Baby, It's Cold Outside

By John Sexton, Claude Lalumière and Therese Greenwood

An anthology of new dark crime fiction in festive holiday wrappings from authors across North America and beyond. Dark Tales of Christmas Crime, Holiday Horror, and Yuletide Woe. 

 

FEATURING NEW AND EXCITING TALES FROM:

 

E.C. Bell (Aurora Award winning author of the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Coffin Hop Press
• Release date: Nov 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781988987187

John Sexton

Sam Wiebe is the award-winning author of the Vancouver crime novels Cut You Down, Invisible Dead, and Last of the Independents. His short stories have appeared inThuglit, Spinetingler and subTerrain. He is a former Vancouver Public Library Writer in Residence and the winner of the 2015 Kobo Emerging Writer Prize. Sam lives in Vancouver.

Book preview

For the black sheep in their festive sweaters,

And the wolves, resplendent in cashmere.

How can you do this thing to me?

There's bound to be talk tomorrow...

Think of my lifelong sorrow...

...at least there will be plenty implied.

...If you caught pneumonia and died.

― Frank Loesser Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Foreword

IN THE DEAD OF WINTER, 1999

SAM WIEBE

SWEET BABY JESUS

S.A. COSBY

THAT OLD A-WASSAILING SCAM

E.C. BELL

VIOLETS

M. JANE COLETTE

CIRCLE OF STEEL

CHRIS PATRICK CAROLAN

THE POWER MAN

THERESE GREENWOOD

NERIUM

ALEX BENARZI

CHRISTMAS CONFESSION

LIAM SWEENY

KING WONG & THE MISTRESS OF CHRISTMAS

JIM JACKSON

BROTHER’S KEEPER

MEREDITH FRAZIER

BLOWN

ROB BRUNET

THE FIXER, THE COP, HIS EX,  AND HER KILLER

CLAUDE LALUMIÈRE

MISTLETOE AND HOLLY

DARUSHA WEHM

THE SHIH TZU’S PRESENT

KEVIN P. THORNTON

IN THE DEAD OF WINTER, 2017

SAM WIEBE

Liner Notes

About the Authors

Coffin Hop Press Ltd

Copyright

Foreword

Winter is cold.

The days short.

Shadowed.

Deadly.

You don't want to leave the house. You really don't. But the party's expiring, diehard's semi-conscious, nursing watered down gin tonics, imploring you to stay for one more. Just one more... It's a trap and you know it. One more and you'll wake up on the couch, face imprinted by the thick weave of a hand-made blanket, mouth like juniper-flavoured sandpaper, scarred by regret.

Plus, it's cold out. Damn cold. Damn freaking cold.

And you're wearing a short, aerated dress, heels, and a coat that wouldn't keep a squirrel warm for five minutes.

Even so, you've made the hard choice. You'll brave the elements, head back to that empty box you call home. Sure, your tree isn't decorated yet, and your wreath is still in its plastic wrap, but whatever. It still smells like Christmas, and besides, you have proper booze there. Hibiki. Blanton’s. A shot of whisky or an Old Fashioned will wash away the medicinal bite of bottom shelf gin. And a smoke. You'd kill for a Pall Mall right about now. Yeah, you're done.

You've called a cab.

It's on its way.

You're committed.

You pull back the curtain and watch the moon glint on swirling snow. It's beautiful. Magical. Except... A figure shuffles down the sidewalk, shoveled only hours earlier, now drifted over. You notice them pause, pin-striped suit bathed in the polychromatic glare of Christmas lights, to look over their shoulder at your window, at you, before continuing on, into the shadows.

You don't know them, but you know what they are.

And you're afraid.

For a moment.

Only a moment.

Your Springfield XD-S finds its way into your hand. A little heavy, but sleek. Beautiful. Enough stopping power to put down the worst this city can throw at you. Whether it’s an intimate look at what really goes on in the yoga studio down the street, the complexities of knocking over a payday loan shop, or where doing the Lord’s work might take you. And it doesn’t stop for the Holidays. Whether you light the menorah, trim the tree, drink from the chalice, or wait up for that Festivus miracle, you can’t stay indoors forever.

Headlights turn the far corner and head your way. The cab. Time to go. You duck out the door. Watch your breath crystalize in the air. Yeah, it's cold outside. Dangerous. Deadly.

But so are you.

Robert Bose and Sarah L. Johnson

Editors and Sundry

Calgary, Alberta

October 2018

In the Dead of Winter, 1999

Sam Wiebe

Later, once they were caught, Riley’s lawyer asked Lee to admit the idea had been hers. Rob the Quickie-Cash, no weapons, no one getting hurt. Things had simply gotten out of hand.

