Flash Crime by cori12345678

FLASH CRIME Gina Sakalarios-Rogers

PENGUIN Published by The Penguin Group Penguin Random House LLC 375 Hudson Street New York, New York 10014 www.penguin.com

Flash Crime Copyright © 2017 Gina Sakalarios-Rogers All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, promotes free speech, encourages diverse voices and creates vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader. ISBN 978-0-9892173-1-6 (Paperback) ISBN 978-0-9858293-1-5 (E-Book) Cover design by © Cori Cummings Book interior by © Cori Cummings This book was set in Bembo Book. This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Printed in the United States of America 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Gina Sakalarious-Rogers

Canine 401(k)....................................4

Eli Hastings

The Cell I’m In.................................9

Lia Mitchell

Bonnie and Clyde..........................13

Melodie Campbell

The Perfect Mark............................3

Jeff Swift

The Getaway......................................3

Deven Atkinson

All That Glitters................................3

K.C. Ball

Canticles..............................................3

Sarah Hillary

Mug’s Game.......................................3

Owen Rapine

Just Behind The Ear.......................3

Derek McMillan

Lauging Larry...................................3

Canine 401(k) Gina Sakalarious-Rogers

d listened to the six o’clock news on the booking officer’s small radio. The reporter described him as remorseless, a cold-hearted murderer. He slumped in the hard plastic

chair, cuffs pinching his wrists. According to the reporter, Ed’s twenty acres was a killing field containing “massive piles of dog carcasses and bones clearly visible from the air.” She described from her helicopter scorched patches in the dirt yard and mass burial sites. She made his property sound like a war zone. For thirty-five years he bred hunting dogs and disposed of retired greyhounds. For twenty dollars a dog Ed saved an industry millions of dollars a year. This was illegal?

The reporter ended her segment by calling Ed a ghoul awaiting justice, “a warning to those who sought to profit or benefit from the abuse of any animal.” “It’s just a business,” he mumbled to the booking officer. “No one wants to see it, Ed,” Tappert replied. “The ones that aren’t adopted at the shelter are gassed and cremated. No one sees that. Their bodies don’t make the news.” Ed said to the booking officer, “This morning I fed the six I got yesterday, let them race around the kennels. What else’ve they got?” He lifted his cuffed hands. “Can these come off?” “Regulations, Ed.” What he did was no secret. People always looked the other way, pretended he wasn’t doing it. They wouldn’t adopt them, wouldn’t fund the “rest home” proposed by the shelter and the dog track. He did for the dogs what he could. They didn’t look at him any different when he fed them than when they saw him with a gun. Greyhounds are like that. None of the breeders had come to his defense yet. He’d been here for five hours, breathing in the manufactured cool air in the booking room, the funky foot odors in the holding cell, and whatever waited to assault his lungs in lock up. “Can I make another call? Randy may be home now.” “You think he’s going to put himself on the line for you?” Ed nodded, “We’ve been friends for years. He’s helped

Canine 401(k)

me out with them dogs more than once.” Officer Tappert leaned back in his wood chair. “Ed Randy has the most popular veterinary business in this town and the next. He’s not going to risk that for you and wouldn’t appreciate you implicating him in front of an officer of the law. If you want to think about that for a moment, I’ll forget I heard you say it.” Ed clamped his mouth shut. Randy raised greyhounds. He was a successful breeder and adopted retired dogs right out of his office. He understood Ed’s business because he cared about the dogs. That reporter and all the others like her were phonies. They spoke up when they had a cause that was easy to get behind, or popular. They didn’t get behind the hard work. Self-righteous and cowardly. He tried to take a deep breath. “I can’t breathe in here. Don’t you have a yard or something for prisoners?” The officer laughed. “No. This ain’t a movie, and you aren’t in prison. This is a county jail.” “I let the dogs run. That’s what they do. Run real fast for a short time, then lay around like lazy cats all day.” “Sounds good to me.” This boy in his uniform with his gun strapped to him and a badge on his chest did not understand. Not everything kind always has a light shining on to it. Sometimes it is dark and unpleasant. Ed was sure the boy, that reporter and everyone

Gina Sakalarious-Rogers

still believed kindness had to feel good. They were too wrapped up in their own sensibilities to see the truth in what Ed had to do for all of these dogs. He had five large runs in back of his house. He cut away a tunnel of trees between the runs and the bay, so that the breeze off the bay would funnel through the trees onto the dogs. They got out four times each day to do their business and twice to run. They had a clear three acre pasture to themselves. The dogs would race each other in circles around the field, then roll in the grass. Stretched out on their backs in the sun, they gave off happiness. He’d keep them for two weeks, just like the shelter. If no one called with a home lined up, he’d shoot the group. He’d burn them in a sheltered field on the other side of the property separated from his house and the runs by an acre of trees. He kept the death smell of the killing field far from the dogs. They died one at a time with his hand on their haunches and the gun at the back of their head. He was careful about the dogs’ happiness in their last few days. They deserved a pleasant retirement and he gave it to them. There was always a new batch of dogs right behind them. “Can I get some water?” Ed asked the officer still immersed in punching stuff about Ed into his computer. “Just a minute. Sandy’ll be back in and I’ll get her to escort you to the cooler.” “I can find it myself.”

