Served with a Twist

By M.M. Rumberg

Short stories speak to us in ways that full-length novels cannot. They sometimes touch us sharply, sometimes softly, sometimes with humor, other times with horror, but they always leave their mark.

A backwoods wedding ceremony that will tickle your funny bone.
A murder scene that will make you smile.
Meet a troubled soul who wanders into a motorcycle gangs private party.
Enter into the dark recesses of a murderers mind.
Meet a lifetime criminal who wants out of a life of crime and can put major crime bosses away. He only wants to disappearbut can he?

Meet a man in love with a woman who never smiles with a daughter who doesnt exist.

These stories and more, each with a twist, take you from the ordinary to the unusual, from the common to the special, but most of all, entertain

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503595255

M.M. Rumberg

Mort is a retired U.S. Air Force Officer who served as a Rescue and Survival technician teaching escape and evasion and survival techniques to aircrew members. He survived a tour of duty in Vietnam and barely survived two tours in the Pentagon as a computer systems action officer. He was also an information technology consultant and a manager with a large international health care insurance company. He earned a Doctorate in Education and has been an adjunct professor of computer sciences for several universities and community colleges in the Washington, DC, area. Mort was a volunteer with the Alexandria, Virginia, Police Department and the Animal Welfare League of Alexandria. His novel, CodeName: Snake, The Evil We Kill, won a national award and several of his short stories have won national recognition. Now residing in California, he is busy working on several new novels and many short stories. Visit the author’s website: mmrumberg.com

Book preview

Research

I always thought I’d live a long and pleasant life and looked forward to a nice, quiet retirement, but back then, on that day, I thought life had caught up with me and the pleasure was about to end. My future was about to come to a screeching halt. I still hyperventilate when I think about it.

I was researching my fifth novel—it takes place in Tokyo. My modus operandi is to always visit the location where the story takes place to get the nuances of the setting right. I observe the people and how they behave, the physical characteristics—the traffic, the streets, the stores—the complete scene. I want the novel’s setting to be as realistic as possible. But since everything I see and experience is filtered through my senses, I want to be sure everything stays in proper context for the reader.

By that I mean I want the reader to clearly understand what my preferences are. For example, I personally prefer a hot climate to a cold one, so in the very hot and humid tropics, the heat might be comfortable to me but the reader needs to know if it would normally be oppressive. Conversely, if the story takes place at a ski resort, the extreme cold I feel may not be as overwhelming for skiers who love the snow and ice. I need to get the balance right. It’s an important part of my writing.

Back then it was summertime—warm, but not uncomfortable. I was on a city bus heading for the town hall. The story I’m researching is about a Mafia hit man who operates out of Tokyo—which makes for a nice twist. The bus was crowded, but I had a seat in the middle, next to the window. The air conditioning was operating well and I felt quite comfortable. As passengers got on and off, I became aware of a woman watching me closely. When I looked at her, she’d glance away. Was it curiosity? Westerners on busses in Tokyo are not unusual… maybe 30 years ago, but no longer. She was sitting on the side-facing seat near the front of the bus. When a seat became vacant closer to me, she took it, and she kept turning to stare at me.

Since I write about killers, assassins, and hit men, I’m aware of how they operate, and because of her behavior, I wondered if she was one and I was the target. I began to sweat in spite of the air-conditioning. Was I the target of some wannabe hit man? She was certainly acting like one, constantly glancing at me, staring, then turning away. It made me uncomfortable. Did she hate Westerners and want to get rid of me?

By now the crowd on the bus had begun to thin and the bus was only about two-thirds full. A man occupied the seat next to me and was holding several packages on his lap, so I couldn’t easily slip out. I probably could have pushed through him and knocked over the packages, but I was reluctant to cause a scene. I felt trapped.

The more I watched the woman, the more I worried. She kept glancing into her shopping bag. Both her hands were inside it. It would be nothing to take out a small caliber pistol and shoot me, then hop off the bus and disappear into the crowded streets. If anyone described her, they’d likely say was she was a typical Japanese woman. There was nothing especially distinguishing about her, like an assassin should be—easily blending in. I even began to think she wasn’t a woman but a man in disguise. I was squirming with anxiety. I was sweating profusely.

