Small World

By Pat Crudden

Garth Gardner really stepped in it this time. He killed a local dealer for his coke and pissed off The Frenchman, who wants Garth dead in the worst way. Garth's no lightweight, but he's up against a psychotic millionaire with lots of hitters on his payroll and revenge on the brain. Good thing for Garth though is his new friend, Adrian Delaney, who has some radically different ideas about how things are going to shake out. Together with Adrian, Garth hatches a plan involving bikers, bombs, bullets and dead bodies. Lots of dead bodies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pat Crudden
• Release date: Jan 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465733610

Pat Crudden

Pat Crudden lives in Toronto, Canada

Book preview

SMALL WORLD

A Novel By

Pat Crudden

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

INFORMATION

DEDICATION

THURSDAY

FRIDAY

SATURDAY

SUNDAY

MONDAY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

INFORMATION

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Pat Crudden

All characters are fictional

Any relation to people living or dead is unintentional

City representations are not accurate

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this e-book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DEDICATION

To All My Friends In Cliffside

You Know Who You Are

THURSDAY

10 PM

Garth sat and watched his black iphone buzz and dance and vibrate its way across his desk’s gray metal top. He grabbed the cell and checked it.

It was James Horrigan, Garth’s lawyer. He took a deep breath.

Here we go.

He flipped the cell open. Hello?

A confident, phlegmy voice said, It’s me. Remember that thing we talked about?

Yeah.

Well, it’s on.

Garth felt his stomach flip. He knew this call was coming, but he still wasn’t ready for it. Horrigan had a brusque attitude over the phone, it always put Garth back on his heels. When?

Tonight. Get a pen, I’ll give you the particulars.

Hang on.

Garth held the phone to his ear with his left hand and opened the desk drawer with his right. He rummaged around inside, pulling out a blue pen, a silver digital camera, a small black Glock handgun--

Ready yet?

--a bluish-black snap-on silencer, a crinkled plastic baggie of reddish green marijuana--

Yeah, just one sec.

--two black ammo clips and finally a white writing pad.

He pushed the items around on the desktop, made a space and put the pen to the pad.

Okay, shoot.

FRIDAY

12:02 AM

Mikey said, Nurse! in a boisterous, slurred voice.

Barb was stacking a case of Corona into one of the under-bar fridges. She turned and glared at her ‘patient.’

Mikey stood at the end of the long, l-shaped bar, swaying from side to side, his olive green eyes as drooped as his bony shoulders. He had a woozy grin on his face, showcasing a mouthful of twisted yellow teeth.

He held up his empty bottle of Molsons. Plasma! Stat!

Barb shook her head. She strolled towards the end of the bar, her slightly oversized hips snug and looking good in faded blue jeans. She was a slim woman, five foot three with long red auburn hair she kept swept up in a tight, no-nonsense pony tail. She had a complexion that most women envy; a smooth, makeup free face, big blue eyes with more than a few laugh wrinkles surrounding them, and a straight nose set above a gentle mouth filled with perfect, milk colored teeth.

She stopped at the bar fridge, grabbed a Molsons and a frosted mug and then strode to the inside corner of the bar.

She dropped the beer onto a coaster in front of Mikey. Three bucks.

Mikey reached into the front pocket of his shiny blue jeans and came out with a crumpled, moist twenty dollar bill. He laid it on the bar, carefully smoothed it out with his right palm and handed it to Barb.

She plucked it from Mikey and turned when she heard a gruff female voice say, Hey! What about me?

Barb gazed over Mikey’s shoulder past the pool table and saw Geena, stumbling towards them from the washroom. Short and fat, Geena wore skin tight clothes and put on way too much makeup. Her shoulder length brown hair was shiny with grease, her complexion was red and acne ridden and she had a large, hairy wart on her neck that looked bigger than a ground-out cigar butt. She was a fixture at the bar every 20th of the month, when her mother’s allowance cheque came in the mail; first nails, then tanning bed, then off to the bar to find Mister Right .

