
“From my pocket just now.”
    
“But why are you carrying a pair of scissors in your pocket? That doesn’t make sense.”
    
“I just – I don’t know.” He looked dumbfounded.
    
“Do you remember putting those scissors in your pocket?”
    
“No,” he said. “I have no idea how they got in my pocket. I just – somehow I knew they were there. What’s the big deal?”
    
I stepped away from the body in the trunk. “I think I know what’s happening,” I said. “I think this is all a bad dream.”
    
He looked at me like I was crazy. “What?”
    
“A dream,” I said, calmly. “This is a nightmare. We can control it. We can even choose to wake up and end it. Do you know about lucid dreaming?”
    
“Lucid what? No! I have no idea what you’re talking about. All I know is I have a dead parole officer in my trunk and I’m in a buttload of trouble.”
    
I closed my eyes and concentrated. For a few seconds we were both silent and all I could hear were the crickets in the forest surrounding my house. I opened my eyes and said, “No. No you don’t. You don’t have a body in your trunk.”
    
“What!” He pointed to the trunk. “Have you lost your fucking mind? I know there’s—” He stopped when he saw that the trunk was empty except for the mosquito netting and an old camping tent crammed into the corner.
    
Now he really did look panicked. “Where did he go? What happened to the body?” His eyes were wide and wild-looking.
    
“Lucid dreaming. I chose to make him go away. Just like I’m about to choose to make you go away, and then I’m going to choose to wake up.” I held the scissors in my hand like a weapon and started advancing toward him. I could see the confusion in his eyes as it was quickly replaced by terror. He was terrified – of me.
    
He started backing away from me. “Listen, Zed, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you with this. I’ll get out of here, honest I will. Just tell me where the body went and I’ll take it somewhere else.”
    
“How can you do that when you’re not even here?” I swiped the scissors at his face but before they made contact, he vanished into thin air. And so did his car, and so did the scissors in my hand.
    
I stood alone in the middle of the moonlit driveway. I closed my eyes tightly and concentrated on one thing: waking up. Next thing I knew, I was back in my bed, with my cat Wolfbane snuggled up beside me, gently snoring or maybe purring in her sleep, or both. I hoped she was having a better dream than the one I’d had.

#

The next morning I wrote down what I remembered of the dream in the notebook I kept by the bed. I could remember it so vividly, it felt like it had actually happened. I started to wonder if it had. But that was crazy, of course, especially the way the dead body, and Corey, and Corey’s car had all vanished into thin air in the dream. 
    
But I found myself going online and looking up Charles Gandy. I found his Facebook page and saw where he had posted, just that morning, a rambling complaint about traffic on his way to the parole office. So he was still alive and well, and still a parole officer, and apparently doing OK except for a bothersome morning commute to work.
    
I clicked over to Corey’s Facebook page and saw where he had posted a photo of himself, trying to look cool as leaned against his “vintage” Buick LeSabre. I had probably seen that pic and that’s why the car had shown up in my dream. I started to send him a message, asking him how he was doing, but I decided against it. It was time to let the strange dream go.

#

Two nights later I was jolted awake from a sound sleep by what sounded like a gunshot in my front yard.
    
Not again, I thought. I lay in bed for a few seconds, and sure enough, there came the knocking at my front door. “Zed! Wake up! Zed!”
    
I got out of bed and pulled on some khaki shorts – and this time I put on my shoes before answering the door. There it was, the same indignant glare from Wolfbane, and when I opened the front door, there was Corey, startled at the unexpected sight of my pec muscles and tattoos, then stammering about the dead body in his trunk.
    
He probably wondered about the bored expression on my face when I followed him out to his car and said, “OK, pop the trunk and let’s see what you got.”
    
Yep, there was Officer Gandy, the same strange look of surprise and bewilderment on his face, the same tangle of mosquito netting on back of his clothes. I found myself feeling amused at Corey’s growing sense of desperation as I told him this was the body of my former parole officer. I interrupted his nervous stammering and said, “Hand me the scissors in your pocket.”
    
“Hand you the—? What are you talking about, Zed? I don’t have any scissors in my pocket.”
    
“Yes, you do. Take a look.”
    
He patted both front pockets with his hand and looked surprised as hell to find the pair of scissors. He handed the scissors to me and asked, “How did you—? Where the hell did those come from? What the fuck is going on?”
    
“What’s going on is, this is all a bad dream. I’m going to choose to wake up. I’m going to choose to make you – and this body in your trunk – go away.” I held the scissors in my hand like a weapon and started advancing toward him. There it was again, the confusion in his eyes, quickly replaced by terror.
    
