Monday, January 9, 2017


Genre: Horror/Mystery

*I apologize for the spacing issues with the paragraphs. This happens a lot when I copy and paste my stories on here. I've tried multiple times to correct it, but everything I do just seems to make it worse :/

By Daniel Skye


               Wednesday, December 19, 2012.

           Anthony Carter called his brother’s office that morning. Richie had went straight back to his office after he left the scene and brewed a fresh pot of coffee, waited for Anthony’s call. He nodded off at some point in his desk chair and slept a total of three hours before Anthony called.

            The victim’s name was Allen Painter. Anthony had ran his name and info through the system. Painter had quite the rap sheet. And yet nobody in the Dorchester police department had heard of him. But Richie Carter had a plethora of sources to consult with about Mr. Painter’s extracurricular activities.

             Richie’s brother had reached out to him for help, and had given him five hundred dollars to start out with. Richie never felt comfortable accepting money from family. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

          And seeing as how he couldn’t drown his sorrows in alcohol anymore, he figured helping his brother with the case would be a good way to occupy his time. He’d worked hard and he wasn’t about to flush four years of sobriety down the toilet.

            Plus, this case brought up some demons from the past. Demons that Richie had hoped would stay buried.

             What was the significance of the dragonfly poster in Painter’s house? Who wrote that message on Painter’s wall in his blood? Was it Zack Garton? Was this his handiwork? Richie had not crossed paths with him in four years. And he wished to never cross paths with a man of his caliber again.

           But if Garton was behind this, Richie was going to find out. He started on the corner of Ludovico Street, which was where you could always find Moe Sharpe, better known as Moe “The Mouth.” And Moe worked both his ass and his jaw off to earn himself that nickname.

          Moe was a dealer, but cocaine and heroin wasn’t his specialty. He sold weed, and occasionally pills. But primarily weed. That’s why the cops didn’t really hassle him. He was a small fish in a huge pond. But he was definitely on Richie’s radar.

            Moe Sharpe stuck to his own territory. He steered clear of the other dealers in Dorchester. But he knew all the big names, all the higher-ups, so to speak.

            Richie came prepared, bringing a bottle of whiskey to butter Moe up. It was so hard to resist the temptation to imbibe as he walked in that liquor store to purchase the bottle. But he summoned all of his willpower and walked out of that store feeling victorious.

            “How’s business?” Richie asked Moe when he met up with him.

            “It’s booming,” Moe bragged. “Everyone is swept up in this 2012 phenomenon. All these idiots think the world is ending in two days and everyone is looking to get baked one last time.”

          “People will believe anything nowadays. Oh hey, I got you something.”

            Moe accepted the bottle of whiskey with gratitude and said, “So what can I do you for?”

           “Allen Painter. Name ring any bells to you? He was murdered recently. Might’ve been drug related. They found cocaine and heroin in his possession. Not to mention the unregistered weapons.”

            “Can’t say I’ve heard of him.”

            “You’re Moe “The Mouth”, you know everybody.”

            “I’m telling you, I’ve never heard of him. But cocaine and heroin is not my game. I don’t fuck around with that shit.”

            “So then who does fuck around with that shit? Give me a name. Point me in their direction.”

            “You’re putting me in a tough spot, Richie. Promise this won’t lead back to me. I really enjoy breathing.”

            “I’ll keep you out of this. I swear. Just give me a name.”

            “Cobra,” Moe whispered.

            “Cobra? Is he a GI Joe villain?”

            “That’s what he calls himself. His real name is Reggie Muldoon. He runs the north side of Dorchester. Drugs, guns, crack, cocaine, heroin. You name it. I’m telling you, this guy is a straight up psychopath. I can tell you some scary stories, man.”

            “Save it for another time. I’ve got work to do. Thanks for the help, Moe. Enjoy the booze.”

            “Sure you don’t want a swig? It’s pretty cold out. It’ll warm you up a bit.”

            “I’ll pass on that,” Richie said, fighting that voice inside his head that so desperately wanted to take Moe up on the offer.

