Why La Cosa Nostra didn't set up shop in San Francisco

Uh, just what exactly is Marlon doing to the poor cat in this picture? Anyway, we have had our share of gangsters in San Francisco history. We even had an Aussie Mob during the Barbary Coast days, The Sydney Ducks, and they used to burn most of The City down on a regular basis.

Yet, even with our extensive history of crime (Dashiell Hammett didn't just pull all those stories out of his hat, you know), the Mafia never really did get a solid hold on the City of Saint Francis.

Retired policeman Kevin J. Mullen said, "Al Capone sent emissaries out to San Francisco in 1931 to case the joint, but decided it was "too tough" a town to crack." That may just be a proud cop talking, but Mullen says it's an easier town to police, given its size and geography, and the transcontinental railroad terminated in Oakland, after all.

That doesn't mean that they passed this area up altogether, because they set up shop across the San Francisco Bay, in Emeryville. Emeryville is now the home of Pixar and freeway traffic...so much freeway traffic.

"Yasmine's Garden"

September 3rd, 1987


Was it Robert Frost that said, “Good fences make for good neighbors?” Yasmine’s nearest neighbor is some four-hundred yards down this private, restricted road. And for good measure, the walls and fences around the house are eleven feet high, except for the front and back gates.

I should be at home, falling asleep to Johnny’s monologue. Instead, I’m stuck with a double Gordian Knot that cannot be solved or cut, and there is no kingdom to be had or any right answer to be found.

In this moonlight, the blood looks quite black.

There’s so much of it.

This is a small town in Northern California, and I can’t even tell you where, though as to why will all make sense in a few moments. It’s a nasty little place, full of pollution and polluted minds. There has been a little relative prosperity in the last decade or so, but don’t be misled, none of us that grew up here have had it easy. Especially Yasmine.

We’ve known each other since kindergarten, and she used to have the biggest heart of anyone that I have ever known. Her warm demeanor faded somewhat when both of her parents were killed in a car accident when she was seven. After that, bad things just went to worse, as her drunk aunt became her guardian and drank up the estate of Yasmine’s parents.

Her aunt drank them out of house and home in four years. Yasmine became a ward of the court and days later her aunt’s liver gave out. We didn’t see Yasmine for three years after that, as she bounced from foster home to foster home until she wound up back here. She was different by then, and in some ways, she was hardened like someone who had spent decades in prison.

It took until our senior year in high school to mend a friendship that shouldn’t have been broken. There were many things she wouldn’t talk about that affected her during those years, and she still won’t discuss them to this very day. After we graduated, we hung out every once in awhile, but we pretty much drifted apart again. Such is life; you might grow in a different direction than your friends, and then before you know it, you are an entire world apart from each other.

My mother asked me to drop something off at the little cottage Yasmine and her jerk boyfriend Clyde were renting from his grandparents. I can’t remember what it was my mother gave me, but I remember all too clearly what happened after I knocked on the door. When she opened the door, her right eye was a plum, purple and swollen. Yasmine jumping on my back was the only thing that saved Clyde’s life that day, and one of my knuckles never healed properly after that (it was still worth it).

She broke up with Clyde soon after that, and she stopped speaking to me for years, so I guess we were both punished for it in a way. Some months later I saw her in town, and she did a poor job of hiding another shiner behind some considerably large sunglasses. Yasmine ran away from me, yet I wasn’t even paying attention to her at that point, and I drove as fast as I could to Clyde’s.

He was both scared and surprised to see me, as Yasmine and he had not been an item for some time. She moved out of town not too long after that and I never did find her other abusive boyfriend, though I gladly would have risked my left hand improperly healing for a chance at revenge. I became a patrol officer just after she left, and eventually I became the town deputy. It really wasn’t an issue of me wanting justice, though I tried to do good whenever was possible, but I chose the job because it paid more than anything else around here.

I joined the force in 1977 and Yasmine came back to town in 1985, with more money than she ever had before. She had made her money with Apple Computer, and she was all set to buy the Miller property on the edge of town. She was friendly enough at first, but she became reserved when I asked what she would do all by herself with such a big place. After swearing me to secrecy, Yasmine confided in me that she wanted to run a shelter for abused women.

