Bad Habits

By Keith Gilman

BAD HABITS collects Keith Gilman’s short stories.

“The best fiction has this feeling that someone’s just leaned close to whisper in our ear, ‘I’ve something important to tell you.’ Keith Gilman’s debut novel has and sustains that quality from the first page. You know right away that you’re in the hands of a natural and very fine storyteller. Authenticity, voice, the sense of lives beyond the page, all those things we crave as readers and for which we work so hard as writers, tossing the bones, hoping the magic will work—all are solidly, soundly in place.” —James Sallis, author of Drive.

“Dark, gritty, and hauntingly lyrical, Keith Gilman writes Noir with the authenticity of a cop who has actually worked the mean streets.” —Robin Burcell, author of Face of a Killer.

“...grabbed me by the collar and wouldn’t let go. Gilman’s voice is a powerful new addition to the crime fiction community.” —Reed Farrel Coleman, Shamus, Barry and Anthony Award-winning author of the Moe Prager series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Feb 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370386680

Book preview

BAD HABITS

Collected Stories

Keith Gilman

Compilation Copyright © 2013 by Keith Gilman

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design by JT Lindroos

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

Condolences

Morning Rain

Around Here

Say Your Prayers

Nice Round Numbers

Pay to Pray

Caught in a Trap

Bus Stop

Riptide

Guts

Blackout

Front Row Seats

My Brother’s Keeper (novel excerpt)

Home to Roost

Devil’s Pocket

The Blue Flame

The Condiment King

About the Author

Other Titles from Down & Out Books

Preview from Big Numbers by Jack Getze

Preview from Exit Blood by Trey R. Barker

Preview from Tranquility Denied by A.C. Frieden

Introduction

Bad Habits is Noir at its darkest, bleak in its portrayal of human nature. The stories in this collection put crime under a microscope, the motivation behind it and its consequences. People die. Justice is rarely served. Greed and Lust take their place at the head of the table, selfishly dictating their terms and conditions to the men and women under their control.

Noir is a style defined by its dark vision of existence. It addresses the business of life and death by showing men and women pushed to the limits of their reason. They lose control, often losing their grasp of reality. They are driven by instinct and emotion. Their schemes fail. They lose in love. They’re driven to crime. Bad things happen to good people. And through it all, the hand of Fate seems to always be pulling the strings.

And this is one of the most fundamental elements of Noir, that what appears, at first, as Chance, is, in actuality, Fate. There is this sense that the characters on this dark stage can’t help but do what they do and doubtless will eventually fail. The portrait of their lives is painted to reveal a tormented past, brought forward to a point where even they should realize that ultimate failure is inevitable. But they can’t see it. They are blind to their own destiny. This is their essential identity, and any hope for their success is nothing but the futile dreams of the doomed. The rug does always get pulled out from under them. And they are always the last to know. And it is always too late.

The language of Noir is often poetic. It is the poetry of the absurd and the poetry of the mundane, the poetry of the street. It reflects upon the objects of everyday life and gives them significance. The poetry of Noir is used to elevate what might otherwise be considered common. It expresses the banality of life in poetic terms, heightening our awareness of the world around us, the things that fill up our lives and the nature of our relationship with those things. This language of Noir is used to describe the people, places and things that inhabit a world often found beneath the surface of our experience, symbolic of a world of shattered lives, ruined dreams and lost hope. Beautiful language used to describe the ugliness of existence.

Using pure description and contrasting images isn’t unique to Noir but it does represent one of Noir’s signature concepts. As with Film Noir, a contradiction of opposites always seems to be taking shape, evident in the play of shadows and light, day and night, life and death, sound and silence, young and old, weak and strong, right and wrong, love and hate, what is and what should be, all juxtaposed to create a new meaning. This descriptive quality of Noir momentarily slows the action. Time stands still just long enough to convey an idea, a perspective, a purpose. And in the next instant, the action commences, usually with such extremes of emotional upheaval and violence that the story seems to catapult itself forward, catching up to itself, starting and stopping with a pace that lends itself to those twists and turns Noir has become famous for.

One last characteristic of Noir, common in many of these stories, is that the protagonists as well as the story itself often finish in the same place they begin. The manner in which they unravel is circular rather than linear. Noir is peopled with characters that no sooner begin their journey than find themselves back where they started, none the wiser for their travails. And though they are faced with moral dilemmas and thrown into life and death struggles, in the end they cannot help but make the same mistakes over and over again.