Who, if he had any sense at all, would be hiding in the men’s washroom until she left.

She waddled past the pool table wearing red stretch pants and a black sweater, carrying a pink leather purse that looked ridiculously tiny dangling from her ham-hocked fist.

Geena came up behind Mikey and smacked him on the shoulder.

Mikey smiled, yelped in mock pain and moved over.

Geena took her spot beside his left shoulder and glared at him. What, I go take a fuckin piss and you forget about me? She grabbed a shiny glass tumbler slick with water off the bar top and gave it to Barb. Bourbon, rocks. And Sweetie?

Barb glanced at her and noticed a pink lipstick smudge on the front of Geena’s stubby yellow teeth.

She grimaced.

Very cosmopolitan. Yeah?

Geena sneered and said, Make it the good stuff.

Mikey opened his mouth to protest but Geena cut him off. She wagged a finger at him and snarled, Hey! I’m your date tonight, and if you don’t treat me like a lady I’ll kick you in the fuckin nuts!

Mikey stood back, raising his palms and smiling. Okay, Okay! He turned to Barb, winked and nodded.

Barb moved to the bottles at the right of the cash register and grabbed the Jack Daniel’s.

She heard a noise and turned, just as the front door opened and Carson stumbled in, sniffling and coughing. Drunk as a skunk, he stood five foot nine and weighed about a hundred pounds. His shabby blue jeans and grubby brown button down shirt hung off his emancipated frame, his shit-colored eyes hung even lower than Mikey’s, and he had just four well-kept teeth left in his ruined mouth.

Carson staggered to the bar and leaned against it. Hi Barb. He pulled out a ten and dropped it on the bar top.

Barb put her hands on her hips and stared at him. Carson, I can’t serve you like this,. She held up an open palm. You’re a mess.

Carson rubbed his face with his hands dejectedly, and Barb felt a little twinge of sympathy at the bottom of her neck. Carson was a regular, and usually drank with his best friend Mikey. But tonight Mikey had a date, which made Carson a third wheel.

He sighed. Just one, Barb? I’ll go straight home after, I promise, he said in a pleading, almost desperate tone. Please? Juss’ a little nightcap.

Barb stared at him for a long moment.

None of this is my problem. Usually Garth handled these two. She liked them well enough, but it was very late, and she was exhausted.

And Garth wasn’t around.

Finally she sighed, grabbed a glass and stepped to the beer taps. She pulled a pint of Export out of the keg and dropped it on the bar. Just one, Carson.

She raised her eyebrows and pointed at him. Don’t ask me for another or I’ll ban you for a week.

Carson nodded solemnly and snatched his beer off the bar before she could change her mind. Fanks, Barb. He drained half the pint in three gulps, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, burped and put the glass on the bar top, just as Mikey stepped up and clapped him on the shoulder.

Carson glanced over. Hey, he said sullenly.

Mikey frowned and said, What’s wrong, buddy?

Carson snorted and shrank his shoulder from Mikey’s hand. Nuthin. He turned back to face the bar and picked his pint up. He grunted. How’s your date?

Mikey nodded. Oh, I get it. He chuckled. You’re jealous.

Carson frowned. No I’m not. He swilled some more beer. And fuck you.

You’re jealous, admit it.

Carson drained his beer and peered hopefully at Barb again, who shook her head. Don’t ask.

He looked back at Mikey. Yeah, well, she was my girl first. Carson had had stand-up sex with Geena in the alley behind the bar a month ago and he had subsequently followed her around for a week, sniffing her butt until she got sick of him and threw a drink in his face, effectively souring their budding romance.

Mikey said, Hey, look at it this way. I’m getting your sloppy seconds. He reached out and poured half of his pint into Carson’s empty glass, earning a scornful look from Barb but getting a smile from his best friend. He clinked glasses. We okay, buddy?

Carson drained his glass and cast his gaze at Barb, who ignored him. He turned to Mikey. Yeah, we’re okay. Fanks for the beer.

Mikey nodded and drifted back to Geena, his body swaying like a metronome.