My stop was coming up, but I was reluctant to get off the bus and have her follow me, maybe shoot me in the back while we were in a crowd and disappear in the panic. I also didn’t want to just sit there, unable to do anything, while she shot me. I could feel the sweat rolling down my chest. My underarms were soaked, my heart thumped and blood pulsed in my ears. I was sure some people didn’t care for my writing, but surely not enough to kill me. I never contemplated my own death as a footnote to one of my novels.

Several more people got off the bus as my stop came and went. I was still too scared to move. The woman had edged closer to me, one hand still in the shopping bag. Every so often she’d look down, then back at me. Oh, God. I knew my life was over. She changed seats yet again, now sitting in the row in front of me directly across the aisle. Finally, my seatmate got up and I thought I could escape, but the woman quickly took his place. I was petrified with fear. My mouth was dry and my hands shook. My breathing was so shallow I thought I’d pass out. This couldn’t be happening to me. I was too young to die.

The woman turned and stared at me. Her face showed no expression. Then she pulled her hand out of the shopping bag.

I held my breath.

She held up a book with my picture on it, and said, You sign for me, yes, please?

The Bell Ringer

On a small hill in a small town stood a small white church with a red roof and a tall steeple. The long reigning bell-ringer had recently died and the church’s priest had advertised for a replacement bell-ringer. When the priest returned from the funeral he found a man waiting in the church vestibule.

Yes? May I help you? he asked.

The man nodded. I saw the ad in the paper for a bell-ringer and I would like to apply for the job.

The priest was taken aback. Perhaps you don’t understand, he said. The job requires strong arms to pull the heavy rope that swings the bell into the clapper. I can’t but help notice you have no arms. I don’t see how you could do the job.

I thought you would say that, replied the man. I’ve developed a method that is far superior to using brute strength to pull the rope and can be done without arms.

The priest was intrigued and wanted to see what the method was. Perhaps it would be a good substitute, he thought. He looked at his watch. It was nearly 12:00. Since it’s almost noon, why don’t you demonstrate your technique for me?

So up they went into the steeple’s bell tower, five stories above the courtyard.

The priest signaled that it was noon and for the man to begin.

The man leaned back and without hesitation, slammed his head into the metal bell. It rang with a loud GONG. He repeated it ten times. As he finished his eleventh GONG, he glanced over at the parish priest and could see the man was impressed. To insure success, he decided to smash his head into the bell a little bit harder for the last GONG. To do so, he stepped back just a few inches more wanting to gain a bit more thrust and power. His foot however, hit the edge of the open window and the man tripped and fell five stories to the plaza below.

The priest was horrified and ran down the stairs to the courtyard, pushed through the gathering crowd and cradled the man in his arms.

My God! cried one on-looker. Does anyone know who this man is?

No, answered the priest, but his face rings a bell.

The next day, when the priest returned from the funeral he found a man waiting in the church vestibule.

Yes? May I help you? he asked.

The man nodded. I understand you have a vacancy for a bell-ringer and I would like to apply for the job.

The priest was taken aback. Oh, no! I notice you don’t have any arms. You obviously don’t understand, he said. The job requires strong arms to pull the heavy rope that swings the bell into the clapper. I don’t see how you could do the job.

I thought you would say that, the man replied. But I know I can do it.

That’s what the man who was here yesterday said. I’m sorry, but I just can’t…

The man interrupted the priest. Father, the man who was here yesterday was my brother. I cautioned him about his method. I have developed a method that is far superior to either smashing your head into the bell or using brute strength to pull the rope. And it can easily be done without arms.

The priest was again intrigued and wanted to see what the method was. Perhaps it would be a good substitute, he thought. He looked at his watch. It was nearly 12:00. Since it’s almost noon, why don’t you demonstrate your technique for me?

So up they went into the steeple’s bell tower, five stories above the courtyard.