He started backing away from me. “Listen, Zed, I’m sorry. I’ll get out of here, honest I will.”
    
“Yes, of course you will,” I said. I swiped the scissors at his face but this time he didn’t vanish. “What the—?” I stabbed at him again and he stood there in shock as I stabbed him yet again. It slowly began to dawn on me: this wasn’t a dream this time. I backed away and saw that I had cut up Corey’s face and part of his neck with the scissors and he was bleeding profusely. He was on his knees now, shaking and pleading with me, “Please, Zed, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” His face was sliced to ribbons and blood was soaking into his shirt. One of his eyes was gashed in and I watched in horror as the life went out of the other eye and his body slumped down to the ground.
    
This can’t be happening, I thought, as I felt the sense of panic begin to overtake me. This is a dream, I told myself. I wrote all this down in my dream journal. This isn’t real. I need to wake up!
    
But there I was, a pair of bloody scissors in my hand, alone in the moonlight, staring at Corey’s dead body on the ground. I stabbed the scissors into my thigh and sure enough, I could feel them. They were real. The pain radiated through my leg like an electric shock as the crickets continued their night chorus. This wasn’t a dream this time.
    
This time I was stone cold awake, and this time I had two fucking corpses to deal with.

-End-

Bio Darrell Z. Grizzle is a former parole officer who now works as a counselor in private practice. He writes horror and crime fiction in shadow-haunted Marietta, Georgia, where he lives with two cats and way too many books. His fiction publications include “The Bag in the Corner” (Shotgun Honey, May 2016), “The Last Confession” (Near to the Knuckle, February 2017), “The Lazaretto Ghost” (Mad Scientist Journal, Summer 2017) and “Under the Blood” (Skelos: The Journal of Weird Fiction and Dark Fantasy, Number 4).  You can find him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/dzgrizzle and on Twitter and Instagram as @existentialbear.
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Monday, December 18, 2017

Dollar Sign on the Baby by Paul Greenberg



Dollar Sign on the Baby

“Excuse me, Mother Superior,” said Lolly as she elbowed her way past the Nun. “No need to push.” Said the Nun to Lolly, who elbowed her shopping cart through the mass of humanity flooding the parking lot of the Market Basket Grocery Store.

Lolly, at 5’3” barely fit behind the wheel of her 2009 Toyota Corolla. Once a petite 120 pounds, she had managed to put on an extra hundred over the last few years, thanks to a diet of Mountain Dew, Pop Tarts and vodka.

Her trip to the grocery store yielded a trunk load of crap food and cigarettes for her boyfriend, Jimmy LeBlanc, but also something she had picked up while pushing through the parking lot. A two-year-old boy.

Lolly had decided to call him Henry, after her father, despite the fact that Dad had tossed her and Jimmy out on there ass's back in Plantation, Florida.

***

Lolly didn’t know why she had plucked the kid from the woman’s carriage. The conditions seemed right, so she did it. An impulse purchase you might say. Something in her subconscious was screaming, “dollar signs.”

When she pulled into the driveway of the trailer park, Lolly could hear Jimmy in the middle of a coughing jag. He was already asking for his carton of Camels, as she was walking through the door.

“I got your cigarettes and your cheese curls and all the other shit you eat. She said as she popped open a can of Mountain Dew.

“Look what else I got you, Daddy.” She sang playfully as she walked into the TV room. Lolly held the boy in front of her swinging him gently back and forth, his legs dangling, dirty diaper sagging from his tiny pants.

“What the fuck did you do now, you stupid cow?”

“Jimmy, this is Henry, but you can call him Money. Do you know how much his parents will pay to get him back?”

***

“No, I don’t know. Did you ask them my sweet cookie jar?”

“No.”

“Do you know who the parents are my lovely potato chip?”

“No.”

“Then how the fuck are you going to get any money out of them ya ignoramus?”

“Cause Henry is going to give us their phone number. Isn’t that right, cutie?”

“He’s a fucking baby you stupid clam plate. All he knows is; I got to eat, shit and piss. Now find Sesame Street on the fucking tube and put him down, so we can figure this thing out?”

Jimmy paced the room wondering why he didn’t haul back and smack her all the while congratulating himself for not doing so.

“Where’s the food?”

“In the bags, dumb ass.”

Jimmy rummaged through the three plastic bags looking for anything resembling red meat. “We could eat ‘em, I suppose.”

“By now the cops…” He smacked his hand to his forehead and flicked on the radio, near the kitchen sink.

“An Amber alert has been issued for Simon…”

“Simon. Who names their kid, Simon?” Lolly said.

“Who names their kid, Lolly? Now, will you shut the fuck up,” said Jimmy.