Barb took Carson’s glass and wiped the bar with a damp rag. You took that pretty good. Carson had confided to her last week that he had been in love with Geena, right up to the drink throwing incident.

Carson shrugged. Yeah, well women come and go but friends are for life. He glowered down the bar. Mikey and Geena were huddled together, in close intimate conversation. Besides, it ain’t gonna work out between them two.

No?

Carson shook his head. No. She’ll come back, once she figures out what a drunk he is.

Barb had no idea what to say to that, so she moved sideways a few steps and started washing some glasses.

Carson sat there, sullenly staring at his friend and his ex, his face dark.

Nurse!

Barb glanced at Mikey and Geena, both now swaying together. Mikey raised his index finger and twirled it in a circle, signing another round.

She sighed, filled a pint glass with beer and plopped it on a coaster in front of Carson, who looked up, surprised.

She said, On the house, and pointed a finger at him, But that’s it, Carson. No more moping around.

Carson gazed at her, his eyes shining. He raised his glass and said in a cracked voice, Fanks, Barb, and took a healthy swallow.

Go home after that beer.

I will.

She grabbed the bourbon and a beer and strode to the lovebirds. When she got there Geena turned and stumbled to the washroom, saying Watch my purse, lover.

Barb took Mikey’s money, made change and walked back. He tipped her a quarter, saying Here you go sweetie. Don’t spend it all in one place.

She squinted at him. Wow. That gets funnier every time you say it, Mikey.

Totally clueless, Mikey said, I know, it’s a classic. He took a swig and nodded towards Carson, hunched over the bar, practically sleeping on his feet. He okay?

Barb nodded. He’s more drunk than heartbroken.

He’ll get over it.

That’s not what he says.

Oh yeah?

Barb nodded. He says he’s in love with her. Says they fooled around out back a few weeks ago.

Mikey grunted. I don’t see how.

What do you mean?

Mikey leaned in and motioned Barb closer. He chuckled and said, Carson’s got whiskey dick. As if to accentuate, he stuck his index finger straight out and then let it droop. Fuckin dude hasn’t had a hard-on in a light-year, Barb.

How do you know?

He told me.

She was caught up in the story now. I thought they got caught fooling around out back?

Mikey shook his head, still smiling. That what he told you? He rolled his eyes. He doesn’t even remember what happened. Geena told me she asked him for a smoke, he grabbed his dick, asked her for a blowjob and she punched him in the mouth.

Barb frowned. Aww, no…

Yeah. She drilled him and he smacked his head off the garbage can on the way down. He woke up a half hour later.

Barb shook her head.

Mikey said, Hey Barb, don’t tell him what really happened, willya? He tried to wink at her. Better off if he thinks he got laid than if he knows he got his ass knocked out by a woman.

This feels weird to say, but you’re a good friend to him, Mikey.

Mikey shrugged, trying to act cocky but failing badly. Eh, what can I say. I’m a good guy like that.

Sure you are. Barb turned to the cash register area and dropped Mikey’s quarter into her tip jar.

As she turned back to the bar the washroom door slammed and Barb watched Broadzilla walk out.

Mikey smiled. There’s the love of my life for this week. He turned quickly to Barb and said in a low voice, Hey, Barb-

She cut him off. No, Mikey. No tabs.

Mikey’s look instantly turned from faux cocky to genuine pleading. Come on, I got a real chance with this chick, but I need to, you know… He made an exaggerated drinking gesture with his right hand, … grease the wheels, you know what I’m saying?

Sorry Mikey, you know the rules. No credit, which means no tabs.

Mikey pouted. Garth lets me have a tab.

Yeah, well Garth’s an easy mark. I’m not. Truer words had never been spoken. Garth was many things, and a soft touch for Mikey and Carson was on top of the list. With a bullet.

Where is he, anyway?

Barb said impatiently, He’s none of your business, Mikey. That’s where he is.

Cause I could call him, see what he says about the tab situation-

Twenty feet away Carson said, Quit bowbeating her, Mikey. Leave her alone.