Bad Habits contains a varied selection of classic crime stories but the jewel of the collection is Devil’s Pocket. Originally published in the anthology, Philadelphia Noir, Devil’s Pocket is set in the Grays Ferry section of Philadelphia and is about an ex-cop lost in a world he no longer understands and can no longer control. It is wrought with the pain of a man who has come to question his assumptions about life and his role in that life. It has atmosphere. It has the stark imagery. It evokes a mood of spiritual dissonance, demanding a visceral response. It reeks of urban decay. And, as usual, there are no happy endings.

—Keith Gilman, August 2013

Back to TOC

Condolences

The cops had the road blocked for more than two hours. Three uniformed officers in slick black raincoats straddled the double yellow line, chatting and laughing as the rain dripped off their eight-pointed hats. The ambulance crew was getting restless, waiting for them to dig the car out of the creek. Nobody seemed to be in much of a hurry. The dead guy in the driver’s seat had finished his last drink hours ago and wasn’t going anywhere.

A red Buick sedan lay at the bottom of a shallow ravine. It was submerged in about four feet of cold, rippling water and filling up fast. The driver looked bored, his head against the steering wheel and his mouth hanging open and his eyes closed as if he was catching a quick nap. The crack in his skull ran like a fault line down his forehead and between his eyes. If he’d been wearing his seat belt, he might still be alive.

Frank Weber was a detective with the Livingston Township Police Department. He’d been investigating crimes committed in the township for the past ten years. He’d been a patrolman for ten years before that and a certified drunk the entire time. He was on the list of people to call when shit happened at three o’clock in the morning. And shit did happen; only Frank didn’t like to get called.

He was sick of it, the whole idea of being on call. If it wasn’t the police department, it was his wife. She would call him any time, day or night, in the office, on his cell phone, her whining voice inventing suspicions as if she actually had something to worry about. Finally, she’d called one too many times and Frank didn’t answer. He just let it ring and ring and ring.

She’d ended up with the house and the kids and the car in a sticky divorce settlement that threatened to bring down the whole department with all sorts of allegations. Frank ended up in a one bedroom over the Brookline Tavern, which wasn’t as bad as it sounded. The phone calls stopped. Even the kids had stopped calling. They’d found out about Candy, a stripper turned part-time prostitute that Frank was shacking up with. He’d been helping her out. After he busted her ass for the third time, he got her released on her own recognizance and gave her a place to stay, nothing more than a roof over her head until she got her shit together. It just took a little longer to get rid of her than he’d figured. But soon enough Candy was back on the street and Frank was back on the job. They still didn’t call.

Frank angled his ten-year old gray Pontiac between the barricades and lit a cigarette before dragging himself out of the car. He wore a blue sweatshirt and sneakers, a blue hat with a gold star stenciled on the front.

Sure thing, boys. That’s a dead body, all right. He pointed at the car with his cigarette. Well, my job’s done. Next time call someone who cares. Call the Lieutenant. He makes more money than me for doing a lot less.

He started walking away when one of the uniforms blocked his path and poked him in the chest.

What do you say, Frankie? How they treating you upstairs? Looks like you’re bulking up. You hitting the weights in your old age?

It’s the home cooking. Six cheeseburgers a day will do wonders for the muscle tone.

He patted his belly with one hand and shook Tommy Dickerson’s hand with the other.

The beer doesn’t hurt either.

One of the advantages of living over the Brookline Tavern.

I’ll handle the paperwork on this thing, Frankie. Don’t worry about it.

Thanks, Tommy. Guy must have been moving pretty good. Looks like he busted right through that guardrail.

You can pick up a lot of speed coming down Glendale Road if you’re not careful. Tough curve at the bottom. The blood will probably come back distilled.

Skid marks must be a mile long.

No skid marks, Frankie. Driver must have fallen asleep.

Works for me. I make it home every night with my eyes closed.

Frank tossed his cigarette into a puddle of muddy water and watched it roll like a turd in the toilet. He lit another one.

You ID him?

Guys name is Joe Bowers, lives over in Fairless Hills. License is good. The car’s clean. You just never know.

Never know what?

What’s going to happen.

Sure. Take it easy, Tommy.

Frank fished a set of keys from his pocket and juggled them in his hand. He walked away shaking his head.

Hey, Frank, wait a minute. Could you do me a favor?

Frank stopped and spun slowly, his eyelids heavy and drooping, the cigarette dangling from his lips.

Here it comes.

I was hoping, since I’m writing the report and since you’re the ranking officer, that you’d make the notification for me. The guys got a wife. She’ll have to be told.

Frank looked down at the wet road, at the glistening pavement, at the red and blue lights flashing in the dark.

Get me the address.

