[This short story is a bit different than my usual—call it a bit of mystery (but not a cozy) and a bit of romance (but not erotic) and a bit of a bow to the great Midwest. Enjoy.]

Your Past Will Find You

Copyright 2016, Steven M Moore

Part One

Will Richardson spotted the woman across the street before he had to close his eyes.

“Who’s the newcomer?” he said to his barber, Leroy, who was trimming his eyebrows.

“Rena Edmunds,” said Leroy.  “She bought the old Sullivan place.  Know where that is?”

Will opened his eyes and smiled.  “Yeah, just beyond Curly Bonner’s ranch.”

He was new to the town five years ago, so people assumed he still didn’t know where things were.  It’s not like finding an address in the Village.  But he had always spent a lot of time at Curly’s.

“She’s a good looking filly,” said the barber.

Will ran a horse business.  He bred and sold horses, stabled them for people, and was the only one left in the area that could take a young horse and patiently train it for riding, what was once called breaking, a term he didn’t like.  He had worked for Curly and learned the trade, but the old man was now retired and out to pasture himself, so Will had taken the business over.  Most people said he was better than Curly ever was at training a horse, but he didn’t think so—the old man could look a horse in the eye, calm him, and become his friend.

“But she might be a bit high and mighty for you, Will.  She’s from back east.  An artsy type who paints them fancy, high-priced works no sane person can understand.”

“Have you seen her paintings?”

“Well, no, but I heard they’re weird.  She’s even on that worldwide web!”

Will smiled.  “I wonder what brought her here to our little piece of heaven.”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

Will watched her look along the street with an apprehensive expression and enter the hardware store.  What’s her story?

“I think I will.  How much do I owe you today?  No beard trim should make it a bit less.”

***

“I hope you’re not scratching my car,” Rena said to Will when she exited the store and saw him sitting on the hood of her Land Rover.

He jumped down.  “Let me help you with that.”  He hoisted bags of seed and fertilizer from a dolly into the back of the SUV.  “Looks like you’re going to try to grow a lawn at Pat Sullivan’s old place.  Have you broken up that hardpan yet?”

“Mr. Bonner’s going to use his little tractor to break it up for me.”

“Place has some good pastureland, but Pat let that lawn die out years ago, I’m told.”

“And you are?”

Will wiped his dusty hands on his jeans and held out his right hand.  “Will Richardson.  I raise and train horses.  I took over Curly’s business.”

She nodded.  “I’ve seen you working there.  I thought you worked for Curly.”

“He lets me run the business and keep the horses there.  I can’t afford to buy his place.  Any other for that matter.  And he likes to watch me work with the horses when he can.”

“Some of those horses look pretty wild.  They won’t let me get near them.”

“Do you ride?”

“Not really.  I’d like to get a few riding horses, though, and learn.  I have space for them.  If I’m going to adapt to my new home, I should have a horse or two.”

“You’ve come to the right person, then.”

“And here I thought this was a western come-on.”

Will laughed.  “Business and pleasure, ma’am.  The business is letting you know about mine.  The pleasure is introducing myself and welcoming you here.”

“Thank you for that.  And for putting those heavy bags in the back.”

“Give me your number and I’ll give you a call.”  The apprehensive look returned followed by a raised eyebrow.  “When I’m out to Curly’s working with the horses.  You might want to try out the tamer ones.  I have a few that are nearly ready for inexperienced riders.  There’s a big demand.  Kids are always asking their parents for a horse, you know.”

“Do you work with young riders?”

“All ages.  Kids are just adults without all the problems.”  Will tilted his sweat-stained cowboy hat.  “You have a good day now.”

“Wait!”  She handed him a card.  “Give me a call.”

“Will do.”  He shut the Rover’s door for her.  “Curly has a spreader for that sad little tractor.  Pay him extra, and he’ll spread the seed and fertilizer too, I bet.  If he can’t manage it, I’ll do it.  All you need do, then, is water it and watch it grow.”

Will sauntered off.

