5:30 RETURN: A short novel

By William R Herr

"Utopia doesn't come easy... and it takes a monster to enforce it."

Juan is a disabled vet, a recovering addict, and a professional extractor in Arizona's drug tourism trade. He is also a man with too many challenges. His only real friend in the world, Sammy, just turned up dead, apparently by a too-conve

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mechanicsburg Press
• Release date: Aug 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781495186943

William R Herr

Visionaries, migrants, soldiers, and thieves-Will, as his friends call him, surrounds himself with all of these, and more. Obsessed with "the wisdom of the lowest classes," he views the world as a perennial outsider, in the company of men and women most would not want to meet in a dark alley. His work reflects this, as he winds dramatic irony and sarcasm together with romance and drama to paint a picture of the world that others prefer not to see. William R. Herr was raised on the road, and continues to live there. When not travelling the United States behind the wheel of a tractor-trailer, he can be found in Central Pennsylvania, either writing, editing, or arguing with college students over hot cups of coffee. He lives with his wife and an extremely vocal Irish Stafford-shire Terrier named "The Duke."

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5:30 Return

a short novel

By William R. Herr

5:30 RETURN

Copyright ©2018 by William R. Herr

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and businesses, organizations, and places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For information visit: www.williamrherr.com

Book design by Damonza.

Cover by Aaron Acevedo.

Edited by Jessica M. Gang

ISBN: 978-1-4951-8694-3

First Edition: October 2018

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

For Cpl. Mark Britton, USMC.

Also in memory of Fred Townsend.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

Acknowledgments

No novel is the work of a single individual. Many talented people must come together, and this book is no different. Many thanks go to Jessica Gang for her editorial prowess. My svelte wife, Joann, and my son Rob both offered input and ideas, throughout the process. Many thanks to Ann Morin, Carol Edwards, and Nicole Liberty, for their input. And, as always, thanks to Damjan Gunjak for not firing me. I am honored to be associated with you all.

1

I was working the day Sammy died. I wasn’t there to help him, the way he helped me. I didn’t hold his hand and tell him it was going to be all right—hell, I wasn’t even there to spit at him and tell him he went out like a hypocrite. I mean, he took a week-long nosedive into the same pit he fought so hard to get me out of. He died in a pool of his own blood and piss, while I was making a buck in my rig. After all the people he bought out of that hell with his time and sweat, there was no one there to pull him back from the edge, and he fell in.

That’s on me.

That’s how it is in cities like Tucson. You don’t look for someone to save you. You’re out there in the middle of the Arizona desert, baked by the sun, and surrounded by people more wrapped up in their addictions than what they’re doing to each other. Dusty old adobe buildings push up against dirty steel and glass, and the sun bounces off the pavement to punch you in the face. There’s no such thing as vice in places like this, and only the hardcore end up in jail. It’s about money, who’s feeding off you, and what the rest of the world can get out of you. There are too many monsters, and if you can’t save yourself, you can’t save anyone. Sammy used to say that to me, and I’d laugh, because I was one of the monsters he’d talk about. My last name’s Romano, but he’d call me Juan the Monster. Hell, everyone did, but all the same, it was true.

The afternoon I got the word on Sammy, I was dropping a new client, a missionary from the Midwest, at my regular stop on Speedway Boulevard—the hub of the downtown. Speedway’s the kind of street where anything you want is just a few steps away. Dance clubs sit next to upscale taco-joints, just a jog down from a hotel or flop-house. Prostitutes and strippers with names like ‘Divinity’ and ‘Lolita’ sell their bodies along the sidewalk to jacked tourists or, go a little further out, and there are enough brothels to satisfy any taste. Partiers like parties, and that doesn’t happen without crowds. Half the city runs on drug tourism, so City Council makes sure the gangs stay quiet, the drugs flow free, and the reputation stays as dirty as the minds of the people who come here.

My client, like most of them, was a tourist. She wanted the whole show, not just the feels from the webcasts, and she booked me to bring her to it. Mildred Pierce, or Miss Church Lady as I’d dubbed her, looked the part: tight nose, thin face, and hair you could tell used to sit in a bun. She was skinny in that well-fed way, all pasta and meatballs, the kind that only ate half a small portion and saved the rest for later. Pleats and flowers kept her modesty down to crossed ankles, with a skinny bow in front. She sat there in the back of my rig, prim and superior, for the whole ride in. She hardly said a word. Hell, she nearly sat with her little upturned nose pressed on the glass as she watched the grays who stumbled out to leech off the world, the blue badges who kept things moving, and the silver badges that strong-armed the jacks and janes. The gold badges weren’t out yet, but I figured she was their type—superior and ready to be used. She played with her white badge while she took it all in, like she knew what it was and how to use it. I knew she was nervous, but it wasn’t until we got close to the drop that she showed her fear hard, and opened her mouth.

Well, she opened it, then closed it, like she didn’t know how to start talking. Some are like that. They think they’re above everything till it’s in their face, then they don’t know how to scream for help. I broke in for her. First time?

She gave me one of those high-pitch giggles that said ‘yes’. It was a proper giggle, scared and innocent, like she didn’t know her own sins on the way in. Is it that obvious?