Mikey glowered at his drunken friend, opened his mouth, closed it and scooped up his beer. He sloshed over to Geena, muttering It’s browbeating, ya ignorant drunk, under his breath.

Barb checked the time.

12:16 AM

Garth trudged down the cracked concrete ramp into the Montrose Housing Complex’s underground parking garage, feeling tense but in control. The complex encapsulated three buildings on the Montrose Road cul-de-sac which were managed by the Odessa Housing Authority, the city’s low income housing and rental department.

Forty years old and a confident man, Garth stood six foot tall and weighed two hundred pounds. He had short brown thinning hair and brown eyes, set over a strong, dimpled jaw and crooked but otherwise well-cared-for teeth. He wore black cargo pants over black steeled-toe leather work boots, and wore a brown bomber jacket over a white button down shirt. He had on a Detroit Tigers baseball cap, pulled low on his forehead.

What a dump, he thought as he moved through the garage towards the basement access door, set into the far wall of the parking area. The garage’s precast concrete ceiling had been completely coated with a thin layer of gritty dark automobile exhaust residue. The foul smelling black dust coated the light fixtures and had baked itself onto the fluorescent light bulbs, greatly reducing the amount of light the weak bulbs were able to cast to a dim, sick looking glare. It was like looking at a candle through a wine glass full of urine.

As Garth moved deeper into the parking garage he passed dilapidated, broken down, rusted hulks of cheap hatchbacks and minivans parked side by side with late model oily black BMWs and satiny silver Infinitis. The walls were made of unpainted grey concrete blocks and were as filthy as the ceiling. Wet and dry dark brown molasses-like stains flowed down the walls of the garage to the floor, practically obliterating the white designating numbers that were stenciled on the wall of each parking stall.

When Garth reached the entry door to 10 Montrose he stopped. Parked in the closest spot to the door and to his right was a dusty, maroon colored 1988 Pontiac Bonneville SSE: General Motors’ lower cost, upper white trash alternative to the Chevy Cadillac. Cancerous rust tumors bloomed all over the surface of the vehicle, and Garth could see holes in the fender and door panels. The car had a scrim of street dirt covering everything, with the exception of the area surrounding the driver’s side door handle, which had been smudged clean with thumbprints.

Garth peered through the cloudy rear passenger side door window and saw the back seat was littered with discarded, ketchup-coated take out containers. He saw bags and cups from Wendy’s, Tim Horton’s and Dairy Queen. He opened the unlocked driver’s side door, held his breath against the monstrous odor that wafted out and noted the front driver’s seat was shiny with grease and sweat from the Bonneville’s driver. The front passenger seat, on the other hand, was covered in papers, napkins and more take out bags. Nobody had sat in that seat for some time.

He lives alone.

Garth stepped to the back of the car and saw it had no license plate. He moved to the front and noticed that stuck to the inside of the windshield were the seven numbers of a temporary driver’s permit, which he memorized.

He knew it was the building superintendent’s car, simply because of the location. The super lived in the basement of 10, about forty feet from the entry door to his left. The closest parking spot would have to be one of the few perks in an otherwise crappy job. Maybe the only perk.

From the proliferation of food containers Garth assumed the super was fat, the fact they were on the floor instead of in a garbage can meant he was lazy, and the unlocked door meant he was either brazen or careless.

Either option works for me. Garth opened the door to 10 and stepped into the basement corridor.

It wasn’t much better than the parking garage in either looks or lighting. The low stucco ceilings were as black as the parking garage ceiling and the walls were almost completely covered with sprayed on graffiti. Garbage and open food containers scattered the floor, and Garth had to be careful not to slip on any of the slimy, decaying yellow condoms that were scattered infrequently throughout the hallway.

Lovely place.

As he walked past the superintendent’s suite he shucked a brown canvas knapsack off of his shoulders and held it loosely in his right hand. He continued on to the other end of the hallway and opened the stairwell door. With no one in the stairwell that he could see, he backed out and closed the door. Reaching into his knapsack, he pulled out a pair of