* * *

            Zack Garton’s contact had given him Lucille Ferr’s address. The place was a palace in Garton’s eyes. Extravagant in every sense of the word. The property was protected by ten-foot-high wrought iron gates. Garton had to get out at the front gate and press the buzzer for them to let him through.

The gates opened up and he parked his car in a semi-circular driveway. He was greeted at the door by two lumberjack-sized bodyguards who patted him down and relieved him of his SIG Sauer P226.

            “Be gentle with Fran,” Garton advised them. “She’s my special lady.”

            The guards, dressed like secret service agents, complete with suits and dark sunglasses, led Garton through the foyer. They traveled down a long, narrow, dimly lit hallway. The observant Garton counted three doors on each side of the hall.

            How the hell do you find the bathroom in this place? Garton wondered.

            They took a left at the end of the hall, which led them to a set of tall glass doors with wood panels to give the appearance of windows. One of the guards motioned for him to go in.

            Lucille was waiting for him in the parlor. She was spread out on a black chaise lounge sofa, her legs crossed at the ankles. Garton stared at her for the longest time. She was definitely worth a stare. Especially those legs, that were visible to the knees. They seemed to be arranged for viewing.

            The ever observant Garton took note of her provocative wardrobe. She was wearing a scarlet red dress, stiletto heels, and sheer black stockings with seams that ran up the back. She twirled her jet-black hair with one red painted finger and took a sip of her scotch.

            “Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Garton?”

“I’m on the clock. And please, call me Zack.”

“You have quite the reputation, Zack. Tell me, how is it that you’ve never been apprehended?”

“This is no movie, darling. This is real life. And in real life, the bad guys can win.”

“Very true,” she said, taking another sip of her scotch. The rim of the glass was smeared with dark red lipstick. “Well, Zack, I know your time is valuable, so let’s get down to business.”

“Let’s. So what’s the job?”

“Jobs,” she corrected him. “Plural.”

“You are aware of my fee?”

“I’m well aware. And I have more than enough money to cover it.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Garton said, glancing around the parlor.

“You see, my husband was a good man. But his business attracted a lot of unwanted attention. And he gained his share of enemies over the years. Now he’s dead and these savages are still trying to cut into his business. I need this issue sorted out. I’ll leave the rest up to you. I don’t care how you do it, as long as it gets done.”

She got up and walked across the room. She produced two sealed envelopes from the top drawer of an antique mahogany desk and handed them to Garton.

“One of these envelopes contains your fee. I know you charge per hit, so there’s more than enough cash in there to cover the jobs. And second envelope contains a list of names and addresses. I think you know what to do with that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Garton said, tipping his invisible cap to Lucille. “And might I add, it’s been a pleasure, Ms. Ferr.”

“Please, my friends call Lucy.”

The guards walked Garton back to the front door, where they returned Fran. Garton gave her a kiss before he placed her back in his holster. Before he walked out the door, he leaned in close and whispered to the guards, “If you ever touch my gun again, I’ll skin you both alive.”

* * *

Richie Carter stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb on the north side of Dorchester. He passed the housing projects and parked in an adjacent lot. He didn’t even bother locking the doors because there was nothing inside for anybody to steal. And he knew nobody was desperate enough to steal that rusting, decaying, beat-up buckets of bolts he called a car.

He crossed the street, leaned against the side of one of the housing projects, and waited for the dealers to flock to him. On the north side of Dorchester, all you had to do was stand in one place long enough, and the drugs would come to you.

Richie took out a pack of Lucky Strikes from his jacket, lit a cigarette. He watched a young man turn the corner. He had both hands in front pockets of his black peacoat.

            “Are you Richie Carter?” the young man asked.

            “That depends. Are you a creditor or a process server?”

            “I work for the man you’re looking for. I work for Cobra.”

            “Then shouldn’t you be shouting ‘Hail Cobra’?”

            A black SUV pulled up along the curb. Carter felt the cold steel of a gun being jammed into his ribs. “Get in.”
“It’s okay, I have my own car.”

Richie shuddered as the cold steel of a gun barrel was jammed against his ribcage. “Just get in the fucking truck.”

            The backdoor opened. Richie glanced around, took a deep breath, and unwillingly got in. The black SUV sped off down the road and disappeared around the corner.


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