Richard “Ditch” Brodie checked the lock screws on the four karabiners that secured the tandem jumper to his harness as the Twin Otter screamed to 10,000 feet, the altitude where skydivers fell from the plane to laugh at death for as long as they dared. The four lock screws were not properly fastened. The plane leveled off and when the pilot choked it to a stall, Ditch gave the client thumbs up and they rolled from the cargo door into the emptiness of the world that spread beneath them. The FAA would not approve.
“Whoa,” Marty said through the helmet-mounted walkie-talkies. “This is better than sex!”
It had rained. Steam lifts off the sidewalks like exorcised demons. Reuben, the guard at First National, stares at the damp and trash-littered sidewalks over the hill of his belly. He is trying to will the center button of his gray, polyester uniform shirt to not pop. He thought he could succeed, but then he sees something pass through the sunlight, and he jumps from his chair. He presses his fleshy arms against the glass to see if it is her, Jennifer, his daughter; she is gone. Carol has run off with her. But the door swings open, and it is only a rusty hinge of a man. Reuben turns back to the window, and the sidewalks, looking for the ghost of his daughter.
Late afternoon at Al Haraam Village, a residential compound in the Basateen district of Jeddah. Long shadows stretched across the stagnant pool, the failing mini market, and the dead palms. A ruined Daihatsu pickup circumnavigated the parking lot coughing up toxic plumes from the mosquito fogger. A dense chemical residue alit on everything, everyone. I darted inside when I heard the truck sputtering around, the fog dispenser growling in anger and eagerness. Few others were bothered. Thai flight attendants in sharp-creased airline uniforms stood motionless in the acrid mist as they waited for the airline bus, their matching rollaways in neat alignment and covered in poison. When the fog lifted, I went back outside.
The Lebanese family played in the pool, mother and daughter fully-clothed, headscarves plastered to their heads. They swam every day in that fetid pond, their immune systems must have been at scientifically significant levels.
It was day-one of Ramadan and no one ate or drank until sunset. The Saudi soldiers at the front gate were surly, stuck on the day shift, but Iftaar would be upon them soon, and stomachs would be filled.
When you come to our place it looks like Las Vegas, all lights and screens going, electronics full-fire, ablaze. I convince my brother Frank to turn down the volume, this isn’t Best Buy, you know. No need to have that sound clanging around. The visual commotion already gives it the feel of an arcade, so that’s what I call it—the arcade. This is Frank’s gig, stealing and selling TVs and IPads, laptops and gaming systems. Everyone in the neighborhood is outfitted by Frank because he sells damn cheap. His prices are so low, some buy to resale, which is kinda unfair, as Frank does the thievery on top of the hawking, but really it’s ok. “Gotta move it, move it,” he sings to the new merchandise. He wants it in and out.
Whatever cash in hand is food on the table, Frank takes this job serious. He remembers living at Gram’s where no one gave a damn about food. Oh, people would be eating, but they wouldn’t think to go shopping, or to pick up something for the runts. He’d have to rifle through abandoned McDonald’s bags, or pluck dollars from pants pockets crumpled on the floor. I don’t remember this, but I was small. Frank says he took care I got fed, and that’s the truth.
Francesca opened her eyes and peered through the false lashes at the setting sun. The horizon was purple and pink (colors of a baby girl’s nursery, she thought) and the light filtered through the treetops like bright needles. Beneath her the grass felt cool and crisp, freshly cut but long enough to provide a soft bed to die upon. It had been damp in the morning, with the sunrise—dewy. Floating in and out throughout the day (at times occurring to her she felt like she was in the water, bobbing up and down at the surface), she had noted the changing position of the sun, the shift of the clouds lazing across the late summer sky above her. They looked to her very much like candy floss being gradually shredded apart, perhaps by some overeager child’s sticky hands at a carnival. She strained to recall whether or not she had ever had candy floss in such circumstances, but her mind was far too hazy to bring anything like that to the fore.
