Mickey Finn Vol. 2: 21st Century Noir

By Michael Bracken

Mickey Finn: 21st Century Noir, Volume 2, the second entry of the hard-hitting anthology series, is a crime-fiction cocktail that will again knock readers into a literary stupor.

Contributors push hard against the boundaries of crime fiction, driving their work into places short crime fiction doesn’t often go, into a world where the mean streets seem gentrified by comparison and happy endings are the exception rather than the rule. And they do all this in contemporary settings, bringing noir into the 21st century.

Like any good cocktail, Mickey Finn is a heady mix of ingredients that packs a punch, and when you’ve finished reading every story, you’ll know that you’ve been “slipped a Mickey.”

The nineteen contributors, including some of today’s most respected short-story writers and new writers making their mark on the genre, include: Trey R. Barker, John Bosworth, Michael Bracken, Scott Bradfield, S.M. Fedor, Nils Gilbertson, J.D. Graves, James A. Hearn, Janice Law, Hugh Lessig, Gabe Morran, Rick Ollerman, Josh Pachter, Robert Petyo, Stephen D. Rogers, Albert Tucher, Joseph S. Walker, Sam Wiebe, and Stacy Woodson.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Dec 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005817008

Michael Bracken

Michael Bracken is the author of several books, but is better known as the author of more than 1,200 short stories, including erotica published in the Lambda Award-nominated anthologies Show-offs and Team Players and in Best Gay Erotica 2013, Best New Erotica 4, Fifty Shades of Grey Fedora, Fifty Shades of Green, Flesh & Blood: Guilty as Sin, Gent, Hot Blood: Strange Bedfellows, Oui, Ultimate Gay Erotica 2006, and many other anthologies and periodicals. Learn more at www.CrimeFictionWriter.com.

Book preview

MICKEY FINN

21st Century Noir

Volume 2

Michael Bracken, Editor

Collection Copyright © 2021 by Michael Bracken

Individual Story Copyrights © 2021 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.

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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.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Mickey Finn: 21st Century Noir

(Volume 2)

Introduction

Michael Bracken

Washed Up

Nils Gilbertson

Final Fall

Stacy Woodson

Next Up

Sam Wiebe

Rules for Mistakes

S.M. Fedor

Winner Takes All

James A. Hearn

They May Be Gods

Stephen D. Rogers

KLDI

Josh Pachter

The Bridge

Janice Law

A Faster Way to Get There

Joseph S. Walker

Talk About Weird

Albert Tucher

Skin and Bones

John Bosworth

Job113

Robert Petyo

The Killer’s Daughter-In-Law

Scott Bradfield

All Over But the Shouting

Rick Ollerman

Motel at the End of the World: Tuesday Afternoon

Trey R. Barker

The Rundown

Gabe Morran

The Law of Lucy’s Luck

J.D. Graves

Salvation

Michael Bracken

Confessions on a Train from Kyiv

Hugh Lessig

About the Editor

About the Contributors

Preview from Ain’t That a Kick in the Head by Nigel Bird

Preview from Holland Bay by Jim Winter

Preview from The Boy from County Hell by Thomas Pluck

For Temple

My Love, My Muse, My Everything

INTRODUCTION

Noir: The story of a character’s journey from a dark place to an even darker place.

Not everyone agrees with this definition. For some, noir is about cynicism and moral ambiguity. For others it’s more about setting, mood, or a particular style of writing.

In selecting the nineteen stories in this volume, I tried to keep all of these definitions in mind. What drew me to these particular stories, though, was the fate of the characters. As I read each submission, I wondered how their lives could get any worse than they are when the stories begin. These writers surprised me, often taking me on dark journeys to unexpected destinations. Some are sad, some are tragic, and a rare few offer a glimmer of hope.

As in the first edition of Mickey Finn, I restricted the stories to the 21st century, challenging contributors to write modern noir stories that don’t rely heavily on the technological restrictions of the past.

I hope you agree with me that each journey—dark as it may be—is worth the trip.

—Michael Bracken

Hewitt, Texas

Back to TOC

Washed Up

Nils Gilbertson

I didn’t care to admit it, but the past couple years I more or less lived at The Shack. The name fit like a cork. A block off the beach, it was a dilapidated building that—I assume through a series of bribes—the city found fit for patronage. On the outside was a neglected buzzing sign that advertised entrance to The hack or T Shack. Inside, fluorescent crimson engulfed the patrons. The glow emanated from several large neon mermaids swimming in squiggly blue neon lines that dominated the wall space. The color choice didn’t make the bursting blood vessels on our faces and spider veins crawling across our parched skin any less noticeable.

