The Condimental Op

I tried not to stare at the pictures but I must have done so for a few seconds as I took it all in, and then I looked away. I looked at the wall to the right, the one on the left, over at a greasy, oil-spattered stovetop just beyond the man, and up to twin fluorescent globes attached to the ceiling. Anywhere but at the photographs or at the smiling lunatic who held them aloft. I felt benumbed. Some fool had surely shot me with a stray anaesthetic, but the same bastard pulled it out before oblivion could weasel my way.

  Things had started out so much simpler.

  It’d started out with a medicated kip some twelve hours before and an uncomplicated tussle with a Cossack. On that occasion I’d had clothes on and laid out the blighter with a cricket bat. God knows what the willow was doing there on a set of wild Russian steppes, but I wasn’t one to complain — playing Whac-A-Mole in my dreams was a downright hoot. The sad thing was waking up — the reality check, as I’ve already mentioned.

  After toast with Vegemite and a strong coffee with a slug of payless whisky, the call came through. I wish I’d skipped it. I could’ve stayed home and watched old pirate movies. Instead I answered, and as reward was summoned to Branch HQ.

  In a gesture of hare-brained personal protest, I wasted my time going in on public transport, taking a surreptitious swig from a hipflask every few minutes. At a public loo near the office I chugged down a quickie cigarette and washed my face. A gargle with Listerine was just the kind of eau de cologne I needed to mask the juice on my breath, and I was as good as new.

  Kind of.

  After arrival and the usual security check they parked me in a waiting room — so I twiddled my thumbs and did what it recommended on the door. I waited.

  Half an hour later they moved me into the Briefing Room.

  Once the lecture started I barely listened to the patter. I had my mind instead busy conjuring up the image of a giant tumbler, about three metres in height, filled with brandy served at room temperature — ice be damned. The glass was big enough to go in for a dip.

  But right then, as I lingered over a choice of appropriate swimwear, my area supervisor, Ophelia, stepped up to me. The middle-aged woman was all scowl. She shoved her index finger into the middle of my ribcage, as if making some kind of physical exclamation mark to round off a sentence I hadn’t bothered hearing. Poking me was her expertise — it hurt like hell — and the big, fat glass in my mind was spilled.

  “Damn,” I muttered.

  “This Dev is dangerous, Maquina. You paying attention at all?”

  “Sure, boss. Front and centre, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Good to hear.”

  She picked up one of the mug shots from the table. It was a black-and-white number, so I never suspected the perp’s dress-sense would hurt my eyes. It also must have been taken a few years before, as the man’s jowls were in training mode and he had all his hair.

  “Take a good peek. Make sure you take it all in. Remember this face. Because Dain’s killed at least four women that we know of, one of them a Seeker like you.”

  “Then why aren’t there two of me to deal with the loser?”

  “We don’t have the resources right now.” Ophelia blew out her cheeks and exhaled. “Look, if someone else is freed up, I’ll put them on the case. Till then you’re flying solo.”

  “So I can rack up a few more hours in this blissful little job. Amen.”

  “Be careful with the quips, Floyd. And be careful in general. This individual is dangerous — this isn’t your usual round of Activities.”

  The hell it wasn’t.

  Straight after I skipped out the door I followed the usual routine: first stop, Seeker Branch. Check. Next stop, watering hole — Ziggy’s gin mill.

  I sidled down there through a rash of pedestrians and heavy rain, pushed the entrance door aside, took the stairs three at a time, and grabbed a stool in the far corner by the bar. Ziggy winked at me, grabbed my usual starter, and then I got loaded up on a triple-shot and at least half a dozen chasers. I admit I lost count.

  Somewhere in the middle of this parade Laurel Canyon put in an appearance.

  She shooed away the person occupying the stool next to mine, removed her sunglasses, and ordered us another round. Then she side-glanced my way and looked amused.

  We’d gone drinking together on a number of occasions but I barely knew the woman. She played a deck of marked cards close to her chest. For my part I’d rambled too much about a lifetime of sordid issues, while she’d barely disclosed a morsel.

