More Darkness, fiction by John Jeffire

 

"…for even Satan masquerades as an angel of light."

—2 Corinthians 11-14

Wasn’t any different from most any other night. This our park. We got a place we jungle up, about twenty us, got most everything you need. Plastic crates or shopping carts or backpacks to put your things in, the winter coat, the boots, change a clothes, a toothbrush, a comb, me, I got my Bible too. Most here respect that. We all know each other and we all on the same raft. If someone steal from you then you gonna steal from them so it ain’t worth it to take nothing. We look out for each other. Most here not bad people, just lost. Lost their jobs, lost their homes, lost their families, lost their minds. It’s one or the other or more. Some’s all them. But you always got to remember, Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all.

Me, my husband died. Bad heart. My children all move off. Got no one. No one call on me, no one visit, no one really care. I hurt my back real bad, couldn’t work, got hooked on the oxy. Old story. You bust that rail you in trouble. I learn that too late. Some of the folks in the park, they like their beer or wine, some go for rock or weed or needles, whatever, everybody got something so I don’t judge. Me, if you have some wine I’ll take a sip but that’s all. I learned too much to do more than that. Church wine, that’s the best wine. But I will be delivered. One day, yes, I will be delivered.

And money ain’t the problem. That what everybody think. Naw, we all got Bridge cards to get food, most everybody here on SS, we can get food at the shelter, if I need something I can go to the Church on Jefferson. Good people there. Give me food or a coat if I need one, when it’s cold I can go inside. Naw, it’s the things money can’t buy that got us. You can trade that Bridge card for anything, drugs, anything, and don’t think I ain’t been asked. Just I never been that desperate. Others has. They can’t shake that darkness inside them.

That night, though, it was warm, a nice breeze off the river, a good night to just be with yourself and look up at the sky and think about what tomorrow might bring, who be at the shelter, what they fix for breakfast, how hot the coffee be. Same old stuff. We protect ourselves, sure, chair legs, some baseball bats, some blades, things like that, simple things, but mainly for the dogs, not for people. Damn wild dogs everywhere. Somebody got a gun I don’t know nothing about that.

When she come over, we all a bit edgy. Nobody know her. She say she want some food. Ain’t no problem, Zeke get her some leftover from the shelter, he say, “Here you go, sweetheart.” And she look at him. I never forget that look. Evil. Just the picture of evil come over her face. He do something nice for her and she give him that look. And she take the food, look at us all one last time, and then she leave. Even though she gone, I had me a bad feeling about it. I knew we see her again.

That night when I closed my eyes, I swear I could feel that woman in the air.

* * * * *

Jug is a demon on the scanner and the word was, with The Burner, call, no matter what, call if it’s The Burner.

“Dude, got a hot one. She’s back.”

“Wha?”

“Wake up, sunshine. The Burner strikes again.”

“Shit, it’s 3 a.m.”

“Correction, it’s 3:03 and you’re losing time. Rise and shine, up and at ‘em, sugar tits.”

I was already putting my pants on. Cindy was still asleep. She’s used to this.

“Where’m I headed?”

“Riverside. Not far from the band shell.”

“I know the place. I’m on it.”

“I guess you could say you’re ‘hot’ on the trail.”

“C’mon, man.”

“Hey, you better ‘fire’ up the Oldsmobile or you’re gonna get scooped.”

“Christ, Jug, you’re gonna burn for those jokes, lemme tell you.”

Neither of us laughed. I wheeled over to the park and there’s Lieutenant Drumford and Sergeant Decatur and the whole homicide crew. They know me and how I operate and I slipped under the yellow tape with my phone recorder.

“Morning, Chuckie,” Drumford said, not looking at me.

“Heard we got another crispy. Number four.”

“Affirmative. Black male, approximately 55 to 60. We got him ID’d but let’s keep that off the record until we can notify family.”

Drumford pointed over at the body, which was being processed for clues. Even in the morning darkness it looked like something out of a cheap horror flick.

“You got it. I can find his name on my own. What about The Burner? Still no definite POI?”

“Same old, same old. White woman, about same age as the victim. That narrows it down to a thousand housing-challenged bitties in the city. Some witnesses. She’s on the scoot but we’ll get her.”

“Same MO?”

“Yeah, but we finally caught a break. Found the can back behind those trees. Of all things, Aquanet. Yeah, hairspray. Got to run it for prints and DNA. MO the same, spray can and a lighter, the usual. Mini torch. But keep that on the downlow, will you?”

“C’mon, Drum, everybody knows how she does it.”

“That don’t mean you got to keep repeating it. Specially the Aquanet part. Kid last week set his sister’s hair on fire with a can a spray paint and a match. We got enough misery to deal with.”

“See what I can do. You know the deal, once it reaches the honchos it ain’t my baby.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, Chuckie. Just like everything I tell you to lay easy on.”

“Just business. I don’t like it any more than you do, Drum. Mind if I chat some of the witnesses?”

“All yours. Go easy, huh? Some pretty shook.”

“You know me. Call me Mr. Feelings.”

Drumford gave a small smile and nodded toward a group of campers. They were still, glassy eyed, some crying. One woman stood to the side, arms folded across her chest, her mouth slightly open, staring at the burned body on the ground. She was feeling it. She was the one to question first.

“Hey ma’am, so very sorry for your loss, it’s just horrible. I’m Chuck McCluff, ma’am, with the Daily. Would it be okay if I asked you some questions?”

The woman was shaken out of her trance. In an earlier life she was probably very attractive, someone you’d cozy up to at a bar, buy a drink for.

“Chuck who?”

“McCluff. Chuck McCluff, I’m a reporter.”

“You that guy on the TV.”

“That’s me. Do some reporting for WDTR, but I write for the Daily, too. Now, I’m trying to help the police and the city, you people in the park here, with the person who’s doing this. We gotta put an end to this. First, I was wondering if you might be able to tell us about the victim. Did you know him?”

