Now what? Go after Pepe or start that fire?
Fire. Start a big one. Get those red trucks rolling.
But which way to the barbecue section? He remembered it being somewhere near the middle.
Three aisles later he found it – and Pepe too, who was looking back over his shoulder as he passed it. Jack raised the shotgun and fired, but Pepe went down just before the double ought arrived. Not on purpose. He’d slipped in the spilled lighter fluid. The shot went over his head and hit the barbecue supplies. Bags of briquettes and tins of lighter fluid exploded. Punctured cans of Raid whirly-gigged in all directions, fogging the air with bug killer.
Pepe slipped and slid as he tried to regain his feet – would have been funny if he hadn’t been holding a .357. Jack pumped again, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
Clink.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Pepe was on his knees. He smiled as he raised his pistol. Jack ducked back and dove for the floor as one bullet after another slammed through the shelving of the cough and cold products, smashing bottles, drenching him with Robitussin and Nyquil and who knew what else.
Counted six shots. Didn’t know if Pepe had a speed loader and didn’t want to find out. Yanked the butane match from his back pocket and lit her up. Jammed a Sucrets pack into the trigger guard, locking the flame on, then tossed it over the shelf. He heard no whoomp! like gasoline going up, but he did hear Pepe cry out in alarm. The cry turned to screams of pain and terror as the spewing Raid cans caught.
Jack crept back and peeked around the corner.
Pepe was aflame. He had his arms over his eyes, covering them against the flying, flaming pinwheels of Raid as he rolled in the burning puddle, making matters worse. Black smoke roiled toward the ceiling.
And then it happened. Clanging bells and a deluge of cold water.
Yes.
Jack saw the .357 on the floor. He sprinted by, kicking it ahead of him as he raced through the downpour to the pharmacy section. After dancing through an obstacle course of popsicles and gallons of ice cream, he found Loretta and the others cowering behind the counter. He picked up the key ring and tossed it to Patel.
“Out! Get everybody out!”
As the stampede began, he heard Loretta yelling.
“Hey, y’all! This man just saved our lives. You wanna pay him back, you say you never seen him. He don’t exist. You say these gangstas got inna fight and killed each other. Y’hear me? Y’hear?”
She blew Jack a kiss and joined the exodus. Jack was about to follow when a bullet smashed a bottle of mouthwash near his head. He ducked back as a second shot narrowly missed. He dove behind the pharmacy counter and peeked over the top.
A scorched, steaming, sodden Pepe shuffled Jack’s way through the rain with a small semi-auto clutched in his outstretched hand. Jack hadn’t counted on him having a backup. Hell, he hadn’t counted on him doing anything but burn. The sprinkler system had saved him.
Pepe said nothing as he approached. Didn’t have to. He had murder in his eyes. And he had Jack cornered.
He fired again. He bullet hit the counter six inches to Jack’s right, showering him with splinters as he ducked.
Nowhere to hide. Had to find a way to run out Pepe’s magazine. How? A lot of those baby semis held ten shots.
Another peek. Pepe’s slow progress had brought him within six feet. Jack was about to duck again when he saw a flash of bright green and yellow.
Loretta.
Moving faster than Jack ever would have thought possible, she charged with a gallon container of ice cream held high over her head in a two-handed grip. Pepe might have heard her without the hiss and splatter of the sprinklers. But he remained oblivious until she streaked up behind him and smashed the container against the back of his head.
Jack saw his eyes bulge with shock and pain as he pitched toward the floor. Probably felt like he’d been hit with a cinder block. As he landed face first, Loretta stayed on him – really on him. She jumped, landing knees first on the middle of his back… like Gamera on Barugon. The air rushed out of him with an agonized groan as his ribs shattered like glass.
But Loretta wasn’t finished. Shouting, she started slamming the rock-hard container against his head and neck, matching the rhythm of her words to the blows.
“NOW you ain’t NEVER pointin NO gun to MY head EVER aGAIN!”
Jack moved up beside her and touched her arm.
“Hey, Lo? Lo! Loretta barada nikto.”
She looked up at him. “Huh?”
“I think he’s got the message.”
She looked back down at Pepe. His face was flattened against the floor, his head canted at an unnatural angle. He wasn’t breathing.
She nodded. “I do believe you right.”
Jack pulled her to her feet and pushed her toward the front.
“Go!”
But Loretta wasn’t finished. She turned and kicked Pepe in the ribs.
“Told you I was a bitch!”
“Loretta – come on!”
As they hustled toward the front she said, “We even, Jack?”
“Even Steven.”
“Did I happen to mention my bad mood?”
“Yes, you did, Loretta. But sometimes a bad mood can be a good thing.”
introduction to “Do-Gooder”
This was originally printed as a broadside in an edition of 200 copies in 2006. Since it’s a one-sheet, I was limited to around 700 words. It’s more of a vignette than a full story, but it’s here for the completists.
Do-Gooder
Pure luck, that’s what it was. A minute earlier or ten seconds later and he woulda missed him. As it was, Perry reached the corner just as the guy opened his door and stepped inside. Yeah, it was dark, but no mistaking him.