Rena looked after him.  That was interesting!

***

That night in his room at Mama Dora’s boarding house at the edge of town, Will studied the business card.  It said: Rena Edmunds, Acrylics and Oils.  There was a website URL and 212-area code phone number.  He opened his laptop.

Phew!  Leroy was right.  The paintings on the website were out of this world.  It was as if some alien had merged Van Gogh with Picasso and asked the resulting golem to paint his landscapes.  And what landscapes and colors!  He was sure the laptop screen didn’t do the paintings justice either, but you could still feel the sweet savagery of it all. (more…)

[PTSD can occur in many situations, even the battlefield of our city streets.]

Sessions

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

Session 1

“How do you feel about the shooting now?” said the shrink.

The police psychiatrist spoke in a whisper, making Gina Peralta wonder how she could hear the woman above the traffic noise just two stories below the window.  The detective was standing behind the shrink’s desk chair.  She spun and looked across the desk at the empty sofa and the shrink sitting in the armchair.

Gina was a large woman of Argentine descent; her inquisitor was an Asian-American doll in comparison.  But the shrink could make Gina feel like Alice after eating the mushroom at times—shrinking, shrinking.  She put her hands on the desk chair to steady herself.

“I’m coming to grips with it,” she said.

“Self-preservation justifies your actions, Gina.  You know that.”

Platitudes.  I’m tired of them all.  “I know that from a logical point of view.  My emotional problem is that I ended a person’s life.”

“Theirs is often a first time, especially in this city.  You did what you had to do.”

“Are you implying I’ll become hardened to it?  I don’t want to be.”  Gina licked her lips.  I never want to reach that point!

“No, but you’ll be better prepared, and you’ll come to terms with the bad memories.”

“Maybe I should have wrestled him for the baseball bat.”

“And maybe you’d be dead if you’d tried.  From your partner’s description, this meth-head was out of his mind.  The bat was as much a lethal weapon as your gun.  With your wounds, I’m just amazed you got your shot off.”

Gina glanced at her right arm that was still in a sling.  The PT sessions were worse than the shrink sessions.  “Me too.  But he was a big target.  The shot using the left hand didn’t have to be accurate.”

“Come.  Lie down again.”  The shrink patted the couch.  “Tell me about the nightmares.”

Gina returned to the sofa.  “They’re all over the board.  I’ve told you about some of them.  Last night’s was like being in a parallel universe.  My shot missed, and I watched that crazy bastard beat Jack Hershey and his daughter to death with my one good eye before I passed out.”

“It didn’t happen that way.  You and your partner saved Jack and Carol.”

“Mick feels guilty about not arriving sooner.  He had just come up the stairs and saw the SOB go after me.  He couldn’t shoot because Jack and Carol were in the line of fire.  He might be more traumatized than I am.  Dunno.”

“Maybe I should ask him come to see me too.”

(more…)

[Not all my stories have their origin in what-ifs.  I began this little novella even before my first novel that I wrote the summer I turned thirteen.  I won’t say how many years it took me to finish it, but it has a certain teenage innocence about it still.  Enjoy!]

Escape from Earth

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

Part Four: The Escape

[My apologies…the chapters got out of phase…]

Chapter Eleven (cont)…

“We have examined our spacecraft in orbit,” said Saki’s older colleague.  “Your space debris did major damage.  We’ll have to make some quick repairs with material and components we can find here.  Our escape pods need repair too.  We’ve been working as fast as we can.”

Lucas studied the man.  ET?  Android?  How to tell?  His bare feet, blue jeans, and sweatshirt made him look like an old hippy.  Sitting in a lotus position while Lucas sat in an old rocking chair helped the metaphor.  Saki came out of the kitchen and handed each man a beer, keeping one for herself.

“I shouldn’t keep you from your work then,” said Lucas.