I told her that big house would be perfect for it, and nobody from in town or from the outside goes near the private road leading up to it. I helped her fix the place up, along with Eduardo, whose usual job is to fix everything both inside and outside for The County. It took a couple of weeks to bring it up to par, and the garden was the hardest part. It was also Yasmine’s pride and joy, where she spent countless hours toiling in it, despite her lack of a green thumb.

Gardening can be quite therapeutic, and whenever I brought groceries there from the next town over to avoid attention, Yasmine would have the newest woman at the house helping her out. Besides pitching in on house maintenance and food, I would make sure to drive by and to patrol the grounds. You never know just how far a man will go, if he won’t even hesitate to hit a woman. Often, Yasmine would be walking the grounds as well, though many times I didn’t see her until the last second.

Every once in awhile, I’d catch a non-local driving off the main town roads. I would call in their plates as I rode right on their bumper, just to let them know that whatever their intentions were, that they weren’t wanted in these parts. None of them ever came back, save a dark green ’71 Camaro from two towns over. I stopped him twice, and though he seemed nice enough, there was something about that large bastard that didn’t seem right.

If I told you I was surprised to see that same Camaro tonight, hidden some seventy feet off the road from Yasmine’s house, I’d be lying. It would also be a lie if I tried to convince you that this situation would never turn into something ugly. I was completely shocked, though, when I saw all that blood covering the jasmine flowers that Yasmine was named after. And I wanted to simply turn away in denial when I saw what was left of that big fake-polite asshole lying in the middle of the garden. Even in the dark, I could tell he had been cut and stabbed too many times to count.

The spatter and the trail of blood said that he was killed after climbing over and that his body was dragged. This week Yasmine has only three women staying at the shelter, and they are all outside with her. They are all covered in blood, just like her, and all four of them have knives. They put the knives right next to body, and they walk back to the patio.

I don’t know what to do, and as I walk towards them, I hear a twig snap. It’s Eduardo, and he’s trampling all over my crime scene with his size thirteens. I know that Yasmine has called him before me, and he stands next to the women in solidarity. I can’t let a murder go unpunished, yet if anyone is arrested, the shelter will be as good as closed. The Gordian Knots that are my brain and my heart tighten as if pulled by elephants startled by guns.

The End

This story is for the Fourth Installment of Icarus' Flight To Perfection. It combines the starter sentence of Katherine Tomlinson, "In the moonlight the blood looked quite black." And the four words of Nicole Hirschi; Fence, Mend, Court, and Misled.

A change to The Flash Fiction Offensive

There is a new addition to The Flash Fiction Offensive, David Barber is now their Editor! This will certainly be a trial by fire, but I certainly know that Dave will be up for it.

After all, this is what he has to go through just to get a pint at his local pub (here's an unsolicited bit of advice, Mr. Barber: never beat the neighborhood arsonist at darts).

Replay: "The Original Rainmaker"

Daniel O'Shea had a flash fiction challenge, and I had an idea mulling that had been simmering on the back burner for some time. I wanted to give closure to the traumatized strip club owner from "A Sheep In Wolf's Clothing," and the rest was cranked out pretty much inside of a day. The "crime fiction" tag is misnomer in a sense, as virtually no crime occurs in this story, and I made a conscientious effort to tone down the usual violence and occasional gore.




Without further adieu, here is "The Original Rainmaker."

A short poignant tale from Quin

It's rare when Quin Browne has time to write anymore.


So on the rare occasion when she does post her writing, she always hits it out of the park (is there such a thing as "writing steroids?").

"Eight Maids-A-Milking" is up at Dark Valentine Magazine's "Twelve Days of Christmas"

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you thrills, under-dressed chills, milk spills and hamburgers.

We're talking "Dairy Noir," with "Eight Maids-A-Milking." Which can only be found at Dark Valentine Magazine's "Twelve Days of Christmas."

"Santa Must Die" is up @Do Some Damage, and a cameo

Well, here is the last post for 2010, and...it's a different one.

For the Do Some Damage Christmas Fiction Challenge, I was going in one direction when I was writing the story, and I let the word count influence what direction it finally ended in. Either way, the working title was and is, "Santa Must Die." It's also the last Do Some Damage post of the year, so I might really have to move out of the country after this one (preferably to one without extradition).



In other news, over at Dark Valentine, Paul D. Brazill has the sixth day of Christmas covered, with Roman Dalton. I guarantee that he's a detective unlike any other that you've seen before. There's also a cameo by the biggest bastard that I've ever known, and he plays the bartender.