He’d called himself Jack when he’d set Perry up, but who knew if that was his real name. Perry had had a sweet scam going on the old lady circuit, relieving old bitches of their excess cash. This Jack had come along and said he had some flush marks but wanted a cut for the info. Fair enough. But turned out the first one he delivered had an NYPD sergeant for a son. Perry’d been busted and busted up, but good. And Jack? Jack was gone like he’d never been.
Perry beat it back to his apartment for the sawed-off twelve he kept around for protection. When he returned to the block he peeked in the townhouse window and spotted the guy with a good-looking blonde and a kid. Thought about busting in but that was stupid. Be patient.
The block dead-ended at a little park hanging over the FDR. He hid in the shadows there, took the sawed-off from under his coat, and listened to the traffic below as he waited.
Sutton Square. Ritzy block. What was this guy, some rich do-gooder getting his jollies by screwing up things for working men like Perry? Well, his do-gooder days was over. When he came out Perry would get close, cut him in half with both barrels, and keep walking like nothing happened. And then –
“Hello, Perry.”
Perry jumped and started to spin at the sound of the soft voice so close behind but stopped when the muzzle of a pistol pressed against his cheek. He recognized the voice and his bladder clenched.
“Jesus, Jack. Hey, what’re you doing here?”
“That’s my question.” He took the shotgun from Perry’s hands.
“I’m hidin. Got on the wrong side of a shy and he’s got some boys lookin for me.”
“You’re watching that townhouse, Perry.”
“No, I–”
“I saw you peek in the window.”
Shit!
“No, I swear I was just–”
“Shhhhhh. You’ve got a sawed off. Isn’t that against parole?”
He’d just finished his jolt in the joint. Last thing he wanted was go back inside. But that would be the do-gooder thing to do: drop a dime on him.
“You ain’t gonna turn me in, are you?”
“No, Perry. Nothing like that.”
“Really?” Thank God. “Hey, Jack, that
’s really–”
He started to turn again but the muzzle jabbed his cheek. Hard.
“The shotgun’s for me, isn’t it.”
That soft voice, so calm, so cold . . . giving him the creeps.
“No way. Look, you can take it.”
“Already have it. But seems we have a problem, Perry. You’ve got a hard-on for me and now you know where people I care about live. That can’t be.”
Can’t be? He didn’t like the sound of that. But wait . . .
He forced a laugh. “You tryin t’scare me, Jack?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah, y’are. But it won’t work. Y’know why? Because you see yourself as a do-gooder. Better’n me. Helpin old ladies. The Equalizer. Batman without no cape.”
“Wrong, Perry. The daughter of one of your marks hired me to get you.”
“Hired? Bullshit.” He steeled his guts and grinned as he rose to face him. “You’re a do-gooder and you ain’t gonna do nothin.”
Perry saw a blur of motion and then pain exploded on the left side of his head as Jack’s pistol smashed against his skull. His knees went Jell-O. A second blow left him face first in the dirt, the world tilting.
Then he felt himself lifted, carried toward the barrier overhanging the highway.
On, no! Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no!
“But . . .” His lips wouldn’t move right. “But you’re a do-gooder.”
“Wrong, Perry. I’m more into doing the right thing. And when I see myself and my two ladies threatened, the right thing to do is eliminate the threat.”
Perry felt himself hoisted atop the railing. When a break in the traffic came, Jack pushed him over.
All the way down his mind screamed that this couldn’t be happening. This self-styled, bullshit do-gooder had –
introduction to “Recalled”
In the summer of 2006, Christopher Conlon emailed me, wondering if I’d be interested in writing a story for a Richard Matheson tribute anthology. Of course I would, but only if I could do a sequel to one of my all-time favorite stories, “The Distributor.”
About “The Distributor”…it's rare that a story won't go away. Most are forgotten as soon as you turn the page; some linger for a while, then join their brethren in the void. But every so often you encounter one with a special, mysterious quality that encodes it into your synapses, making it a part of you. We all have our own set of special stories. “The Distributor” is one of mine.
But first, a little background. I was thirteen when I decided to write horror fiction. That was in 1959 – a banner year for me. I discovered Lovecraft in Donald A. Wolheim's The Macabre Reader, and then went out and bought everything good ol' H.P. had in print. When I exhausted him, I started in on the rest of the old masters: Bloch, Howard, Derleth, Long, Hodgson, Leiber, and whoever else I could find. The reading exacerbated a lifelong writing itch, one I'd started scratching in second grade. Now I began to believe I could write this stuff. Not at age thirteen, but later on. I could do it. I would do it. But for now, I'd keep reading.
Here's the point to all this me-focused stuff: All along I wanted to write horror fiction; all along I was convinced I could do it. No question about it: "Someday I'll do this."
Then I picked up a paperback called Shock by Richard Matheson. I'd read Matheson's work before, had been deeply touched by "Born of Man and Woman," and suitably impressed by many of his other stories. Here was a guy who delivered. And Shock was okay. Lots of interesting stories – sf, social commentary, suspense – but not much horror.