In Fairless Hills, all the houses looked the same. Two-story, red brick colonials lined each side of the street with cut green lawns and narrow shared driveways on postage stamp lots. It was a nice, clean neighborhood where respectable people lived respectable lives. It oozed middle class contentment, a Christmas card veneer. Even in the dark and at three in the morning, porch lights burned expectantly. Brand new cars sat polished and poised in those paved driveways like guard dogs. Frank found the house. He stood on the small front porch about to ring the bell, thinking what to say, how to make the truth sound nicer than it was.

There was a light on inside and he noticed movement behind the sheer curtains. He leaned his head toward the window. His breath clouded the glass. A woman sat on the sofa in a silky blue nightgown, sipping from a glass of wine. A bare leg escaped from beneath folds of thin material and her dark hair fell over her shoulders.

He watched her light a cigarette, leaning back and blowing the smoke over her head, filling the room with a blue haze. Frank got the feeling she wasn’t alone, as if she was striking a pose, waiting for someone in the next room to walk in and find her there.

He pushed the buzzer and heard chiming like church bells inside, the fanfare of carved stone, not brick and mortar. He had his badge out before she answered the door. She looked him up and down and didn’t say a word. She tossed her cigarette past him, out the open door and onto the wet lawn. She invited him in with a nod.

This is about Joe, isn’t it? she said, pulling another cigarette from a crumpled pack on the table.

I’m afraid so, Mrs. Bowers. I’ve done this a dozen times and it doesn’t get any easier.

Just tell me what happened.

Your husband was in an automobile accident. He went off the road, down an embankment and into a shallow creek. He died at the scene. I’m sorry.

She didn’t say anything. She poured the last glass of wine from the bottom of the bottle, turning it over until every drop of pink liquid dripped out. She took three long swallows and put the bottle down hard on the table. It spun onto the floor like a bowling pin. Frank strolled over and picked it up. He read the label, looking down his nose at the empty bottle of wine as if he knew the difference between Burgundy and Bordeaux.

Where did it happen?

At the bottom of the hill on Glendale Road. He must have lost control.

He was drunk, wasn’t he?

We won’t know until the blood results come back.

Frank thought he saw a tear. She turned and her arms went around him. Her body shook on his shoulder. Her hair fell over his face. Her skin was warm and damp.

I’m sorry, Detective. Please forgive me. She pushed herself away and took a few unsteady steps toward the wall, grabbing for it with a trembling hand. Frank moved toward her. I’m all right. It’s just that Joe and I argued just before he left. It was a fight actually. He slapped me across the face and went out of here like a maniac. Her hand went to her reddened cheek. It wasn’t the first time he hit me. He’s a different person when he’s drunk. I guess I deserved it. I don’t know. But I never thought he’d end up dead.

She was crying again, the tears streaming down her cheeks and over her lips.

It’s not your fault, Mrs. Bowers. There was nothing you could have done.

You’re nice to say that. You must think I’m crazy.

You’re in shock. You need a good night’s rest.

Joe was so damn jealous. He’d drink himself silly and then accuse me of all sorts of things, things I won’t repeat.

I’m going to hit the road, Mrs. Bowers. I’ll leave my card. Call me for any reason.

Call me Sylvia, Detective, and thank you.

I’m Frank. Take care. Again, I’m sorry.

She put out her hand and Frank took it in his. He stood in the doorway holding her soft, limp hand. It was half the size of his. He let go and his hand was covered with sweat. He was wiping it on his pants and walking away when she called to him.

Detective, from now on if you’re going to be peeking in windows, try not to fog up the glass. I thought you were Joe at first.

It was too late to go home and too early for the bar. Frank decided to stop at Ralph’s Diner for breakfast—an outdated greasy hole in the wall reserved for Livingston’s finest. It was a dirty little place but it was a cop’s dirt and that made it clean. The coffee was scalding hot and the lone waitress was cold and mean.

Tommy D was at a table in the back. He was drawing a diagram for his accident report, measuring the angles with a template and sipping black coffee. Frank pulled up a chair, the metal legs scraping against the cracked linoleum.

Back so soon?

What’s that supposed to mean?

I don’t see you for two years. Now, twice in one day.

Consider yourself lucky.

Every time I get lucky, I end up getting served with papers a month later. It costs me a bundle and no, it’s never worth it.

Why don’t you wise up?

Why don’t you?

The waitress rattled a cup and saucer in front of Frank as if she was feeding a stray cat on her back porch. She filled the cup with steaming coffee from a blackened pot and walked away without taking his order.

Fortunato’s opens in about a half an hour. What do you say we head over there?

You read my mind.