  Still, there was something about her that appealed to me. It went beyond the rough-around-the-edges beauty, a Lauren Bacall mouth, and a propensity for ample amounts of alcohol that matched my own. All of these tidbits helped, of course, but as I say — there was something more.

  “Floyd. Can I ask a stupid question?”

  Laurel tossed this query my way right before she did a quick run of lipstick across her kisser. She didn’t bother using a mirror. To be honest, right then I was almost as taken with the woman as I was by my current drink.

  “Sure.”

  “D’you always get this tanked before you go stake out someone?”

  “Occasionally.” I pretended to think the matter through, and then gave up the ghost. “The alcohol helps me maintain a stiff upper lip.”

  “I hate to be the one to tell you, but the upper lip looks like it’s sagging.”

  “A fine art. A few more rounds and it won’t know which way gravity is — and voila.”

  “Ah.” Laurel smiled, and then finished her glass. “So that’s how it works. ‘Nother drink?”

  “You’re an angel.”

  I’m sure I don’t need to spell this out, but needless to say I was smashed when I got around to doing the Activities thing.

  The rain didn’t help. It just stung and made me more miserable. So I lurked about under cover in alleyways and door alcoves for a bit, fidgety and bored, pining for a cigarette and another slug. At one stage I did slip under a threadbare veranda in front of a shuttered-up store and lit a ciggie. I left myself dangling. I’m not surprised my quarry nutted me out first, tiptoed up behind me, and conked me on the skull. God knows what he used as a blunt instrument. It felt like the same cricket bat I’d used on the Cossack in my dream. Yeah, yeah — so much for paying attention.

  Which brought me to the here and now, dressed down with a gun in the gob and about to be rubbed out.

  This serial killer was planning to play courteous. He’d alter his modus operandi just for me, and I’d blundered into the mess thanks to my alcoholic prowess. Salut, Floyd.

  “It’s a little chilly here,” I said as I carefully pulled my face away from the gun barrel. “Can I pin my diapers back on?

  “Nah, l feel safer with you wearing only a smile.” The man snickered. “A Seeker. I’m thinking about collecting you people. The other one squealed like a pig when I cut off her fingers. I started with her thumbs. After the fingers I went with the toes. Then I started on some private bits and pieces. What will you do when I poke round down there?”

  His single open eye whipped to my divested crotch.

  “Yodel like a castrato?” he suggested.

  Crap. I could feel perspiration breaking out on my face. I’m not sure if it related to the alcoholic excesses earlier on in the evening or the fear marinating my senses right now. I doubt he’ll get any opera from me, just the pleas I barely keep in check and a whole lot of screams. I’m not one to gush but they’re hovering there on the cusp, threatening to break loose.

  “My partner will notice that I’m not at my post,” I said. It’s a pretty weak attempt, uttered in barely more than a whisper, but I’ll go with anything right now.

  “Sure. But if he’s as drunk as you were, it’ll be easy to deal with him too. Drunk — as a skunk. Hilarious. Who pays you for this kind of professional behaviour?”

  I didn’t answer. There was nothing to say, and my voice failed me regardless.

  “Yeah, I think I’ll start down there,” th
e bastard continued in that goddamned lazy drawl, the eye fixed on an area I’d have much preferred him to forget. “Now, where’s me knife?”

  That got me bucking. A gun is one thing, but a shiv?

  “For fuck’s sake,” I began as I strained against the ropes at my back, “why don’t you—?”

  “The knife, the knife, my kingdom for the knife. Where’s the knife? Tra-la-la, oh the knife, glorious knife, hot sausage and mustard!”

  The man was singing a shambolic collusion of Oliver! and Richard III in such a grating falsetto it drowned out my squeals — meaning I gave up trying to be heard.

  So it came as a complete surprise when, right about then, he cut the crooning.

  The single grey eye bulged, joined a second or two later by its companion—which was, it turns out, the same colour. He’d lost his aim and the gun clattered to the floor, just as the second button of his tawdry shirtfront popped free and something created a pointy bulge there beneath the material.

  “I do believe I found your knife, mister.”