“Sure, I knowed Zeke. Good man. Didn’t never hurt nobody.”

“Everyone I talked to said the same. Very solid man. Ma’am, do you know Zeke’s last name?”

“Hollingshed. Ezekial Hollingshed.”

“And your name, ma’am?”

“I’m Sarah Janes.”

“Sarah…”

“Janes. Yeah, not James. And Sarah, with a H.”

“No, ma’am. Janes and with an H. So how long did you know Zeke?”

“Oh, we been knowing each other at least five year. We part of the community here, you know? We all move in and out. In the park here, we finally set up. Close to the shelter, by the water, nice enough.”

“Sure is. Love Riverside. Bring my daughter here to play. Love it. Now, did you see who did this to him?”

She looked at me for the first time. Her eyes widened.

“I seen her. Oh, I seen her. She come round about four or five hour before this happen. Asked for food. Zeke give her some. That the kind of man he is…was. Big heart.”

“What can you tell me about her? What did she look like. We hear all kind of stories, but you’ve seen her up close and we need, the police need, some facts.”

“White lady.”

“Yeah? About how old?”

“Bout same as me.”

“And that would be? If you don’t mind my asking, of course. I know you should never ask a lady her age or her weight and I promise I won’t ask your weight.”

“Go ahead ask my weight but I ain’t seen a scale in how long. Don’t go to the doctor no more. Can’t tell you my weight.”

“Was she tiny like you?”

“Awe naw, she got some meat to her. She look like she could fight a man and come out okay with it. I could tell she fend for herself. Got a big scar over the one eye, the, let’s see, would be her left eye. Missing some teeth up top on that side too. She been in some tangles.”

“And her age, if you had to guess?”

“She about 45, maybe 55. Hard to tell. Hell, maybe she 30.”

“Thirty?”

“This living hard on a person. Age you double for some.”

“No doubt, has to be tough, Sarah. In fact, I got a few bucks here, to help you out, get some food, blankets, whatever you need. You’ve been real helpful.”

She looked at me hard, but I pulled out my wallet and scraped out a couple tens. I held them out and she slowly reached out her tiny hand to take them.

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you. We get a straight description of this lady out and the police can bring her in and nobody else get hurt. One way or another we’ll get justice for Zeke, Ezekial, and things will calm down around here. Just a few more questions, you’ve been the best, I really mean that. Do you remember her hair color? Clothing? Shoes? Tattoos?”

“Her hair kinda black but got some gray in it, through here, kinda streaked through. She wearing a old Tigers jacket, one sleeve tore up, like she been fighting one a them dogs. Tattoo on side a her neck, flowers or something on one side, never forget it, on the other a angel with wings but it got horns like the devil.”

“Wow, angel with horns like the devil, scary stuff. This will help a lot, Sarah. Anything else you can tell me, Sarah? You’ve been a rock star, so very helpful.”

She looked off again.

“Them eyes. Let me tell you, she got some eyes. Them eyes stuck on crazy. The devil hisself done set’m there.”

* * * * *

You got the world backwards till it get explained to you. That’s when I got right. The Lord say Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness. You see? Everything was backwards and the opposite a what you been told. See, I thought I was evil. What I did, what I thought, but I had it backwards till I go in the Second Baptist. I really just wanted to get warm and maybe get some food, but then the preacher started talking to everyone and I got the Bible and started following what he says. That’s when everything turned round.

You want evil, I got evil, but only what you call evil. But see, you ain’t read the book. You got it all backwards but you don’t know it.  My life was just misery since I could remember. A lot of it, sure, I made some shit decisions, but not all. You get made how I was, that’s what I learned. You ain’t born that way, ain’t nobody born that way, but when you been done like I been done that’s what happen. People get made nasty. My whole life been a lesson in how you get nasty and I ain't gonna apologize for nothing I done or become. Why? Cause that’s part a how you find you got the light.

Where to start. Everywhere. Anywhere.  Being born.  Shit, I wasn't even born.  I was shoved in it. Got learned early by my own mother. You let Uncle Stevie touch you and I’ll get you a treat. After, she’d get me McDonald’s. It took the taste out of my mouth. And she done it more. I had all kind a uncles. Until it get to Uncle Donnie. I didn’t mind sucking his thing, but he wanted to unload in my mouth. Done that before and I didn’t like it and I decided I wasn’t gonna do it. I didn’t want that taste but he grabbed my hair and was gonna make me. So I bit him. I mean I bit him good. Blood and everything, and even his blood taste sour. And the beating he give me was nothing compared to the beating my mom give me.

And that’s when I got the darkness. I would hide in my closet, shut the door, just sit in there with the shoe boxes, the vacuum, and bins filled with whatever. I wanted that darkness. But the door would always open and it opened onto what I didn’t want to happen to me. You see? The darkness just made everything worse.

So I left. I was old enough I could pretty much get what I needed by myself. I stayed at the next park over with my friend Joanie. We were in school before I quit going. Her trailer was good. Warm, smelled good, like vanilla. No men. Just me, her, her mom, who was a normal mom, and her older sister who worked. I was too young to get a job but I knew how to make money from what my momma taught me. Plenty of work in the park. Retired old geezers. Their money was green like anyone else’s. But I got enough money I could take Joanie to Wendy’s or Burger King (anywhere but McDonald’s) or wherever and buy myself new pants and tops. It was a good life.

But Joanie’s mother one day said she had to have a talk with me. She was religious. She said she knowed what I was doing and I had to stop. That God had something better for me in life but I had to shed my old life like a snake shed its skin and walk to the light. She said she would make sure I got fed and had clothes but I had to stop what I was doing. She said God wanted this. But I didn’t like rules. Anybody telling me what was what. Didn’t matter if it was God or somebody else. I made my own rules. So I left there too.