"The Barbarian's Story," as sung by Steve Perry

So I was over at "Davy Crockett's Almanack," the other day (which is the blog of author Evan Lewis), when what did I see? This cover-



Did you catch it? No, I'm not talking about anthropomorphic personification of that old Saturday Night Live character, the Land Shark. Naw, I'm talking about the author's name on this novel, "Steve Perry."

Wow, who would've thought that the 80's soft rock balladeer would have an inner barbarian? Mmm, probably not. Yes, I realize that the chances of the author and the crooner being the same person are nil, but maybe we should all "Don't Stop Cleaving."

Er, "Believing."

"The Big Lebowski," as written by Shakespeare?

So let me get this straight, "The Big Lebowski" as written by...




...William Shakespeare?

Yea, verily.

Christmas Isn't Over

Yeah, I relate to "Scrooged" just a little too much...

...mostly because when The Ghost of Christmas Present isn't jabbing my in the eyes, she's kneeing my groin.

"Oh, what is this, Cormac? Oh, oh look, Cormac! It's a toaster!"

Whaddya know, I fell for that, yet again. Well, just because December 25th has come and gone, doesn't mean that Christmas has to end. The folks over at The Do Some Damage Blog have a flash fiction Christmas Challenge still going strong. You already have Patti Abbott, John McFetridge, Richard Godwin, and Daniel B. O'Shea, as well as more strong crime authors still waiting to crawl down your chimney.

As they used to say on the old Ronco commercials, "but wait, that's not all!" The folks over at Dark Valentine Magazine have kicked off "The Twelve Days of Christmas."

That means a new Christmas story every day every day, until January 6th, 2011! You will get tales from Andrew Douglas, Kat Parrish, Nigel Bird, John Donald Carlucci, Christine Pope, Kaye George, and Paul D. Brazill.

Guess who got "Eight Maids-A-Milking?" No, not Danielle Steele. Guess again...no, not Michael Chabon.

"Streaking For The Shy"

No, it's not this kind of streaking, but if I presented a picture of the other kind? You would probably shine this post on, you, crazy diamond.

Nor am I talking about a streaker of this variety, though this is an image...never mind. The point is, Splotchy did a brilliant short film last spring (which I first found a link to at Freida's), called "Streaking For The Shy," and it is more than worth your time to pop on over to his blog and check it out.

"Sometimes"

Sometimes...promises are made to be broken. Sometimes “for richer finds” another home and “for poorer” outlasts its welcome like termites feeding on an already-shaky retaining wall. Sometimes for better is as unrealistic an expectation as winning the lottery, and “for worse” is as real and tangible as the air that we all breathe.

Sometimes we don't learn from our mistakes, and we wind up being amnesiacs on a Möbius strip of senselessness. Sometimes we remember that children are not weapons, so the lawyers will seek other means of provocation and waging war. Sometimes we cannot move ahead, because the little children inside of us are too scared of a world that will change and that will be different. Sometimes love is a many splintered thing, and tweezers and antiseptic are hard to come by.

Yet most of the time, I love you no matter what, and that is for always.

Image from artlies.org.

This was done for the Third Session of Icarus' Flight To Perfection and the starting sentence I chose was, "Sometimes, promises are made to be broken."

"Dancing With Myself" Interview @ Nigel P. Bird's Sea Minor

Honestly, I wanted this guy to do it...

...but he's been busy with other things lately.

So, I interviewed myself for the series "Dancing With Myself Interviews" over at Nigel P. Bird's Sea Minor. Pop on over and maybe it will clear up a few things about me...or maybe it will confuse you even more.

If I had a chance, I'd ask the world to dance...

Here's to Paul's 2nd Anniversary!

Please stop by Paul D. Brazill's blog and wish him a Happy Second Anniversary! It was wonderful to see your career at its inception, and here's to your continued success, Sir! Na zdrowia!

The Winter Issue of Dark Valentine Magazine is here!

The Winter Issue is here!

With stories from Patti Abbott, Christine Pope and Dale Phillips. Not to mention some outstanding art by Mark Satchwill, Pamela Jaworska, Karyn Lewis, and the amazing cover by Jane Burson.

Don't forget, when you get to the back of this magazine, there is an important ad at the end ; )

If there's a bustle in your...

...Heathrow, don't be alarmed now. It's just the airport's first "writer-in-residence," Alain de Botton.

