How to Kill Harry

By Leigh Binder

Harry Fein, a cab driver in Boise, Idaho, is obsessed with the art of dying. Jacob Pratt, a quiet man with an abusive past, is obsessed with the art of killing. When their lives intersect, so do their obsessions, and as the real becomes surreal, there's a distinct possibility Harry won't last through the night.
Leigh Binder's How to Kill Harry will change the way you view cabbies—and every chance encounter you have between dark and dawn. In Harry's world, children are the only truly innocent, politicians are the only truly corrupt, and everyone else falls somewhere in a black and bloody in-between that could be Manhattan, Boulder, Charlotte, Casper, or Tallahassee. It could be your town. Hell, it probably is.
If you are a fan of Chuck Palahniuk, you'll dig this book. If you are an armchair philosopher, you'll dig this book. If you like a witty, smart, fast-paced novel, you'll dig this book.

A Sibling Rivalry Press Digital Exclusive eBook.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sibling Rivalry Press
• Release date: Nov 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781937420116

Leigh Binder

Leigh Binder is a transgressional fiction writer who studied English and Philosophy at the Universityof Washington. In addition to How to Kill Harry, he’s also written two collections of flash fiction, two poetry books and three controversial plays which were so off Broadway they were in Brooklyn. Angst ridden, outrageous, defiant, neurotic and addicted, his protagonists are a myriad of late night lotharios, junkies, thieves and hookers with hearts of gold. The antagonists are societal gatekeepers who would love to fill in the sidewalk cracks of which they live. Originally from Los Angeles, he currently lives on the California central coast and is working on a new novel.

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How to Kill Harry

By Leigh Binder

A Sibling Rivalry Press eBook

Digital Exclusive

Copyright © 2011 by Leigh Binder

Cover design by Mona Z. Kraculdy

Sibling Rivalry Press, LLC

13913 Magnolia Glen Drive

Alexander, AR 72002

www.siblingrivalrypress.com

ISBN: 978-1-937420-11-6

Smashwords Edition

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How to Kill Harry

by

Leigh Binder

Also by Leigh Binder

All Flash No Pan (Short Stories)

Hope in the Well of Angst (Poetry)

Passing Through the Ghost (Poetry)

Smoke Breaks (Short Stories)

Foreword

4:00 pm

Pocatello, Idaho

1971

1:00 pm

Boise, Idaho

2006

Saturday

2:00 pm

Fairview and Westgate

3:00 pm

Alpine and Jackson

4:00 pm

Warm Springs and Locust

5:00 pm

Curtis and Fairview

6:00 pm

13th and Brumback

7:00 pm

State and Lander

8:00 pm

Amity and Cole

9:00 pm

Orchard and Greenbrier

10:00 pm

Fairview and Maple Grove

11:00 pm

36th and Chinden

12:00 am

Roosevelt and Emerald

1:00 am

24th and Irene

1:45 am

Vista and Overland

2:00 am

6th and Main

3:00 am

Fairview and Orchard

4:00 am

The Streets of Boise

4:44 am

Infinity and Nowhere

5:00 am

State and Glenwood

Sunday

6:30 am

Saint Alphonses

2:00 pm

The Capitol Building

4:00 pm

16th and Fort

6:00 pm

The Airport

7:25 am

The Portland Bus Station

About the Author and Publisher

Foreword

Hello Dear Reader,

Let me say first off, having a demanding publisher has elevated my smoking to two packs a day. Sure, I was keeping it at one, one and a half, but every other day I get another email wanting more...

It's always about more.

So as I sit here looking out my window in Los Osos, California, at the back bay and Morro Rock in the distance I am forced to reflect on the trauma of my first child, Harry Fein.

It wasn't that Harry was a difficult birth but the pain of delivery was excruciating. Harry began quite modestly in 2007, as a long stream of consciousness in Seattle. It wouldn't have been as painful if I could have maintained a steady weed supply but, at the time, there was either a drought or the gods wanted a sober project.

Either way, what started out as a lovely Saturday afternoon filled with images of a crazy job I had taken on became a daily madness that enveloped my soul. The title, How to Kill Harry, was brought forth by my friend Francesca. Think of a snobby French chick with a beret and long cigarette holder and you have her in a nutshell.

Anyway, she kept asking, How will you keel thees Harry, mon cherie? blowing smoke in my face and sipping on her wine. I had to admit, I didn't know.

Ultimately, How to Kill Harry came in two crazy bursts. The first happened while I was house-sitting for Francesca while she attended to business in Paris. Sitting hunched over my laptop and chain smoking fifteen hours a day for a month, I pounded out the first draft without ever seeing daylight. I barely ate and lost twenty pounds in the process. The result was good but not what I had foreseen driving a cab in Boise, Idaho, trying to get a feel for what Harry's world might be like.

