Following up on the success of 'A Killing Kiss' published by the new ebook/paperback publisher, Number Thirteen Press, I decided to upgrade a Smitty story I started sometime back and turn it into a novella. The idea is to submit it to the above publisher again in the hopes they might be amenable to the idea of building up a fan following for my dark eyed killer.
I'm aiming for a goal of 120-125 pages this time. And again, like all my stories, the twists and turns in the story I'm hoping will trip up the reader just enough to make them want to dig deeper into the puzzle. I've never liked a story that simply began at A and followed along a straight and narrow road which ran straight and true all the way to B and beyond predictably. I like my stories twisty and convoluted. Not so much as the mundane standard straight alphabet run. Rather, a tipsey turvey roller coaster ride on a curving back county road in the hill country of Colorado or Arkansas.
All I'm saying further about the story is this; It is amazing how absolute fear and absolute disgust seem to be so closely related to each other.
One
His
hands were shaking.
Shaking
violently.
He
grinned . . . hysterically . . . lifting a hand up and watching it rattle and
quake visibly in front of him. Looking
at it he realized he was also having a hard time breathing. Short, explosive
bursts were coming out of his lungs.
Like someone who'd just seen a . . .
a . . . a . . . ghost. Wiping
sweat from his brow with the back of the shaking hand he turned and reached for
the Zippo lighter and a pack of cigarettes lying on the green felt table
top. It took a moment of sustained
concentration to make the yellowish blue flame of the lighter finally touch the
tip of the cigarette. Pulling in a deep
drag he held it for a moment, turned, and exhaled slowly as he tossed the
lighter back onto the table.
Would
he come? Would he really come and hear
what he had to say?
Why
would he come? He was a nobody. A schmuck.
A common grunt with little cash and no friends. So why would a guy like this come and hear
what he had to say? Unless . . . unless
. . .
Panic
gripped him. He staggered back against
the wall of the condemned building his dad used to own and work as a local
saloon, a hand over his mouth and eyes as wide as sauce pans. Glancing to his right and left with spasmodic
jerks of the head, staring into the depths of the dark shadows filling the
long, narrow, musky smelling old building, his imagination was seeing him . . .
seeing him with a gun in his hand . . . coming out of the darkness. Materializing out of nothing with gun in hand
and the muzzle aimed straight for his head.
My
god! My god! My god . . . . !
He
leapt toward the old wooden chair slid back from the card table. Leapt toward the webbing and holster and the
gun riding in the cheap leather. Reached
for the handle of the Colt .357 Python . . . and froze in mid motion, hand
outstretched, eyes bulging at the image on the floor directly opposite of the
table.
Shoes.
Black
loafers. Brightly polished to a mirror
image. With just the cuffs of a pair of dark slacks above them in the dim light
of a street corner lamp cutting a shaft of light through the gloom of the old
building.
Someone was standing in the darkness
just a few feet away! Just standing
there silently. Making no noise. Watching. Silently observing. As noiseless as a ghost. He stared into the darkness in front of him
and saw nothing. Saw nothing! Heard nothing!
But he knew. He was there. Knew the guy was . . . was . . . was . . .
Sweat
rolling down his brow. His lips squirming and rolling around as if he was
either about to scream or beg for mercy.
Bulging eyes, filled with madness, kept glancing down and at the wooden
gripes of the .357 only inches away from his outstretched hand. Frozen in this position unable to move. He knew he was dead if he lunged for the
gun. Knew he probably was dead
anyway. Why would a guy like him help
him out of a jam? A big time killer like
that? Someone who usually worked only
for guys like Paulie. For big time
money. Why would a guy this good even
consider taking on the job he had in mind for mere pennies?
Unless,
of course, Paulie had already hired this guy to find him and silence him.
With
a groan of resignation, eyes filling with tears, he dropped the outstretched
hand to his side and stood up slowly.
Bowing his head, closing his eyes, he knew there was nothing he could
do. He wasn't as fast as him. He couldn't run. He sure as hell wasn't going to fight this
guy. So he accepted it. Accepted his
death and waited for the bullet to drive through his head.
Outside
in the streets some guy was riding his horn angrily as some jerk who wouldn't
move on the green of a traffic light fast enough. In the distance was the sound of a siren,
probably an ambulance, hurrying to some unknown tragedy. There was also the momentarily loud engine
whine, and then the metallic 'thunk' of an empty garbage can being slapped onto
the sidewalk pavement.
But
there was no Boom! of a gun going
off. No bullet was ripping through his
cranium, splattered the wall directly behind him with his blood and brain
matter. Inside the old building there
was only semi-silence; with only his heart beat breaking the absolute silence
of this mausoleum. Stunned. Amazed.
Hesitant . . . he opened one eyelid hesitantly, lifting his head up to
stare into the dark shadows in front of him.
At the ghost known as Smitty.
He
was sitting at the table. In the other
old wooden chair. An average sized man
with dark, short cropped hair and a razor thin nose. Nattily dressed in a pair of tailored dark
brown slacks, with a black shirt and metallic silver tie underneath a dark
chocolate brown sport coat. One leg was thrown
over the other. Hands were folded
together and lying neatly on his lap.
There was a thin half smile . . . a smirk . . . stretching across his
lips. Dark eyes, dark as midnight , stared up at him unblinking.
The
image of Death sitting quietly in a chair and waiting. Patiently
waiting for the inevitable to happen.
"You
. . . you got my message."
The
dark eyed man nodded silently and made no other motion. Just sat in the chair, legs crossed, hands on
his lap, and continued to stare at the standing man curiously.
"Look
. . . I . . . I don't know what to do.
I'm in big trouble. Deep shit I
can't shovel my way out and I need help.
Help only you know how to do."
"I
heard," the smartly dressed man answered with a voice slightly stronger
than a whisper and infinitely, infinitely,
nerve wracking. "I came because you
asked, Joey. You've helped me in the
past several times. Helped me out of a
couple of jams. Just paying back a debt
I owe. That's all. So sit down and tell me everything. From the beginning."
Joey
stood up, ran a shaking hand across parched lips as he stared at the dark man
with the dark eyes and wondered how the hell did he get in here and not make a
sound. But, dropping the hand to his
waist, he giggled insanely. Why ask a
stupid question! Smitty was here. Everyone knew Smitty just showed up
unannounced. And left when he no one was
looking. This was Smittty fer chrissakes.
