The Hurt Business

By Mike Miner

“We are such fragile creatures.”

The men, women and children in these stories will all be pushed to the breaking point, some beyond. A failed boxer turned mob enforcer in Boston looks back on a life filled with pain, inflicted and endured. In Los Angeles, a recovering heroin addict revisits an old haunt on a twisted mission of mercy. Luck has run out for a crooked politician in Hartford who tries to cash in his chips before leaving town. Crazy visits a young boy in the form of a jilted actress who takes him on a doomed road trip he'll never forget. A little girl who doesn't want to lose her parents will commit a crime for all the right reasons.

Heroes, villains and victims. The lives Miner examines are haunted by pain and violence. They are all trying to find redemption. A few will succeed, but at a terrible price. All of them will face the consequences of their bad decisions as pipers are paid and chickens come home to roost. The lessons in these pages are learned the very hard way.

Throughout, Miner captures the savage beauty of these dark tales with spare poetic prose.

Praise for THE HURT BUSINESS:

“Mike Miner’s short stories hit like a heavyweight’s body shots. So buy this book, and tighten your abs. Or go buy Eat, Pray, Love and shut the f**k up.” —Todd Robinson, author of The Hard Bounce and Rough Trade

“Mike Miner is a dissector of the human soul, and this piercing collection reminds us that the way people hurt each other and the way people love each other are inextricably linked.” —Scott Adlerberg, author of Jack Waters and Graveyard Love

• Language: English
• Publisher: All Due Respect Books
• Release date: Mar 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463060193

Book preview

THE HURT BUSINESS

Stories by Mike Miner

PRAISE FOR THE HURT BUSINESS

"Mike Miner’s short stories hit like a heavyweight’s body shots. So buy this book, and tighten your abs. Or go buy Eat, Pray, Love and shut the f**k up." —Todd Robinson, author of The Hard Bounce and Rough Trade

Mike Miner is a dissector of the human soul, and this piercing collection reminds us that the way people hurt each other, and the way people love each other are inextricably linked. —Scott Adlerberg, author of Jack Waters and Graveyard Love

Collection Copyright © 2019 by Mike Miner

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.

All Due Respect

an imprint of Down & Out Books

AllDueRespectBooks.com

Down & Out Books

3959 Van Dyke Road, Suite 265

Lutz, FL 33558

DownAndOutBooks.com

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 Eric Beetner

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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

Visit the All Due Respect website to find lowlife literature.

Visit the Down & Out Books website to sign up for our monthly newsletter and we’ll deliver the latest news on our upcoming titles, sale books, Down & Out authors on the net, and more!

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Hurt Business

The Little Outlaw

Frog Hollow

El Locomotive

Kidnapped

The Revenge Game

Momma’s Boy

Monsters

155 Rounds

The Professor

The Church of the Sad Sisters

Party Crasher

The Hurt Business

Publication Credits

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by the Author

Preview from Guillotine by Paul Heatley

Preview from The Unrepentant by E.A. Aymar

Preview from Hipster Death Rattle by Richie Narvaez

The Little Outlaw

Mary was supposed to be asleep. She was upstairs, in her room, in her bed, but the sound of thunder, like a bowling ball being dropped on the roof, was keeping her up.

The little man in the radio was reading the news. Johnny Pesky went four for five with five RBIs as the Red Sox beat up on the Detroit Tigers at Briggs Stadium 13-3, every Boston player had gotten a hit including the pitchers. The storm now smacking the state was expected to last until morning. A dazzle of light followed by a crackling punch of noise seemed to agree. Mary shivered. According to local police, the main branch of the Rockville Bank had been robbed, the suspects remained at large. She knew there wasn’t really a little man in the radio, but her mother used to tell her that when she was younger that there was a little man in a suit or a tiny woman singing a song. Now Mary was ten and realized you couldn’t believe everything you heard, but these tiny people were stuck in her head.

The little man kept talking. The bridge on Route 74 was flooded. The National Weather Service advised that folks stay home if at all possible. Over fifty percent of Connecticut homes were without power. Then the little man put on some music. T-Bone Walker and his new song, "Stormy Monday." She pictured a miniature T-Bone Walker strumming a toy guitar inside their wooden Crosley radio and was just drifting off as he moaned, Tuesdays are just as bad, when the power went out.