My favorite quote from the article, "I would love to run British Airways, and feel I would be eminently qualified for the job. I don't know very much about making money, and nor do they.

However, I am deeply fascinated by the mechanics of getting planes in the sky and around the world -- and that's their area of expertise, too."

Oh, and Alain, nothing is wrong with JFK. It's a perfectly serviceable airport, especially considering the amount of traffic, and the Port Authority keeping it in a perpetual state of (dis)repair. Try being lost in the bowels of LaGuardia or dealing with the expanse and lack of heating in Detroit. You'll be begging for the mild inconvenience of JFK.

The Messenger Gets The Ricochet

It was Sunday, and there shouldn't have been a letter in the mailbox, but there was. The last four days had been hell, but Hardy Shepard had a feeling that whatever was in that envelope was going to make everything worse. It was surely lemon juice and salt on the gaping psychic wound which he was already contending with.

***

The Bremer Company was a public relations firm, and it was the epitome of corporate/employee relations until seven years ago. The founder and president, Jeff Bremer, was a benevolent leader and friend to everyone, until he met the girl of his dreams, Emma, who was thirty-eight years his junior.

Emma blessed Jeff with three children, and that was three more children than she intended to raise. As Emma dedicated her time to shopping and spas, Jeff became both father and mother. The more time he spent away from his company, the more he decided that he really didn’t need it after all. Jeff figured he would be better off if he simply sold the company, but he didn’t want to pay out any would-be bonuses or severance packages. He also decided out that he would keep the money for himself and let the company flounder a bit, and then he could sell it off for cheap.

The thing was that Jeff didn’t want to deal with each and every employee during the execution of his plan, so he needed a hatchet man to deliver the bad news as the company was pared down. He thought he had found that hatchet man in Hardy, when he overheard a remark that he made. When an employee’s car was towed for parking in one of the handicapped spaces, Hardy notified the employee long after the fact and was met with a barrage of cuss words.

Hardy replied, “Don’t shoot me, I’m only the messenger.”

Jeff noticed a gleam in Hardy’s eyes at that tidbit, and he knew that he found a low-rent Judas. And he had, though the first couple of times were difficult for Hardy. The young would-be executive decided that he would find resolve by using slights his fellow employees had wrought upon him...both real and imagined.

Dennis, who ate everyone’s food in the refrigerator? Oh, that was the icing on the cake. Ava R. had never done anything wrong to Hardy, so he simply called her "Avarice" in his mind before he told her the bad news. Ava G, however, was tipsy at last year's Christmas party and she pawed at him in front of his girlfriend Dani. Dani believed that Hardy was cheating on her, and he wound up spending Christmas and New Year's alone.

But Mort never did anything wrong to him...hell, Mort helped Hardy move, and he even helped him install his home theater when such devices needed a degree in electronics and a contractor’s license. It didn’t take long for Jeff’s hatchet man to become a pariah, which only made Hardy relish giving his fellow workers the shaft even more. The more he was shunned, the more he began to savor being the villain.

The Germans have a word for what he was feeling, “schadenfreude,” which is the feeling of enjoyment in seeing the misfortunes of others. Hardy stopped going to the few company parties and picnics that the Bremer Company bothered to throw (everyone had mistakenly chalked the reduction in festivities to the economy).

Alas, when Jeff personally let his attack dog go last Friday morning, Hardy didn’t see it coming at all. He thought all along that he was going to be rewarded handsomely for doing the dirty work, but his prize ultimately was being left to do the walk of shame in front of the ten remaining people. Unlike all the others he had given termination notices and layoff slips to, no one made any effort to console Hardy. They wouldn’t have urinated on him if he were on fire.

So here this envelope has been sitting by the front door, the unopened white elephant in the room. He picks it up, cuts an end open with scissors and slides out the contents. In it he finds a letter that shows it was sent from his former fax machine right back to the same machine. A little opening salvo that was delivered, no doubt, from whomever escaped the bloody axe that Hardy used to wield. The first page is a list of everyone that he had to give the bad news to, and there are more people than the former hatchet man can initially remember, though they were all let go by him.

The second and last page is a low-res picture of Hardy when Jeff gave him notice. Hardy Shepard has cried all of three times since he turned fifteen. The first time was when his favorite aunt passed painfully and quickly from cancer. The second time was when the Chicago Bears lost the Super Bowl in 2007. And the third? Well, Hardy’s reaction is all too clear despite all pixilation; that of a child who has had his sand castle stomped, dropped his ice cream cone in the sand, and has been slapped.