Canine 401(k)

“Sit down, Ed. You can’t go unescorted.” “More rules?” “Life’s full of them.” Lots of rules, yes. Few made much sense to Ed. Don’t steal. Don’t murder. Be kind. Be honest. These were all the rules we needed. Most of the rest were just people trying to make sure those dumber than themselves understood how these rules worked in different situations. Made things more complicated. Sandy escorted Ed to the water cooler in the hall. She walked behind him with her hand on his shoulder. “Sorry about the cuffs, Ed. He could take them off. Nobody’d say anything. We know you aren’t dangerous.” “He likes his rules.”

The Cell I’m In Eli Hastings

am in is pretty loud because it shares thin walls with th other ones full of shit-talking and drunk dudes, but all I keep hearing is the fake camera-click sound that my

phone makes when you snap a picture. It echoes in my head. I keep my eyes open because if I close them, every time I hear that sound, I also see a freeze-frame of Brendan’s puffed-out, blue face with the blood vessels all busted in his eyes so that they’d turned red like a monster’s. I’m at the East Precinct, so it’s usually just adult “offenders” in here. They don’t have a space for minors, which I guess is normal. You wouldn’t be able to tell by the graffiti though— seems like the messages people have somehow scratched into

The Cell I’m In

the cinder blocks’ thin paint and the plastic coating on the door could have come from the minds of my classmates for sure: Fuck, Run, Fight, Drink! and Fuck the Police and whatnot. The one just below the rectangle window on the door keeps grab bing my eye, though: Kill Faggots. If he didn’t have anything else, Brendan would have used his canine tooth to scratch that out, or, more likely, some witty response. But I don’t feel like honoring him by trying it myself—a lot of good it did him, all that wit, all that fight, all the ways he stood up and hit back. What really happened was that Brendan skipped school on Tuesday, which was weird, because he was obsessed with getting perfect grades so he could go anywhere he wanted to for college. It’s true that after school on Monday, Brett and Spencer and their little crew of assholes had tackled Brendan out by the buses and stuffed a banana—peel and all—down his throat till he almost puked while some girls screamed at them to stop but lots of others laughed and moved around for a better view and Mr. Abrams, the Spanish teacher, who was talking on his cell phone, and the bus drivers all looked away. But it is not like that’s the first time they’d done shit like that to him and besides Brendan got up, brushed off his clothes and spit after them as they all ran off, giggling and high-fiving like it was a big joke. I’d talked to him later that night on the phone and he was making jokes about how he wished Brett and Spencer would just come out of the closet already so he didn’t have to keep

Eli Hastings

choking on bananas for them. He did not say anything about how I froze up and didn’t help him at all. I knew he wouldn’t. So that’s why I went to his house after school on Tuesday, why I climbed the fence to get his spare key when he did not answer the door, and why I found him hanging from a fluorescent orange cord tied to the beam in the basement, puffy and blue and dead, Whale Rider still playing on the cheap-ass DVD player he kept down there. Why I took out my phone out and snapped three pictures of him as he spun there, though, I’m still not sure. And I’m not sure why I tapped on the Facebook app and posted them, either. But I am sure that’s why I’m here. Even though the next thing I did was dial 911, like seven people from school showed up at Brendan’s before the cops did. They figured out pretty quick why and instead of just questioning me or whatever, they arrested me. I asked them what for but the detective just spat on the ground kind of like Brendan did after the banana thing and shouted some shit at me about interfering with an investigation, invasion of privacy and suspicion of murder, too. Looking through the little rectangle window, I can see through another Plexiglas window to where my mom is standing at a desk, arguing with a big cop. I can only see her back, mainly, but a couple of times she is turned in profile and her makeup is running and her hair is gone wild, which she hates, and it makes me feel awful. I sit back down on the bench and trace a swastika carved

The Cell I’m In

there with my finger, knowing I’m in for a lot of shit, knowing that I’ll feel awful for a long time. But not for posting the photos. Not for showing everyone what we’ve done.

Bonnie and Clyde Lia Mitchell

he difference between a warning and a threat is a fine one, based, near as I can tell, on choice. That is, when the girl standing over me says, Don’t move or I’ll blow your

fucking head off, does she feel like she has a choice? Or is that cause and effect, like I move and boom, she pulls the trigger? Because then what she’s giving me is a warning. But if it’s more decision she makes, then that’s a threat. Then she could decide otherwise, and I’ve got a chance to get home, cranium intact. She’s a fine-boned, featherweight thing, face shaded, body lost in her black hooded sweatshirt. Just a kid, really, with a kid’s soft milk skin and baby-long eyelashes, but she knows how to hold a gun. Her boyfriend doesn’t; he stomped into my

