Grimm Tales (6 page)

C.B. felt Wallace reach out to claw at his ankles, trying to keep him in the room. “I'll find you, motherfucker,” C.B. heard as he reached the car.

C.B. landed back at Yancy's place wondering how the hell his fortunes had gone to shit so quickly. Bobbi came fast-stepping out of the back pulling on a thin robe over her brown thighs.

“Yancy? What happened?”

She stopped when she saw only C.B. The way he crashed through the door signaled trouble and now the sight of his face, as pale as he'd ever been which meant only a shade lighter than oil, and the smears of blood down the side of his neck from the missing earlobe gave off signs that things were worse than Bobbi could have expected.

“Bobbi, I'm sorry. It all went…fuck, it all went bad.”

She glanced over his shoulder through the open door checking for her brother and Jay. When they didn't appear she knew better than to ask if they were ever going to.

C.B. hit the couch, slumped over and pressed hard against his ear, hoping the damn bleeding would stop and maybe if it did he could formulate a plan.

Bobbi went back down the hall, came out ten minutes later dressed and holding a suitcase.

“You best get going, too,” she said, but didn't stop moving out the door.

C.B. knew where some money was hid. An operation like Yancy and Jay's always kept around a decent amount of cash.
Git-up-n-go
money they called it. Might be enough to get a start. C.B. discovered that with the only world you've ever known suddenly off-limits the choice of where to begin again is a hard one.

Blood crusted around the missing piece of ear and caked like dried mud down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. Bits of it flaked off, dark and dry like his skin had been baked. His body felt pinned to the couch like someone had turned up the dial on gravity that day. He felt a rush of blood to his brain and knew it was moving too fast. A shutdown was coming. Even with his eyes closed he felt the world go black.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been on the couch, passed out. The door still hung open, Bobbi's perfume had dissipated. C.B. thought of the money. He stood.

A figure filled the door. Wallace stared at him, his fist clenched around something more than just anger.

“I knew those two niggas you left on my floor.”

C.B. tensed in his gut, thought he might puke. Of course Wallace knew who they were and of course he knew where they lived. C.B. had spent the night proving, in bright neon signs, the reasons he wasn't ready for a job like this one.

Wallace held up his closed fist, opened his fingers like a rose blossom—the red coating his hand made a beautiful bloom. Pinched between his thumb and forefinger was a small triangle of dark flesh and a diamond in the center.

“Shouldn't leave a rock this big behind. Must be worth something.” C.B. opened his mouth but no words came out. For the second time that night his brain had become clogged with information. Wallace did all the talking. “Know what I think? Piece of shit must be glass.”

Wallace stepped forward slowly, no gun out, no knife. Only a rock-hard stare and a lifetime of putting down punks like C.B. kept the young man in his place. The way Wallace stared at C.B. as he advanced made him feel like he was being measured for a coffin.

Coal Black stood frozen, resigned to his fate. Never should have tried to dance with royalty. He belonged in the basement, soot on his face, sweat on his brow. A servant to the end.

Wallace held out the ear, reached forward and put it back where it used to attach to his body.

“It fits,” Wallace said.

C.B. watched as Wallace reached behind him and drew the gun from his waistband. The same cannon from before, still smelling of fresh gunpowder as Wallace rested it under C.B.'s nose.

C.B. closed his eyes, waited for the sweet ever after.

Sing a Song of Sixpence

By Nigel Bird

“Sing a Song of Sixpence” was first printed in 1744. Imagine that. In that version it was four-and-twenty naughty boys who were baked in the pie. As a rhyme, I found it impossible to resist when I first found out about John's competition. Birds in pies, a king counting his ill-gained money, a nose pecked off and put back again; in short, all the rich ingredients to make a satisfying tale (or at least that's what I'd hoped). Come and see what happens when the birds are released this time around. Wouldn't it be great if someone was quoting this story 300 years from now?

Cargo.

Something moved from one place to another.