Then I came to the last story. "The Distributor" stopped me dead. All along I'd been telling myself, "I can do this."
Now I was muttering and mumbling, "No way I can do that."
I don't know how it is with other writers, but most of the time when I finish a story or novel, I may be pleased, I may even be impressed, but somewhere in the back of my mind I'm thinking, I could have done that.
Every so often, though, you come across a piece of fiction that blows you away, not just because you've been hanging onto every word, but because when you're done you have to admit, I couldn't have done that.
That's what makes certain stories special to me; those are the ones I admire most: the ones I lack the talent or insight or command of the language to write myself.
“The Distributor” was first published in Playboy in 1957 and look what's happened to the country since. "Mr. Gordon" (or whatever his real name is) and his fellow distributors have been busy, busy, busy.
Maybe it's a little dated. What used to be scandalous is now daily fodder for today's talk shows (more evidence of Mr. Gordon's handiwork?), but change maybe fifty words, substituting incest and pedophilia – not too many people anxious to wave those flags yet – for a couple of passé taboos, and the story is right up to date.
Why did I say I can't do that after reading "The Distributor"? Not because I couldn't sit down and imitate it – I couldn't have originated it.
Notice the utterly flat affect. "The Distributor" is an epiphany in that sense. All horror fiction I'd read until then pulsed with vibrant emotion – rage, hate, fear, lust for revenge. "The Distributor" has none of that. And that's what makes it so horrifying.
The story is a parade of simple declarative sentences (hell, he uses fewer adverbs than Elmore Leonard) with only an occasional off-the-wall adjective to let us know "Mr. Gordon" is well educated. We spend the entire story in Mr. Gordon's point of view but experience no emotion; we witness only the surfaces of events. This is one of the most effective uses of minimalist technique you will ever see.
Mr. Gordon doesn't hate the residents of Sylmar Street. Nothing personal here. They're just people and this is just another town along his distribution route. It's just a job, folks.
Just a job.
But who does he work for?
That's Matheson's final coup. If he'd revealed that Mr. Gordon worked for the CIA or the KGB, or even some invented secret organization or cult, "The Distributor" would have migrated to short story limbo long ago. But he didn't. Who is behind this? Where is their home office? What is their agenda? Why are they doing this?
I wanted to know in 1961.
I still want to know.
So as a tribute to Matheson and his story, I wrote “Recalled.” I took the same story as “The Distributor,” but flipped it on its head and made it my own.
Its simple presence here gives away the twist, but I think you’ll enjoy it anyway.
Recalled
(a sequel to “The Distributor” by Richard A. Matheson)
Time to move.
Monday, April 26
Another town, another rental in another peaceful, unsuspecting neighborhood.
That was the easy part. As for the rest . . . it used to be so much simpler.
Listen to me, he thought. I sound like an old fart.
Well, he was an old fart. He’d been at this for decades, but instead of becoming routine, it had grown increasingly difficult. And he knew the problem wasn’t with him.
The world had changed.
Used to be reputations could be ruined with a mere hint of impropriety – adultery, drunkenness, wantonness, porn peeping. Now it was anything goes. Only incest and pedophilia seemed to lack champions in the mass media, and it was anyone’s guess as to how long before their paladins appeared and hoisted their flags.
People daily bragged on TV about what in the good old days would have had them afraid to show their faces in public. And nowadays the love that once dared not speak its name would not shut up.
But other, newer taboos had arisen from what used to be a matter of course.
And the ability to improvise was the greatest asset of an effective distributor.
*
The last town had been a quiet little place in central Jersey known as Veni Woods. He’d called himself Clay Evanson there, a name he’d used before, way back when. Just last week, before arriving here in Wolverton, a quaint little town on Long Island’s south shore
, he decided to use another alias from the past: Theodore Gordon.
Every night before his arrival he’d closed his eyes and made the name his own. He was Theodore Gordon. All other names faded. He was Theodore Gordon and no one else.
After a little research, he found a furnished rental in the racially mixed Pine View Estates development on the eastern end of town. It had come down to a choice between that and another area half a mile west, but when he saw a woman wearing a striped hijab get out of a Dodge SUV on Fannen Street in Pine View and let herself into one of the houses, his decision was made.
He’d spent last Thursday night introducing himself around. As usual, he was a widower – not quite two years since his poor, dear Denise passed – and a financial consultant who worked from home, renting with intent to buy. Seven other houses made up this block of Fannen Street. He met the McCuins and their sullen fifteen-year-old son, Colin; the very Catholic Fabrinis and Robinsons; the waspish Woolbrights; the irreligious Hispanic Garcias with their noisy dog; the Muslim Rashids; and the very black Longwells. He made a point of inquiring at each stop about the best Internet access in the area. This induced Mr. Robinson and Mr. Woolbright to brag about the wi-fi networks they’d installed in their homes. Theodore had been hoping for one; two was a blessing.