Fortunato’s wasn’t much different than Ralph’s, same clientele, same intimate charm. Instead of watery eggs and burnt toast, there was cold beer and shots of cheap whiskey. They sat side by side with their elbows on the bar. Tommy dumped a shot of Old Grand Dad into a full glass of beer.

You’re disgusting, Frank groaned.

Tell me about it.

They toasted each other in the clouded mirror behind the bar and drank.

How’d the old lady take it? asked Tommy.

If you’re referring to the widow Bowers, I’d say pretty well. I’d say her husband taking a spill and not coming home is par for the course. At least this time, she didn’t have to wait up for him.

That don’t sound good, Frankie.

She looks a lot better than she sounds, though. The kind that’ll drive a man to drink.

Nothing wrong with that.

They toasted the air again and drained their glasses. After three more hours, they ran out of things to toast and called it quits.

Frank didn’t know how long he’d been sleeping before the telephone began ringing. He knew it was dark. He knew that his head ached and his mouth felt as thick as freshly poured cement. The answering machine picked up and he heard her voice. She was barely audible, an alluring whisper tickling the speaker.

I need to speak with you, Detective. I’d like to apologize again and thank you. Whether you realize it or not, you probably saved me from going totally crazy last night. I can make us a fresh pot of coffee or if you’d prefer wine…

Frank picked up the phone and turned off the machine. Twenty minutes later he was on her front porch, wondering whether to ring the doorbell or knock when the door opened.

She wore a black skirt to her knees and a black waist-length jacket. Her hair was tied up on her head, a few curling wisps flowing over her face. The only thing between the jacket and her narrow neck was a sparkling pearl necklace. She wasn’t wearing much make-up. She didn’t need much. The tears were gone.

She poured two glasses of white wine and sat on the sofa, her legs tucked neatly underneath her.

Thanks for coming, Detective.

You can stop thanking me and drop the formalities. Call me Frank.

I don’t know why, whenever I meet a cop, I feel like I have something to confess. I start stammering like a schoolgirl, like I’m guilty of something but I’m not. The nuns at St. Dorothy’s made sure of that.

A guilty conscience is a tough thing to shake.

I guess I just needed someone to talk to. I didn’t know who else to call.

No family?

Some, but we don’t get along too well and Joe’s family never liked me.

I’ve run up against that myself.

They touched their glasses together. The ring was as soft as a spoonful of sugar in a teacup. They sipped the wine and her eyes came up to his.

That was half the problem between me and Joe. His mother would put me down and he’d side with her.

My wife was warned many times about me. She should’ve listened. Everything they told her, all the rumors turned out to be true. And that’s the thing. She decided to marry me anyway. I always figured I could do no wrong. But it’s not just about who’s right and who’s wrong. Not that I didn’t deserve what I got, I just didn’t see it coming.

I should have seen this coming. Joe’s drinking and his uncontrollable anger, I should have done something.

Like what? You didn’t put the bottle in his hand. You didn’t put him behind the wheel of that car. You didn’t force him off the road.

But I gave up, Frank, a long time ago. I popped pills. I drank. I laid on the couch with my eyes shut to what was happening. He’d come home from work and look at me, glued to a television screen like an invalid. I could see the disgust in his eyes.

Forget about it, Sylvia. It’s over.

She poured two more glasses and walked to the window. Frank followed. It was a clear, cold night and the street outside was deserted. She sipped her wine and turned to face him.

I don’t want to be alone tonight, Frank.

They stepped into each other’s arms as if the music had just started and the dance had just begun. Her mouth was soft and inviting, a mouth he could have kissed for a long time without taking a breath. He tasted the wine on her breath. She tasted like cigarette smoke and alcohol and her tongue curled like a hook in his mouth.

He sat on her bed and watched her slip slowly out of her dress. Her movements were rhythmic and methodical. She lingered at the foot of the bed, letting him see her. She had a smooth flawless body and a model’s face. She let Frank do things to her, things she’d only do when she was drunk, things she wouldn’t remember when she was sober.

Frank struck a match and held it out to her. She leaned forward with a cigarette carelessly dangling from her lips. She grabbed his wrist and drew on the cigarette, letting the smoke drift languidly from her mouth. She blew it in his face and her liquid blue eyes locked on his. She didn’t let go of his wrist, not immediately, not until the trickling flame crawled downward and burned his fingertips. He dropped the match to the floor and heard her laugh for the first time. It was a mean laugh, a cutting laugh that softened into a purring deep in her throat. He didn’t like the sound of it.

So, what do you do when you’re not getting policeman drunk and seducing them?

That’s not funny, Frank.