Doesn't matter much what it is as long as it gets there.

Danny's in the business of moving things. Enjoys the regular work and the chance to get out and about. Bags time in the sun and stacks of duty free. Even gets to try out the merchandise when he fancies.

If there wasn't a downside, it'd be perfect.

Whatever spin you put on it, getting caught on the job would be a downside. That and having to work for Charlie “the arse hole” Wren.

Would have given it up if he hadn't been reckless and fallen for the boss's daughter.

But St. Chris has been good to him. Never had an accident and only got stopped at customs the time he had a flat tyre.

Knows his history and all, our Danny. Result of spending all that time poolside with his books. Understands that folk have been stealing people since time began.

It's what made his country great. That and tea and football.

Knows about Liverpool, too. All those fine buildings fronting up the Mersey built on the blood of Africa.

He could see the Liver birds gleaming in the bright sunlight as he drove through the city centre. Cursed his luck that the air-con had packed up on the hottest day of the year.

Least he had a window to open.

Poor buggers in the back just had to suffer.

They must have been baking in there, but it wasn't as if he could let them out for a stroll. Anyone got a whiff of what he was up to and they'd have him behind bars before you could say “Jack Robinson was a fag.”

Last he'd set eyes on them was in the Pyrenees. Let them stretch their legs, gave them water and emptied the buckets. Even bought them bread and cakes.

They certainly needed the fresh air. The stink in the back of the van was worse than the one under his duvet after a curry and a night on the piss.

“We have rights, Mr Dawson,” one of them had said. “We might be desperate, but we're human beings. Human beings deserve better.” She was the feisty one of the group—someone took on the role every time. Not that it ever did them any good.

“I can take you back,” Danny said, not looking her in the eye. “Leave you on the streets. Drop you off at an orphanage if you like.”

Always shut them up, that one. Took the chirp from their mouths, it did.

He thought about the back of the van. Couldn't bear to imagine what it would be like in there now. He reached for the flask in his pocket to change the record his mind was playing.

If he was pulled over, drink-driving would be the least of his worries.

“Ready, Danny?” Ralph asked. He wasn't but he nodded his head, pulled out the wall of ply and stepped back real quick.

Ralph and his mate turned the nozzles on the hoses and the water gushed into the van.

The girls huddled together, crossing their arms over their bodies to maintain what was left of their dignity. The feisty one stared back at them like they should be worried.

“Get laid?” Ralph shouted over the roar of the water and the high-pitched squeals of the girls.

“Too young,” Danny said. Ralph was sick. This lot were just girls. Danny turned his back and went off for a smoke and another sip from the flask.

Charlie Wren looked out of the window at the top of the tower.

Done well for himself, the lad. A mansion overlooking Sefton Park. Two gardeners, a chauffeur, a cook and a maid, not to mention a collection of Everton Football Club memorabilia that's second to none.

All built on the blood of Africa, just like the city.

Danny could see him through the leaded glass. His big belly spilled out over the towel around his waist. In one hand he gripped the stub of a cigar, in the other a wad of cash.

“Clean 'em up good,” he shouted down. “Don't want to be catching nothing from the merchandise.”

Danny didn't want to be around when the boss checked them out, jabbing his fingers into places they had no right to enter. “That's enough,” he told Ralph and headed inside.

Soon as he saw Jenny walking down the stairs, he got a hard on.

Driving long distances could do that to a man, nothing to think about but football and sex.

Helped that she looked good, skin glowing and skirt as tight as a condom on an elephant.

When she saw him she put a little extra into the sway of her hips.

The sultry smile on her lips expanded into a big grin and she dropped the plate she'd been carrying onto the floor. Three bounds and she was in his arms, legs wrapped around his hips.

She sucked hard at his mouth.

“Drinking already,” she said.

“Celebrating. Where's your mum?”

“I've just taken up her toast. She's still in bed.” How the other half lived.

