THE GIFT
A Charlie Byrne Holiday Story
As the rumble receded westward, a fine layer of dust settled on the tall stack of vintage condom boxes. Last line out on the PATCO spur back to Philly. The vintage condoms made me wonder. You’d think, Camden, there’d be nothing left in an abandoned pharmacy like this, but the vintage condom boxes were high on a metal shelf. Hmm. Short looters? No matter. Shouldn’t be in a neighborhood like this anyway.
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When I kicked in the door a homeless man wrapped in greasy blankets scuttled across the room into a corner. I made the homeless guy's decade by giving him a fifty to split and not come back for twenty minutes. That meant I had about ten minutes before he’d be back with his friends, take down whitey handing out the quick cash. I was okay with that. If it came to that, I had my gun.
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I looked down at Jeremy Wall. I had bound him with duct tape and he lay face down in the glass and debris. His hands were tied behind his back with black, plastic zip-ties. I gagged him with a sweat sock and some more duct tape.
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“This will hurt, Jeremy” I began.
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“DNNNNNN!”
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“Look, man, I don’t exactly relish doing this myself—there’s a feel to it, you know? Breaking fingers. Used to take me hours to shake the feeling. That’s why I stopped using my hands and now I use the vice-grip pliers and gloves. Kind of distances the sensation. Now then. I’m going to close my eyes. For only the briefest of moments mind you, but if you try anything, move, try to flip over then I swear to you I will take my knife and sever your abdominal aorta artery. You know what that is? The abdominal aorta artery? I like to think of it as genetic engineering—make certain you never reproduce. The buck stops there, as it were. So. Here we go.”
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“ARRRRRGMMMHH!”
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“Hurts, doesn’t it? Here’s comes number two!”
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“MMMMRGHHH!”
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“Now then, Jeremy. Let me fill you in on why you are here. We are in Camden, quite possible the shittiest, most God awful ass crack in New Jersey, if not the whole country. A while back, Camden was hot in the running to have the worst crime statistics in the country per capita. Imagine that. Now. I don’t like being here either, but I needed to frame things so you get the message.”
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Tears and snot freely now. Jeremy's lungs clawed against the gag for air.
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“Homeless guy? That dude will be back very soon, and I can guaran-fucking-tee you he’s bringing his friends and to roll your ass for everything you got, understand me?”
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“Mmmmm….”
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“You sold some very bad crystal to a friend of mine’s daughter. I know...party time, party time, and all that, right? Well, that kind of ends up with tonight's big show for you. See, I know that girl. Watched her grow up, pushed her on swings. She ended up in the E.R in a very, very bad way. Her dad is a friend of mine and we’ll leave it at that. When her dad called me I said I’d take care of it, because, let’s face it…I have little in the qualm department these days. Yes, we agreed the cops would probably be best course of action and the fairest, but it takes time to build a case and they might screw it up, plus a lot of P.D.s out where we live kind of hate me so maybe you’d get lucky and get off. Me and her father couldn’t have that, so you know what? I thought, hey. Finger time. I also put out the word you claimed to be representin’ product for the Latin Kings, and I know for a fact some twenty-something white trash piece of shit like you, ain’t. Oh, Jeremy, those hombres do take their reputation seriously. Very seriously. My guess is you never even passed high school Spanish.”
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A rat tramped along the far wall, its tail thick as an electrical cord. I dropped the pliers and pulled out my Beretta Sub Compact from my side-draw holster. I chambered a round.
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Man, I hate rats.
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Jeremy squirmed.
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“Oh, where was I? So yeah, the Latin Kings. I gave a contact of theirs your address, which is your mother’s too, filled them in on you sayin’ you're all connected and shit. My guess is your mom will be getting a visit tonight. Told them how she’s in on it too seeing how she has no problem with you cooking and selling it to finance her lard-ass lifestyle of watching television and knocking back the Hostess Ho-Hos.”
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I lifted my shoulders and shuddered. “Man, I should get a medal. I’m saving taxpayers thousands.”
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I stepped over Jeremy and made for the door, gun along my leg and looking for rats. I did not look back.
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“Leave Jersey, Jeremy. Pick up what's left of your mom and get out of here and leave. If I hear you're anywhere in the state, I don't care if it's up north, west, whatever... I will find you and I will kill you. Have a Merry Christmas!”
BIO
KIERAN SHEA’s fiction has appeared in dozens of venues including Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Thuglit, Dogmatika, Word Riot, Plots with Guns, Beat to a Pulp, Crimefactory, and Needle: A Magazine of Noir ...as well as in some beefy-looking anthologies most of which will make you question the tether of his shiny, red balloon. To his self-deprecating astonishment he's also been nominated for the Story South’s Million Writers Award twice without sending the judges so much as a thank you note. He co-edited the satiric transgressive fiction collection D*CKED: DARK FICTION INSPIRED BY DICK CHENEY and his debut novel KOKO TAKES A HOLIDAY is out now from Titan Books. Kieran divides his time between 38°58′22.6″N- 76°30′4.17″W and 39.2775° N, 74.5750° W.