The Swamp Killers

By Down & Out Books

Here’s what we know is true.

Timmy Milici, a low-level hitter with the infamous Atlanta-based Duplass crime family, ran off with Melody Duplass to Jacksonville, Florida. Olivia Duplass, her mother and head of the Duplass family, was incensed, and put a price on Timmy—a hundred thousand for his corpse, but with explicit instructions that her daughter not be harmed.

We know that’s true.

Or, at least, we think we do.

Sixteen writers tell their versions of what happened those fateful days in this gripping novel-in-stories, brought to you from the team behind The Night of the Flood.

Contributors: E.A. Aymar, Sarah M. Chen, Hilary Davidson, Alex Dolan, Rebecca Drake, Gwen Florio, Elizabeth Heiter, J.J. Hensley, Susi Holliday, Shannon Kirk, Tara Laskowski, Jenny Milchman, Alan Orloff, Tom Sweterlitsch, Art Taylor, and Wendy Tyson.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Mar 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463421062

Book preview

THE SWAMP KILLERS

A Novel in Stories

Sarah M. Chen and E.A. Aymar, Editors

Copyright © 2020 by Sarah M. Chen and E.A. Aymar

Individual Story Copyrights © 2020 by Respective Authors

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.

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 Zach McCain

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 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 Swamp Killers

Editor’s Note

Sarah M. Chen and E.A. Aymar

Melody’s Letter

Jenny Milchman

Birthday

Tara Laskowski

Mother Knows Best

Rebecca Drake

Forty Bucks a Night

Susi Holliday

Gunfight at the Tooth and Ale

Alex Dolan

Sunset Eyes

E.A. Aymar

Settle Up

Alan Orloff

Meatloaf Special

Wendy Tyson

Cockroach

Hilary Davidson

The Path to Enlightenment Ends in Jacksonville

Sarah M. Chen

Cover Everything

J.J. Hensley

Duck

Gwen Florio

The Movie Version

Tom Sweterlitsch

Red Delicious

Shannon Kirk

Into the Swamp

Elizabeth Heiter

A Close Shave

Art Taylor

About the Contributors

Preview from A Dark Homage by Wendy Tyson

Preview from I Know Where You Sleep by Alan Orloff

Preview from I’m Dying as Fast as I Can by Jerry Kennealy

Editors’ Note

Sarah M. Chen and E.A. Aymar

Here’s what we know is true.

Timmy Milici, a low-level hitter with the infamous Atlanta-based Duplass crime family, ran off with Melody Duplass to Jacksonville, Florida. Olivia Duplass, her mother and head of the Duplass family, was incensed, and put a price on Timmy—a hundred thousand for his corpse, but with explicit instructions that her daughter not be harmed.

We know that’s true.

We know it like we know the legend of Bonnie and Clyde. We know it because the Duplass family holds a storied place in crime literature, journalism, film, and pop culture.

We know that, in addition to Olivia’s daughter, Timmy also ran off with a large amount of Olivia’s money.

We know Sheldon Duplass, Olivia’s brother-in-law and ruthless right-hand man, went after Timmy and Melody, and unleashed a wave of hitmen and assassins into the town of Jacksonville.

And even if we don’t know all the details, we know about the horrific shootout at the Tooth and Ale.

And the gruesome murder at the now-closed Sun View Inn.

And how weeks afterward, swamp dwellers found remnants of the bloody chaos dredged up from the Florida swamp. Tarnished sapphire jewelry. A pink leather jacket. A bloated foot.

What we don’t know is the full truth behind any of these facts, or how Olivia took her power as head of the Duplass family in the first place. Or if Timmy was really an undercover FBI agent. Or how these larger-than-life icons were eventually killed.

If they were, in fact, killed.

Because depending who you talk to, Timmy and Melody are alive, happily married, and living on a quiet street in an Alabama suburb.

Depending who you talk to, the anguished cries in the haunted halls of Public School Number Four are Sheldon Duplass’s ghost.

And everyone says that Melody killed Olivia, her own mother, to rule the Duplass family for years until her bodyguard murdered her in a jealous rage.

Everyone says it—until it’s told differently. Again and again and again.

Because isn’t that all we have left, when all is said and done? The stories, the rumors, the talking heads, the clickbait headlines, the sound bites, the blatant lies?

What’s real?

What’s not?