“And your dad's not dressed.”

“You getting ideas?”

“I've been having ideas all the way from Dover,” he said and walked her into the downstairs bathroom.

Locking the door behind him, he fumbled at her buttons while she pulled madly at his fly.

“Danny.” Charlie Wren wasn't far away. “Danny.”

Having her dad looking for him made it all the more intense. He pounded harder and quicker till he was done. Jenny bit into his shoulder to suppress the sounds of her joy.

The two of them collapsed into silent laughter and they straightened out their clothes before sneaking out.

“Danny.” His voice was coming from the conservatory.

“Yes, boss,” Danny called back.

“I'm ready,” he said.

Danny and Charlie headed out to the van where Ralph was supervising the merchandise, twenty-four girls sorting through a pile of clean clothes of assorted styles and sizes.

“You did good,” Charlie said as he looked over at his maid sorting out the laundry on the lawn.

It was an open secret about Charlie and Lucy. He'd spent a fortune on surgery turning her into the woman of his dreams.

With breasts that size Danny wondered how she managed to stay upright.

Ralph arranged the girls into a neat line, tallest to shortest, and Charlie went to introduce himself.

There was a routine to it all. He'd shake hands, tell them to open their mouths and do a little twirl. Next he'd let his hands wander and decide where to send them.

While he was at it, Jenny walked into the garden innocent as you like. Paid no attention to what was going on and went straight over to help with the washing.

She knew damn well what she and her dad got up to in the laundry room. Kept it to herself in case she could use it to her advantage one day.

It was nice for Danny to have something else to look at while Charlie prodded and poked, but he couldn't help turning back to see what he was up to.

He was halfway through. Had reached the feisty one. Maybe Danny should have warned him.

She was turning into a woman all right, her hips accentuated in her new pair of jeans.

Charlie put his hand up into her armpit. Let his thumb rub at the buds protruding from her chest. Slid his palm down her waist and then along the curves.

That's when it happened.

A ball of spit flew from her mouth and landed in Charlie's eye.

He pulled his hand back and went for the slap, but he was too slow.

The girl ducked and ran.

There was nothing anyone could do, but she was never going to get away. Probably knew that all along.

Straight for the maid she went. Pounced like a lioness. Had her down in one movement.

She had her teeth around the poor maid's nose like she was born to such a thing. Her head swung from side to side like she was watching a pulsating tennis game.

When she straightened up there was a lump of flesh in her mouth. It was small, but she was smiling like it was the biggest prize of all.

Ralph got to her first. Dragged her off by the arms.

Charlie was next. Gave her such a kick in her belly that the nose spilled free from her jaws. It lay there in the grass like an end of raw sausage.

The maid stayed down like a boxer taking the eight, her mouth hanging open and trying to scream.

Jenny reacted first. Picked up the tip of the nose and pressed it back where it was supposed to be, connecting it to the blood supply as if everything might be right as rain.

Ignoring his bit on the side, Charlie followed Ralph as he dragged the girl away.

Didn't need to be a clairvoyant to see what her future held.

Danny saw the look of satisfaction in her face. Wished he'd taken her under his wing. Sent her home and given her a chance, the chance she'd given her friends—twenty-three girls sprinting in different directions towards the perimeter hedge, hoping to find their land of milk and honey.

King Flounder: A Monologue

By Loren Eaton

“King Flounder: A Monologue” was inspired not only by “The Fisherman and His Wife”
(my favorite Grimm's fairy tale), but by memories of flats fishing in Key West with my father and a certain scene in Francis Ford Coppola's
The Godfather
involving a brazen confrontation in an Italian restaurant.

Hmmm? What is it, Johnny?

Tyler Hooper's been waiting outside almost an hour? Who's Tyler Ho—

Oh. Yeah. The Good Samaritan. Fine, show him in.

Tyler! Glad you could stop by. Sorry if Johnny kept you waiting, but I'm a busy man. You know Johnny from the neighborhood? No? Remind me to tell you a story.