He grabbed her ass, two big hands on each cheek, pulling her whole body toward him. She fell on top of him. He buried his head in her neck and whispered in her ear.

I’m sorry.

I’m a waitress, a cocktail waitress at a place called the Eldorado.

Down on Strathmore Road. That’s tough territory.

Not really. I was sick of Joe telling me how worthless I was. So, I got myself a job. Some nights, I’d bring home two hundred bucks in tips alone.

I bet.

She turned her head away and lit another cigarette.

Some nights I didn’t come home at all. That’s when Joe went off the deep end. I’d hang around the bar after hours with some of the other girls. It was fun. We’d drink Tequila and tell jokes. It was totally innocent. I figured I deserved it.

Sure.

And then one night, Joe showed up. The front door was locked and he kicked it in. He fought with Tony, the owner. The cops came and locked him up. That was only about three weeks ago.

She peeled herself off him and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Frank could hear the water running. He put his ear against the door, gently testing the lock. He pulled his pants on and buttoned his shirt and got the hell out of there. He still felt naked in the early morning night. He went back to Ralph’s for another double dose of heartburn. Tommy D was parking an unmarked in the lot. Frank lit a cigarette and threw Tommy a limp-wristed wave. He held the door open and Tommy went through first.

After you, your honor.

You’re becoming a regular.

It’s the food.

You must be working up quite an appetite lately.

It’s either here or the bar.

You never did like to stay home much.

Where’s that? You mean a one-bedroom apartment over a low-life bar. That’s a hotel room.

How’s the room service?

It stinks.

If they got a Bible in the drawer, you could always read it?

Fuck off.

Frank mopped up his eggs with a piece of soggy white bread and washed it down with a swig of black coffee. Tommy D did the same.

Did you get the word on the toxicology report?

That was fast.

Just preliminary. Nothing official yet. They found traces of Thallium in his blood. If the accident hadn’t killed him, the poison would have, eventually. Looks like someone wanted Joe Bowers dead.

Frank sat stone-faced, staring into space.

I’m tired. I’m going home to bed.

Tommy wiped his face with a thin paper napkin and pulled a cigarette from a flattened pack in his pocket.

Sweet dreams.

Frank stretched out on the bed and pulled the blanket over his head. He let the tension leave his body like dirty water down the drain. The sunlight creeping through the window was bright enough to warm the room. He couldn’t sleep. He tried to shut off his racing thoughts and couldn’t. The phone rang and he knew instantly who it was. He answered it, holding his breath as if he was drowning.

Why did you leave?

You needed some time alone.

Is that what you thought?

Yeah, I did.

The funeral is tomorrow. Will you be there?

No.

You’ll call?

Yeah.

He hung up and walked to the window. He couldn’t remember ever having opened that window. He dug his fingers into the soft wood and pried it up. Paint chips clung to his fingernails. He looked down into the street at the pick-up trucks and vans lined up in front of the paint store across the street and at the long line of traffic maneuvering along Brookline Boulevard. He stared blankly at the darkened windows of other apartments and the people shuffling like ants over the sidewalk. He spit out the window into the parking lot and watched the dry white spittle fall like a freezing raindrop onto the cold pavement.

The small chapel was empty except for a few family members. Sylvia sat across the aisle from an elderly, white-haired woman that might have been Bowers’ mother. Frank stood in the back watching Sylvia sitting still and silent near the casket, her hands folded in her lap and her face hidden behind a black veil. Frank didn’t stay very long. There wasn’t anybody else coming. It didn’t look like Joe Bowers was a very popular guy.

On the way home, he picked up a pint of cheap Bourbon and cracked it open in the car. He drove past Fortunato’s and saw Tommy’s car in the lot. He didn’t stop.

He skipped supper and when the whiskey was gone, he started on the case of beer in his fridge. He had enough cigarettes and beer to last a couple days, long enough to get her out of his system. And as if on cue, the phone rang. The answering machine crackled to life and it was her. But there was an urgency in her voice this time.

Frank, pick up the phone. I know you’re there. I need to talk to you. Please!

He lay back on the bed. He closed his eyes and he could see her. He could smell her, the alcohol, the cigarettes and the perfume, the hunger in her mouth.

My God, Frank. It’s an emergency.

He rolled off the bed and ran to the phone.

Sylvia, where are you?

I’m at the Eldorado. Please come, Frank, hurry.

What’s wrong?

It’s Tony. He’s lost his mind. I think he wants to kill me. You’ve got to get me out of here, Frank.

I’m coming.

He pulled up sharply in front of the Eldorado and saw her standing in the shadows across the street, a man’s dark raincoat wrapped