The priest signaled that it was noon and for the man to begin.

The man leaned into the bell and laid his body alongside it. Without hesitation, he pushed his body against the bell and the bell swung out and hit the clapper. It rang with a loud GONG. He repeated it ten more times. As he finished his eleventh GONG, he glanced over at the parish priest and could see the man was impressed. To insure success, for his last GONG, he leaned into the bell and pushed just a little harder. The extra thrust pushed the bell out a bit further and hit the clapper hard for the last GONG. Then the bell swung back a little more than usual and brushed against the man, causing him to step back. As he did so, his foot hit the edge of the open window and he tripped and fell five stories to the plaza below.

The priest was horrified and ran down the stairs to the courtyard, pushed through the gathering crowd and cradled the man in his arms.

My God! cried one on-looker. Does anyone know who this man is?

No, answered the priest, but he’s a dead ringer for the man who was here yesterday.

The Last Hand

Six players sat around the green felt table. Red, green, and white chips were stacked in uneven piles in front of each player. We’d been at the table approaching five hours. This was the last hand. I dealt the cards smoothly and efficiently as I always did. The cards slid across the table to each player, but no one lifted them. Then, as soon as the deal was completed, each player gripped his cards, and, shielding them from anyone’s stray glance, peeked at their values, each hoping for a solid chance to play the hand and rake in the pot. I held off picking up my cards to watch the others. I considered myself a practiced observer. I watched each player closely, looking for their tells. While we each had them and tried to conceal them, some tells were more obvious than others. When I was sure I noted everyone’s tell, I picked up my cards.

The first player clenched his teeth and tightened his jaw muscles, unaware, I thought, that he was signaling he had something, but nothing very good. I figured he’d stay in the hand, hoping to catch something playable… hoping to improve his chances.

The second player signaled nothing, staying neutral. That was his tell. I guessed he had a good hand and, of course, wanted to keep it concealed. He would stay in the game. The rest of the players made faces and sighed. Each would most likely draw three cards and then fold, unless they caught something very good. Player one checked on opening the betting, as I expected he would. Player two’s behaviors were difficult to read. He’d joined us as a substitute for one of the regulars. Throughout the evening he had appeared nervous and tightly controlled. He kept his chips stacked neatly, not a chip out of place. He wasn’t friendly and never smiled, and, for some reason I couldn’t explain, I didn’t trust him. Right now he studied his cards, then opened. Everyone else called the bet, waiting for the draw.

I turned to player one. He took two cards. I guessed he had a pair and kept a kicker. Maybe he had three of a kind but I doubted it. Player two took one card. It was hard to read him, but I guessed he had two pair and hoped to fill a full house. Maybe he had four of the same suit and hoped to complete a flush or just needed one card for a straight. Hard to tell. Players three, four, and five each took three. I checked my cards again… and took one. None of the tells from three, four, or five indicated they had anything. I figured unless they hit something, they would fold, and this hand would be just about players one, two, and me.

The betting began. Number two had opened, so he had the first bet, and he bet the max. Three grimaced, shook his head, and folded. Four hesitated, pursed his lips, and called. Five also called. While both of them surprised me by staying, I figured they would soon drop out, but I was glad they added to the pot. I hesitated, hoping they would think I had something, but not much—perhaps just enough to stay in the game—a slight bluff, something that was part of the strategy of poker. I rechecked my hand, fingered my chips, rechecked my hand again, then called the bet and raised.

Player two arched his eyebrows and stared at me. Players four and five sighed.

Player one rolled his eyes and slightly shook his head. He flipped some chips through his hands several times, his lips tight. Too much for me, he said, and threw down his cards.

Player two continued to stare at me. He knew I had something, but what? Like him, I had only drawn one card. Was I drawing to a straight? A flush? A full house? Had I hit it? Was I sitting on a lousy two pair? Was I just bluffing? He was running through the odds. Did I have a mediocre hand? Had I filled something? His lips tightened and he said, Call. He threw in his bet and then added, And I raise… . He riffled his chips several times, then threw in the max once again.