Most hostile to newcomers was the stench that soured the murky hole. Our noses were long accustomed to it, but the unfortunate souls who stumbled in for the first time were bombarded with an unholy miasma of stale beer, cigarette smoke, dip spit, and the whiskey-laced sweat that leaked from our pores. It was so damn bad that the smell had to call in the other senses for backup. Before drowning the acrid tang with booze, the place tasted like you were being gagged with sweat-crusted gym shorts.

The clientele more or less fit the decor. The joke went that whatever muck washed up on shore coagulated and found its way to The Shack for a drink. There was Smiley Joe, who—predictably—never smiled. He spent his days at the bar, grunting orders and emptying tins of Copenhagen like they were Big League Chew. Tattoos—most of which were skull-related—blanketed his ropey arms. It was more common for Smiley Joe to knock a row of teeth out than to string together a coherent sentence. We all have our strengths.

Brenda Jean could usually be found stumbling about the jukebox, hurling merciless insults at us regulars, and threatening any newcomers who dared to meet her gaze. Her sharp tongue never got her in any trouble. She’d been in that place longer than the rest of us could remember. Hell, rumor had it that she was born there and never left. We respected her and left her alone to guzzle gin and tonics and chain-smoke Camels.

Stump was our bartender. He was as wide as he was tall. He wore a black T-shirt a couple sizes too small, the sleeves doing their best not to rip at the seams. Stump didn’t take much shit. His bald head and stern gaze warned us there was a line; if we didn’t cross it, he’d leave us alone, unjudged, to consume our poison. If we did, we’d be banished. This—to us—was an iron-fisted punishment. We had nowhere else to go.

I was Mark the Narc. The nickname didn’t sprout from a past career in law enforcement, or any other sort of narc-ery. Instead, it had to do with my wearing a collared shirt and shaving now and again. At first glance, I didn’t fit in. In the beginning I had come in once a month or so to bask in the unseemly freedom of it all. Being there reminded me that at any moment I could toss my life aside and spend it there, drunk and miserable, instead.

So I did. A couple years back my rent went up, my career prospects went down, and my kids stopped coming around to visit. That’s when I became an esteemed regular. We were our own, self-loathing, alcohol-soaked community—always reminding one another that, no matter how bad things got, the pit of misery perched on the next bar stool made your own story look like a Disney flick.

A new face in The Shack was rare. In a strange way, we were the most exclusive social club in town. When a wayward group of casual drinkers joined us, they were rarely seen again. So, when a newbie came around, it was an event.

When Coach first walked in, we had him pegged for a one-timer. He was a large, oddly shaped man. His stomach bulged but his lanky limbs made him look like they’d mixed up the pieces when putting him together. He was about fifty, by my guess. Despite the heat, he wore frayed work pants and a sweatshirt from Apollo Cove CC, the local community college. A ball cap hid his patchy, balding head, and a light brown mustache anchored his thin, crusted lips. But drawing the gawks of a bar full of insensitive drunks was his right hand. It was mangled and missing the pinky and ring fingers. Like someone had hacked it to bits and he never bothered going to a doctor.

Coach took a seat at the bar, smiled, and asked Stump for a beer. As we stared at his hand, he turned and said, I would shake, but… as his voice trailed off, he raised it up for all to see and shrugged.

None of us said anything.

Brenda Jean, breathing gin, wobbled toward him.

Hey Mister, this here’s Stump, she barked, introducing the new patron to our bartender. "And if you ask me, one stump is more than enough ’round here." She looked down at his hand.

Then silence. She held her gaze, steely-eyed. He stared right back.

C’mon, Brenda, no need for that, I said.

Shut it, Narc.

She stood there, swaying, dragging on a cigarette. She looked like a smokestack in a hurricane.

He took a deep breath and a long gulp of beer, downing about half of it. Then he said, Maybe tomorrow night you’ll have something a little more clever prepared. He chased his sarcasm with a grin that reddened his cheeks, beer clinging to his mustache.

Brenda grunted, and Stump and I grinned.

What’s your name, guy? I asked.

Call me Coach.

It didn’t take long for Coach to solidify himself as a regular. We learned he’d been a celebrated head coach of the basketball team at Apollo Cove. He was famous for grooming young players before sending them off to celebrated four-year schools. He explained that back in 2008, due to his player development skills, he accepted an NBA gig as an assistant. His dream of being a professional coach was in his sights.