I was counting change to see if I could afford a Slim Jim with my bottle when it started.
“All we want’s what’s in the register,” the guy with the ponytail yelled, but it was the gun in his hand that demanded attention.
The one in the denim jacket flipped Open to Closed, threw the bolt, and pulled the shade. The windows were plastered with cigarette ads; we were in a cave.
“Don’t move,” Ponytail told us. “You can keep your wallets and nobody gets hurt.”
He stepped toward the kid behind the counter while Denim Jacket put his back to the door and pointed his shotgun our way.
One Eye Press is happy to welcome Tom Pitts and announce the acquisition of his novella LIFE OF SERVICE. Tom Pitts is an exciting addition to our small cabal of authors who have contributed to the OEP Singles line. After reading just the first few pages of LIFE OF SERVICE, we knew that Tom’s book […]
Eight days after her captain scuttled King of the Sea, her owner, Tom King, sat drinking with Chip Baxter, who had previously invested to restore the ocean liner from fire damage. I met King briefly before I served as detective for the ship’s final cruise. He left no impression on me then, but this time I noted his curly red hair, thinning at the scalp yet bushy around the lips. Black-framed glasses magnified bloodshot eyes. Most glaring, he and Chip seemed to be buddies again, when I knew Chip was convinced King had paid the captain off.
King blinked three times before he saw me. “Mr. Stone, I’m so sorry,” he said, slurring his words. “Have a drink with me. Rum?”
“Sure,” I said.
We drank without talk in between, but it was obvious he was here to ask for money, so obvious he didn’t have to ask.
You learned three things from your no account deadbeat of a father:
–Always wash up after you put on aftershave. No one wants to smell like you all day after shaking hands.
–Always shine your shoes. To do that, of course, you need to wear shoes you can shine. Tennis shoes are for tennis.
–Always weigh down the body with something loved ones will recognize. It won’t give the cops anything to go on, but it’ll let the family know to keep quiet and start grieving. Why should they suffer not knowing?
There she was. Sitting at the crook of the bar with her hair looking the best she could get it. But you could see the flyaways in the sugary bar light. She was the only one left. It was closing time and Pedro was talking about his dog again. A home run on the TV screen and Pedro ties this into his fucking bulldog catching a baseball in—
Who the fuck cares where?
Except that baseball I’m watching on the TV has cleared the center-field fence. It’s sailing off into the Meadowlands on the wings of the flared trouble lights.
And it makes me wonder a little where in this stinking New Jersey night it might end up.
Martin Chambers had been happily married nearly twenty- five years. He was still very much in love with his wife Rebecca. He found her to be even more beautiful than the day they met. Their anniversary was just weeks away and they were planning a trip to Hawaii. They had never had children but enjoyed each other and the life they shared.
There had been no other women since they exchanged vows but there had been plenty beforehand. As the years passed, Martin found he thought of them more infrequently with every day that went by. Sometimes, when he could not sleep, he would try to count them – much like others might count sheep. The count never seemed right though. It seemed as if with the passage of time there were becoming more of them that he could not remember. He seldom counted past fifty. He knew for a fact there were many more than that.
Danny stepped into the South Boston basement bar gladly getting a break from the elements. He had walked from his dive apartment to the corner of A Street. Winter was crawling in fast, but he only wore plaid pants and a leather coat, reaching down to his thigh. He needed to look tough. The .38 special was tucked into the right front pocket.
The crew was huddled in a booth near the front door. Part of the barroom walls were covered in cheap paneling and the rest was cinderblock. They drank cans of Schlitz, making plans for collecting debts. Sliding into the booth, his uncle Mickey acknowledged him, raising his chin before taking a swig of beer.
Danny glanced around the bar to see if anyone was listening. Nobody sat in the booths or at the bar nearby. People knew enough not to listen, but public meetings made Danny uncomfortable.