“You can help us in two ways, so I need to explain that.”  Joli held his hands as if he were praying.  The pause seemed long—calling it “pregnant” always seemed a bit sexist to Lucas.  The survivors’ leader finally rested his palms on his thighs.  “Two lists.  First, materials.  We will create a wish list of items we need, mostly chemicals in bulk.  We have no idea where to get them, but you might.  And we have cell phones and something called Yellow Pages.”

“Old,” said Saki.  “Not make Yellow Pages now.”

“I know.  But it’s a start.  I’m assuming chemical factories don’t close that often.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Lucas.  “If they’re bought out by someone else, or go under because of Chinese competition, it’s here today, gone tomorrow.  I don’t know the area.  The phones are our best bet for determining where to find what you need, but the reception might not be too good here.  I’m game to go and obtain what you need, though.”

“The regular reception is good enough,” said Joli, “but there’s no wi-fi, and we have limited data plans for these phones.  We’ll have to work around those limitations, maybe use hot spots in the city.  The second problem is obtaining printed circuit boards and other electronic parts.  We think we can design work-arounds to fried electronics, but it’s a daunting task, especially in adapting our software to the work-arounds.  I can’t begin to calculate how much time we’ll need for that.”

“You don’t have much.  The FBI isn’t far behind us, according to my sister.  Do you have any parts catalogs?”

“I think we need to steal those.  Saki says you dabble in this stuff?”

“Saki might overestimate my skills.”  He waved his fingers.  “But I’ve built some complicated stuff and done a few work-arounds in my life when the available parts weren’t exactly what I needed, even after becoming a doctor.  All I can do is try.  Who’s your electronics specialist?”

“Modi has some theoretical knowledge, enough to make some clever design changes, but he doesn’t know about practical issues.  The two of you should work together.”

“We’ll develop two lists then.”  Lucas looked at Saki.  “Let’s suppose we can fix the pods so they can carry you back into orbit.  How are you going to fix your ship?”

“You go too,” said Saki.  “Fix there.”  She smiled.  “I need my feral human.”

(more…)

[Not all my stories have their origin in what-ifs.  I began this little novella even before my first novel that I wrote the summer I turned thirteen.  I won’t say how many years it took me to finish it, but it has a certain teenage innocence about it still.  Enjoy!]

Escape from Earth

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

Part Three: On the Road

Chapter Eight

Saki walked around the parking lot and stretched her legs while Lucas went inside the roadside diner for takeout.  When he came out, he saw that a motorcycle gang had surrounded her.

“We’ll give you a good time,” said the biggest leather-jacketed ogre.  The gang name on his back said Devil’s Wheels.  These Devil’s minions all looked like Vikings, although some shaved their heads.

Lucas had an idea about what the man meant by a good time.  “What’s going on here?”

Big man studied Lucas.  “Stay out of this, dickhead.  The woman just wants to have some fun with us, right honey?”

“No,” said Saki, “no want smelly beasts near me.”

“Smelly beasts?” said another gang member with a testosterone-charged snarl.  “That’s a bit insulting, right Big George?”

The circle closed in on Saki.  Before Lucas could act, Saki took the disk from beneath her blouse and held it facing away from her.  She spun.  All the gang members staggered and fell to the ground unconscious.

Lucas saw the people in the diner who had been watching the altercation through the windows.  Not good!  “Let’s get out of here, Saki.”

Ten miles down the road he pulled off the highway and parked under a few trees.  He handed her a bag containing a burger and fries.

“Not dead,” she said.

Her bad English was second nature to him now.  “I know.  The people in the diner will soon know that too.  But they’ll also know something strange just happened.  Someone might investigate.”

She nodded.  “Stun them too.  Bad men.  Not like you.”

He smiled.  Stun?  A new word for her.  “I should hope not.  You sensed what they wanted to do, didn’t you?”

“Easy.  Primitive planet.  Feral humans.  All emotions.”

Lucas checked his watch.  “We’ll make Albuquerque and change cars.”

“Change?  This one OK.”

“Not after the bikers or diners describe it,” he said.