Started my wandering years. Finally, hooked up with Shep and it was a roof over my head, food in the frig, money for cigarettes, the basics. But then he got stuck on the pipe. And he got me on it too. And let me tell you, when that gets hold you, it’s all you think about. Pretty soon he done to me what my momma did. Freaks coming over, go on, take her in the back room, we got a deal. And I had all my teeth then, my figure was still fine and it was gonna get us whatever we needed. In my head I thought it was good. Then Shep got crazy. Got hisself a gun and he quit going to work at McCabe Corp and he start running the street. Then one day a posse a rock heads come to the trailer looking for him, said he fleeced them on a deal, they had that look, you know, they tried beating on me but I had a knife I got from the drawer soon as I seen who was at the door. Man, I sliced them. Three of them. Blood everywhere. I swing that knife and I swing and I swing and I swing. They leave yelling and hooting but the fuck I care.

Shep didn’t never come back. I couldn’t just stay there. Somebody would come back looking for him and take it out on me. That’s how the world works. So I left.

So that’s how I ended up in the church. Heard it was warm and they had food. They set up a winter shelter where all us could lay on the floor in sleeping bags with blankets, serve us a big dinner every night. I didn’t like being crowded in with everyone else, I knowed some of them from the street and done favors for them, but didn’t want to see them no more. But this guy spoke to us every night. The head preacher or whatever. Always talking, always saying things, the Lord this and the Lord that. I was like, just go away, shut up and go away. But then one night he says, and I don’t know why I remember this, but I do, he said, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone.”

And that’s when things got clear. The darkness went away and light was everywhere, even in the night. Like nothing can stop it. My mind started thinking. All kinds of things. Things I knowed most would say was crazy but they still made sense to me. I can’t explain it. The person, this voice in my head, it was my voice but it wasn’t my voice, it had to be God—who else could it be—it talk to me. It says, to get out the darkness, you need to make light. What’s that suppose to mean? What darkness? What light? What I suppose to do?

Then I understood. What the preacher said. I been walking in darkness. My whole life I been walking in darkness. But now a light was showing on me. Shining right down on me. And I felt that light. I had to carry that light. Out into the darkness, and believe me the darkness was everywhere, so I had to bring that light. Next thing you know the moon is in your head and then, bang, it just blows up. Anything you were thinking or was going to think, it’s just gone. Don’t know where it goes. Someplace, but you don’t know the place. It ain’t nowhere. Somewhere that’s nowhere, know what I mean? But the light stays inside you. I took one of them Bibles before I left the shelter. I could read good enough. That voice, though, it come with me, and it stays there in my head—here, right here—still till this day. And the voice, it says, if there is darkness, make light. That’s really what it says. And the more you listen, the more it makes sense. And the more you listen and know, you got to do what it says. You go where the light tell you.

* * * * *

What ain’t we seen? We seen everything. All of it. A circuit court judge fucking a lawyer who kill his own wife to be with her honor. Little kid kill his own sister with their daddy’s gun they find in the closet. Boyfriend babysitting baby mama’s toddler and swing him by his feet and bash his head against the wall to get him to stop crying. Smash and grab at a stoplight turn carjacking turn kidnapping turn bullet in the head out in some abandoned lot. Bangers offing bangers over turf, cappin’ at a gas station in broad daylight. Kids from the burbs trying to play gangsta and score some weed and end up in the trunk of a car. Hell, fourth of July, forget it, man, ain’t worried about no fireworks in the sky—the whole city gone crazy shooting itself up.

But then we get this. The Burner. Lighting homeless people on fire. Just flick her Bic in front of some Aquanet, instant flamethrower. Shit, I was in the Gulf, seen burnt up bodies in Iraq, cooked right in their tanks and APCs and bunkers. That was war, though. This? I can’t explain this. No real way to explain this.

We got prints and DNA off the spray can she left at the last scene. AFIS give us a name: Lucinda Dunkel. Priors for vagrancy, larceny, receipt of stolen property, solicitation, drug possession, a long-timer but a small-timer. The name seemed familiar but no one could place her for sure, even with the file photo. Hair was different. Early on, everybody in the city seen her everywhere. Like Bigfoot or Elvis. She was on the Ambassador Bridge, on top the Penobscot Building, dancing on the steps of City Hall, you name it, the usual crazy shit. After the third incident, though, enough credible people had seen her and we had a clearer idea who we looking for. Description matched the photo on file. White woman, about 50, around 160 pounds, tattoos on her neck, scar over her eye, old army boots, baggy clothes, and eyes you wouldn’t ever forget. Crazy. Crazy devil eyes.

We tracked her down on Jefferson. She only come out at night, sleep and hide in the day, made it tougher to find her. But she was on the prowl carrying a plastic grocery bag and the plainclothes stop her and bring her in. She knew it was up. They found Aquanet in the bag, some lighters, lighter fluid, some food and other small things. Took her up to the interview room and that’s when I went in with Crooks to put her under the lights and see what we could get out of her.

The cameras in interview were all down but we both had recorders. We go in and she’s sitting there and, man, she lock them eyes on me. Eyes like a hyena. Some kind of scared, nasty animal. I look over at Crooks but he just stared at her, like the eyes had locked him in.

“Mrs. Dunkel, I’m officer Fellows, this is officer Crooks. Do you have any idea why we’re here?”

“I know why I’m here. I got no idea why you here though.”

“Well, we’re here because we’re homicide detectives and we’re investigating a series of murders.”

“I know that. Still don’t explain why you here or anybody else for that matter.”

Her hair was all over, her clothes too big. She didn’t smile but when she talked you could see where she was missing teeth.

“Personally, I’m here because I got a job to do, Mrs. Dunkel.”

“Call me Lu.”

“Lu. Okay, Lu it is. But we want to try to understand what happened, Lu, get your side a things. And you understand you don’t have to talk to us, that you can have a lawyer pre…”

“I heard all that shit before. Lawyers never done me no good.”