Bonnie and Clyde

bank looking like he’d practiced more in a mirror than at any range, holding a .45 loose and sideways in one hand, so his instructions (You, rent-a-pig, on your knees) weren’t too convincing. Then she showed up, her small fingers locked in a good two-handed grip and her sight on my forehead, and there I was, down and praying. He’s in charge of the tellers and she’s in charge of me, keeping my kneecaps grinding flat into the floor, my hands up and open, armpits cold with air-conditioned sweat. “What’s your name, honey?” I ask low. She stares at my skull like I don’t have eyes. “Okay, you don’t wanna say. Okay. My name’s Roy. I’m gonna call you Bonnie. Like Bonnie and Clyde, do you know that story?” No reaction. “See, Bonnie’s this real tough, pretty girl, and maybe she doesn’t like living with her parents, so she runs off with this guy Clyde. Seems alright but he is into some dangerous stuff. And Bonnie’s not a bad person but she gets caught up and lemme tell you, the story doesn’t end so good. This guy, I don’t know what he’s got planned, but—” “Hurry the fuck up,” Clyde yells at weeping Judy in Booth number two, his voice echoing across the marble floors and wood-paneled walls. “You can turn this thing around, okay? Listen, Bonnie, I got a little girl at home. Julia. Ten years old. You got a dad,

Lia Mitchell

right? Your dad teach you to shoot?” Clyde’s moving to the next booth over, telling Marco, “Your turn, bitch.” “Maybe you don’t get along with your dad, maybe he’s not around or he’s strict or something, but you know he loves you. Like I love my girl Julia. You love your dad, right?” “My dad?” Bonnie says; her eyes snap to mine, dark gold blackening from the center. “He’s a fucking drunk pervert.” She breaks the eye contact just as fast, but not before I can guess how it is: that pretty girl waking in the crack of light from the hall, her father’s slumping shoulders and blurred voice, Honey, it’s been a real hard day... And the weight and smell of whiskey then, tears and paralysis, like waking into a bad dream, lead-filled heart and lungs, crushed-out breath. No, fatherhood isn’t anything sacred in her book. I shut up, wait in silence, watch her attention pulling inward. Tension gathers pain between my shoulders, at the base of my spine. “C’mon, babe, let’s take Piggy for a ride,” Clyde calls. Her gaze slides fast right and her head starts to turn. I look for the line of her profile to launch myself forward, under the gun with my arms around her waist, to bring her down and break her fingers open, but before I arrive Oh there’s the flick of her long lashes, the startled wet amber of her iris, and in this my last exploded fraction of a second I know, I know that her words were not a threat, but a warning.

The Perfect Mark Melodie Campbell

he old lady was almost the perfect mark. Sasha held back an urge to smirk, instead leaning forward to listen with polite interest. “Do you like cats, Miss… how do you pronounce that?” Sasha nearly grimaced, but caught herself. “Oh yes,” she

said quickly, glancing around the condominium. Nothing in sight but good solid furniture. “Do you have one?” “Not yet,” twittered the old lady. “That’s why I need a personal support worker. To help me look after it.” Sasha smiled back. She was confident about getting this job — she’d never missed before. Plain hair, no makeup and conservative clothes… it was easy to fool them. And she charged

way less than agencies, as long as they paid upfront in cash. It was good to deal in cash. As the old lady chattered on about cats, Sasha’s eyes strayed around the room. Expensive furniture, lots of figurines, silver candelabra on the sideboard, probably sterling silver within it. No doubt good jewelry in the master bedroom, and lots of cash. Old birds like her tended to distrust bank cards. Sasha relished the anticipation. It wouldn’t take her long to find out where the valuables were kept. “More tea, dear?” Sasha accepted more tea with a smile. The hands that held the teapot were dotted with brown age spots and the veins stood up in protruding ridges. Sasha had to move the cup deftly as tea came pouring out at an alarming angle. “Oh dear!” Chirped the old lady. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Mortify?” “Oh no,” She looked embarrassed. “I just need — if you’ll excuse me…” She teetered off the couch and shuffled off to the master bedroom. Bathroom, Sasha mused dreamily. She sipped her tea, enjoying it, and smiled with pleasure at her good fortune. Chances are the old bird wouldn’t bother to check references — they never did. Old people were so naïve. Sasha leaned back on the loveseat and closed her eyes. It was going to be almost too easy. Twenty minutes later, Elvira Mortify came out of the

The Perfect Mark

bedroom wearing her coat, and shuffled over to the prostrate body of Sasha Sachanska. A twisted smile creased her face. With surprising deftness, she whisked the gold necklaces off the girl — three of them — as well as the thick gold hoop earrings, gold bracelets and engagement ring. They fit snugly into the inside zippered pocket of her tweed coat. Scrawny fingers reached for the purse, heading straight for the wallet. Eight hundred dollars! That should keep us going for quite a while, she mused. Vet bills were so expensive these days. The old lady retrieved a satchel from behind the couch, opened it, and took out a tall blue thermos. With great care, she emptied the contents of both teacups, teapot, and creamer into the cavity. Each piece of the tea service fit neatly into prepared pockets. She zipped up the satchel and stood up. The old lady took a last look around the room. Condominiums were really so convenient. Owners were always going away for weekends. The girl was still out cold. Chances are, she wouldn’t call the police — they never did. Too much pride… so foolish. And even if she did: one old woman looks pretty much like another. Young people can’t see past the white hair and wrinkles. Elvira looked down at her victim and shook her head. Young people were so naïve. As she turned for the door, Sasha lunged for her ankles.