Back to TOC

Melody’s Letter

Jenny Milchman

Dear Mama,

I know what you’re thinking.

We always were pretty good at knowing what each other was thinking, weren’t we? So I should probably say at the outset the thing you never want to hear, but which is true nonetheless.

You’ve got it wrong.

No, I didn’t go to school today, not early (obvs, it’s me we’re talking about) and actually not at all. You couldn’t really have believed that I did, could you? If so, I bet that hope is dribbling out of you now, like air from a pricked balloon. Emphasis on the prick. This serves you right, by the way. Buying a library doesn’t make your daughter a student. And buying a man doesn’t keep her safe—not when the danger is coming from him.

Hank was always willing to do anything for you, right? Except keep his hands off me once my boobs bloomed.

Did you find my backpack by the door? Just tossed there, like someone in a normal family would do? I meant that as a clue. Our house is always so flipping neat—no dust or grime on anything, never an object or even a piece of clothing out of place. The people too. We all took our places for you. Me, Sheldon, Jolene.

You work that woman like a donkey.

I hate the way you treat her, just like I hate the way you treat the inmates, dollars for your stocks and holdings and bank accounts, instead of human beings with sad stories that all got them where they are. Nobody’s a real human being to you. Certainly not me.

You’re going to see what I’ve done as a classic girl-meets-boy, girl-runs-away-with-boy story.

It isn’t.

Social media is so awesome. It tells us where we should go, what we need to do. Christ, I wish I could’ve Snapchatted ole Hank’s nighttime perambulations.

Perambulations. Pretty good word coming from such a lousy person, huh? I meant lousy student! Writing’s weird. What do you do when you write the wrong word? No autocorrect.

Zara hates me, just like everyone else does. My own cousin thinks I’m a stupid, bucket-headed princess. She glam-shamed me the other day on Instagram, memes about my monthly Keratin treatments and custom hued contacts, plus the private Pilates coach. She doesn’t know how ugly I am despite all that. You can hear it every time I open my mouth. My voice gives away the family I’m from, everything we’ve done.

I want to escape us. I want to live a different life. And now I have the chance.

True love, and the great sex, is just a bonus. Oh, come on, Mama, don’t act so shocked. You knew I believed in true love, didn’t you?

Made you laugh there, didn’t I? I’ll miss you, Mama. Despite everything this letter might say, I really will miss you as I head out to snatch my destiny from the claws of the Duplass beast.

I couldn’t be walking into a trap, Mama. Could I?

If I am, Mama…Oh, Mama, I just hope that the trap isn’t of your making. Because one thing you have taught me, whether you meant to or not, is how to get out of a trap.

Love, Dee

PS: Hope you’re not too mad about your jacket.

Back to TOC

Part One

On the Road to Jacksonville

Birthday

Tara Laskowski

She’s always reminded me of a tiger—steady eyes, sleek hair, a way of walking that’s downright predatory. My ex-wife used to say Olivia would eat you for dinner, given the chance. And Georgetta was right, even if she was always half-scared and half-jealous of Olivia. She never liked me taking her calls—even before it all changed. Even though she knew I had to.

When Olivia calls, everything stops. It always has.

A favor, she says, her voice calm and controlled, but confident. A voice—a person—that no one really denies. It’s important.

It’s either a test or a chance for me to redeem myself. Olivia used to trust me with everything. I was her go-to. She knew I’d do anything for her. But then the anything got to be too much, and everything changed.

These days, when I hear from her, it’s because she truly needs me. And there’s a satisfaction in knowing I’ve still got that—even if everything else is gone. There’s a satisfaction in knowing I could, if I really wanted to, say no to Olivia. And that that would be a very bad thing. But even if I had the balls to think about denying her request, it’s all blown when she says the words she knows will make it happen. It’s about Melody, she says. And there’s no one else I can trust, Hank. No one else but you.

I’m not a man who wears fancy clothing. I’m a jeans and sweatshirt kind of guy, maybe a polo if Aunt Edna drags me to church. I own one suit, and I’ve only worn it to my pa’s funeral. On my wedding day, I said my vows with my cummerbund upside down, and no one figured it out until the pictures.

So driving around looking for a fancy suit shop in Atlanta on a Saturday morning makes me feel like the imposter that I am. But that’s the kind of place that Timmy Milici likes. Timmy, the man I’m looking for. Timmy, a boy with high-class taste in both suits and women, apparently, and that’s what’s gotten him in trouble with Olivia.