“Those your rights, though, and we have to tell you that.”

“You ain’t gotta do nothing. You, me, anybody. Nobody got to do nothing. All I got to do is bring the light.”

“Bring the light?”

“What I said, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but I’m not quite sure I understand. Can you explain that?”

“You read the Bible?”

“I got to church.”

“Ain’t what I asked.”

I glanced over at Crooks, who was taking notes. She was smart in her own way, street smart, predator smart. She was in the net and wasn’t gonna fight us but she wasn’t gonna roll over neither. She was gonna get her say and on her own terms.

“I do read the Bible.”

“Then you know it says, ‘Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness.’ You know that, right?”

“I’m not familiar with that verse.”

“Isaiah 5:20. If you knowed it then you’d already understand what I done and why I done it. I’m thirsty. And I need a smoke.”

Crooks put down his pen and took out his pack, tapped it, and offered her one. She took it, put it to her lips, and leaned in for his light. When he clicked the lighter, her eyes widened. She settled back and took a long drag. The smoke flowed from her nose like a dragon.

“We can get you a pop or a water or coffee.”

“Pop.”

“Coke?”

“Don’t like Coke. I like Mountain Dew.”

“We can swing that.”

Crooks pushed away from the table, nodded at me, said he’d be right back. Lucinda Dunkel was now looking at me. When she pulled on her cigarette, the tip burned bright orange. She seemed to like that. I pretended to look at Crooks’ notes until he returned with the Mountain Dew. She took the can and tilted her head back, chugged hard.

“Okay, Lu, we need to get to the heart of why you’re here. Before Officer Crooks left, you mentioned ‘what you done.’ What were you talking about, ‘what you done’?”

“I done what you think I done.”

“What exactly do we think you did?”

“Lit them people on fire.”

Crooks shot me a look. There it was—what she did, confessed, no hardball needed. Not a bit of fight, no playing, no pressing. We had her. It was a relief but it wasn’t enough.

“Which people?”

“You dumb? The people who got lit on fire.”

“Temikah Hall?”

“Don’t know that name.”

“Homeless woman found in a vacant lot on Trumball in late April.”

“Okay, yeah, I done that.”

“Samuel Jenkins, homeless man found in an alley off Lafayette in May.”

“Yours truly.”

“Laila Woodson, homeless woman found in an abandoned house off Selden in late May.”

“Me.”

“Ezekial Hollingshed, homeless man found in Riverside Park last week.”

“Yep. Him too. I done all’m.”

Crooks scribbled away in his notebook. Everything was on tape. Now there was just the why, which wasn’t really needed, but now I was curious. I seen all type a killer, stone hardcore to jealousy to accidental. Lucinda Dunkel was different.

“Now, Lu, we got a clear idea what you did. That ain’t in dispute. But why, that’s what we don’t understand. Wasn’t robbery, none the victims was missing any belongings. None the victims had any connection to another except they all homeless, but there thousands of homeless people all over the city. Why these four? What they done to you?”

Lucinda let out a dry cackle.

“What they done? Why they have to done something?”

“They don’t, but there has to be some reason to do what you done to them.”

“I already told you.”

“Which was?”

“I bring light to the darkness.”

“What do you mean, ‘light to the darkness’? What light? How you bring light to any of these people?”

“Even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.”

“What’s that?” asked Crooks. He was getting impatient.

“More of the Bible,” I said.

“More of the Bible, that’s true,” said Lucinda Dunkel. “The Bible also say, ‘if anyone walk in the night, he gonna stumble, because the light is not in him.’ You see? If you out walking in darkness, you gonna stumble. You gonna go down a bad path. That was me. I was on that path till I found the light. And when I found the light, God told me, you got to share it, Lu, you got to get out there and bring the light to people most in need of it.”

Crooks had stopped scribbling notes.

“So, in your mind, you thought you were helping these people?”

“Thought? I knowed I help them. It was dark. Darkness everywhere. More darkness than you could ever believe was there. Bible say, ‘The light shine in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.’ Simple, huh? Darkness can’t win if you got the light. And I got the light. I got so much light I can walk in the darkness, the pitch black darkness, and not need no flashlight or nothing. Hell, I could walk through that darkness with my eyes closed. When you got the light, officers, you don’t need nothing else.”

She closed her eyes and held out her hands from her side, then turned her face up to the ceiling. She appeared to be shaking. For some reason, I was sweating. It was hot in the room. Crooks even loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button on his shirt.

“I need another cigarette,” Lu mumbled. Her arms returned to her side and her eyes opened.

Crooks put down his pen and took out his cigarettes again. He tapped the pack lightly and a single butt slid forward. He held out the pack and Lu took the cigarette, lifted it to her lips. Crooks held the lighter out to her but she didn’t lean forward. She leaned back into her chair and smiled. Now, I swear, you gonna say I’m crazy, I know, but I swear she looking right at Crooks but, I’m telling you, she looking right at me at the same time. Then, I swear—I know most ain’t gonna believe me—something flare in her eyes. And God and Crooks as my witness, before Crooks could even flick the lighter to light that cigarette, Lucinda took a big ass drag, and, I swear on my dead mother’s grave—if tape was rolling in interview I could prove it—the tip a that cigarette blaze up the brightest orange I ever seen.

John Jeffire was born in Detroit.His novel Motown Burningwon the 2005 Mount Arrowsmith Novel Competition and the 2007 Independent Publishing Awards Gold Medal for Regional Fiction.Detroiter and former U.S. Poet Laureate Philip Levine called his first poetry collection, Stone + Fist + Brick + Bone, “a terrific one for our city.” In 2022, his novel River Rouge won the American Writing Award for Legacy Fiction.

Val Has a Math Problem, fiction by Casey Stegman

 It’s 10:58 p.m., and the way Val figures it, she has a math problem.