I have a tendency to take on jobs that may or may not be catalysts for fiction. I knew that cabbies had been done before, but not like I'd envisioned.

A year went by without much else in the way of anything other than poetry and flash fiction. My sister was dying of breast cancer at the time and my visits down to southern California seemed to keep me locked within emotional disarray. I'm rather certain one of the main reasons there's so much death in How to Kill Harry is because of my time watching my sister, a beautiful woman, wither away. In between that and my on again off again relationship with Julie, who ended up being How to Kill Harry's first editor, nothing seemed to be gelling.

Then one morning I woke up in my studio in San Luis Obispo and opened How to Kill Harry's file and began reading. I knew some things were missing, but what? But what?? I lit a smoke, poured myself a triple espresso and dug in deeper. What started as the simple naming of a very minor character, Claro, opened a whole new world within the story. Claro, by the way, means clarity in Spanish.

I began to form a real relationship with the other main character in the book, Jacob. Whereas I really liked Harry, I found it difficult to embrace Jacob.

What parent wants to watch a child become a serial killer?

Eventually, by digging into my own abusive childhood, I was able to find understanding for Jacob and finally, a truth about his life that I could understand. If Harry was made up of the face I showed the world, then Jacob was the darkness I hid from everyone else, including myself. I believe we are all capable of horrific acts of violence and tender acts of love. It just depends on who is doing the shaping while we are growing up.

I was reading a lot of Albert Camus during this time as well, and it’s no coincidence that the second half of the book lives in the theater of the absurd. It was important to me that How to Kill Harry would also be a philosophical look at morality and why we believe what we do.

After another month-long burst of fifteen hours a day writing, I began the editing process with Julie on a nightly basis. I’m convinced no one has read and re-read How to Kill Harry more times than her. It’s due to her belief in the project and her tireless editing that the book is what it is today. No book stands alone without a great editor to tinker with lines, make you question your sanity and send you into an emotional outburst over a semi-colon.

Seeing that we had a newborn between us, it seemed only fitting that we get married.

And now look at How to Kill Harry, all grown up with a real publisher and everything.

It looks like we raised him right, honey.

Peace,

Leigh Binder

October 29, 2011

for anyone who’s ever needed a ride

4:00 pm

Pocatello, Idaho

1971

The back door slammed shut with a thud that echoed throughout the large yard. The screen door followed, making a tinny yelp that rattled back and forth several times before coming to a stilted halt. He stood on the porch, pint bottle in hand, searching for his ten-year-old boy. He had long given up the pretense of using a glass.

He surveyed the property, shielding his eyes from the sun. Everything was still; too still. It made him uneasy. He yelled out between swigs of cheap gin. Where you at, boy? Get over here.

The silence sunk in deeper, reinforcing the hollowness of his existence. He bellowed again, Damn it boy, where are you? Don’t make me look for you, Jacob; I swear to God, you get out here right now!

Walter spit tobacco on the ground and listened for a response. Just then, Jacob ran out of the barn at full speed and awkwardly halted over an arm’s length away. He stood stiff and silent, staring at the ground, waiting for the man to speak.

Walter considered the small boy with a smirk. Stand closer. Jacob slowly took a step forward which now put him in reach of Walter’s hand. Walter’s smirk turned into a sneer as he reached out and smacked Jacob squarely across the side of his head with an open palm. Jacob sprawled onto the dirt and weeds that surrounded the small, white stucco farm house, holding his head.

Walter stood over the boy and said calmly, That’s for making me call you twice. Now get up.

Jacob slowly pushed himself up with his hands and turned sideways to the man.

Walter growled, Turn and face me, boy.

Jacob did as he was ordered. In a flash, Walter’s hand flew out, striking Jacob on the other side of his head even harder than the first time.

Jacob fell to the ground and lay motionless. Walter stood over him again and said evenly, That’s for standing out of reach. You think you’re smarter than me? Is that it, Jacob, you think you’re smarter?

Jacob didn’t reply. Walter kicked the boy in the legs with his steel toed boot. I asked you a question. You think you’re smarter than me?

Jacob grunted from the pain and whispered, No sir.

No sir, what?

No sir, I’m not smarter than you.

Walter spit on the ground and took another swallow from the bottle. Damn straight, and don’t you forget it! He kicked him lightly one more time. You finish that task I gave you?

Jacob nodded.

Why didn’t you call me to check your work?

He answered, stuttering, I, I don’t know, sir.

Walter took a step back, causing his shadow to grow larger than life over Jacob’s prone body. He said, matter-of-fact, That’s because you’re stupid Jacob, plain and simple. Walter looked out past the barn and the potato crop. Yep, you better learn to work hard, Jacob. It’s the only thing that’s gonna save your stupid ass.