Hey, it's about lunchtime, and I always like to talk business over a meal. Johnny, run down to the kitchen for us, would you? Whatever you want, Tyler, just say the word. A sandwich? That's rich. Johnny, bring us a couple of steaks, Delmonicos if we have them. What'd you want to drink, Tyler? A Coke? Heh, it gets richer. Bring him his Coke and me a bottle of Cab. You're a gem, Johnny.

Coke. That brings back memories. When I was a young man this Jersey gunsel came here to negotiate a certain understanding. He asked for coke, too, only not the kind in a can. I had to explain to him that I run this house like I run the organization—clean. Not interested in poisoning the community or my people. Then asks why I have so many
boys
—that's his word—who aren't Family. I gotta explain the economics of integration to this halfwit? Forget it, I was a busy man, even back then.

People come in here with expectations. “Gonna see the King,” and all that. At least Brando got a sensible moniker, you know? They look at the marble floors, the Degas on the wall, that fish mounted right above you. They start getting ideas. They forget I'm a man. I have expectations of my own. Johnny knows something about that.

Since we've got a few minutes before we eat, let me tell you a story about Johnny. Truth be told, Taylor—that's your name, right, Taylor?—it's just as well he's not here. This story makes him a little uncomfortable. He wasn't always wearing Armani and standing in air conditioning.

Not long after that little visit with the Jersey gunsel, I took a vacation to the Keys by my lonesome. This was before the wife and kids. Now, if I'd been thinking, I'd have waited to see how everything shook out after that meeting. But I was young. I wanted to catch some rays and a bonefish or two. Which is how I met Johnny: He was a guide, poling a skiff over the salt flats. Hard work. Hot work.

I thought we were going out alone, but the morning of this other guy turned up. Broad-shouldered. Quiet. Wearing jeans and an army jacket. Not dressed for fishing, in other words. Plus, he couldn't cast to save his life. Flats fishing is fly fishing, and soon as we got out there he started losing flies, snarling his line. I was thinking I should've insisted on privacy, but I was young, on vacation, taking everything as it came. Plus, I didn't really care as long as I caught something. See, Johnny worked with this taxidermist who'd take your catch right at the dock, mount it and overnight it to you. I'd given Johnny the office address beforehand and everything. But the way this yahoo was scaring the fish, I'd be going home empty-handed, and when was I going to make it to the flats again?

So, I was about to give up hope when I snagged something. It wasn't weed because it began to fight, although not as hard as a bonefish. I was just landing it, Johnny scooping it up with the net, when I heard a splash. Army jacket had dropped his rod in the water. That wasn't all. He had four inches of steel in his fist and was glaring right at me.

“Francesco Palmera,” army jacket said, “I have a message for you.”

Now Johnny was a little slow on the uptake back then. He'd only just stuck the fish in the cooler—ugliest fish I ever saw, by the way, all flat and brown and slimy—when he saw the knife. He froze, and his eyes about leapt out of his head.

“Keep back, and you won't get hurt,” army jacket said to Johnny.

“He's lying,” I said, trying to reach my waistband real inconspicuous. Always carry a throwaway piece, Taylor, that's my advice. “He'll dice you and dump you over. You help me, I'll watch out for you.”

“Look,” Johnny began, “I don't want any—”

But army jacket was already coming at me. Those skiffs, they're narrow. Johnny could've sidestepped. Instead, he tried to knock army jacket down, got that knife in the side for his trouble. You ever seen a man stabbed, Taylor? It isn't like the movies. Blood everywhere, right like that. But it gave me time to pull my piece. Put one in army jacket's throat, another in his chest. In the drink he went, all nice and neat. I tossed the gun in after him.