The biggest variable is time. She’s got less than two minutes before the block of C4 stuffed into the air duct down in the basement of this beat-to-shit farmhouse in the middle of ass-crack nowhere goes boom. And although she has her lucky rabbit’s foot clutched in her left hand, she doubts it’s gonna affect the clock any.

Then she’s got this wide motherfucker standing in front of her in the hallway, blocking the front door, and wearing a big toothy grin on his pockmarked face. He’s smiling because he’s got not one but two Glock 19s pointed at her. And from how Val’s interpreting that smile, he knows he’s got her number.

Fortunately or unfortunately — depending on who you’re rooting for here — this sack of shit doesn’t know about the basement air duct, let alone what’s in it.

Next up is what’s outside that front door.

Val’s guesstimate is four of Cantrell’s guys. There’s no telling how many guns they got. But if she does a statistical average of 1.5 per man, that’s still potentially another six firearms.

Then there’s the fifty yards she’s gotta sprint beyond these assholes to get to the treeline where she’s got her motorcycle hidden.

Following this, there’s the sixty-two miles of highway she’s gotta haul ass down to get back to the city and, more importantly, the lawyer responsible for sending her out into this mess in the first place. He’s the only one who can get her out of it. At least, that’s what she’s hoping. But only if she gets to him before midnight.

And lastly there’s this one scratched and weathered knock-off Transformers lunchbox a lot of people have already been killed over that she’s got gripped tight in her right hand.

So yeah… that’s the math problem:

One wide, grinning pockmarked motherfucker blocking the door PLUS two Glock 19s PLUS four assholes outside (multiplied by 1.5 firearms) PLUS fifty yards and sixty-two miles of the hardest road imaginable PLUS one lunchbox DIVIDED by a hundred and twenty seconds.

No, make that a hundred and nineteen seconds.

Er, well, a hundred and eighteen now….

And maybe Val could come up with some solution for this goddamn equation if she hadn’t of gotten all C’s in every single math class she ever took including that Physics for English Majors elective she audited at Oakdale Community College the semester before she dropped out and officially joined her Uncle Rumper’s crew ten years back.

RIP, Uncle Rump.

As it stands, Val’s fresh out of ideas.

So when the wide, toothy-grinned motherfucker in front of her says, “Put the lunchbox on the floor,” Val thinks maybe she should, given everything. At least for three of the remaining hundred and eleven seconds she has left.

Then she thinks, No fuckin’ way.

Val squeezes the lucky rabbit’s foot tighter as she turns on her heels and runs back toward the basement. She zig-zags the whole way at top speed, while the motherfucker’s two Glock 19s make loud noises and their bullets hit, blast, pop, and shatter wood, paint, plaster, and drywall all around her.

She makes it to the end of the hall with just scratches from the debris flying every which way, throws open the door, shielding her from the motherfucker who continues unloading — now into the door itself.

Val races to the bottom of the basement stairs, hits the light, and goes for the air duct on the far wall, thinking that, with less than eighty-five seconds left, dismantling this bomb is the smartest play.

And as she’s halfway across the barren and musty concrete space, she hears the house’s front above crash open and several cacophonous voices boom out. Some Where is shes, a few Did you get hers, and at least two What the fuck’s happenings.

As she’s looking back down from the basement’s ceiling to the duct in front of her, she spots something outta the right corner of her eye that she didn’t see before.

Maybe because way back then — less than three minutes ago — she figured she had enough time to get the lunchbox, go back out the front, and motorcycle off before Cantrell’s guys arrived to find a pile of rubble instead of a farmhouse.

That’s when she gets a new idea.

It’s desperate, sure. And it’s a little stupid. But as Uncle Rump used to say, when he was the one who relied on that rabbit’s foot for luck, “Maybe a little stupidity is just what this logic-bound world needs.”

And so she double-times it to the duct; gets on her tippy-toes; with the hand still gripping the rabbit’s foot, pulls off the vent; and yanks out the wires going from the rectangular block of explosive to the digital clock which is down to forty-six seconds.

#

Samuels is last through the farmhouse’s front door.

Gibson, who had the girl pinned in the hall but managed to let her get away despite having two fucking guns on her, says she went down to the basement.

“With the lunchbox,” he adds.

Samuels wants to chew this dumb motherfucker out. But he doesn’t.

There’s no time.

They need that god damned lunchbox. Before midnight. Before the money in that secret account in New York no one is supposed to know about is wired to that other secret account in São Paulo.

“Well then go after her, idiot,” Samuels says to Gibson.

But he means all of them.

And so all four of the men — including the good-for-nothing Gibson — do.

Samuels brings up the rear the whole way.

When they get down to the basement, the light is on, giving them enough illumination to see the space clearly.

Gibson is the first to spot the crawl space door along the far right wall. It’s unlocked and hanging ajar.

“There,” he says, pointing and simultaneously moving toward it.

The three other men follow.

“Stop!” Samuels says.

They do. And all turn to Samuels at roughly the same time.

“She wants us to follow her,” he says.

He turns and points at the air vent, which is slightly crooked.

“Because of what’s in there.”

He moves toward it.

#

Val emerges from under the back porch crawl space covered in mud and bits of old leaves. She’s looking behind her constantly as she bolts for the backwoods.

But there are no voices and no clattering of men making their way through the crawl space after her.

It’s quiet enough to hear the toads from the nearby swamp.

She gets behind a large hickory tree and watches the house, worried that her plan was even more stupid than she thought at the moment.

But at least you didn’t get yourself blown up.

Which is the only visible upside at this particular moment.

After a few beats, she turns and runs the long way around the property.

#

Samuels smiles as he pulls the lunchbox out of the air duct. He holds it up for all to see.

“Tried to lead us away so she could double back for it,” he says.

All of them nod. Including Gibson.

Samuels looks at his watch. “It’s eleven. We need to get this to Cantrell ASAP.”