He’s too old for her, Olivia had said on the phone. I suspect there are other, more pressing problems with good ole Timmy, but that’s not for me to ask. What’s done is done. I’m just here to tie up the loose ends.

I stop at a light and look down at his photo. It’s easier for me this time to prep for what I need to do, since I can’t help but get an image of this smirky son of a bitch’s paws on Melody. That kiddo, years ago, making dandelion chains in her backyard. All those framed photos of her in the Duplasses’ living room, with patent leather shoes so polished you could shave your face in their reflection. And then later, as a teenager, more fire and ice like her mother. She’s got the smarts. No way she can fall into a hole with someone heading straight toward Dark Town. This isn’t a job this time. It’s a necessity.

Timmy’s got a fitting appointment at two p.m. at this fancy suit shop. His last one, but he doesn’t know that yet. After that, Olivia suspects he plans on skipping town. Possibly with Melody. We can’t let that happen, Hank. You need to be there, Olivia had said.

It’s twelve-thirty when my phone buzzes. I look down and see Georgetta’s number and forget it, no way I’m talking to her now. Last thing I need is my blood pressure going up right before a hit. The buzzing finally stops, only to start up again right away. Georgetta. My ex-wife always has a way with bad timing.

I find the suit shop no problem. Thankfully, it’s on a side street, and I’m told most of the clients, Timmy included, go around to the back entrance for fittings. I scope it out. There’s an alley where I can ambush him. Small, narrow. Not the best place to hide or camp out, and I can’t fit my car down it without plugging up the whole thing and attracting suspicion. I’ll have to do this one on foot, which doesn’t make my forty-nine-year-old body very happy.

There’s a small window next to the shop’s back door, and I go over and take a look inside. See a skinny older man with a white mustache straightening up a display of bow ties. He must be the owner. There’s a fancy green suit hanging near the register that I figure has got to be Timmy’s. Something about the flashy pinstripes—I’m betting he could never just be a plain ole suit guy, even if everyone could tell it’s expensive. He always needs something else, something a little more. Don’t ruin the suits, if you can help it, Olivia had said, and I wonder why. It’s not like she can fit into them. But I don’t ask questions of Olivia if I can help it.

My phone dings again. This time it’s a series of text messages, like popcorn, from Georgetta.

Where ARE you?

Tell me you didn’t forget his BIRTHDAY, for Christ’s sake.

He keeps asking where you are.

I swear to God if you disappoint him I’ll have your head.

Shit.

Zach’s birthday party.

How could I have forgotten? Georgetta had reminded me with disdainful tones several times, and I’d promised Zach—sworn on the Bowl appearance of the Bulldogs—that I’d be there. Ever since I’d gotten back from my trucking job, I’d been trying to be a better dad. Have more of a father-figure presence in Zach’s life, whether he—or I—liked it or not.

I check my watch. Twelve forty-five. The party is supposed to go until two, I remember. We only have an hour and a half there, Bluto, Georgetta had told me. Ninety minutes. Surely you can survive that long.

Survive is right. Only I would have a kid who loves the arcade-nightmare-freakshow-fucking-bullshit-money-suck birthday party places.

But it’s what Zach wanted. And Zach gets what he wants.

I make the calculations in my head. I could take the back roads, avoid the city downtown traffic, and make it out there in twenty minutes. See Zach for twenty minutes, and still make it back in time to be here for Timmy’s two p.m. appointment. It’s cutting it close, and I won’t have a lot of time to prepare, but I can do it. I ignore the warning bells going off in my head. Ignore that feel of a tiger prowling in black high heels just in my peripheral vision. Don’t mess this up, Hank.

I can do this. Make everyone happy. My kid will be thrilled to see me. Georgetta won’t curse my name. I’ll still get the job done for Olivia. Save Melody. All in a day’s work.

Mike ’n Mouse is a goddamn shit-show, light-laser, noise-bonking kind of place where they serve cardboard burgers and cheese pizza for five dollars a slice and make you spend fifty dollars in goddamn tokens so your kid can fill a bucket with tickets to cash in for some cheap-ass plastic dinosaur toy or an ear-splitting whistle that costs two cents to make.

It’s every kid’s dream come true.