Hardy decides to take a shower, where no one will see or would notice tears that can’t seem to stop.

The End

This was written for the Second Session of Icarus' Flight To Perfection. There were three starter sentences to chose from and I went with, "It was Sunday, and there shouldn't have been a letter in the mailbox, but there was."

Caveat Scriptor

Jeez.

For your perusal, "The Silver Wraith"

Though Blogger has had the Page Feature for some months, I have yet to see anyone actually use it. How does that work into this post? Keep reading.


My story "The Silver Wraith," was originally intended for Astonishing Adventures Magazine, but it really didn't mesh from a tonal standpoint (IMHO, not the Editorial Staff's). It's a little too long for Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers, so at this blog is right where it will stay. If you go to the top of the blog, it's the tab in the middle, right underneath the header.

So, if you add one part crime fiction + one part pulp + one part horror = "The Silver Wraith."

All Hallow's Reave

Here is Halloween, in all of its terror, and by "terror," I mean adults in costumes that fall under the category, "things you cannot unsee." To take your mind off of that, we at Cormac Informercials™, have the second story in Katherine Tomlinson's NoHo Noir Series, "Wrong Turn." Check the Mark Satchwill illo-




Plus, you get horror from across The Pond. Lewis J. Peters has a short one up on his blog called, "The Horror of Halloween."

Oh, and call me lazy, but I will repost "Succuba," yet again. But if you call within the next five minutes, I'll even add "Introductions Are In Order," at no extra cost. Just pay shipping and handling. So call now, operators are standing by.

NoHo Noir @ Patch.Com

NoHo? Where in the world is "NoHo?"

Who is this woman? And who is she talking to? Who does these dynamite illustrations? All will be revealed in Katherine Tomlinson's tale "House Blend," which can be found at Patch.com.

Icarus' Flight To Perfection

So the first session is in the bag and the first starter sentence poll is up.

Go ahead, take the plunge.

"Bebe"

This is for the inaugural session of Icarus' Flight To Perfection, which is the new blog that I am co-moderating with the mighty Nicole Hirschi. This story is also a semi-sequel to "Strawberry Quick; same narrator, similar situation, different day."

7:43 on a Monday morning and I’m stuck with this Chatty Cathy of a mug in a minivan, in a suburban parking lot. We are packing a shotgun, a crappy Glock-knock off, and a ski mask apiece. He may have gotten me this gig, but if he doesn’t shut up soon, I’m going to empty all four of our guns into him and call it a day.

“Uh, I like to get mentally ready with some silence,” I offer, leaving him the chance to shut it. “I need to focus, ya know?”

“Well, it’s just that…” he trails off. His sad face turns even more forlorn and oh, Lord, please tell me he doesn’t want to cry on my shoulders.

“What’s…what’s wrong?” Did I just say that?

“I’ve got a terminal disease.”

Shit, what the hell do I do? I wouldn’t hug a friend of less than five years over something like this. I certainly don’t want to embrace a near-stranger. What does he have? Cancer? ALS? Maybe the big disease with the little name? He gets his wallet out, opens it, almost shows me a picture, and then quickly pockets it.

“What?” I ask, and I’m beginning to suspect that this disease is really some kind of dementia.

“That’s not right, ‘disease’ isn’t the word. It’s more like a ‘condition.’ Do you watch Bugs Bunny cartoons?”

“Sure,” I reply. Should I plug him right here? I mean, my fingerprints are all over this stupid minivan. I can’t simply walk away and risk him getting caught in this vehicle, knowing that they will check for prints after. If I plug him now, it’s an unnecessary murder rap and I’ll have to torch this, but maybe it would be better than walking into a situation with this unstable nut ready to go off the rails.

“Well, it’s like the one with Elmer Fudd and Humphrey Bogart,” he says with the assurance that he just told me everything. The only thing he has really told me, is that I should be contemplating just which kind of accelerant is the most effective in destroying evidence.

“How does a cartoon relate to your ‘condition?’” Gawd, listen to me. If we get caught and sent up for a long stretch, maybe I should become a jailhouse shrink.

“It’s the one where Bogie tells Elmer that he better serve up a fried rabbit, ‘or else.’!”