He orders them to have their guns at the ready and to keep their eyes peeled as they come out of the house.

“She could be laying in wait with a rifle for all we know.”

#

Val makes it to her motorcycle when she sees them exit the front door.

Four men, including that wide motherfucker from the hall, flanking that Samuels asshole like they’re Secret Service and he’s the goddamn President or something. They make their way to the Lincoln Navigator parked ten feet from the front steps.

She sees Samuels has the fucking lunchbox.

She closes her eyes. Sighs.

#

Samuels gets in the middle of the backseat with Harold and Fisher at his sides. Gibson hops into the front passenger seat. And Reynolds gets behind the wheel.

As the engine starts, Samuels calls Cantrell.

“We have the lunchbox,” he tells his boss.

“Did you check the item?” Cantrell says.

Samuels rolls his eyes at Cantrell’s cheesy-ass-James-Bond-villain description of the flash drive with the supposedly smart-as-shit algorithm that can snatch money out of the ether as it's being digitally transferred.

“Doing that now,” he says.

Samuels pops open the lunchbox and manages to catch a glimpse of a rabbit’s foot inside for a millisecond before the Navigator explodes.

#

The fireball is bigger than Val anticipated, even after she stuck the newly-timed C4 under the gas tank and figured it’d give the whole thing a bigger kick. She watches it mushroom nearly twenty feet into the air from the smoking and burning wreckage.

“Thanks again, Uncle Rump,” she says, lifting the motorcycle. “Sorry about the foot, though.”

She pats the flash drive in her right pants’ pocket and checks her watch before starting the engine.

It’s 11:03 p.m., and the way Val figures it, she has more than enough time now to get back to the city.

Casey Stegman lives in North Carolina. His work has also appeared in Mystery Tribune, Shotgun Honey, Punk Noir Magazine, and Dark Yonder. When he’s not typing up stories about miscreants and malefactors, he rescues and rehabilitates dogs with his wife. So, if you’re looking to adopt, hit him up. He can be found posting about his love of fiction and obscure movies from the 1980s and ’90s on Twitter/X: @cstegman

Drum and Coke, fiction by Steve Liskow

By the time the pandemic lockdown lifted, our moving and storage business was history. Mickey and I sold the trucks and the building, paid off the other guys as much as we could, shook hands and walked into the sunset. I was twenty-seven, single, and had just enough in the bank for two months’ rent. Nobody was hiring people with my backgrounds, so I had to go to plan B.

A few promoters were scraping money together from two years of not gigging, and when Git Down opened off Six Mile Road, they needed security. I wrestled in college—heavyweight, at that—so when I showed up in a sleeveless T-shirt, they hired me on the spot. The place was basically a bar with every kind of liquor and microbrew you never heard of, attached to a six-hundred-seat auditorium. They considered local talent their top priority.

Six weeks in, they booked HunnyPott, an all-girl band I’d never heard of.

“They’re getting about fifty thousand downloads a week,” Norman, the owner/manager told me. “Check out their website.”

I did, and understood why they were getting so much traffic. All four musicians looked about seventeen in full make-up, and they wore more of that than anything else. Their vids featured lots of cleavage and tush, accompanied by music that was loud, fast, and subtle as a wrecking ball. The general theme was “I want to get laid.”

A week before the show, we were sold out. Norman hired another bartender to handle the rush. I wanted two more security guys, too, but he shook his head.

“Don’t want to mess with the ambiance.” In his mouth, it rhymed with “Ambulance.”

When the band’s truck pulled up at noon Friday, I saw speaker cabinets that wouldn’t fit in my kitchen.

“We’ve got a good sound system here,” I told the head roadie. His name was Truck, and his huge hands twitched.

“Not this good,” he said. “These puppies can raise white caps on Lake St. Clair.”

He and his entire crew rode the white line express. Just what I needed.

Rudolph, the band’s manager, was about forty and a little beefy, with eyes that told me the band members were about ten years older than his preference. After talking with him, I felt like I needed a shower.

But the women were a surprise. At the sound check, I discovered they all really could play. Tina, the bass player, studied cello for six years. Angela played violin and classical guitar along with her Les Paul. Wanda—Rudolph pronounced it “Wanna”—warmed up on keyboards with the Goldberg Variations, and Rika loved jazz. Her drum heroes were Max Roach, Elvin Jones, Buddy Rich, and Tony Williams.

They all wore ear plugs during the sound check, and Rika gave me an extra set.

“I got to admit,” I said to her when we both stepped outside for a smoke, “I saw some of your vids and figured you probably knew about four chords between you.”

“Yeah.” She shrugged and I pretended not to notice. “But how many people would show up tonight if we wore choir robes and played chamber music?”

“Not many,” I admitted. “But still…”

She belched smoke from her nostrils. “My grandfather used to listen to the Stooges. They were good musicians, but managed to hide it.”

“But they were guys,” I said. “They didn’t stick it in the camera while they played.”

She held another drag for a minute before letting it out. “If it makes you feel better, that’s not really my butt on the video of ‘Big Finish.’”

By the time they finished the sound check, people were already showing up at the bar. We had to check IDs, and a scary number of women showed up wearing stuff I’d expect in a porn video. Barely legal in more ways than one. The guys with them looked like they’d discovered heaven. I had visions of lots of babies being born next April.

Four hours later, HunnyPott took the stage, dressed for the Sahara in a heat wave. Angela leaned into the mic so everyone could look down her shirt. You could read the fine print on a contract through the fabric anyway, but…

“Hey, Git Down,” she whooped. “We’re gonna do that tonight, right?”

The crowd roared, and she nodded so her patent-leather-black spikes bounced. “We’re gonna help each other git down, and git dirty, ‘cause it’s better together. You all up for that?”