Jacob began slowly lifting himself off the ground with his small arms. Walter watched Jacob with amusement, as if he were looking at a caged animal in the zoo. Jacob was helpless and Walter enjoyed that knowledge.

Now go clean yourself up. Cynthia needs your help, Walter said finally, and walked away from the boy and headed toward his truck. He still had work to do. The sun set at 9:00 pm in early summer. He figured he could still get five hours out in the field, and be back in time for whatever disaster his wife called dinner. If it wasn’t for Jacob, Walter’s wife would never leave the couch.

Cynthia was watching I Love Lucy repeats when Jacob walked over to her. She looked up at the boy and studied the bruises on his face and arms, knowing without seeing them that the bruises on his legs were deep purple. She was happy to see the swollenness of his check had subsided. Absent-mindedly, she posed the same question she’d asked him every day for the past three weeks. Jacob, have you been listening to Walter?

Jacob slumped down next to her. She rearranged his mouse brown hair so it covered a bruise on his forehead. When he didn’t respond to her question, she repeated herself.

The boy stared at the television. Everyone on the show looked so happy. Then he turned his gaze to the woman next to him and nodded his head slightly. I’m listening.

Cynthia stroked his neck and said, That’s good, Jacob. Remember, it’s not smart to get Walter upset. You don’t want to have to live in the room again, do you?

Jacob closed his eyes as a shudder ran down his spine. He put the thought out of his head. When he spoke again, his voice trembled. No, I don’t want to have to live in the room.

Cynthia took a sip from a large glass filled with clear liquid. Her dark brown, stringy hair was streaked with grey and the bags under her eyes were darker than most of Jacob’s bruises. She patted his head. That’s right. Remember how long you had to stay last time?

Jacob remembered and remained silent.

Cynthia reminded him gently. Three months, Jacob. That’s how long. I need you to help me with meals and cleaning. How can you do that if you have to stay in the room?

Jacob smiled weakly. I can’t help you if I’m in the room.

Cynthia nodded. That’s right.

Jacob watched the TV screen while Cynthia squeezed his hand. She was glad Jacob understood the priorities. Life was much easier having him around.

The boy helped her make a hapless dinner of spaghetti. He had become adept at knowing when she would knock something over and as a result, he was able to prevent a majority of spills and breakage. At times, she moved unpredictably for her own private reasons and would catch Jacob off guard. She opened up a large can of tomato sauce and began pouring it in a pot. She took another sip of gin from the glass at the same time and spilled cold red sauce all over the boy’s shoulders.

She apologized while taking off his shirt, wiping his skin with a dirty dish cloth. She stared at his small frame for a moment, filled with mixed emotions, kissing his bare shoulders several times; running her hands down his arms. It sent shivers down the ten year old’s spine.

Cynthia continued drinking and preparing the dinner. She filled another pot with water for the noodles and watched to see where Jacob was standing. She waited until he was within range, bumped the large pot of water with her arm and splashed water all over Jacob’s jeans. She sighed and apologized once again, helping him out of his wet clothes.

She knelt down and lightly touched the purple bruises on his calves and thighs. Jacob’s under nourished body stood still, trembling, in stained white briefs. Her hand lingered where it had no business being for several moments. She lightly kissed his damaged skin and felt a flush of desire fill her being, conflicted but at the same time, compelled.

Cleaning up the mess was never a problem as long as Walter didn’t walk in while they were doing so.

Jacob had no real memories of life before Walter and Cynthia. He knew only what they had told him. The only story Jacob knew was vague. His parents had died and Walter and Cynthia were their best friends. His parents’ will stated that Walter and Cynthia would now be his guardians and would always take care of him. Jacob never thought it might not be true.

Jacob’s guardians always told him how sad they would be if he left them. He knew this last part to be true. He had left them once, recently, for the first time ever. But he only meant to explore what might lie beyond their property line. He wouldn’t really leave. After all, where would he go? His home was with Walter and Cynthia. They reminded him often: no one else cared about Jacob except them.

But that day, Jacob only wanted to know what the world was really like.

Cynthia had passed out on the couch and Walter was working. Jacob started walking, driven solely by curiosity. He wanted to see another person, maybe talk to them; that was all.

He walked almost two miles until he came to a gas station. He stared at the large structures lined up in threes with handles and hoses. Until that moment, he’d only seen them on TV.

The station attendant ignored the small boy, assuming he lived nearby and would shortly be claimed by an anxious and harried mother. He continued reading the paper. When Jacob wandered into the office and stared at him, the man could only stare back. The boy was covered with bruises.

Jacob thought the man looked friendly, so he said, Hi, my name’s Jacob.

The gas station attendant gave him a wan smile and leaned across his desk. You get in a fight there, Jacob?

Jacob lightly touched a bruise on his left cheek, then turned and walked quickly out of the office. He realized instinctively he had made a terrible mistake in leaving the farm. He struck himself on the side of the head and muttered, Stupid! That was stupid!