Player four hesitated for several seconds and then threw his cards down with a sigh of resignation, but I was surprised that player five stayed. He met the bet. I guessed he had improved his hand significantly to continue to play.

But as far as I was concerned, the hand was just between player two and me. I couldn’t see number five with anything good enough. Maybe he drew to a pair and now had two pair or three of a kind. Not anything strong enough for this game. The pot had grown and was worthy of a well-played hand or a good bluff. I tried to keep my face neutral as I met the bet and raised again. I looked across the table at player two and we stared at each other—two predators out for the kill. We both ignored player five.

Two hesitated only a second then called and raised again. Five had developed a slight tic in his left eye. He sighed, finally realizing he was out of his league, and threw in his cards. The other players murmured, admiring the sizable pot and the two killers trying to face each other down.

I was down to my last few chips—not enough to meet the bet. Was the room warm or was it me? I could sense sweat on my brow. It would be a tell to player two, possibly indicating weakness. I reached for my wallet, pulled out a couple of bills, met the bet, and raised.

I noticed that player two was also sweating. A glint of light bounced off the thin bead of sweat lining his upper lip. He stared at me, his eyes never leaving mine. Like me, he was now also out of chips. This was the last hand—a big one—with only one winner. After several seconds he also reached for his wallet, called, and the hand was over.

The other players leaned in, waiting with anticipation, eager to see the winning hand. Surely they were relieved they had folded early and avoided the heavy betting, except for player five, who most likely wished he had. The room was silent except for the soft hum of the air conditioner.

Player two continued to stare at me. He sat back and waited for me to reveal my hand, a small smile on his face… the first time during the game that he had smiled. I still didn’t trust him. I stared back at him for several seconds then laid down my hand. A pair of threes, I said.

The smile slowly faded from his face. He slowly reached out and laid down his hand, letting the cards slide from his thumb and fingers in a small fan. His hand showed… nothing. An ace-high bluff. No emotion showed on his face.

Players three, four, and five each sighed and shook their heads. Any one of them would have won had they stayed. The pressure on them had been enormous, but that’s what makes poker such a great game.

Nicely played, said two. He stood and left the game, his money gone, his face still without emotion.

I was the big winner. I pushed from the table, cashed in, and left. It felt good leaving the game with my pocket filled with cash.

Outside, it was dark, after ten. We’d been playing for five hours. I enjoyed the feel of the fresh, cool air on my face. Suddenly I felt a hard object pressed against my back.

Don’t move, he said.

I recognized the voice of the second player. I’ll take my cut, if you don’t mind. It had to be a gun that he jabbed hard into my back.

I do mind. I won it fair and square.

Doesn’t matter. Hand it over. I heard the metallic click of the hammer being pulled back.

I reached into my pocket with my left hand, withdrew the money, and held it over my shoulder. My other hand, hidden by my jacket, swiveled the .38 under my armpit, and pointed it toward him. I squeezed off one shot through the jacket. Player number two grunted and fell to the ground. I kicked his gun away.

I shook my head as we stared at each other for the few seconds he had left. You’re a sore loser, I said. But tell me, why would you want to hold me up for a couple of bucks from a nickel, dime, quarter game?

I bent close as he gasped, Principle… principle of… game. He coughed. A trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth.

What principle?

Bluffing. He sighed and closed his eyes.

I checked his gun. It was unloaded.

Three AM

I walked into the bar at one-thirty in the morning. Several patrons were drinking; two couples were dancing to the jukebox. The soft, silky sounds of a young Frank Sinatra filled the air. The dancers were smiling, holding each other closely, anticipating what the rest of the night might hold.

I only had five bucks, so I ordered a beer and sipped it slowly. I like to observe the people in bars, watching this small, self-selected section of society.

At two AM, the bartender, Joe, announced, Last call. Several people ordered one last drink—I continued nursing mine. The bar slowly thinned as people began to finish their drink and go home. One couple remained dancing—Sinatra was still playing on the jukebox.

They fed quarters into