The Getaway Jeff Smith

ou ignore the NO PARKING sign and drive our old, aging

mini-van behind the dumpster swelling with trash. “Wait here,” you tell me, like I have somewhere to go. You limp

toward the motel office. Your ankle’s stiff from the drive. I pull a cigarette from your pack, then crumble it out the window. I’m two months pregnant. Three days on the run. No money for motels you said. You drive during the day. I drive at night. Safer for me you said, since I don’t have a license yet. The motel doesn’t take credit cards, and we don’t have one. I hope you have enough cash. I need a shower. You pound on the side of the van and toss me the room key. “Get the bags,”

The Getaway

you bark. The brass key’s worn and looks older than you. Its turquoise tag says Room 23, and if someone finds it, drop it in any mailbox. I slide the van door and grab your bag, red canvas with a faded Marlboro logo. The zipper’s broken. I see the butt of your pistol among your clothes. I tell myself, maybe later. I shoulder your bag. And mine — a handbag I swiped from a booth at Denny’s yesterday morning. It holds everything I own. We get to our room. Your hands shake, and you tell me to go to the liquor store next door for a pint of Jack. I tell you that I don’t have any fuckin’ money for your liquor. I watch as you dig a ten out of your wallet. I hesitate, and you ask what the hell I’m looking at. I sulk across the parking lot. It’s over a hundred, and my clothes are soaked with sweat. The clerk laughs when I hand him your ten and ask for a pint of Jack. He leers at my braless chest, so I lift my shirt and show him. I leave with a half-pint of cheap vodka. I get back to the room, and you’re curled on the bed, sweating worse than me. You cuss when you see the vodka. Your fingers struggle to twist the cap, and when you do, you gulp. Your stomach revolts, and you puke in the trash can. The second time, you sip. Your face contorts to the vodka burn. I hand you a package of orange cheesy crackers I swiped from the liquor store and head to the bathroom for a shower. You don’t say thank-you.

Jeff Smith

I wash my panties as I shower and lay them on the window sill to dry. There’s no rod or curtain. There’s no hot water, but in this heat that’s okay. Cold water floods my face. The tiny bar of soap smells wonderful as I wash my pits, my hair. I give my teeth a finger brush, wanting some toothpaste, and I slip on the same jeans and T-shirt. There’s only one bed, a double, and I lie down at the edge away from you, listening to the rumble of the window unit as it struggles to cool the room. An hour earlier we cased a local diner and ate grilled cheese sandwiches. You figured it an easy job. Lots of cash at closing time. A couple of waitresses and a beefy tattooed cook in the kitchen who owns the place. In and out in two minutes, top, you said. You look at me lying on my back, mumble thanks for the crackers, and reach your orange stained fingers for my breasts. I slap your hand away. You laugh and return to your bottle. I need a Dr Pepper and head for the manager’s office. I return with my soda, and see you fiddling with your revolver, a .38 special. You spin the cylinder and put it to your temple. You give me a “dare me” look, and before I can decide how to answer, you pull the trigger. Click. You point it at me. Click. You laugh and reach in your bag for a half-full box of

The Getaway

bullets and load the gun. You tell me to wake you at seven-thirty. My watch says six. You chug the rest of the vodka, and in five minutes you’re snoring. I think about the gun. Think about doing you right here. Instead, I head back to the manager’s office and watch some TV with his wife. She took a liking to me. I chat her up, talking about kids. Family. I start to cry and ask to use her phone. Got to call my momma, I tell her. I check my watch and return to wake you. Your wallet’s on the table. I peek inside it, shocked at all the green. I pull a hundred. Liar. I pull another. Bastard. I kick the bed, and wake you up. We grab our things, and at eight we’re in the van. This time I’m driving. You tell me where to stop. “Just sit here with the motor running, and I’ll do the rest. Think you can handle that?” It’s more of a statement than a question. You’ve never cared what I thought. I nod my head. You get out and tuck the .38 in your waist. I watch in the rear-view as you enter the cafe. I sit behind the wheel and pull a smoke from your pack. I suck the first drag and blow a smoke ring out the open window and wipe my sweaty hands on my thighs. Your fingers struggle to twist the cap, and when you do, you gulp. Your stomach revolts, and you puke in the trash can. The second time, you sip. Your face contorts to the vodka burn. I hand you a package of orange cheesy crackers I swiped from

Jeff Smith

the liquor store and head to the bathroom for a shower. You don’t say thank-you. I think about the gun. Think about doing you right here. Instead, I head back to the manager’s office and watch some TV with his wife. She took a liking to me. I chat her up, talking about kids. Family. I start to cry and ask to use her phone. Got to call my momma, I tell her. I check my watch and return to wake you. Your wallet’s on the table. I peek inside it, shocked at all the green. I pull a hundred. Liar. I pull another. Bastard. I kick the bed, and wake you up. We grab our things, and at eight we’re in the van. This time I’m driving. You tell me where to stop. “Just sit here with the motor running, and I’ll do the rest. Think you can handle that?” It’s more of a statement than a question. You’ve never cared what I thought. I nod my head. By now you’re pulling the .38 and demanding the money. I turn on the radio, searching for some tunes. I hear the distinct sound of shotgun fire. Once. Twice. It wasn’t momma I called from the motel office. It was the cafe. Momma died when I was eight. I try to imagine what you look like, dead on the floor, and for a moment I hope it was merciful. I pull the last of your smokes from the pack and fire it up. I turn toward Texarkana and drive. It’s getting dark.