I walk inside and immediately get assaulted by the blee blee bleepness of the games. About seven hundred snot-stained little bastards are running around in various states of sugar highs, screaming and hitting each other and pushing in front of someone else to get to a game. They’re playing some kid cartoon version of—what is it? I swear it’s Metallica—and some acne-ridden teenager stares up at me from his podium. His eyes narrow a little when he sees I’m not with a kid, and he puts down the bracelets.

I’m here with the Scanlon party, I say. Zach Scanlon.

Oh, okay. So you don’t have a kid with you?

Zach. Scanlon. He’s my kid.

But he’s not with you?

I point to the back of the room. He’s inside.

Okay, we just usually have bracelets for security, so I guess I’ll have to…

Just let me in— I glance at his plastic name tag. Samuel. It’s a trick that always works, disarming someone by calling them by their name. I add a wink, and Samuel relaxes, nods like we’re buds, lets me through the padded turnstile slick with kid germs, and I enter the war zone.

There are ten other birthday parties going on at the same time as Zach’s, and they’re all lined up in rows, like some factory. We’re paying through the nose for this kind of treatment? I remind myself to pick a fight with Georgetta about it another time.

I can already feel my migraine developing. Twenty minutes. I need to get out of here soon so I can have a clear head.

Zach’s at the front table, looking red-faced and nervous. It strikes me again, like always, how tiny he is. I worry about him getting beat up at school, but whenever I start the stand-up-for-yourself talk, Georgetta gets on my case. Not all men have to be assholes, she says, like having the balls to defend yourself is a bad thing. I walk over, give Zach a big bear hug. He looks vaguely scared, not as happy to see me as I would’ve thought.

Did you get him a present? she asks quietly, when I hug her, too, an awkward pat where we both try to touch as little of each other as possible.

Of course I haven’t. But I blink at her. I’ll give it to him later, I say. Not in this hell hole.

She rolls her eyes at me. She’s looking good though, I see with some guilt, wondering if her healthy glow has to do with not living with me anymore. And what’s that she’s wearing—gray shiny leggings and this T-shirt that clings to her in all the right places. And purple athletic shoes? She looks like a yoga mom. I half expect her to be sipping some green vitamin drink, but no, she’s got a soda like the rest of the poor parents who are hovering around the edges of the shitty picnic tables, helping their kids fiddle with the tops of the paper ice cream cups.

When they’re properly sugared up, Zach’s friends let loose for the game area. Daddy, come watch, Zach says, dragging me by the arm with surprising strength, and I follow him through the maze of chaos to a basketball hoop game. He waits for someone to finish their turn, then plops in a token. Three battered basketballs drop into a bin, and Zach clumsily picks one up. It’s practically bigger than him, but he adjusts and throws it with all his might, barely scraping the top of the game’s edge, let alone coming close to the hoop.

Good job, I lie. An older kid watches, inching closer, shaking and twisting like he’s had to pee for three years. He’s wearing Nike athletic pants and a hooded sweatshirt, so of course he thinks he knows more about basketball than my kid. When Zach goes to pick up the next basketball, dropping it, the other kid swoops in, picking it up, bumping Zach out of the way, lining up to shoot.

Hey, hold it, I say. It’s his turn.

I’m just showing him how to hold it, the kid says, and shoots. He misses, the fucker.

Zach stands there lamely, watching, shrinking. Go ahead, Z. There’s one more ball.

But the little fucker picks it up. I lean over, take it from him. I said it’s his turn.

He’s just trying to help. A tall thin dude with those thick black hipster glasses smiles at me. He’s got his hands in his pockets, super suave, like he knows it all and the rest of the world just needs to catch up. Also wearing a Nike sweatshirt. The dad then.

He needs to wait his turn, I say.

The dad takes his hands out of his pockets, holds them up like I’ve just whipped out a pistol. Chill, man. It’s just a game.

I give him a cool look. My best last week I broke some fucker’s ring finger with a hammer look. I could shove my thumb in his windpipe, knee him in the stomach, break his neck with one quick twist and shove him under the pool table right now and no one except the cockroaches would find him for weeks.

It works. Dude Dad grabs his punk by the shoulder. Come on, Timmy. Let’s go find another game to play.

Timmy. I feel a ball in my throat and check the time. One twenty. Shit.