***

In New Mexico, Lucas made a bad deal at Happy Horatio’s Used Car Emporium, trading his pickup for a Land Rover that had seen better days.  He didn’t have to spend any money on the Rover except for plates and sales tax.  They found a motel.

(more…)

[Not all my stories have their origin in what-ifs.  I began this little novella even before my first novel that I wrote the summer I turned thirteen.  I won’t say how many years it took me to finish it, but it has a certain teenage innocence about it still.  Enjoy!]

Escape from Earth

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

Part Two: Gumshoe Activity

Chapter Five

“Nice to see that the Feds actually listen to us sometimes,” said Sheriff Olson after welcoming them.  “I was happy to see your names aren’t Mulder and Scully.”

Needham searched for words.  They were in the sheriff’s small office sitting on old wooden visitors’ chairs that had seen better days.  The sheriff sat behind the cluttered desk.

“I’m too old,” said Needham with a smile, “and Carpenter’s too young.”

“Is this Bob McNamara usually reliable?” said Carpenter, jumping to the heart of the matter.

“Mack’s as solid as a rock.  He’s my brother-in-law.  I believe he saw something.  Neither one of us is sure what it was.  It’s all in the report.”

“We have that,” said Needham.  “We want to see where he saw the flash.”

“Can do,” said Olsen.  “Mack said it was like a huge camera’s flash going off.  Lit up lots of acres over by the old Wright farm.  We already went out there.  Did a fly-over too.  Lucas Wright’s truck’s gone.  Haven’t talked to him yet.  He was the only one living in the farmhouse, although his sister Janet goes out there frequently.”

“We’d like to talk to them both.  Probably not much chance they saw anything if it was still dark at the time and everyone was asleep.  What was Deputy McNamara doing out that way?”

“Attending to a domestic dispute.  Two farms over hubby returned from a poker game drunk as a skunk.  Started harassing the missus, and she kicked him out.  He called us on his cell phone to complain.  Mack went out to bring him here to sleep it off.  About as much excitement as we ever get outside the pool hall on Saturday nights.”

“Cell phones work here?” said Carpenter.

(more…)

[Not all my stories have their origin in what-ifs.  I began this little novella even before my first novel that I wrote the summer I turned thirteen.  I won’t say how many years it took me to finish it, but it has a certain teenage innocence about it still.  Enjoy!]

Escape from Earth

Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore

Part One: The Encounter

Chapter One

Lucas watched twin sister Jan’s antique Civic speed away from the farmhouse.  Four months ago he would have been following her in his old but newer GMC pickup for a bit just in case the car broke down again on the old country roads.  Now, at her insistence, he just kept his fingers crossed and hoped she made it back to the turnpike and the city.

Four months earlier, their once-per-month visits to the old homestead where they had grown up allowed them a nostalgia fix that helped preserve memories of happier times with their parents.  That was before the highway accident that took the old-timers’ lives.  That was also before Becky, who had often accompanied Lucas to the farm, broke up with him.  And before he quit his job.

Both Jan and he had made their parents proud.  Farm kids who became doctors, she a successful pediatrician, he a successful neurosurgeon.  Jan still loved helping the little ones.  He had traded helping others for returning to his childhood fascination with all things scientific and especially electronics and computers.  That allowed him to become a recluse and forget about flirty Rebecca Hanlon who was afraid of a permanent commitment and never sure about their relationship.

After the Civic disappeared over the horizon in a cloud of dust and dark gray exhaust from burning oil, Lucas debated whether to finish a project in his basement workshop or go fishing.  He looked back at the farmhouse.  Jan and he probably would never have sold it even before, and now it seemed like his solid fortress against the world’s randomness.  He opted for fishing, remembering a deep pool in the river he hadn’t visited for a while.  He wasn’t much of a cook, but he could prepare an acceptable dinner out of a few catfish and instant wild rice.

***

(more…)

[Sometimes your enemies can turn into allies.  This one might make the Pentagon nervous.  Enjoy.  And happy holidays!]