I mull it over for a few, and then it comes to me. “Yeah, yeah,” I reply, “Bogart says, ‘Why did you hit me in the face with a coconut custard pie with whipped cream?’”

“And then, when Bogie says, ‘Baby will just have to have a ham sandwich instead.’ What does Bug do?”

It’s been years, but it comes to me as if it is after school again, and I’m sitting in front of the TV, eating graham crackers. “He comes out of hiding, jumps on the plate right in front of Lauren Bacall, and he says, ‘Remember, garçon the customer is always right! If it's rabbit Baby wants, rabbit Baby gets!’”

He holds his arms open with a grin, and me? I’m left to fill in the blanks again. I chew it over, and my mind still draws a blank.

“You see, that’s my problem; what Baby wants, Baby gets. If I showed you her picture, you’d get my predicament right away. Fuck Lola and “Damn Yankees,” that cartoon “Slick Hare” came out almost eight years before the Broadway show. For the purposes of this conversation, let’s call her “Bebe.” When we watch a TV show and they mention some kind of exotic shoe brand or $1,000 handbag, she’ll ask me for it and that’s what I’ll get her. I dropped $2,800 on three pairs of shoes for her the other day.”

“So you’re saying that some piece of ass has you pulling heists, so that she can keep up with the Joneses?”

At this point, I have to ask myself, who’s the bigger chump? Is it me for letting a friend of mine talk me into becoming a substitute stick-up man for him? Or is it the moron sitting next to me? When will it end for him? Will he wind up having to steal everything in the world that isn’t nailed down, just to keep this woman happy?

“She’s not some piece of ass, she’s “Bebe.” She is the piece of ass. Helen of Troy might have been the face that launched a thousand ships, but if that whole thing was about Bebe? All of those stupid Trojans wouldn’t have waited on the ships to be built and they would’ve swum in their armor and full gear.”

“She’s all that to you, huh?”

He doesn’t answer, and he goes blank as a TV with the cable disconnected. This mutt is gone; he’s got it worse than any junkie or gambler I’ve ever worked with. And by “mutt,” I mean that this guy is dog-ugly, so I’m guessing she isn’t all that hot. Money can only change so much, and I doubt that there is enough of it to make him appealing enough to the woman he described.

He apparently loves her, though I wouldn’t call what they have “love.” Either way, he’s got it bad and he’s probably right about this being a terminal thing. Hopefully, we’ll get the money, get out of here without getting caught and I’ll never have to deal with his whipped-ass again.

“Hey, are you ready for this, Romeo? Or do you want to back off and try this another day?”

“I’m good, and when it comes to jobs, I always have my head on straight. I’ve been trying to keep her happy for two years straight, and it’s worked beautifully…so far.”

“Okay,” I mumble with a nod. I look the minivan over and mention, “We need to roll down the windows, because fogged-up windows will draw the wrong attention.”

“No, take a quick peek at the other cars that have been sitting here and you’ll see it’s okay. He won’t be able to see in. Our windows have the same condensation on the outside as the other cars that have been left here overnight.”

I rub the window a little bit and see that this is the first thing that he’s gotten right. The other cars, including a few that have been left here with for sale signs, have the same watery buildup. I also see a BMW 5-series pulling into the parking lot, and it’s definitely the bank manager’s car. I duck back down and I nod to him.

He pulls the mask over his face and he whispers, “C'mon, Baby needs a new pair of shoes.”

The End

Best Of: "Let Them Eat Cake"

This was from Patti Abbot/Aldo Calcagno/Gerald So's Fifth Flash Fiction Challenge-

"I’m not a bridezilla!”

You’re absolutely not a bridezilla!

“What have I ever asked you for, Dad?”

You never asked him for a thing, Tammy. If anything, he’s always borrowing money from you.

“Honey, I’m sorry. I know you’ve never asked for much, but I gotta keep a strike fund ready…look, your uncle could get us the basement at the Elk’s Club for cheap.”

“Oooh!”

Damn, Tammy, you slammed that door so hard, I think you tore it off its hinges!

“What am I going to do? If I don’t come up with the rest of the deposit by Wednesday, we’ll lose the wedding hall!”

Not to panic, not to panic. Let’s go shopping.

“Why?”

Inspiration, Tammy, inspiration.

“To the mall?”

No, let’s go to Downtown Los Colinas.