He made his way across the asphalt of the parking lot and had his eye on the dirt path that would return him to his home, when he looked up and saw Walter’s truck pulling in. He stopped in his tracks, frozen in fear. Walter casually stepped out of the truck and called over to Jacob with a smile on his face, waving off assistance from the attendant. Jacob slowly walked toward him.

Walter reached out a hand and ruffled the boy’s hair. What are you doing out here, Jake? Hell, that’s a two mile walk! Get in the truck and I’ll drive you home. You must be tired. Walter waved at the attendant, grinning, and quickly turned the truck around to head back to the farm.

The truck swung onto the highway and passed a group of trees lining the side of the road. Walter watched the road mournfully and said, Do you have any idea how sad I am right now, Jacob? Jacob remained quiet. Do you have any idea how sad Cynthia is that you broke the most important rule of all?

Jacob said fearfully, No sir.

Walter turned and looked at Jacob with contempt. That’s right, because you’re stupid. He punched Jacob in the head and the young boy cried out. Then Walter grabbed a fistful of his hair. He shook his head while sneering, and stepped on the gas. The truck bounced up and down on the dirt road. It bucked, almost out of control. Walter yelled, What’s the most important rule of all? What is it?

Jacob whimpered. Don’t leave.

Walter hissed, So why did you? and heaved Jacob against the passenger door with a thud. They drove in silence for the rest of the ride home. When they got back to the farm, Jacob was locked in the room and kept there for three months.

The gas station attendant had forgotten about the incident until a few days later when the sheriff pulled in to fill up. He looked at the sheriff and asked, Hey Phil, does Walter Askins have any kids?

The sheriff scratched his head at the question. I don’t remember ever seein’ any kids over there. Why do you ask?

The station attendant recalled the scene he’d witnessed and watched as the man in his late fifties seemed to mull the information over in his mind. Finally, the sheriff sat down on a plastic chair. It was the only other chair in the small office. Ya know, Ken, I’ve always liked Walter, just because he’s never given me any trouble. He and Cynthia keep to themselves. But somethin’s not right. A kid no one’s ever seen before? Beat up? Maybe I’ll head over and check it out. Don’t say anything for the time being, okay?

The attendant nodded in agreement and the sheriff left to check out the Askins’ farm.

Everything seemed normal when he arrived. There was no child to be seen. The couple seemed straight forward enough, although Cynthia was obviously smashed. When asked about the boy, they claimed he was a distant relative; the son of a cousin, visiting for a short while. Real accident prone, Walter explained. Always falling, smashing himself up. I had to stop asking for his help around the place. You just missed his parents. They came and got him, headed back to Boise. The Sheriff raised an eyebrow at Walter’s last statement.

The sheriff left the Askins’ place and went back to the jailhouse. He sat down at his desk, feeling a gnawing inside his stomach. His gut told him that even though everything appeared normal and Walter’s story was plausible, it wasn’t the truth.

He picked up the phone and made a call to his brother-in-law who worked for the FBI. He hated calling him because his family never stopped talking about his in-law, ‘the federal agent.’ Still, the sheriff’s instincts were usually right on, even though this one seemed thin. He put his feelings aside and asked if there were any missing children from Idaho named Jacob.

I’ll see what I can find out, said the Fed. But be forewarned. It could take awhile. We have thousands of cases, just like this one.

Three months, three weeks, and three days later, Walter decided to quit work early and came home before sunset. He walked into the kitchen to find Jacob wearing nothing but his underwear while Cynthia was kissing his stomach. A pot of spaghetti sauce was boiling over on the stove, red drops splattered everywhere. Walter exploded in rage and knocked his wife to the floor, where she lay motionless in a combined state of fear and inebriation. He beat Jacob until the boy was knocked out cold. When Jacob came to, he was back in the room.

Walter was passed out on the couch next to Cynthia when the FBI burst in, guns drawn, shouting out commands at the top of their lungs for the occupants of the house to lie down on the floor, and not to move.

A dozen agents searched every room of the small farm house. One agent found a hidden panel under the stairwell and pushed it in. He walked down a thin corridor lit only by a single light bulb. To the right was a solitary door which was locked. The agent kicked it in and splintered wood flew everywhere.

A powerful stench met him as he walked through the doorway. He stood there for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, covering his mouth and nose with a pocket handkerchief. When he had enough light to see what was before him, he could only stare, mouth agape, as he took in the scene.

A young boy was chained to a small metal bed without a mattress; his face covered in blood. The room reeked of discarded food, human feces and urine; it was all the agent could do not to vomit. He slowly walked over to the boy and undid the chains and said quietly, I’m Special Agent Toller. Is your name Jacob?

The small boy nodded his head. Toller stepped out of the room and