Silo

Steven M. Moore

Copyright 2015

                Mike Preston knew his old car well and didn’t like the sound it was making.  He pulled off the interstate and made his way into a small prairie town.  He’d been driving all night on his way to Chicago to research another article, but getting stranded on a lonely interstate hadn’t appealed to him.  Doesn’t this backwater place have a service station?

He spotted a diner with a parking lot full of old pickups—that was a good sign because he needed some breakfast, a good one because he planned to skip lunch.  He saw the usual hardware and drug stores, the first outnumbering the second because this was the great American prairie.  Most of those pickups probably belonged to farmers.  Or were they called ranchers here?

Finally, after passing almost the length of the main street (he realized there might be only one), he found a service station across the street from an auto body shop.  Both names started with Abe’s.  He pulled into the station.

***

                “I know the sound, sir,” said Abe, the mechanic and CEO of both establishments—that name was on the sewn-on tag, the overalls’ only adornment.  “You have a frayed belt.  Give me thirty minutes and you can be on your way.  Pull right into the bay.  You’re my first customer today.”

Good lord, did the guy write jingles on the side?  Way, bay, today—Preston’s ears were sensitive to language nuances.  The fellow had a nice Midwestern twang and seemed nice enough.  Is he honest?

It took him only twenty minutes and sixty-five bucks that Preston put on his Visa after calculating he’d still be just under the credit limit.  He topped the tank off with cash, leaving only a few bucks in his wallet.  There goes breakfast, unless it’s really cheap.

“Diner back there any good?” he said after thanking the mechanic and shaking his hand.

“Julie’s is the only game in town.  Just don’t get any fish unless it’s local.  They serve breakfast all day.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how do you folks keep going with just the farm folk as customers?”

“Missile silos,” said the mechanic.  “Guys come into town for R&R.  I fix the official vehicles too.  Julie feeds them.  The pub serves them drinks.  It’s an important component in the local economy.”

Maybe the only steady one?  “Aren’t all those missiles old?”
(more…)

[I had fun with this one.  It’s in the spirit of Men in Black and Heinlein’s Glory Road, but with a few twists.  It’s also a product of one night’s insomnia.  Enjoy.]

Chauffeur

Steven M. Moore

Copyright 2015

                “Miss Fogg will see you now.”  The butler opened the door to the library and walked away, returning to the labyrinth.

He hoped the old man would return.  He wasn’t sure he could find his way out of the old mansion.  He adjusted his Yankees cap and entered.  There were so many books, he felt he was in the New York Public Library.  Ladders on rails could run along the shelves that reached to the high ceiling.  At the other end, in front of an ornate desk, was an exercise mat.  A woman was balancing on her head.  He moved forward.  She waved, flipped onto her feet, and offered her hand.

“Misty Fogg,” she said, “and you’re Sam Richardson.  I have your resume.”  She went behind the desk and plopped into an antique leather chair.  “Thank you for applying.  Besides the Army, why are you qualified?  A lot of New Yorkers can’t drive worth shit.”

“I’m from New Jersey.”

She checked the sheets.  “So you are.  New Brunswick.  I have no idea where that is.  That’s why I need a chauffeur.  Dobbs is a New Yorker, and he can’t drive worth shit.”

“The butler?”

“Butler, majordomo, chief steward, call him what you want.  With Dobbs and Dora, my house staff is complete.  Dora’s the cook, and I hire a cleaning service that comes in every Friday.  Can you drive a Mercedes?”

“Stick?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Does it have a clutch?”

“No, it’s an automatic.  A diesel.  It used to be considered a green vehicle until the electrics came out.  It’s a rich woman’s car.  I’m rich, in case you’re wondering.”

And also in excellent shape, he thought.  “I can drive you anywhere you want in your Mercedes.”