The crowd whooped again and the band kicked into their opener, a song called “Candy Panties.” During the guitar break, Angela turned her back to the audience and bent over to flash flesh-colored hot pants. The crowd went crazy. The next song was called “It’s Better on Top,” and you can guess how that went over.

The first set lasted an hour, finishing with what they called their Beatles tribute, “I Wanna Hold Your Gland.” During the break, my crew stayed busy keeping guys out of the girls’ bathroom and vice versa. The bartenders needed roller skates and four arms to handle the traffic, and that was probably only a fraction of the medicine being shared. A statue could get a contact high in the men’s room.

The second set opened with “Share and Share Alike,” and I saw roadies handing out backstage passes like Halloween candy. I hoped the musicians would dash off-stage and get the limo to their hotel right away, but Jessie, my lone female security, laughed.

“Not even in your dreams, Russ.” Jessie could bench press two-fifty and looked like a librarian with her wire-rimmed glasses. “There’s going to be enough hot young flesh backstage to repopulate Dearborn overnight.”

Milo, an inch taller than me and thirty pounds heavier, shook his head. “That bass player, you ever seen legs like hers?”

“Only in my dreams,” Jessie said. “I wish I was her cello.”

Norman and Rudolph stood in the wings. Norman looked ecstatic and Rudolph looked even sleazier than before. Four guys tried to climb the apron between the monitors, but Milo and I pushed them back. Even with the ear plugs, standing between those monitors made my skull vibrate.

The band finished their set and moved to the apron to take a bow, flashing pretty much everything God gave them. The crowd screamed for more, probably not a dry seat in the house.

“You’re gonna love this.” Rudolph’s voice seemed to float down a long hallway.

Sure enough, the girls came back onstage minus their shirts. They glowed with sweat, adrenaline and pheromones while they picked up their instruments again. Jessie, beside me, took deep cleansing breaths.

“You’ve been great,” Angela purred into her mic. “We really like a crowd that keeps us going. And maybe coming…back.”

She waited for a lull in the screams.

“Here’s our closer. It’s called ‘Big Finish.’”

The one with not-Rika’s tush on the video. Angela held the last note long enough to get another round of applause. She, Wanda, and Tina played an impossible riff in unison, Rika went ballistic on the drums, and they finished together a second before the lights went to black and the crowd went berserk.

My crew headed for the dressing room to repel boarders while the roadies moved onto the stage to strike the gear. Dozens of fans appeared—both sexes—with backstage passes and we tried to reason with them. Have you ever tried to debate with an avalanche?

“I’ve got a pass,” one guy snarled, his saliva spraying my cheeks. “Do you know who I am?”

“No, sir, sorry.” He wore a blazer with more sequins than they had in Nashville, and jeans so carefully distressed they had to cost three figures.

“I’m Tyler Weinecke.” The name had italics when he said it. “My old man’s William Weinecke, President of the City Council. You let me in or you’ll be sweeping Woodward Avenue tomorrow morning.”

Two other guys and a woman wearing a latex top crowded behind him. Jessie and Milo argued with a cluster of other kids, mostly male. The Weinecke kid retreated, but he came back with Norman, who looked like he was trying not to mess his pants.

“Let him in,” he said.

I shrugged. “Your call.” Rank has its privileges, and this kid was pretty damn rank.

Rudolph escorted young Mr. Wienecke through the door and slammed it behind him.

Truck and his crew moved hand trucks and dollies toward the loading dock, speaker cabinets stacked taller than I am. Another guy followed with rolled-up cables. They returned a few minutes later, Truck with drumsticks sticking out of his hip pocket and cases that apparently held Rika’s drums. His crew wheeled a dolly with guitar cases and mic stands and mics, that reminded me I still wore the ear plugs Rika gave me. No wonder the voices sounded muffled. I tucked them into my pocket and returned to the dressing room.

Jessie stood by the door looking pissed. Milo stood across the hallway from her and didn’t look any happier. Truck nodded curtly at them and disappeared through the door, raucous voices escaping until he slammed it again.

“There’s gotta be two dozen kids in there,” Jessie said. “Any pronoun you can think of. That Weinecke jerk’s one of them.”

“His face looks like he was eating a powdered donut,” Milo commented. “He’s somewhere around Uranus.”

“Not mine,” I replied. Milo shrugged.

“Well, somewhere no man has ever gone before.”

“Which probably means he’s not with any of the band.” Jessie’s voice felt like broken glass. “Oh, did I say that out loud?”

“You did.” I tried the door, but it was locked. That was a no-no. I knocked on the top panel.

“Hey, unlock this and let us in.”

No answer. I pounded again, harder. I was about to tell Milo to help me kick it in when it opened and the voices spilled out again. This time, they sounded shrill and scared. Rudolph stood in the opening, his face pale.

“There’s a dead guy in the shower.”

I pushed past him, Milo and Jessie behind me. The groupies and musicians stood in clumps, everyone craning their neck toward the two shower stalls beyond the hanging clothes. Rika clutched a towel too small to conceal that she was a natural redhead and sobbed into Trish’s chest.

“Everybody shut up.” I said it loud enough so it worked. “Now, what happened?”

Rudolph spoke first.

“The shower. There’s a kid. Rika says she found him.”

“I always sweat like a horse when we play,” she said. “I was going to take a shower and…unwind…”

Two guys held their shirts in front of them, but they were naked, too, like they’d planned to help her. Their eyes danced around the room.

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know. He must’ve had a pass, but I…”

“Milo, don’t let anyone in or out.” He moved Rudolph back and closed the door. He pulled out his phone.

“You want me to call the cops?”

“That’s Norman’s call. Text him and tell him to get his ass down here pronto.”

I threaded my way through the crowd to the shower stall. I saw feet in black sneakers and distressed jeans. I stepped closer and saw a sequined jacket, covered with vomit. Sure enough, it was the Wienecke kid, his eyes wide and his face bluish gray. The stench was so thick I could almost see it; his sphincter had let go. I breathed through my mouth and felt the side of his neck for a pulse I didn’t expect to find. I pulled him flat on his back and tried to clear his tongue for CPR, but my fingers felt something in his mouth.