Lee might have gone for it if Riley had asked himself—she’d done stupider things for him. Something about his lawyer rubbed Lee the wrong way. Rather than ask nicely, she’d tried to sell Lee on the idea it was in everyone’s interest for her to step up. In the end, Lee had erred on the side of self-preservation.

Maybe the idea had come from her originally, but who could remember, fucked up as they both were in those days. It had been one more scam. Talking it through, they agreed it hinged on finding the right mom-and-pop operation. With every store now a franchise, that could be difficult. They’d talked it over wistfully, then filed it away, until weeks later Riley came home saying he’d found just the right place and he’d already figured it out.

What out? Lee had said. Riley always did that, picked up a conversation in the middle as if it had been momentarily interrupted, though it might have been weeks since they’d spoke about it last.

The check cashing joint, he’d said. Quickie-Cash on Seymour, which, look, I know it’s a franchise, but Lee, it’s run by this old guy and he’s just perfect. He’s beautiful, Lee. It’ll be easy.

She’d gone with him to check out the place. They’d watched through the window, pretending to wait for the bus. Lee had to admit the man was perfect. Old and slight-statured, and when he locked up for the night he was limping. And his eyes—calm, trusting. Compassion and comfort in there. If they had to muscle him he wouldn’t be a problem.

The only hitch? There was no wife. The plan hinged on a mom-and-pop setup. So once again the plan was on hold.

In early November, Lee had been walking down Seymour, trying to avoid running into a friend she’d borrowed money from, when she saw the girl. It had been hard not to double-take. Where usually the old man sat behind the glassed-in teller counter, there was a young woman with red hair, wearing a red and green blouse and smiling at a customer as she counted out his loan.

Lee had circled the block. The second time past, the customer had gone and the girl stared out the window. She saw Lee, smiled and nodded.

Lee ran home to Riley and told him to find them a car, that the plan was on.

Over the next two days they clocked the store. The girl would work mornings, often taking lunch at the counter, or hanging a back-in-ten sign on the door and popping out to buy coffee. At three the old man would come in. They’d talk briefly, lots of smiles, then a hug and kiss as the girl left and the old man took up his spot behind the counter, where he’d stay till eight each night, nine on Welfare Wednesdays.

Riley didn’t like it. Part of the reason for picking a mom-and-pop in the first place was age. Sure the girl was slight. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t prove a handful.

And anyway it’s not the same, Riley said. A daughter isn’t like a wife.

A daughter is better, Lee said. His blood. You think he’ll put up a struggle, we’ve got his baby?

Riley came around. They decided to do it Tuesday. Monday night Riley had gone out looking for a gun. Hadn’t found one, which wasn’t a surprise, they couldn’t afford one, and who in their right mind would lend a firearm to Riley Brant and Lee Battles?

No matter. Lee had a short section of pipe she kept near the door to their flat. In the morning she sent Riley out to siphon some gas.

Tuesday morning there was a light snow on the ground and the car wouldn’t start. Riley, always catastrophizing, wanted to put it off. Too many bad omens.

Lee cooked a tin of pork and beans on their hot plate, and as they ate, told him it had to be today. They’d put it off long enough. Who knew if the girl would be working there after the Christmas season? Plus, they needed the money now. She helped Riley fantasize about what they’d be able to do with all that cash.

We could get a car, something better than that pieceashit Dodge. New clothes. Maybe even a new place. Then we’d be able to hire someone, look into getting back custody of Charlotte. She painted an idealized life for them, a reunited family with all the things they’d never had. Comfort. Security. A home.

How much you think we’ll clear? Riley asked, and she knew he was sold.

At least twenty, Lee said. Maybe a lot more. He has a safe. I’ve seen the Brinks truck pull up there, drop off big sacks. Could be a hundred. She knew that was pushing it, but so what? The point was, it would be zero unless they did it, and did it today.

They walked to Seymour and caught the bus. It was two forty when they stepped off across from the Quickie-Cash. Lee carried the jar of fuel in an old frayed book bag. Riley had the pipe stuffed into the inner pocket of his coat.

As the bus pulled away they could see through the window the old man at the counter. Their hearts sunk. Lee checked the time, thinking her watch had gone slow, that they’d missed their opportunity. "God damn it," Riley had shouted, startling the other passengers milling around the stop.

Then they saw the girl, wrapped in a bright blue raincoat, reach the entrance of the shop and step inside.

It’s screwed up, Riley said, it’s not gonna work. He grabbed Lee’s shoulder. Let’s get home.

Relax. Lee watched through the window as the girl shrugged off her coat and handed it to the man. She took his place behind the counter.

Hell with relax, Riley said. The whole thing’s tits up.