“That remains to be seen.  I don’t want to be involved in any accidents.  There are a lot of crazy drivers on the road.  They make me nervous.  I don’t like to be nervous.  My life is hectic enough as it is.”
(more…)

[Note from Steve:  Why do I say I’m in “the writing trenches”?  Because I’m like that grunt soldier in World War One, slogging it out while the dapper generals AKA Big Five authors sitting comfortably in their Big Five tents could care less what happens to me.  I apply a wee bit of Zen philosophy to my situation: what is, is, and there’s little I can do about it except for having fun entertaining you with my cryptic and often acerbic comments about the writing life.  So, read on: issue #107 is on your breakfast plate for today for you to enjoy.]

Item. Outlines or seat-of-the-pants?  When I write a novel, I start out with a few plot ideas, what-ifs, and character sketches, and then write like a madman.  In the course of that writing, cut-and-paste is my friend, what some writing gurus call content editing.  My first draft is my last draft before copy editing (search and destroy mission for incorrect grammar, misspellings, overuse of adjectives and adverbs, etc).  Sometimes this writing technique works really well; other times, it’s a wee bit of a struggle.  Generally my characters help things along and surprise me.

That technique can be contrasted with outlining a novel in its entirety and sticking to it.  That’s more methodical but equally valid.  I don’t think the story would flow as well if I did that, but many people write that way, so there must be something good to say about it.  What technique do you use?  Do you use outlines?  Or do you write like I do, seat-of-the-pants style?  If you’re a reader perusing a work of fiction, can you tell which technique an author uses?  I doubt it.  I’m an avid reader, and I certainly can’t.

Item. Author’s Guild.  First, don’t think this represents ALL authors—it doesn’t.  Far from it.  It’s basically at the service of Big Five publishers and their anointed writers, many sure bets already in the stables but often ready for the glue factory as they write their formulaic schlock (what’s Sue Grafton going to do when she runs out of the alphabet?  Maybe go to Cyrillic?).

On Joe Konrath’s blog, where he often says the above and more, I suggested that writers should start a real author’s guild, an org for writers that actually works for ALL authors, not just the anointed ones of the Big Five.  If you think about it long enough, you’ll realize that it’s a good idea.  We don’t really have an org to protect us.  Maybe readers should start an org too.  The two orgs could work together to guarantee that the nefarious middle, those people standing between good writers and avid readers, can’t dominate the reading world.  That sounds like a better place to be.

Item. Too many lawyers?  You know the joke about the convention bus filled with lawyers going into the ocean.  John Grisham, traditional publishing’s sure-bet horse #1, has made a career with his legal thrillers.  Michael Connelly, sure-bet horse #2, jumped on the bandwagon.  Now the Times applauds two more tales by them titled Rogue Lawyer and The Crossing, respectively (when will the Times push an indie book?).  I’m sure these books are well written—the sure-bet horses always receive great grooming—but I won’t read them.  After the first two lawyer books by these gents, I lost interest.  Sorry, John and Michael.  There are too many lawyers per capita in our society, even in fiction!  (Your opinions might differ, of course, so comments are welcomed.)

Item. Mayhem, Murder, and Music.  Now that I’ve finished the series (the last short story, “TKO,” appeared last Wednesday), I’ll let it set awhile.  You can access all the stories free-of-charge in the blog category “Steve’s shorts.”  Be forewarned that by next year sometime, they’ll disappear and magically reappear in a short story collection with that title.  The disappearance is an Amazon requirement, but I only think that’s fair—other readers will have a chance to enjoy the stories.

Item. A Decent Bomber.  Next week I’ll review this ebook (coming Nov. 5) and interview the author.  It’s a lot more interesting than anything Grisham or Connelly ever wrote (see above) and McNabb sounds like he’d liven up any cocktail hour.  Don’t miss this treat.

Item. Family Affairs.  In case you missed it, #6 in the “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco Series” was just released.  The title is the theme, but this is still a novel filled with mystery, suspense, and thrills.  The yin-and-yang detectives (Chen is a conservative Asian with a Mona Lisa smile; Castilblanco is a tough but compassionate progressive, a Manhattan Puerto Rican who has become a Buddhist) have to solve two cases at once in this one before bringing the bad guys to justice…or even determining who the bad guys are.  Available on Amazon in ebook format only.  Reviewers can have a free copy in return for an honest review by querying me at steve@stevenmmoore.com; the ebook is also available via Net Galley.