When people tell stories of near-death experiences, it spoils the ending to know they survived to tell the tale. In a similar vein, when drunks at The Shack tell stories of their triumphs, knowing that the liquor-soaked protagonist will soon come crashing down spoils the tale. For most of us the fall is mild: low to lower. But Coach’s dreams had been within spitting distance.

He told us how it started with getting a painkiller connection to help out his players. Soon, painkillers turned into about every drug you can imagine, and he started recruiting players with the promise of narcotics. Then, the drugs stopped going to the players and started filling Coach’s veins. In his final season before starting his job in the pros, they found him in the bathroom, full of crystal, slicing his hand up so the bugs could get out.

Coach lost everything and was on the streets for a while. Eventually he got clean—save for booze. The athletic director, an old friend, got him a janitor’s job at Apollo Cove. He’d held down the gig for the last five years.

Coach more than joined us; he became our spiritual guide. He handled tragedy with such grace and vigor, with such unrelenting love of life. Whether he spoke of his coaching successes or his drug-fueled homelessness, his demeanor never changed. Both were part of the same story, and thus inseparable. There was no difference between ups and downs, good and bad, happiness and sadness. To him, there was only that which is, and that which is not.

It was my birthday—the one day of the year when there was a sliver of hope my kids would show. Yet, the sliver was so thin that my disappointment was nearly guaranteed. I almost wished the hope in me would flicker and die and take the disappointment along with it. When my kids didn’t make the trip, I had one of those once-in-a-while days when the notion of suicide transformed from a comforting last resort—a hypothetical—to a decision as material as what I would eat for breakfast.

A few fellas at the bar were arguing over which predator would win a fight to the death. Bear versus tiger was instigating physical confrontation between Smiley Joe and a few others. I was stuck in the crosshairs. Stump poured me a double—probably double and a half—and I slipped away to a booth in the back corner that offered solitude. Brenda Jean was fiddling with the jukebox in the corner. Music is a time machine, and I Remember You by Skid Row was sending me back to a time that made me want to chase my bourbon with battery acid.

About ten minutes later Coach joined me. He brought over a pint of amber ale and a basket of tater tots, nudging them forward as an offering. Oozing grease, they glistened pale yellow in the neon, like dime-store diamonds. I glanced at his hand. His palm—what was left of it—was like mudcrack. He asked, Tough day, huh?

Aren’t they all?

Some more than others, he said. I glanced up at him. His pockmarked cheeks sagged, and his lips looked like he’d fallen face-first into a heap of gravel. I cringed as he smiled, expecting them to tear and bleed. As he leaned in, his wide eyes asked what had me down.

You have kids, Coach?

He shook his head. I always considered the players my kids. But no, never my own.

I do. Sure as hell, I barely notice these days, though.

Are they grown?

College. They used to visit once in a while. I thought they might today. But… I shrugged and took a harsh gulp of whiskey instead of finishing the thought. I expected a train of questions to follow. Questions I knew would be well intentioned, but poorly timed. My mind was too tired to reflect and explain. He sensed this.

Hey, Narc, I ever tell you about the time I was up to my eyelids in Vics and didn’t shit for a week? He saw the shock on my face and let out a hearty bellow. "Then, in the middle of an interview for a pro gig, I felt it. Backed up like L.A. traffic on Thanksgiving weekend for seven damn days, now demanding freedom."

He stole a grin from me. So, what happened? I asked.

For a while I held it in. Y’know, when you clench your whole body until your stomach gurgles loud enough for everyone in the room to hear? But then I thought, given my drug consumption, I didn’t have the luxury of being picky about when to shit. It didn’t come often, and when it did, it did. So I excused myself, came back half an hour later—five pounds lighter—and made a joke about how they weren’t the only ones in the room full of shit. His gelatinous jowls jiggled as he chuckled. Then he took a slurp of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, Anyway, it worked out for a while until—well, you know the rest of the story.

We talked through closing time. He didn’t ask about me or my life or my kids; yet he left ample opportunity for me to speak my piece if I wanted to. He reminisced on his shortcomings and, with much laughter, reveled in his downfall. There wasn’t a whiff of look what I’ve been through in his tone. Instead, his vulgar anecdotes roared, look how human we are!

In the midst of the stories of his doped-up adventures, I cut in. So you gave it all up—the drugs, I mean—for good?