A drumstick. Under the layer of vomit, the tip showed blood. The kid hadn’t OD’d, he’d been murdered, and I held the puke-covered weapon in my own fingers. Yeah, Norman had to call the cops, ASAP.

He burst through the door, almost knocking Milo off his feet.

“What’s the problem?” he demanded. “What’s going on, Russ?”

I tilted my head back toward the showers.

“Weinecke’s kid is dead back there in the showers.”

“Oh, Christ.” Norman’s eyes grew big as Rika’s cymbals. “What happened?”

Everyone turned to look at Rika, who shook her head helplessly.

I held up the drumstick. “This was jammed down his throat. He may have been stabbed, or he may have choked on his own vomit, or both. But someone killed him.”

“Rika, you stupid bitch.” Rudolph strode across the room, but Jessie grabbed his arm and yanked him back. He twisted free and glared at the naked drummer.

“You friggin’ moron. How could you be so stupid? Christ, you do two or three guys every night, and now you get—”

“I didn’t—”

“No,” I said. “She didn’t.”

All the eyes in the room turned to me.

“The kid’s fully dressed, and his clothes are dry. He’s lying in puddles because the other musicians have showered, but Rika was going last.”

I looked at Trish, Wanda, and Angela, all fully—well, partly—clothed. Then at Rika and her two admirers.

“Rika’s hair is dry, and so are these guys. They weren’t in the shower yet. I’ll bet you smelled the kid first, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh.” Rika’s head bobbed up and down. “I did, then I looked down, and…”

The two guys nodded, too.

“Besides,” I went on, “who takes a drumstick into a shower? I’ve heard of sex toys, but a drumstick? I don’t think so.”

“So someone framed her?”

“Maybe.” I tried to follow the train of thought that was just ahead, like trying to play along with a song everyone else knew.

“But who would have killed the kid?” Norman snapped. “Christ, his old man will close us down. Our ass is dead meat.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “The kid was giving us a lot of grief earlier, and we could all tell that he was high. I’m going to go out on a limb and say this was a drug buy gone bad.”

“That’s a helluva jump,” Rudolph said. His eyes were still moving over Rika, inch by inch.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “But if he was buying, it had to be someone he could only see here, not a regular friend, right? Or he’d have done it somewhere else.”

The room went silent and I saw Rudolph and the musicians process that idea. Truck, the only roadie in the room, stared at the shower stall and at the floor, but not at anyone else.

“Truck, you were taking the drum kit out to the loading dock earlier, and you had drumsticks in your back pocket. Got any more of them?”

The guy whirled toward the door and shoved Norman out of the way. He yanked the door open, but Milo blocked it with his foot and grabbed Truck’s biceps. Truck tried to swing at him, but Milo blocked the punch and half-threw him back into the room. He glared at me and cocked his fist again.

“Damn you…”

He swung, but I blocked it and punched under his arm. My fist sank into his solar plexus and his eyes opened wide. So did his mouth. His face turned red, then blue, and he sank to the carpet. Milo and I grabbed his arms and pulled them behind him.

“Norman, call the cops.”

Truck threw up on the floor. I looked down and saw one drumstick still standing at attention in the hip pocket of his jeans.

# # #

At eleven the next morning, Rika rolled out of my bed and I admired the sun turning her whole body a warm amber that complemented her red hair.

“If you want to take a shower…” I pointed to the bathroom door.

“You want to join me?”

“Um, that’s kind of kinky, isn’t it?”

She shrugged, which worked well with her naked. “Hey, I’m in a band called ‘HunnyPott,’ remember? I’ve got a reputation to live down to.”

The shower took longer than it would have if we’d taken turns. We toweled each other off and went back to the bedroom, where she bent over to pick up her underwear. She turned around and caught me looking.

“I told you, that’s not my butt on the video.”

“I know.” I found my own shorts. “Yours is better.”

She cocked an eyebrow at me.

“You’re just saying that because you hope you’ll get another crack at it.” She frowned. “Maybe I could have said that better.”

“I doubt it.”

She pulled her T-shirt over her head and found a pair of cut-offs. She slid them up her legs, not as good as Trish’s, but close. I wondered if Jessie scored with her, too.

“I owe you. Owed you. You saved my ass—damn, there I go again, don’t I?”

“Saved the club, too.”

“There’s that.” She checked her phone. “Jesus, Rudolph’s sent a dozen texts. They’ve checked out of the motel and have my stuff. They’re leaving in ten minutes. We’ve got a sound check in Flint at three. The truck’s probably already there.”

“I can drive you.” I stepped into my jeans and felt her eyes on me like everyone’s on her the previous night. The cops held everyone until they finished processing the crime scene at three a.m., so we reached my place at four. We slept about four hours after she finished thanking me.

“You sure?”

“No problem. Flint’s only about thirty-five miles up Seventy-five.”

I escorted her out to my car and heard my own phone ping. I checked the most recent message and learned that Truck had confessed.

“You could watch our show in Flint tonight,” Rika said. “We could comp you in, no problem.”

“Git Down’s got a show tonight,” I told her. “But maybe a rain check?”

“Maybe. I don’t think Rudolph’d have to twist your boss’s arm much to have us back, either.”

“Probably not.” “I didn’t look at her. “I wouldn’t mind closing with another ‘Big Finish.’”

“That wouldn’t suck, would it?”

She sighed. “Damn, there I go again.”

Steve Liskow (www.steveliskow.com) is a former English teacher, theatrical actor and director, and guitar player. He was the first to win the Black Orchid Novella Award twice, and he has been a finalist for both the Edgar Award and the Shamus Award. His latest novel is Words of Love, the fifth in the Chris “Woody” Guthrie series.