All That Glitters Deven Adkinson

icky was very careful when he murdered his Aunt Nikki.

He rummaged the house to make it look good, and only took her wallet which he dumped over the east-side over-

pass where “druggies or feebs” were sure to find it. He tossed the knife in the old canal off Water Street. He was only interested in the golden statue, so of course he left it behind. He made sure to lie to the police as little as possible when they came to search his apartment. When the question of inheritance came up he acted happy about the measly grand she’d left him. He even talked up that group of do-gooders that brought her a hot meal every day. She’d left everything else, including the house, to that same group. That change in her will

had really pissed Ricky off. After a few days a small time pusher was hauled in when she’d tried to use Nikki’s credit card. Her alibi was solid. She’d been in jail during the murder. She’d been in jail during the murder. The police quickly declared the case cold, calling it a random robbery gone bad. Ricky was patient after the murder. It was a month before he snuck back into the house by the basement window. He took only the gold statue and made sure to disturb nothing else. The statue was unlikely to be missed by the auction house when they came to catalog the property. But if it was, his hope was that the police would assume that it’d been stolen during the initial robbery, and not investigate. Ricky’d also been busy. He knew that once he’d gotten the statue, he’d need to get rid of it as fast as possible. This is where I come in. I’m Billy, his regular fence. I’m only small change. He told me that he’d be needing to move some art in the form of a heavy gold statue. He told me all about the murder like I was his priest or something. The rainy night Ricky lugged the statue into my place, he was expecting someone with cash, not an appraiser. I could tell he was disappointed that on my couch sat “that old fat coin dealer”. That’s what Ricky always called Jerome Jarrp. Ricky’d sold some coin collections he’d lifted directly to Jarrp. The man always gave him what seemed like a fair price, but the truth is Ricky’d have gotten more money from me. I know coins. Without a word, Jarrp held out his hands for the staue. He

All That Glitters

deftly turned the it upside down, opened a pen knife and drew it across the base. A patch of grey followed the blade.

You could see Ricky’s heart sink. “Lead!” he shouted. “Aunt Nikki lied to me about her precious gold statue!” Jarrp declared that the statue “didn’t even have any art collector value”. It was worthless. The big man laid the statue on the coffee table, hauled himself to his feet, patted Ricky on the shoulder, offered condolences for “dear sweet Aunt Nikki”, and left. I said I figured a twenty-pound gold statue, worth what… a quarter million, was too good to be true, and that I knew Ricky’d be angry and accuse me of cheating him. I could tell he wanted to slug me. He turned to leave, but I made him take the statue. Technically it was hot, even if it was worthless. That was when I noticed that the bottom of the statue left a grey smear on Ricky’s shirt sleeve where he cradled it in his arms. Lead my ass. Jarrp painted the bottom of that statue. I followed Ricky to the door to lock up. Outside the rain had picked up. Jarrp pulled up to the curb in his vintage 1972 Cadillac Eldorado Mirage custom pickup truck, and offered Ricky a ride home. Ricky climbed in. I watched as they small-talked. Jarrp eyed the statue on Ricky’s lap every time the kid turned his head. I wish I could read lips, but I can guess that Jarrp eventually said that he’d give Ricky something for it. I saw Ricky nod enthusiastically and hop out of the modified Caddie, and climb into the bed to put the statue up next to the cab where it wouldn’t roll around.

Deven Adkinson

When Ricky stood up he noticed the grey paint on his sleeve. Jarrp was out of the cab with the startling speed that only a fat man possesses. He had his gun pulled. Very little muzzle flash escaped the end of the silencer. I pasted myself into the shadows and didn’t twitch until Jarrp wrapped Ricky in a tarp and drove away. I was very careful for the next few days, and lied to the police as little as possible. They’d found Ricky’s body dumped into the old canal off Water Street. I admitted that he’d been to my place the night he died, but didn’t mention Jarrp or the statue at all. I had nightmares where I let Ricky leave the statue, and Jarrp came gunning for me. Two weeks later Jarrp showed up on my doorstep with a thug in tow. I thought I was dead. But the thug turned out to be his shyster lawyer. Jarrp talked about how Ricky’s death made him realize just how short life was. He was headed to the islands to soak in some sun. He’d decided to give me his coin shop, “inventory and all, but without any gold coins of course”, because I was always straight with him. The lawyer had papers for me to sign. Jarrp winked and said he didn’t want to hang around while some nit-wit realtor tried to sell the place in this depressed market. I’ve had enough. It’s time to walk the straight and narrow and give up fencing. I’m going to move into that shop and give it a go as a coin dealer.