No.

We gotta leave now, Lee.

She could feel his nervous energy next to her, sense his weakening resolve. She lit a cigarette for him, kissed him, and smiled.

We’re okay, she said. So the girl’s behind the counter. It’ll work. Everything will be fine.

The old man disappeared into the back. When he re-emerged he was wearing a grey overcoat and adjusting the brim of his hat.

Let’s go, Lee said. She took Riley’s arm and propelled him across the street.

They timed it perfectly, grabbing the handle of the shop’s door just as the old man was opening it to leave. He stepped back courteously, allowing them to push their way in. Lee took hold of the jar of gas and let the book bag fall to the floor.

Hello, the girl said, her smile flickering as Lee shoved the old man.

Riley fumbled with his coat, the pipe slipping out and clanging on the concrete floor. The old man kept his footing, began mouthing something apologetic. Lee shoved him again, giving Riley time to stoop and retrieve the weapon.

What’s wrong? the girl said. What’s the trouble? No, don’t—

Riley swung the pipe hard into the junction of the man’s shoulder and neck. He crumpled. Riley knelt down behind him, cinching his free arm around the man’s throat.

Lee unscrewed the jar’s lid and doused the man’s head. He sputtered. The small room began to smell of gas.

All the money, she told the girl. "No dye packs or funny bills. Nothing marked, okay? Now. Now. Or we burn him."

The girl was frozen. Lee tossed the bottle at the bulletproof cage surrounding the window. It smacked off the pane but shattered on the floor.

"I said fucking now."

The girl awoke. Her hands dropped behind the counter. Lee moved to the teller’s window, stood on tiptoes to watch. That’s it, she told the girl. Nothing funny, all the cash, no one has to get hurt.

Lee. Riley’s voice was urgent. She looked back and saw pink foam dribble from the old man’s mouth.

The girl started crying. Her hands fumbled. Lee shouted for her to hurry up.

Don’t hurt him, the girl said.

Now the safe. Lee grabbed the book bag from the floor and filled it, watching the girl crouch and spin the dial.

There was a minute when nothing seemed to happen, marked by the girl’s sobs and the gurgling sound coming from the old man. Riley had let him go, tipping him onto his back and standing over him, the pipe hanging loosely in Riley’s hand.

The safe opened. The girl carried five bundles to the counter and pushed them through. Her face had turned blank.

Lee gathered the money and told the girl not to phone the police or they’d come back and set fire to the both of them.

Out on the street, Lee clutched the bag of money under her arm. Riley followed her, tossing the pipe. She told him to pick it up. Evidence, she said.

Lee, Riley said, struggling to keep pace with her. That old man—the way he went down—

He’ll be fine, she said. Just keep up.

Ahead of them was a line of passengers boarding a bus. They hadn’t discussed it but Lee got in line. She found change, dropped too much into the guts of the fare machine. They ignored the transfers the driver offered and took courtesy seats near the front.

Lee didn’t dare open the bag but she felt it. Her arms caressed the outline of money packets through the thin fabric. How much was in there? What did each packet hold?

Sirens broke her conjecture. The bus had reached its next stop. People got off and on. The sirens grew louder. Riley’s leg vibrated next to hers.

The siren swooshed by. A police car. Riley jolted up, pushed his way down the steps of the bus. Let me the hell off.

Lee thought about staying aboard. With the money she could start over. She didn’t need Riley. Had never needed him. But in this state, he needed her, and the driver was looking at her, the other passengers—She gripped the bag tightly and stepped off.

Riley paced the sidewalk, the pipe in his hand swinging lazily. Lee pointed him down a side street.

The hell are you doing? she said. You want us to get caught? Do you? Cause you’re acting like you do.

They’re on us, Riley said. That bitch. We should head back and take care of her. We should. She’ll tell.

He was crying.

Lee took his arm and led him down the street. The snow had turned to muck, and their feet splashed puddles on the broken sidewalk. After a few blocks they paused.

She lit two cigarettes and they smoked, looking at the untended lawns and the houses, now chopped up into rental suites. She held the bag to her stomach and shushed it like an infant.

There there, she said, mugging for Riley. Everything’s gonna be all right, baby. Yes it will, yes it will...

Riley laughed. He regained his calm.

After their smoke, they ran back to their flat, where Riley took the bag from her and launched it into the air, sending dollar bills flitting across the stained grey carpet. All told they’d scored a little over thirty thousand dollars.

Sweet Baby Jesus

S.A. Cosby

Wilbert Willie G Gardner was fast. Always had been. He had run track in high school and played wide receiver on the football team. At 37 he could still run boys twenty years his junior off the basketball court at the park during the summer. His grandfather used to say he was as fast as a hiccup.