Yep. Everybody’s got a first time. I shrugged. You sure you want to do this?

She leaned forward, like she was trying to show off her goods, but they were covered up with her neck-tight collared blouse. I didn’t bother to look. Shit like that didn’t work on me—not any more. Anyway, I’d gotten more than I wanted to see when she climbed into my rig at the airport. Real churchy with her ruffles and pleats, but you could tell she thought she had something tasty underneath. Suggest the goods, but never show them off, I guess. Maybe that’s what she wanted, but I figured Miss Church Lady never learned how to use what her momma gave her. She’d probably lived her whole life thinking she had a gold fortune under that dress, but only if no one ever saw it.

I need to know, you know? There it was. It was what everybody told me on their first night. Everybody. She’d been roped in by the online ads, and maybe a fiery sermon or two. I keep hearing about how bad it is, and then how good, and no one seems to really know first-hand. I need to see it myself.

She was lying. They all lie. Miss Church Lady wanted to sink into the pit. I’d heard it all before: ‘I need to see the depravity so I can fight it’, ‘I must immerse myself in sin to learn its weaknesses.’ Those are just excuses, reasons to go in and bathe in the beautiful slime and add your own pound of shit to it. I thumbed my badge for her info as we talked. Well, now you’ve seen it. You can see the rest on a webcast. You don’t need to be in the middle of it. This isn’t the place for someone like you.

I meant it. She wouldn’t come out like she came in, guaranteed. I gave her that final out, hung it on a hook for her, but she didn’t bite. She tried to give me a demure smile, like I couldn’t know what kind of girl she was. Like I didn’t have everything on her public profile, right there at my fingertips. Like any woman who tried that look would be caught dead in pleats and flowers.

I might not be what you think I am.

Yeah you are. Maybe. I pulled up to the curb, then turned around to face her. It was the first time I’d looked right at her. It was the first time I let her see my face full-on.

She coughed and looked away when she saw what I was. Most do, when they see the Monster. Your skin has slipped.

Sue me. Sometimes, that happens.

I looked at my reflection in the side window. If you ignored my face, I’d probably look pretty normal. My usual black jacket had ballistic cloth underneath—good for bullets, but worthless for darts—but outside it looked like leather. Under that was a gray button-down and jeans, like most everyone. It wasn’t until you saw my face that you understood what you were looking at.

The synth skin had oozed a bit to the outside, and parts of my scars were out, all pink and wet. Just a bit of bone was showing. It wasn’t like I could do anything about that. It was my last memento from Special Forces and the San Paulo offensive, the straw that finally convinced the army to send me home. I opened the glove box and took a hand-mirror from beside my cannon. My job meant I had to talk to people without making them spew—that is, unless I wanted them to. I talked while I worked my face back into position. Doing it with the hand-mirror was always tough, but I was used to it. I didn’t keep mirrors around, and that was the only one I owned.

Here’s the deal. I don’t know what my agent Jen told you, but I ain’t your cabbie. You wanted one of them, you should have hired one, but you’re smart enough to pay my rates. Stay smart, and use me for what I’m good at. I’m your ticket in, and back out again. If you get in trouble, tap me on your badge for extraction. I don’t get paid till I’ve pulled you back out, so you’re going to make it to the airport one way or another. It was best to get that out of the way before she hit the pavement. Too many times, clients figured I was base transportation and used me for quick rides. Until then, I’m your guardian angel. You thumb your badge for extraction early and I’ll find you and pull you out. So, when I come for you, help me help you, right? Try to remember that I’m on your side.

She fumbled with the badge on her lanyard. She wore it like a locket she’d bought at a gift-shop, as if it was expensive but didn’t mean much to her. Mildred’s badge was still white, but that would change.

Is that why they gave me this? she asked.

I nodded. Tucson standardized the badges years ago. You have a white badge, for now. That’s your ticket out of the city, so don’t lose it. Don’t take it off for any reason. Everybody knows what it means. You can use it to pay for things, too, and if anyone checks they’ll know you’re one of mine. That gets you respect, and it gets you into places other people can’t access. It was a ritual, a speech I gave to tourists before they left my rig. The badge is keyed to you, so no one’s going to steal it, and you have no excuses. It’s linked to your reserve account, so you won’t need to carry cash. If you want to buy something, ask a blue badge how to use it, and they’ll help you. Lose that, it’ll shut off and go black, and you lose everything. Got it?

She nodded, and took a deep breath. You talk like it’s dangerous.

It is.

I chuckled. Little Miss Church Lady wasn’t ready for shit. Don’t do business with anyone who doesn’t have a badge. They aren’t safe. You don’t have to worry about the grays. They’ve sunk so deep into their jack addiction that they won’t even notice you. Silver badges are cops, and gold badges are city leaders—doctors, lawyers, and that sort of thing. You’re one of mine, and I have a good name out here, so silver badges will stay clear unless you go to them. Don’t go to them. She fiddled with the badge’s readout while I talked. Even though she avoided looking directly at my face, I could tell she was listening by the fear I saw