  The voice making this declaration was said in such a sweet, singsong tone that I barely recognized it. It came from just behind him. The arsehole fiddled with the buttons of his shirt, turned a fraction, and shuddered. He nodded his head in a bouncy kind of way, his face sagged like a sack of old potatoes, and he slid down to join the shooter on the lino. Looked like gravity did get the better of the stiff upper lip on this occasion.

  Laurel was standing in his place, shorter in height but immeasurably superior eye-candy. She had indeed found the shiv. It was in her gloved right hand, a long hunting number, and the knife had just been used to skewer the man and his offensive wardrobe — thank God I wasn’t the only one up for poking on the carte du jour.

  Laurel kicked the corpse once, and then arched an eyebrow at me.

  I had something tinkering with my vision — I’ll swear it was sweat — and I couldn’t clear it away since my arms were still bound behind me.

  “Jesus wept, Laurel. Timing.”

  “Not bad, right?”

  “I’d give you a round of applause but my hands are otherwise occupied.”

  “Then I’ll try to picture it.” She gave me a once-over and laughed. “Say, don’t you have any sense of shame? Where on earth are your clothes?”

  Neck-Tied was also written for Shotgun Honey, and thus abides by their specific guidelines: “Crime. Hardboiled. Noir. Something like that. 700 words maximum. Make it tight. Make it hum.” It was published in November 2012.

  Let it be known I love Shotgun Honey —it’s filled to the brim with excellent writers like Matthew C. Funk, K.A. Laity, Mike Monson, Paul D. Brazill, Christopher L. Irvin, R. Thomas Brown, Katherine Tomlinson, Benoit Lelièvre, Court Merrigan, Fiona Johnson, Allan Guthrie, Matthew J. McBride, and about a million others I dig — so I’m really happy I slipped in there.

  Check out shotgunhoney.net.

  In this particular offering the narrator isn’t Floyd, but it’s definitely another Seeker — someone a tad more direct, perhaps.

  “Finding an adversary’s weakness makes sense in this solid little story,” responded fellow scribe (par excellence) Patti Abbott after she read it online.

  Ta, mate.

  Neck-Tied

  There’s blood on my hands yet I’m well-nigh choking to death.

  The weight behind me, somewhere I think near to my own, has that fishing line wrapped around my neck and is yanking hard. I’ve cut my fingers up trying to stop the wire slicing further into my throat—I can see bone sticking out from my left thumb.

  How long has it been since I gobbled down a last breath of oxygen?

  Feels like hours, probably only seconds. Passing out, I know — edges of everything blurring, head pounding, neck silently screaming on its sweet lonesome.

  Desperation dictates my next manoeuvre, a frantic shove backwards that sandwiches my attacker between me and a mantelpiece stuck over the fireplace. I hear the wind come out of him, the wire loosens up the smallest fraction, and that’s enough for me to stick my left hand through the garrotte and take the pressure of the wire on my wrist — instead of further mutilating my fingers or my collar.

  The blurring folds in on itself and there’s a moment of clarity. This is my moment, I realize, one final lucky chance prior to giving up the ghost.

  So I lift my right arm high and quickly hammer back with the elbow, praying to some empty mead hall of Norse gods that I get this right and nail the bastard holding me, rather than smashing up my funny bone on the concrete wall.

  I’m lucky.

  I hit something soft, and it’s not a pillow.

  The wire unravels from my neck, I swing round, and I lob a haymaker right where the head should be. Only it isn’t. This time I really do hammer the wall — I feel a few knuckles crack.

  “Goddammit!” I hiss a croak, snapping my left arm free of the wire, and then cradling my busted-up mitt in the fingers of the left hand while I hop up and down, trying not to bawl. I can still barely swallow and I gulp at air like a deranged guppy. Can’t quite recall when I remember about my assailant.

  I try to pull myself together and look to the floor.

  There, spread-eagled by my shoes, is a small man probably half my weight. I’d been amiss. Looked also half my height. From the state of his right eye, which had ruptured, I could more accurately say my elbow had struck him there, instead of in the chest or stomach like I presumed. Messy. Currently out for the count, the bastard will need medical assistance and an eye-patch post haste.

  I take my fine time as I try to clear my throat, making unpleasant sounds.