Canticles K.C. Ball

im fled from his afternoon of nightmares to answer the insistent clamoring of the phone. He tucked the reciver between the sweat-soaked pillow and his ear. “Yeah?” he mumbled. Godliness with contentment is great gain / those who de-

sire to be rich fall into temptation and a snare / into foolish and harmful lusts which drown men in perdition. It was a chanted chorus, men’s voices, maybe something from the Bible. Tim wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember the last time he had attended Mass. He levered his long legs from the bed, scanning the hotel room as he stood. An envelope rested on the threadbare carpet

within a rectangle of wan sunshine, one corner still remained beneath the door. His name was printed on its smooth, white linen face and it held a single folded sheet of matching paper. The message was from Joey. Call me. We can still make this right. Tim Murphy and Joey Como met in third grade at Saint Joan of Arc. Even then Joey was a little wise guy, drawn to petty crimes and grand gestures, good at passing blame to others. Almost every day during those years at Saint Joan, Tim would occupy a straight-back chair in the principal’s office, waiting for another session with the paddle. Joey never got sent to the office, not even one time, never sat on that hard wooden seat. And he accepted that as his due. “The penguins won’t ever touch me, Murph,” Joey said. “Not as long as I got you to take the fall for me.” High school came and went; thirty rolled into sight. Joey was a made man, but Tim remained Joey’s fall guy. Then one Friday night, Tim drew a heart flush against three jacks and won control of a two-bit bookie operation Joey financed. To everyone’s surprise, Tim was good at it. The book grew under his stewardship and he soon found that he could even skim a few extra bucks his way without Joey ever noticing. For ten years, Tim took away a nice chunk of unnoticed change and after a time he began to think of it as his due for all the crap Joey had shoveled onto him since third grade.

Canticles

Then things went south. Two grand not bet on a winning horse guaranteed to lose. Five grand on an insurmountable point spread that the Giants managed to scramble over. The bad luck rolled on until Tim was behind fifty thousand dollars and all of it was mob money. There was no way to cover it, no way to keep everyone from figuring out what he had been doing. People were asking questions, so Tim ran. For nine days, he had stayed in one cheap hotel room after another, never sleeping on the same lumpy mattress more than once, never moving in a straight line. Hell, he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even know where he was. But Joey found him. Tim was still considering the note when the telephone rang again. He snatched it up before it had a second chance. The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil / for which some have strayed from the faith in their greediness. He remembered then. They were canticles, chanted Bible verse, and he was certain all the voices were the same. A single reading from one man layered onto a recording, over and over. Just the sort of gimmicked stunt Joey loved to pull. Minutes later, when Tim stumbled from the room, zipping his jacket, another envelope waited on the hall floor. Another note. Call now. Or else. Tim crumpled the note and bounced it into the room,

K.C. Ball

not bothering to close the door. He reached into his duffle and drew out an automatic pistol, scanning the hall as he did so. As if on cue, the door to a nearby service closet popped open and a skinny dude stepped into the hall, tricked out in the gear of a telephone repairman. Right. The beanpole spotted Tim and reached to his tool pouch. Tim closed the distance in three long strides, mouth set in a straight line, firing the pistol as he moved. Two slugs caught the would-be repairman in the chest and he collapsed in a clatter of tools. Tim kicked at the pouch. A cellular telephone tumbled free of the tools. He kicked again. No gun. Tim spun on his heel and hustled toward the elevator. Its doors shushed open before he covered half the length of the hall and three figures stepped out. They were dressed in flowing black with starched white guimpe and wimples. It had to be another of Joeyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s games. His idea of a joke, his or else. Maybe the repairman worked for Joey, maybe not. It didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter. The nuns were on the payroll and they were here to mete out punishment. Tim had had enough of that. The pistol spit flames in the dim hallway and the nuns fell away before him, black and white habits soaked through with red. The hall reeked of cordite and the coppered scent of blood. Tim kicked through the bodies, looking without success

Canticles

for weapons, and slid past the elevator doors hissed shut. As he reached for the ground-floor button, the emergency telephone rang. He snatched up the handset. “What now?” “This one’s from the Old Testament, Murph, and it’s short.” It was Joey. He sounded tired. “Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.” Tim stabbed at the buttons. They were dead. “All these years, I let you skim,” Joey said. “Looked the other way because I figured I owed you something.” The lights died, too. “And this is how you pay me back. You put me on the spot when you ran, Murph. If you don’t take the fall now, I will.” Something exploded above the ceiling and the elevator lurched. Out of the darkness, Joey murmured two last words. “Going down.”

Mug’s Game Sarah Hillary

he punch I’d thrown had laid him out like a carpet; I’d no trouble keeping him down with my foot in his gut. Jackson jerked his thumb at me. “Off.” I moved and Ray

staggered upright, swiping at his mouth. “Bloody lip?” Jackson clicked his tongue. “That’ll teach you to keep it buttoned, won’t it now?”

“He started it.” Ray wiped his fingers on his trousers. “Well boo-bloody-hoo.” Jackson sniffed at him. “Clear off before I add a knuckle-sandwich to whatever Billy here just fed you.” Ray sloped off, still glaring. I said something self-righteous. Well, you can’t go beating up your cellmates without an

Mug’s Game

excuse. The moral high ground was mine, I’d scaled it, stuck my flag up there–the lot. Jackson shoved the door shut and eyed me with Neanderthal candour. “Are you going to get handy with every bloke in here, or are you trying to make Ray feel special?” “It’s called testosterone.” I backed off, making room for him in the cell. He was big, shoulders bunching under the warden’s uniform. He was used to plainclothes, didn’t fit the disguise all that well. He eyed the posters I’d put up, nodding his approval, although the attraction of a tennis player scratching her bum was lost on me. The fetid air made him wrinkle his nose. “Stinks like a whorehouse in here.” Someone stuck his head around the door. “Beat it,” Jackson warned. I scuffed my shoe at the dirty cement floor. “How much longer, Sarge?” “You tell me, sunshine. Soon as Raymondo spills the beans, you can start growing your hair, get the tattoo removed.” I squinted at the ink on my arm. “Can they do that?” “You’d better bloody hope so, or Her Majesty’s Navy might just claim you for her own.” The anchor tattoo had been the least of it. Going undercover in this cesspit had meant giving up all manner of comforts, not to mention my privacy, dignity. “Small price to pay,” Jackson had argued, “to get that bastard in here where he belongs.”