The flats are no-wake zones, but I burned that skiff over them all the way back to dock. Forget the pole. Army jacket had gotten Johnny through muscle far as I could tell, but the hospital was far off. I came up with a story and told him to stick to it. Didn't matter much. He was barely conscious when we hit the ER. Myself, I didn't even get to finish telling the triage nurse about the supposed crackhead who jumped us down at the dock because this plainclothes cop showed up. Real spit-and-polish that one. Could cut yourself on the creases in his slacks. Shoes so shiny you could shave in them. Hair all slicked back. And, get this, he was wearing an overcoat. In the
Keys.
He tucked his hand in his pocket at one point, and I saw this nickled .45, bright as chrome. He called himself Lieutenant Ramirez. I told him what I'd started telling the nurse, and when I got done, he just stared at me.

“Mister Pittoni,” he said, because that was the name on the ID I happened to be carrying, “why don't you repeat what happened from the beginning.”

I didn't like that. He started interrupting, probing, asking me what color the perp's hair was, exactly what he said, which way he fled. Fortunately, I've got a good memory, even for things I've made up. Finally, he gave me his card and the whole “don't leave town” bit, and said he was going to talk with Johnny's wife, who'd apparently come in.

There goes my vacation, right? I wasn't worried about Ramirez for his own sake. Even back then I knew people who golfed with judges. No, I didn't want any attention alighting back home. One of those better safe than sorry situations, you know? I went back to the hotel, called my people, ordered Chinese. Then the phone rang. I answered, and who was on the other end but Johnny.

“Mister Palmera,” he said, “I wanted to let you know the doctor thinks I'll be okay.” He sounded drugged to the gills, but basically together.

“How'd you get my number?” I asked.

“My wife called around. I remembered your, uh, other name from when you paid me earlier. Listen, Mister Palmera, we could use some help.”

“Yeah?” I said, feeling stupid, because on the skiff I'd promised to look out for him, and I don't break promises.

Johnny went on for a while, telling me how guiding doesn't pay much, how his wife wouldn't be able to watch after him because she had to work, how he'd need home healthcare to help him piss and everything till he got back up on his feet.

Now, Taylor, that tugged at my heartstrings. He was just a bystander after all. I called home again, got the name of an expat in Miami named Mattias Donegan. The Family had him on retainer, and he had a reputation for being light-fingered and laundering lily-white. Polite, too. Next day, Johnny got a care package delivered by a guy with an accent. Brownies, books—and five thousand in mixed bills at the bottom.

I didn't think about Johnny much after that. I had enough to worry about back home. My best supplier started his car and ended up pieces of himself scattered across half the county. My secretary went to check on my house and found my cat with most of its insides on the outside. And Lieutenant Ramirez called to request my presence at the station when I happen to have a moment. Real genteel. The last person I wanted to bother with was Johnny. But that phone had to ring again.

“Mister Palmera,” he said, “I'm calling to thank you for all you've done.”

“Hmmm,” I said. Taylor, you don't admit anything on an unsecured line, you know that, right?

“I'm feeling better today. A lot better. Really, really better.”

Silence. I could hear machines beeping in the background, code something-or-other blared over a PA, then this woman saying, “Tell him why you called, John.”

Johnny went all stuttery then. “Mister Palmera, it's just that, uh, guiding's pretty physically demanding, it's not like I can, well, just switch to a motor, a-and it may be, may be two or three months before I, uh, before I can get back to work, so I, you know, I…”

He trailed off.

I waited. Finally said, “What're you getting at?”

Nothing. Not a single word. Johnny might as well have been struck mute.

I hung up. Fishing the flats was fine. Fishing around me, not so much. But, yeah, I'd made a promise and Lieutenant Ramirez had seen Johnny's wife, so I figured another gift was both charity and insurance. That night Johnny got a pizza misdelivery, a ten-G misdelivery. Still, all that money irked me. Understand, I was young back then and didn't have much margin to play with. Ramirez was a problem. The goons muscling in back home were a problem. Now Johnny was becoming a problem. When I have problems, I like to solve them cheaply.