“Simon Chalmers is two and one half years old, has brown hair, brown eyes and was wearing a Tom Brady T-shirt, blue pants and white sneakers. He’s the son of Mary and Anthony Chalmers. If you have any information or were at the Market Basket in Middletown this afternoon around 2:00 pm, please call…”

Jimmy looked at the boy. “That’s him all right.”

“Simon Chalmers. Sounds rich,” said Lolly.

Jimmy knew that he was in a world of shit that he never asked to be in, and his choices were few. He had to move fast. Come up with a story. Get the kid to safety and put a thousand miles between him and Lolly.  His window of escape was closing fast.

“Honey, here’s twenty bucks. Go down to the CVS and get the kid some diapers, milk and baby food. A kid shouldn’t be eating Doritos and swilling the Dew. OK?”

“Sure Jimmy. I knew you would figure it out. You want me to take the baby, with?”

“No, no, no. Let the boy sleep, I’ll be fine.”

While Lolly made her way to the CVS, Jimmy made his way to his closet where his 7MM Remington long-range hunting rifle was stored. He loaded it and stuck it behind a trash barrel in front of the trailer.

Jimmy LeBlanc spent the time he had alone revisiting the past seven years of his life. Leaving Florida, stealing cars, the booze, the coke and the meth. Pan handling and petty theft, odd jobs and now the God forsaken New England winters. This life if for shit. Now kidnapping? And for what? A once nice looking broad that turned into a cow overnight? A whining, never happy with anything I could possibly do, including trying to go straight?

This, he decided, has got to end.

When Lolly pulled back into the park, Jimmy was pacing out front, chain-smoking Camels, coughing and spitting up phlegm. He hurried Lolly out of the car, suggesting that she “get in there and change that kid’s diaper and feed him and shut him the fuck up so no one hears him crying.”

As Lolly entered the trailer, Jimmy opened the trunk of the car and wrapped the rifle in a blanket. He closed the trunk and hurried into the trailer before Lolly poked her head out to see what he was up to.

***

“Lolly, I spoke to my friend Dan Comeau, you know the guy I did construction with for awhile? He said that he’ll get us ten grand for the kid, but we would have to get it to him tonight, cause the heat is really on and he’s got to flip the kid to someone who wants to adopt and so on.”

“Ten grand, that’s awesome,” she said.

“So, tonight at nine we gotta drop the kid off behind the church on Lowell Street.  At 9:15 Danny will come by, leave our money in a bag and take the kid. Sounds easy enough, huh?”

When 8:30 came around, Simon Chalmers was wrapped in a blanket and sleeping in a big blue plastic recycling bucket. Lolly got in the back seat with him and Jimmy drove down to the Saint and Angels Church. He parked at the back of the church parking lot by the Donate Books bin, about 50 yards from the church.

“You go up there by the exit door and lay the bucket down. Then we take a little drive. Danny will pick up the kid and drop the cash by the door. Then we come back and pick up the money. OK?”

“You think Simon will be safe?”

“He’ll be fine. Now go. We have a schedule to keep.”

As Lolly waddled the length of the parking lot, Jimmy slipped out of the car, popped the trunk and grabbed the rifle.

He looked through the scope as Lolly walked up the stairs to the door. She was moving the bucket around like a shaker of salt over corn on the cob.

Lolly kneeled down to gently place the bucket on the top step. She adjusted the blanket around the boy and as soon as she straightened herself up, Pop, Pop, Pop. Jimmy got off three shots in a group, around her heart.

“God damn, that’s some good shooting.”

He got in the Toyota tossed the gun on the passenger seat and Pop. The Remington went off sending a round right through Jimmy’s neck. He fell forward on the horn.

The blaring of the horn alerted a Nun, who was working in the church. She came out the back door to find a dead Lolly and a sound asleep Simon Chalmers. “I’ll be freaking damned.” She said. “It’s that pushy girl from the grocery store.”  Sister Winnie Patrikas pulled out her cell phone and called the police.

She was about to become famous.

-End-

Bio Paul Greenberg’s crime and flash fiction can be found at Out of the Gutter, Shotgun Honey, Thrills Kills and Chaos, Near to the Knuckle, Horror Sleaze Trash, Yellow Mama and his story Next Stop, Hell is in Issue 2 of Switchblade Magazine (available at Amazon). He lives on the North Shore of Boston, Massachusetts. 

Paul blogs at pgreenbergcrime.wordpress.com.  Follow him on Twitter at pgreenbergcrime and on Facebook look for Paul Greenberg. Not the Paul Greenberg that wrote the book about fish.
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