He paused, as if he were offended. His face mellowed. Yes, yes I did.

But you still drink?

I do.

Why? Usually, people either go cold turkey across the board or keep using.

He leaned on the table, his gravitation pulling me toward him. When I drink, he said, I believe in God.

So we drank and drank until I awoke in my bed, my mouth sandpaper. I couldn’t recall how I got home. I figured Coach had carried me.

A couple of weeks later, Curly—the barback—ran in, babbling like he’d seen a ghost. Stump fixed him a drink and we circled around; Brenda Jean even turned down the jukebox and stumbled over. Curly told us the police had found Coach in an alley a few blocks away, stabbed, his guts staining the pavement.

A moment of quiet—broken only by a few mutters that Curly was full of shit—descended after Smiley Joe slammed down his glass and lifted the frail barback into the air by the front of his collar, his legs kicking like he was hanging from a noose.

You fuckin’ with us? If you are, I’ll break this here beer mug and feed you the pieces.

Curly wailed and Stump and I grabbed Smiley Joe’s thick, damp arms and pulled him back. I turned to Curly. You sure about this? How close were you?

I—I’m not sure how close. I’m pretty sure it was him, though.

Bullshit! Brenda Jean said. It’s dark as hell out there in those alleys. This little worm is lookin’ for attention.

Fine, I said. Then someone else has to go out there and get a closer look, maybe ask the cops what happened.

More mumbles. More slurps and more glasses returning to tables. A few of the fellas went back to the pool table. It was a stupid proposal; Shack regulars avoided cops like they did AA sponsors. I wasn’t too keen on going out there either—not without knowing which cops were on the beat.

Hey Curly, I said, what’d the two cops look like?

Look like?

Yeah, look like.

He thought for a moment, like I was quizzing him. Both about forty, one chubby, one lean. Both losing their hair.

I finished my drink and said, I’ll go, so long as none of you steal my stool while I’m gone. Nods and grunts assured me no such indiscretion would occur. As I headed toward the door a few others bowed their heads, like I was a valorous soldier headed into enemy territory.

The air was warm and soggy and the salty ocean mist on my face was refreshing. The waves crashed against the shore, reminding me of their power even as they hid in the darkness. I saw police tape ahead. I tried to get a glimpse without getting too close. Aging art deco buildings—pastels fading—shielded the streetlights and shadows blanketed the alley. I had to get closer. I approached the tape.

A couple of cops were waiting for the detective to arrive.

Hi, officers, I said. What’s all the commotion?

They turned. Who wants to know? asked the lean one, stepping toward me.

I shrugged. I want to make sure it’s not a friend of mine.

Your friends turn up dead in alleys much?

I peeked around him and saw a dark stain next to a large body. Not so far, no.

The fat officer walked up beside him. Don’t worry ’bout it. His pockets say he’s a dealer. Probably got gutted for his stash. Good riddance.

The first officer shot him a shut your damn mouth scowl.

Got it. Thanks for the hard work, officers. They nodded and turned away. I looked up at the nearest streetlight. White mist surrounded the glowing yellow bulb like a giant, faded dandelion. I took a few steps to the right so that a sliver of light snuck by the corner of the building and illuminated the large corpse. I strained my eyes. In the puddle of blood lay a mangled hand.

One of the good things about being a drunk is that you don’t have to break your routine when tragedy strikes. Not much changed around the bar in the following days. A few of us made half-assed tributes. The only real change was that we huddled around the TV in the corner of the bar—one of those black hundred-pounders with the huge back jutting out of it—and cringed through the local evening news, waiting for an update on the case. Each night, either the man with the hairpiece or the woman with her face glued on said, Still no arrests for the murder that took place late Tuesday evening downtown near Ocean and Main. However, police suspect that the motive was drug-related. Loud and clear: good riddance. At least the cop on the scene had been honest enough to say it.

Another good thing about being a drunk is that if you want to get something done, all you have to do is drink, talk about doing it, drink more, and forget about it. Smiley Joe occupied a few late nights concocting schemes for revenge, each one as elaborate as it was grisly.

If I catch the sunnuvabitch who done it, oh boy, he said, spewing beer and tobacco-laced saliva at the few of us willing to listen, he’ll wish his momma woulda sliced him from her belly and left him in the trash. He threw back a shot of Jim Beam and slammed the glass down, rattling his Copenhagen tin on the bar. He had a lip in—long cut, based on the dribble on his chin—but I couldn’t tell where the dip spit was going. I’ll open him up and strangle him dead with his own guts. He nearly fell off his stool, mimicking his theoretical vengeance.