The cop chasing him was faster.

Willie could feel him on his back like a shadow. His lungs were burning from the cold night air. It felt like he was swallowing needles. He ducked down an alley and sprinted toward a rusty chain link fence. He grabbed the top rail and boosted himself up and over. The corroded metal dug into his palms but he ignored the pain and hit the ground running. He could hear the fence shimmy and clang as the cop hit it and performed the same move. Willie exploded from the alley and zigzagged across the street.

He didn't know how many of his homeboys had escaped the raid. The cops had burst through the door of T-Mack's house in Jackson Ward like a freight train. Willie had been in the kitchen with  Murder Mike and a cat named NoLove They were preparing to chop up a kilo that would then be stepped on and cooked into crack. A network of runners and dealers would then spread all over Richmond selling for T-Mack's crew. The runners would get paid for moving the product and the sellers would keep some of the initial profits and kick up the rest to T-Mack who in turn would pay back his connect for the kilo. It was like a twisted form of Amway.

They were halfway through the kilo when the cops had knocked down the door with a battering ram that looked like the worlds' biggest dildo. Willie had grabbed the half kilo off the table and jumped out the window. Murder Mike had pulled his nine millimeter and started living up to his name. NoLove had tried to follow Willie out the window but had gotten stuck. The sight of a fat man who always wore a track suit getting stuck in a window made Willie laugh as he ran. He had hazarded a glance over his shoulder and that was when he saw the white boy in the Richmond patrol officer's uniform barreling around the corner of the house hot on his trail.

Wilbert considered himself fairly intelligent and open-minded. He was a drug dealer but that didn't mean he couldn't read TIME magazine or watch Dateline NBC. He thought of himself as well read although most of the books he enjoyed were Elmore Leonard capers.  If you asked him he would've had said he was a pretty sophisticated man about town. Yet when he saw that big blond farm boy break the corner he had a fairly unsophisticated thought.

That whiteboy ain't going to be able to keep up with me!  Not Willie G!

Now as he darted down Marshall Avenue he realized how stupid it had been to trust his freedom to a stereotype.

Bet that motherfucker can dunk a basketball too! Wilbert thought as his feet pounded the cracked pavement. He checked again and the cop was less than a car length behind him. He could not get caught with a half of a kilo on him. Why had he picked it up? What the hell had he been thinking?  Oh yeah he figured he could outrun anybody on the police force. In all the confusion he could lay low for a few days then flip the coke without splitting any of the profits. Dumb. Dumb and greedy. And now Vanilla Ice behind him was going to score a major bust. Willie cut back across the street. A brand new Dodge Stratus screeched to a halt and Willie sailed over the hood in one graceful leap.  He glanced behind him. The cop cleared the Dodge too. As he landed the driver of a Geo Metro who was trying to light a small pipe for his traditional after work toke slammed into the him. The officer went up and over the hood of the Geo and slammed into the windshield. Willie felt sorry for the driver. That Geo was probably totaled now.

He eased up a bit and tried to catch his breath. Just to be on the safe side he looked back toward the accident.

Motherfucker. he yelled before taking off at top speed. The cop had rolled off the hood and was standing in the middle of the street. He shook his whole body like some anthropormophic Grand Pyrenees and then started after Willie again. Noticeably slower but no less determined.

This son of a bitch is the goddamn Terminator! he thought. He crossed Marshall and went down a cobblestone alley way between the old Precise Building and the tenement houses on Bland Boulevard. As he exited this alley he saw the blue lights of cop cars coming from his left and his right. Straight ahead was Emmanuel Star Baptist Church. Willie hadn't been inside of a church since he was eleven. He had given up on believing in God around the same time his mother killed his father. The church hadn't offered him much solace back then. But now it might actually be his salvation.  He headed for the imposing brick building. He took the steps to the front door two at a time. The blue lights were closer now.

He reached the door and pulled the handle. It was locked.  Willie groaned. Who the fuck locks the doors to a church?  How Christian was that?

Willie swiveled his head from the left to the right. He had to get rid of the coke. Cars lined the street on both sides. No dice. They were probably locked. If he tossed the brick under one of them the cops would put it on him anyway.  At the bottom of the step off to the right was a weakly lit Nativity scene.

He had forgotten all about Christmas.  He didn't have any brothers or sisters who were impossible to shop for. No baby mommas riding him for the latest must have toy of the moment for a kid he hardly ever saw. And T-Mack didn't have a Secret Santa program for his crew.

Willie jumped off the steps and ran to the Nativity scene. The three wise men were gathered around a baby Jesus with terrifyingly wide eyes. It looked like he had seen horrible things in that