Sarah Hillary

He got to play the warden while I had got stuck with the role of prisoner. “Privileges of rank,” Jackson called it. The bastard he was after had evaded arrest for years. Ray was small fry, a bird Jackson hoped to hear sing. That’s why he put me in the same cage, to listen out. So far the only name Ray had let slip was ‘Sophia’, which he liked to groan right around lights-out every night. Just as well. If Ray started whistling the name Jackson was after, I’d be in for a longer stretch than either of us had reckoned on. When Jackson left, Ray returned, skirting past me to get up into his bunk. “That lardarse giving you a hard time?” I flexed my fist and told him to shut up. “Some of the lads reckon Jackson’s The Sid.” Sid = CID = undercover copper. I made a scoffing sound. I heard Ray shrugging his shoulders in the bunk above mine. I said, “What’s he undercover for, then?” “Looking for Mister Big.” “Give me a break.” “You’d think it’d be enough for him that he’s got the pair of us slammed up in here,” Ray muttered, fretting at his fly. God help us, not ‘Sophia, Sophia!’ I was tempted to tell Ray the whole story, just for a laugh. Beat it back out of him afterwards, his head on the tiled wall, nice slice of amnesia to help him keep schtum. See, Ray doesn’t know that Jackson doesn’t know that I’m the bastard he’s after. You with me so far? Irony being, Jackson

Mug’s Game

may be a lardarse but compared to my cell mate, Raymondo he’s flaming Einstein. So much for a copper’s instinct. On the other hand, here I am, exactly where he wants his bastard to be, behind bars, slopping out with the rest of the scum. I have to wonder sometimes if it’s more than irony. Jackson’s got no hard evidence, I know that. Not enough to get me to court. But maybe he knows something. The bunk above mine starts creaking. No kidding myself; this is Hell. I can’t see a way out, either. If Ray spills the beans– or if I do–things’ll get worse before they get better. “Sophia…” What if Jackson knows everything and I’m not undercover at all? What if this was the only way he could be sure of me doing time? Wouldn’t that be funny?

Just Behind the Ear Owen Rapine

arter probably shouldn’t have taken it. Better judgment, reason, instinct — hell, even conscience had all told him no, that grabbing this wasn’t worth the trouble, that the

fence wouldn’t even be able to move it. Of course, Carter took it. Everybody’s got an itch, somewhere on their body between their tingling spine and the skin of their teeth, that gets them in trouble. Some people scratch it with coke or slots. If they’re really out of luck, they scratch it with more nuanced nails like self-sabotage or inferiority complexes. Carter’s itch fell somewhere in the middle: every now and then he’d see a painting or a jewel that set him right off. And while some peo

Just Behind the Ear

ple learned how to ignore it, breathe through the burn and go about their day, Carter went at it with the hopeless abandon of a mutt digging at fleas behind its ear. So when Carter saw the piece in the museum — a twelve thousand year old, twenty-nine inch long proboscidean Mastodon femur, or so said the accompanying plaque, he inhaled sharply as he felt the familiar pulse of the itch. Tall and rail-thin, with subtle features bespeaking a faint Inuit heritage, Carter was a meticulous guy — an indispensable trait for a proper professional. Over the next few days he figured out angles, calculated sensor specifications, and even fashioned a carrier to bring it out intact. In fact, his eye only missed one easy detail: the tiny, faded scrimshaw writing of a long-dead language along the piece’s shaft, that shone with an almost imperceptible blue glow when the moon’s rays touched it through the skylight. Between the discordant crash of the door flying open before him and the sibilant shriek of claws rending linoleum behind him, Carter squealed again, clutched the femur closer to his chest and ran like hell, urine trickling down his leg in an unchecked flow. The grab actually went pretty well. He’d crouched in a blind spot, the pressure plate was cut, and the guards were due back in a generous twelve minutes. As his clamp picked the glass up, his hand grasped the bone — something not done under a full moon by one of the tribe since roughly 13,000 BCE

Owen Rapine

— and slid it into the stiff black casing. As he strode down the hall, the brightness of the carvings’ arctic blue light would have stung his eyes were the case clear. He’d rounded a corner and came face to face with a hulking mass of muscle and patchy fur, most of its body concealed in unnatural shadows. Its glowing red eyes flashed; its slavering, outsized fangs gated an unfathomable maw that issued a primeval growl of warning he felt in his breastbone. With predatory slowness it put one of its four massive paws before the other, daring this gaunt sack of meat before it to run, run as fast and as far as it could. This was around when Carter’s plan fell apart. He turned tail and ran. Some part of his mind — the elusive, basic one responsible for gut feelings and road rage — told him to duck, and he hunched as a blurred shadow reeking of rotting meat and fresh blood soared over him in a savage lunge, crashing through the gift shop windows. The heady note of alarm klaxons joined his incoherent wails like a hell-bound opera. Gates began lowering and sirens bathed the shadows in the pulsing, visceral red. Carter stumbled under a dropping mesh barrier and fell through an untempered plate glass door, shards sinking into his arms. He checked the case, clambered to his feet, and staggered moaning into the hot summer night. He heard metal screech behind him, and knew the mesh gate was gone. Next came the basso thumps of heavy paws