  In addition, there’s the fishing line at my feet to inspect. I hold the weapon aloft, looking past the bits of skin and droplets of blood. Superior piece of workmanship — a strong, braided monofilament core wrapped up in thick, waterproof PVC sheathing. The perfect weight and mass necessary to cast an artificial fly with a fly rod, and not a bad choice for doing a Gurkha on someone.

  I measure the length and make some quick calculations. Wondering about strength versus weight contradictions, I flex the wire and pull hard. It cuts again into my fingers. Actually, there’s blood everywhere, all over my clothes, mine, and I suppose I’ll also need medicating soon enough.

  But in this day and age it’s difficult to find decent fishing line, so I carefully roll up the line and stick it in my coat pocket, and then squat beside the dwarf. He’s waking up. Hasn’t yet realized he now has two-dimensional vision. There’s one question to ask before I call in to Branch and rat out the silly prick.

  I grab him by his shirt and yank him up into a sitting position. He swoons but anyway manages to focus the leftie my way.

  “Any idea, mate,” I ask, “where I can find some decent live fish?”

  In the earlier manuscripts of Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat, Floyd’s wife Veronica played a bigger part, though she wasn’t always called Veronica.

  Laurel took on a large chunk of her persona in the final version, but I had still implied Veronica was alive and kicking in the final version I sent Another Sky Press. I didn’t say so out loud — it was only an inference, one within the confines of a virtual reality ‘Test’ — but to my mind she survived.

  We ended up editing this out — a particular scene in which Floyd hunts down a group of Deviants in the apocalypse that is Richmond, and targets that final one on the street, but lets her go.

  She, to my mind, was V, not dead after all — and I decided to expand upon the revelation with this story for The Tobacco-Stained Sky. Whether or not you agree this really is Veronica is up to, well, you.

  Again, a Peter Lorre reference.

  This was written at the same time as One Hundred Years of Vicissitude and Lazarus Slept, in early 2012. The thread was there.

  And I changed the narrative from first person to third just prior to inclusion in this collection.

  In-Dreamed

  There’s a soft breeze, a whisper that’s supremely gentle. She d
rifts on its current, floating above ground, sight unseen. There is some kind of movement nearby, impenetrable in the blackness. Can’t see anything at all. She must be dozing, and this surprises. Since when did she lucid dream? Oh, yes. Always.

  “Guv.” A distant, entirely unwelcome call to arms. “Guv — wakey, wakey.”

  Shit, she knows that voice. Taylor. Forces open her eyes.

  ‘Taylor’ is such a solid name — the kind of family handle you’d picture being pinned to a chisel-jawed leading man in old Hollywood, like Charlton Heston or Burt Lancaster, rather than weighing on the shoulders of this scrawny, chinless wonder. Instead of deep-set, strong blue eyes, his are bulbous and brown — the only movie star he resembles is a poor man’s Peter Lorre, and the surname comes across as the punch line from some sly genetic joke. This Taylor would be better off as a Bernbaum.

  “I was dreaming,” she says, holding his bulldog gaze. No more to be said, no need to get into vindictive pet theories now.

  “You sure it was a dream?”

  She attempts to smile at that — the man can tickle her funny bone sometimes — but the cheek muscles feel stiff, awkward. Figures they need a workout. “There’s a valid point. Debatable, right?”

  “Right. Sleep aside — you want an update of the here and now?”

  She’d prefer not. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Course you do. You could angle at more shut-eye and maybe get your throat cut while you kip.”

  “Charming. And I thought the verdict was out as to whether or not I’m really sleeping.”

  “All the same. Gotta hurt.” Taylor slips a knife down into plain sight from where he hid it up his sleeve. He’d like the others to believe he has the disappearing/reappearing skills of a magician, but this kind of trick is a basic stretch of street-hooligan knowhow — nothing enchanting.

  She plays it blasé. “Mmm.”

  “Mmm to you, too. We got company.” The small man studies the blade in his hand. Polished to perfection, this was something to treasure, but it has a chip broken out of the edge, making it twice as dangerous. A thing like that could hook onto an internal organ and tear the blighter out in the follow through.