Downstairs, Hank said, Goddammit. Hank was Mary’s mother’s husband. Not her father. He was a man of few words. Goddammit was one of them. He preferred to communicate with nods and grunts but he was kind and honest and in daylight hours, almost always tending to the farm. But no matter how hard he worked, the bank seemed forever poised to take it away. This rain would not help the corn crop.

The sound of Mary’s mother, Linda, searching for matches and lighting candles. Mary heard footsteps coming up the stairs, the familiar creaks as her mother made her way into her room and left a lit candle there. Mary pretended to be asleep.

It felt like the house was inside a dragon’s mouth, its wheezing breath made the candle’s flame dance. The power flickered and fragments of the little man’s voice could suddenly be heard: A daring raid by at least two men. Static. Silence. Police are currently searching for suspects, but the storm is doing much to hamper their efforts.

The windows, right on cue, lit up day bright and a terrible clap shook the house. Then there was another light but this one moved through Mary’s windows, growing, making shadows against the wall. Headlights.

Mary listened closer and could just make out, through the wind, the hum of an engine.

We repeat, the little man had one more thing to tell them, these suspects are considered armed and extremely dangerous. Then nothing.

Hank, someone’s in the driveway, her mother said.

What?

A car.

Well, goddammit.

Mary heard a drawer being opened, the sound of a pistol chamber snapping open, being checked. She threw the covers off and snuck to her bedroom window, bare toes on wood. She pulled back her curtain.

Headlights were all she could see until another lightning flash revealed a big, black car, wide and shaped like a bullet. Then the night swallowed it again.

Who is it? Mary’s mother asked.

A black Cadillac.

In the hallway now, the slapping rain hid the sound of Mary’s creaking footsteps, down the stairs; she stopped just outside the doorway to the kitchen, peeked around the wall.

Hank had the door open to the outside, a large revolver in his hand.

Well, who is it?

Son of a bitch, Hank said.

What?

The sound of car doors slamming. The noise of men muttering, grunting.

Hank, what is happening?

We’ve got company.

Who?

Well, it’s dark but it sure looks like your bank-robbing ex-boyfriend.

A thunderclap exactly timed with Mary’s gasp.

The door loose on its hinges slapped open, the sound of the storm loud, two men in dark trench coats, dripping with rain, their feet squished and squeaked on the wood floor.

Patrick? Mary’s mother said.

Mary examined the two men. One of them was taller than the kitchen door and almost as wide. A huge square head with a fat jaw and tiny marbles for eyes. His expression reminded Mary of the Donovans’ German shepherd. She would not have been surprised if the man had started growling.

The other one turned at her mother’s voice. Patrick. He pushed a wet mop of red hair out of his face. He was thin, with a narrow face and devilish eyes. A small grin appeared when he looked at her mother.

Linda, me lass, an Irish brogue, we are terribly sorry to trouble you on such a night as this. This is my partner, James.

James nodded slightly.

What do you want? Hank said.

Ah, this must be Henry. You look as sturdy as I imagined you, sir.

The words sounded like a song in Patrick’s voice.

Might I bother you for a chair, lass?

Mary’s mother dragged a chair out from under the table.

Patrick winced as he moved to the chair and let out a breath when he sat. Mary saw him look at the blood on his hand. But the grin stayed on his face.

To your question, Mr. Henry, he looked up, a roof, a dry floor.

Patrick, what happened? her mother asked.

A scratch.

A bullet, James said.

Henry, might I add, we’re in a position to reward your generosity handsomely.

Hank’s face changed at that.

Even in the dead of night with nothing but candlelight to see by, this was no palace. Everything was tired, mismatched, secondhand. Mary looked at her nightgown, lent from a cousin, two sizes too big.

What did you have in mind? Hank asked.

Talk about numbers later, Hank. Patrick, you’re bleeding and you need mending.

Patrick’s grin faltered slightly. I never did get far arguing with you, girl.

Can you stand?

Ay.

Mary’s mother grabbed a candle and led Patrick out of the room.

Rest assured, Henry, Patrick called behind him, ’tis a seller’s market.

Then Mary was in front of Patrick in the doorway. His eyes went big and his grin grew wider.

The famous Mary, I presume. Lovely as your mother. Did we wake you, lass?