***

“Okay, we’re here; now what?”

That’s it.

“What’s it?”

That’s it.

“I already have my engagement and wedding ring sets.”

I know. Look next door, what do you see?

“A CPA’s office.”

And?

“And what?”

Do I have to spell it out for you? Think like your cousin Charlie.

“Why…would…I…ever, do a thing like that?”

Because you’re going to need Charlie’s help, as well as your fiancé Larry’s tools.

“I don’t follow.”

Think like Charlie. What do you see, Tammy? One of these things is not like the other.

“Don’t mock me…oh…Oh! There’s no visible alarm on the CPA’s office.”

Exactly. We’ll double-check around back, but I doubt that there’s an alarm. Identity thieves would rather get the information via trash, mail or online. Now comes the hard part. You are going to make nice with Charlie and invite him to your wedding.

“For God’s sake, why?”

Because you don’t know the first thing about tools, theft or anything that comes afterwards. And what are you going to do, research this on the Internet so that you leave a trail for the police to follow?

“But he’ll get drunk and ruin the wedding.”

There won’t be a wedding or a reception if you don’t make nice with Charlie. Do this right and everybody will come out happy, plus you’ll be able to afford a honeymoon.

“And how are we going to pull this off?”

What does Larry have that can cut through all of this, as if it were a slice of wedding cake?

***

“I’ll stay in the car, Charlie, and radio you if there are any cops.”

“Oh, no, I’m staying out here and you two will go in.”

“Charlie, let’s be realistic for a second. How much safe-cracking experience do you think I have?”

“Um…none?”

“And you know what kind of a thief I am. I shoplifted that one time when we were twelve and I got caught. Now, how much experience do you think I have with tools?”

“Fine, I get your point.”

“Why should we even cut her in, Charlie?”

“Hey, asshole, did you scout this place?”

“No bitch is going to talk to me—"

“Look, Myron! I’ll talk to you the way I like! I came up with the plan, I scouted this place and these are my fiancé’s tools! If anybody is a “bitch” around here, it’s you begging Charlie to cut you in on my job! Got it?”

“…Yeah.”

***

“Oh, man, look at this! There must be over $250,000 in loot!”

“Don’t open that bag until we’re out of here!”

“Yeah, sorry. Hey, Myron, don’t you have something to say to my cousin?”

“I’m sorry I disrespected you.”

“It’s all copacetic now, Myron.”

***

That was a beautiful wedding, if I say so myself. The reception is going to be a breeze, especially without Charlie there.

“I’m worried. Where is he?”

“Who are you talking to, Tammy?”

Shut up, Larry!

“Shut up, Larry!”

Uh-oh.

“’Uh-oh,’ is right. The cops.”

Three squad cars? Charlie or Myron gave us up, probably Myron because he really did strike me as a bitch. Have the driver stop behind the catering truck before the cops see us.

“Driver? Please pull up behind that truck.”

“What’s going on, Tammy?”

Don’t forget the passports and the money!

“Just get the suitcases out of the trunk, Larry.”

Tell me the keys are in the ignition.

“They left the keys in there, yes.”

“Tammy, who are you talking to?”

Shut up, Larry!

“Shut up, Larry and put the suitcases in this truck!”

***

“Honey, where are we going and why is that police car chasing us?”

The cake, it’s the only way.

“No.”

There’s no choice.

“Larry? Open the back door and dump the wedding cake in the road.”

“But, honey, are you going to slow down?”

“Fine.”

Yes, look at them spin! Let them eat cake and canyon!

“Why do I even listen to you? When have you ever been right about anything?”

Beats me, what do I know? I’m just a voice in your head and if you took your medication like you’re supposed to, I wouldn’t have to listen to me either.

The End

Patti got the idea from a book of short stories that centered around a wedding cake in the middle of the road. A long time ago, I was going to do a story based on real-life drunken bride that went pugilstic on everyone in sight. Her "inner voice" that steered her wrong was retained, and I added that to a real life jewel heist that happened on The (San Francisco) Peninsula in 2008.

"Introductions Are In Order" is up at Dark Valentine Magazine's October Frenzy

The magnificent Molly Brewer provides this wonderful illustration...

...and I provide the words. Check out my story "Introductions Are In Order" at Dark Valentine Magazine's October Flash Frenzy. It's dedicated to all the fathers who have daughters.