Morning after, I went to this café across the street, ordered an omelet and mulled over what to do next. I love omelets, great brain food, and this one was almost as good as the ones my mama used to make. Shrimp, bacon and mushrooms. I was halfway through it when this woman sat down at my table.

“Seat's taken,” I said, not looking up.

“We both know you're alone, Palmera,” she said.

I looked up then, let me tell you. This woman wasn't anyone I'd choose for a breakfast partner, Taylor. Rawbone thin, sallow complexion, hair all stringy. And she had these eyes, all cold and evaluative and somehow stupid, like she thought she had you summed up but didn't know it showed.

“Seems I'm at a disadvantage,” I said. “You know my name. I don't know yours.”

“Ilsabil.”

“Funny name.”

“It's German. I'm here because of John. You owe us.”

Sometimes all the facts line up in a row and stand at attention. Johnny's stuttering, his nervousness, his inability to complete a sentence—he didn't want money at all. His wife did.

I shrugged. “Look, I'm sorry about what happened, but why do you think I—”

“I saw your face once. On the news. I have a good eye for them. Something about a hijacked tractor trailer. You can help us. We both know it.” She went on from there, how my life must be worth a lot more to me than what I'd paid her husband, how she intended to take me for every penny—or make a personal visit to Sargent Ramirez. She opened negotiations at two million.

Here was my true problem, Taylor. Not Ramirez. Not the Jersey goons muscling in on my territory. This woman was a leech. The only thing she knew was “take” and “take.” You know how you remove a leech? Some people say to let it feed until it gets full, then it'll fall off. I say you burn it off.

I told Ilsabil I'd pay the full amount, everything she wanted, with two conditions: I'd need twenty-four hours to gather the cash, and we'd meet on Duval Street, where it's nice and public and safe. After she'd left, I called Donegan. Then I went shopping for the appropriate clothes. Then I went to the hospital to see Johnny.

One of these days, I'll have to ask him why he married Ilsabil. I mean, he's a good-looking guy, tall, thin, all that hair. Not like me, that's for sure. Could've had his choice of women. Well, with him I didn't even have to get past three sentences. Told him I was always looking for good men, and any man who took a knife for me was good in my book. He said, “Thank you,” and reached over and pulled out his IV. He knew what was going down. Maybe he'd been waiting for someone to do it for him. I gave him a few hundred, asked if he could drive, told him I'd scheduled a rental to be waiting in the parking garage. He leaned on my shoulder, and out we walked.

Ilsabil showed up early for our meeting, but I was earlier, parked on the corner in a Chrysler Donegan had boosted for me.

“You won't mind if I inspect it,” she said when I rolled down the window.

“Be my guest,” I said and got out and opened the trunk. She didn't comment on my new overcoat or calfskin gloves. “That's a big bag,” she said when she saw the army duffel. She unzipped it, and I think she was going to say more from the way her eyes widened at the newspapers inside. But by then I had drawn Lieutenant Ramirez's .45. I probably didn't
have
to empty the magazine, a .45's an overpowered gun after all. But I wanted witnesses watching the man with the long coat and shiny pistol. An internal investigation distracts even the most diligent cop.

I wish I'd bothered to ask Donegan how he'd gotten a hold of that gun. He's dead now, you know. Bad liver.

Funny thing, there was this package waiting for me when I got home. See that fish up there? Same one I caught with Johnny. A flounder. Someone must've hosed down the skiff before the taxidermist came. That's where my nickname comes from. King Flounder.

Oh, there's lots more. Those Jersey goons, for instance. See, we caught a lucky break when—

Yeah? Ah, Johnny! We've been talking about you. Rib eyes, huh? Fine with me if it is with Taylor. Wait, I'm getting that wrong. It's
Tyler
, right? My apologies.

Since the meal's here, let's get down to brass tacks. You did us a good turn when the First National job went south a few weeks ago. I owe you. What would you ask from King Flounder?