Who are you?

Patrick chuckled, her mother stiffened.

Patrick O’Malley, at you service, Miss.

Mary, her mother said, get a bowl of hot water and some towels.

Why?

Just do it, child, and bring it to the guest room.

Nothing was said in the kitchen as Mary gathered her mother’s supplies. Both men stood and watched her as though awaiting instructions. Several times, Mary snuck a peek at the hulking James. A gleam in his eye, in his smile, that she did not like. What big teeth he had.

In the guest room, Patrick had his shirt off and Mary’s mother was probing with her fingers. Seeing the puckered wound made Mary’s stomach buzz, her head spin, she needed to sit down. Patrick sucked in some air.

Still in there, her mother said.

To be sure.

Needs to come out.

To be sure.

Here’s your water, Mom.

Mary’s mother took the bowl and a towel and began to clean the wound. Mary looked away.

Thank you, Mary. Off to bed with you.

But Mom…

Not tonight, Mary. Please.

Mary left but did not go far and returned to listen just outside the door.

She has your eyes, Patrick said.

And your everything else. A little outlaw in the making. Always figuring the angles.

This was how you wanted things as I recall. A sturdy man, a solid home for your daughter.

I don’t recall the subject of you arriving unannounced in the middle of the night.

Patrick made a noise of discomfort. Well I thought that was understood.

Damn you, Patrick O’Malley. Damn your wit and your charm and your smile, damn it all to hell.

Mary had never heard her mother use language so foul.

Don’t you dare laugh at me.

Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.

They spoke quietly, sounding like snakes hissing. Mary could just make out their words. She was confused by her mother’s tone which seemed full of affection even though the words were angry. Mary had once had her mouth washed out with soap for saying Dammit after skinning her knee, a word she’d overheard Hank use a thousand times.

How is sturdy and solid Henry working out for you?

Stop smiling before I knock your teeth out. You know why I did it.

She seems a lovely girl.

Just shut up. I’m going to mend you. You’re going to stay the night. In the morning, you and your flunky will leave. Forever.

That’s what you want?

Don’t say anything else.

How about a kiss then?

The last sentence spoken so low, blood pounded so loud, Mary doubted her ears. So she leaned around the wall and peeked in.

Patrick’s hands were running through her mother’s hair. Running everywhere. Mary’s mind twirled. She pulled her head back, stood flat against the wall, tried to breathe quietly. The sounds of lips touching and heavy breathing, a storm of kisses.

Patrick O’Malley you are a bank robbing son of a bitch.

And I never stopped loving you, angel.

You are leaving in the morning. Forever.

Come with me.

Mary’s world was a much different place than the one she had gone to bed in. Her mother had become a stranger.

We need more water.

Mary bolted as quickly and quietly as she knew how, running like a cat up to her room. Into her bed.

She had planned on slipping back down to do some more eavesdropping, but her sheets wrapped around her and the night seemed full of bedtime stories for her, things she’d never known, if she would just listen. And sleep.

The storm continued its tale, whispering and shouting it. The rain pelted the house. But among the sounds, a wooden creak from the doorway to her room. Mary’s eyes fluttered open as lightning flashed, revealing a large silhouette—James.

Then dark. Blackness. Mary’s ears and eyes strained. Her body locked, she perspired with the effort. The night outside, a funhouse of noises. More flashes, but no James in the doorway. Yet she could smell him, the scent of a strange person, cheap aftershave.

Another flash and here he was, on his knees, face-to-face with Mary.

Are you scared?

She wanted to scream so badly.

Are you scared of the storm?

His breath was gasoline. In the barely lit room his eyes looked black.

It’s okay, he said. Take my hand.

She stayed immobile under the sheets, her hands squeezed her legs.

Another flash. Another crack. She flinched.

James leaned his massive head closer. It’s just a storm, Mary. He stroked her hair. Now take my hand. His voice turned hard and flat.

She tried to hold the tears back. James gently rubbed the corner of her eye. With the storm, would anyone hear if she screamed?

Mary, don’t upset your Uncle James.

He pulled the covers back revealing her too big nightgown, lightning illuminated the faded pink roses on it.

Mary shivered and closed her eyes and shivered.

She wondered what Patrick and her mother were doing down the hall. Wondered where Hank was.

Flash. Crack.