Just Behind the Ear

pounding into the asphalt. A guttural roar split the night and a vivid image of barbecue ribs at last weekâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Fourth of July cookout entered unbidden into his mind, of ripping one rib from another and picking every bit of meat until nothing remained but a pile of bones on his plate. Lost in such pleasant final memories as he was, he failed to notice the curb until it snagged his foot. He fell hard but his cry had nothing to do with his severely broken nose; as his weight met the ground with a meaty thud, the sleek black case flew from his reaching arms. He watched as his prize flew through the air and bounced once, the black case bursting open and disgorging the bone. It landed in the grass and rolled. All light abruptly disappeared in a looming shadow. Prone and helpless, Carter cradled his bleeding head, hoping only for a swift death. A rush of wind went by and he looked up. Its enormous jaws clutched the bone, blazing with white light. Its enormous body circled once and lay down, depositing its ancient prize between its claws and looking up at Carter with a triumph and jealous hate. Its upright ears flicked once, and it rubbed the bone affectionately with its muzzle. Its fur was translucent and fading, and the sound of its warning growl lowered to a distant echo. After the white light of the bone the primeval houndâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes were the last thing to fade, deep crimson pools that flickered off like candles dying out in the wild.

Owen Rapine

Subway ads had sprung the itch once or twice before; the real nice exhibits usually got a billboard. Today was one of those times. Carterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s left eye was still swollen shut, but his right looked on the blown-up image of a gold-cased Victorian pearl necklace as the train pulled to a stop and immediately wanted nothing else. It was even in the Antiquities section â&#x20AC;&#x201D; he knew those cameras like a dance. Carter thought and thought hard. With a deep breath he made himself relax, and he pointedly looked elsewhere.

Laughing Larry Derek McMillan

aughing Larry earned his nickname by being the most miserable soul in Shoreditch. He was not a philanthropist. He was not an animal lover. So when I saw him lobbing

a beefsteak over a ten foot wall I was interested. If I could tip off the rozzers about one of Larryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s capers I could reckon on at least a fiver. It may not sound much but a fiver was a good weekâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wage back in those days. The wall belonged to The Export Company and I knew they had some reasonably valuable stock on the premises and a dog which barked at its own shadow and would reputedly tear out the throat of any after-hours visitor. There was a housing block nearby and the security was

non-existent. From the third floor balcony I was treated to the sight of the break-in. Larry’s cousin, Harry, had a fishmonger’s business. Larry had obviously borrowed his lorry for the night. A pair of boltcutters disposed of the tin padlock and Larry and Harry’s lorry were inside the yard. Larry had three known associates and I expected them to be helping him to load the lorry. I should have been on my guard when I noticed that there were only two of them. So I found out where the third one was when a sandbag sloshed into the back of my head and my lights went out for the night. When I woke up the overpowering smell and the darkness told me I was in the back of the lorry with a number of cardboard boxes. I always carry a stethoscope. I am no medic but it is remarkably useful, for example for overhearing the conversation on the four villains in the cab of the lorry. Gagging on the fishy atmosphere, I listened in. They were planning to take their ill-gotten gains to the market in Fish Street and collect a nice wad of cash from a dealer. The rendezvous was at 3 am. They then intended to ‘ditch the snitch’ (they were rude!) into the river with some chains for company. I had one of those illuminated watches so I could see the time was coming up to two. I also carry a knife and those numbskulls had completely failed to search me properly. I used the knife to search some of

Laughing Larry

tthe cardboard boxes; fumbling around in the dark, I realised one of the boxes was full of clocks, another of perfume which I had to try (frankly I preferred the smell of the fish but each to his own). Then I had an idea. When they opened up the back of the lorry I was there with my knife but I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to use it. The tough villains all just ran away. I could stroll casually to the phone box on the corner and put in the call to the duty sergeant. I was going to claim my fiver all right. Of course the sarge had a job hearing me over the sound of 150 alarm clocks all going off at once. Laughing Larry isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t laughing now. But then he never did.

Praise for

FLASH CRIME “Flash Fiction is fun, I loved the variety and surprise of all these stories. They should spark dinner conversation, class discussion, and perhaps even inspire some marathon writers to sprint and see what happens.” — Jerome Stern, author of Making Shapely Fiction “Flash Fiction is purely and simply a delight. There are so many stars are mustered here, but best of all are the newer names and voices that speak well to and for the future.” — John Green, New York Times Book Review “In just a little more time than it will take you to read this short paragraph you could read any of the stories in this anthology of brilliant crime minatures. Some of these selections have already become so-called ‘modern classics’, while some of the others are deserving to be much more widely known. You could space out all the reading of these epiphanic delicacies over a week or even months. I have to confess, I gobbeled them up in a day.” — Alan Cheurse, National Public Radio