Zach, bud, I need to—

But Zach’s already running away, tokens clanging in his cup, into the crowd with a group of kids I assume he knows. I wonder if I should say goodbye, find Georgetta, something, but time’s ticking in my ear like a bomb about to go off.

I turn, bump into someone, and go to say excuse me when I’m drowned out by her splitting, high-pitched voice. Well, look who crawled out from his rock.

Bernadette, I say, feeling the migraine pound louder. She’s wearing the Mike ’n Mouse get-up, white button-down shirt and red pants and a baseball cap with an obnoxious cartoon mouse shouting into a bullhorn. I—didn’t know…

You didn’t know what, Bluto? My phone number? Forgot to call, is that it? She smirks, her black curly hair shaking, and I’m reminded of the way it looked sprawled across her pillow in the morning sun. Like dozens of little snakes.

Look, I’ve got to run.

Of course you do, she says loudly, and I see the other parents around us staring. She lowers her voice, and her face changes. Not a big deal, Bluto. I’m not upset. Don’t flatter yourself. It didn’t mean anything.

It didn’t mean anything. The words come back to me in a flash. Olivia, her fiery hair glowing like a halo around her head as we sat in the posh lobby of the Sheraton hotel. She had her legs crossed, a short skirt, and her thighs kept sticking to the leather in the summer Atlanta heat that the over-airconditioned lobby couldn’t keep out. She sat one cushion away from me on the couch, not looking directly at me.

And just like that, without her having to say another word, I knew what it all meant.

It didn’t mean anything. Anything at all.

I take only back roads. One thing I learned the two years I drove a truck was never to rely on GPS or fancy electronic maps. I use my instincts. Would rather be moving than stuck in traffic.

There were many things I loved about that job. One was getting away from everything—which I needed at the time. I’d take supplies from Trenton to Colorado and back again, stops along the way. Something soothing about the dead-of-the-night highway darkness, interrupted only by an occasional crackle of chatter on the CB radio. Lots of time for a man to think, to figure out his next steps. I can’t say it was the happiest I’ve ever been, but it was up there in the rankings.

I hurry, but the creeping clock tells me I’m going to be late. I fucked up. Don’t screw this up, Hank. A test. A simple test, and I’d blown it. The only thing that will save me is if Timmy is also late.

When I get there at ten after two, I park quickly, illegally, but getting towed is the least of my worries. Rush into the alley. It doesn’t have to be orchestrated or beautiful. The job just has to get done. I can feel the sweat trickling down my back. The smell from the dumpster is stronger now, a dark rotting that somehow feels comforting.

I slide quietly up to the window. Peer in. See the store owner standing there, measuring someone. The customer’s got his arms straight out, standing on a carpeted pedestal. My heart beats faster—I’ve got him! Good ole Timmy. You get fitted for that suit. You take your sweet time.

But then the guy turns, and I see his profile. Older man with a beard and a nose curved in like a pair of pliers. He says something to the store owner and chuckles, and his belly bobs up and down like a dryer on high speed.

And the fancy green suit that was hanging near the desk is gone.

You’ve got a short window. So don’t blow it. I can feel Olivia’s disappointment like she already knows.

And maybe she does already know. Doesn’t Olivia always know everything—almost like she can predict the future, plan for events before they even happen? Didn’t she know that I’d fall in love with her, before I even knew it myself? Already planning to distance herself that morning in the hotel, already gone before I even knew what had happened.

It didn’t mean anything, Hank. Nothing at all. Just a mistake in judgment. Too much chianti, she laughed, tossing that fiery mane back, only one self-conscious flick of the eye to let me know that she was playing a role. Don’t worry about it. It won’t affect anything with your job with us.

But it had affected everything. That was something Olivia hadn’t been able to predict. Or me either.

I steady myself, pick up a rock, and open the door to the shop. The owner looks up at me, his face drops almost into a frown. I’m not his usual clientele. The man he’s fitting lowers his arms, says ouch, and rubs his fat arm where a pin has pricked him. They both stare at me like cows caught in a pasture.

Excuse me, I say, desperate now, not caring about covering my tracks or conducting a clean job. I’m looking for a man. He was supposed to have a two o’clock appointment?

Sir? the owner says, and I’m not sure if he’s stalling or just confused.

I was supposed to meet him here? Have I missed him?

But I don’t need the store owner to tell me. I see his eyes shift toward the register. Toward