Item. The Midas Bomb, Second Edition.  You probably balked at the $9.95 price for the ebook version of #1 in the “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco Series,” and rightly so.  I would, but it wasn’t my doing.  Many readers have discovered that numbers 2 through 6 can stand-alone (this is true for all my novels), but maybe some didn’t want to start a series where the first ebook is so expensive.  I empathize with that.  So, lucky you, coming real soon you’ll be able to buy The Midas Bomb, Second Edition, for only $2.99, matching the prices of the other novels in the series!  Look for it.  (The original edition, available in both pbook and ebook format, will still be available; the second edition will only be in ebook format.)

The Midas Bomb is, of course, where the adventures of Detectives Chen and Castilblanco all began.  If you have read other ebooks in the series, you won’t want to miss this one!  In addition to the intrepid detectives, the arch-villain Vladimir Kalinin makes his first appearance here.  His presence is felt in many ebooks in many different series.  In this novel, Rolando Castilblanco has lost two partners and is adapting to his new partner, Dao-Ming Chen.  You will also witness the on-again-off-again romance between Castilblanco and Pamela Stuart, who later becomes his wife in the series.

Item. Happy Halloween!  To all youngsters out there and all young-at-heart adults, have a safe and enjoyable spook night.  Make sure your tricks don’t hurt or damage and don’t get sick on all the treats.

In elibris libertas…. 

[Note from Steve: This is the last free short story in this series (there might be others forthcoming outside the series, of course).  If you missed the other short stories in this series, they’re all archived in the blog category “Steve’s Shorts.”  This one is inspired by Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Boxer.”  (Fair warning: it’s rated R, or maybe PG-13 if you watch cable.)  I was an S&G fan from their first album.  Can’t say which version of “Sound of Silence” I like best (first or second album’s), but the duo started out in that sixties revival of folk music in the Village and made soft rock a new genre in music.  Even back then, I spent time “counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike.”  Hit after hit, but “The Boxer” was one of their biggest.  I was sad when they split—that marvelous synergy disappeared from the national music scene.]

Jake Billings finished sweeping the floor of the gym, sniffed at the foul air, and locked up.  The last punk had left.  Always thinking boxing’s their future.  He had once thought that.  Not hard to understand for a kid living on NYC’s mean streets.  Runner for the mob, pimp for the whores on 7^th avenue, drug dealer—these were the kind of occupations awaiting a poor young man looking for a future.  Boxing had seemed a safer place to be.

You start out fighting because you have to defend yourself.  Even to stay out of gang life, you have to fight.  They call you a faggot if you don’t join.  They might bugger you if you don’t join.  Some die fighting them.  If not them, the cops, who think every poor kid’s a future danger to society.  Cops aren’t much better than the gangs sometimes.  Some are OK and try to help; others will beat the crap out of you if you look at them wrong.

They’d called him Basher Billings.  He’d known how to fight.  He had learned fast.  Liked the fact that there were rules—it’s much safer when your opponent can’t pull out a gun or knife.  His first four matches ended in three knockouts and one TKO.  Then Sam, a good cop who hung around the gym, advised him to quit.

“You’re taking some hard hits, Jake,” the cop had said.  He’d fought a bit in the Marines.  “You’re going to turn your mind to mush.  Even with a helmet, I’d have ringing in my head.”

“The big money’s still there to be had,” Jake had said.  “It’s my way out of these neighborhoods.”

Sam had shrugged.  “Don’t ever say I didn’t tell you.”

Jake had thought about it, though.  But his agent Sid quashed the idea.  “We have a big one coming up.  Big money for both of us if you do what I tell you.”

Jake hadn’t liked the idea.  The agent had someone talk to him, someone called Biggy.  “Your nanna might have a little accident if you don’t do what you’re told, boy.”

(more…)