A week after Coach was killed, you’d think the whole lot of us had forgotten about him—about the spirit he infused into our otherwise feckless existence. After a few Bloodies on an early Tuesday afternoon, I shook off the petulant voice in my head that kept demanding a few more, splashed my face with water, tucked in my shirt, and headed to the police station.

A steak knife couldn’t have cut through the sultry afternoon air. The oppressive heat reverted my thoughts to the icy condensation on the chilled beer mugs back at The Shack. I salivated but kept going. By the time I got to the station I looked like I’d floated over with the Balseros on a pool noodle.

The station felt like any other underwhelming office building around town. I approached the front desk. The bald officer behind the glass panel was chomping on gum and typing with his index fingers, staring at the keyboard like the letters had suddenly been rearranged. I stood there for a minute until I realized greetings weren’t in his repertoire.

Hey, I said, knocking on the glass.

Huh? Oh. He looked up. Sorry, pal, I’m not usually on the desk. You need something?

Yeah. I’m here to see Paula. Paula Asher.

He craned his neck like the answer was on the ceiling, showing off the ingrown hairs burrowing under his rough-shaven chin. Nope, he said, shaking his head. No Paula Asher in this department. He went back to poking at his keyboard.

I knocked again. C’mon, she’s assistant chief, or something.

Oh, he said, nodding. "You mean Paula Campbell. Yeah, she’s our deputy chief. Real tough cookie. You a friend?"

Ex-husband.

His neck tensed. Been there. As long as there won’t be any trouble, I’ll show you to her.

No trouble, I said. "It’s been a while. Hence the Campbell."

When I walked in, I didn’t know what to say, so I stood in the doorway like an idiot. She looked up and squinted at me like she might be hallucinating. Mark? What are you doing here?

Hi, Paula. May I? I gestured toward the chair.

Sure, come in. The initial bewilderment in her tone and on her face mellowed to run-of-the-mill surprise as she realized I was paying a visit—not being wrestled into the drunk tank. I sat down and looked at her. A touch of makeup muted the distinguished lines of her face. We sat in silence for a moment. She was from a different life. If not for our shared children, I might as well have been selling magazine subscriptions. The ache of a bruised heart would have brought color back into my world. But the dull haze that shadowed my every step wasn’t chased away by a storm from the past. The songs Brenda Jean played on the jukebox shook me more than her presence.

Can I get you a towel? she asked, probably concerned for her chair.

No, I won’t be long. I’m sorry to barge in like this. I wiped my forehead with my shirtsleeve. I’m only here for information. I meant it.

If you’d called we could’ve gotten coffee. Now it feels so official. She grinned a little.

So, Campbell, huh?

The grin vanished quicker than it had appeared. Jesus, Mark. Yes, Campbell, going on two years now. For shit’s sake, you met him at Sophie’s graduation.

I nodded. He seemed like a good one. Were you married then?

Engaged.

Sure.

Then a pause. Her face told me to ask whatever question I wanted because we both knew I wouldn’t be back. When I didn’t say a word she said, While we’re on the subject, when’s the last time you called the kids? Or visited? They’re only a couple hours away. Not that I’m encouraging you to operate a motor vehicle.

I exhaled, amused. Can’t argue with that. I’ve been meaning to call, but I thought they’d be down for my birthday.

"They’re nineteen and twenty-one. You call them."

Right. But sometimes I think it might be too late. And each day I don’t, the harder it gets the next. Eventually it’s easier not to. The words escaped from my mouth like runaway hostages. She didn’t say a thing. Too damned honest to disagree. Anyway, I went on, that’s not why I came. I’m here because a good friend of mine was murdered, and I’d like to know the status of the investigation.

She shook her head. I can’t do that.

"Please, Paula. Even if it’s public record stuff. I’m sure it’s news to me."

She turned back to her computer. What’s his name?

I realized I didn’t know it. Coach. Well, that’s what we called him. He didn’t exactly share his name.

Her pupils took a lap. I don’t have time to keep tabs on your barfly buddies.

He was stabbed in the alley down by Ocean and Main last week. I did some poking about and the cops said he was killed for his stash. But that’s impossible because Coach has been clean ever since his days with the basketball team at Apollo Cove CC, you know, when the team was real good.

She stared at me, mentally sifting through the nonsense for the helpful bits. Then she typed and clicked for a few minutes. Yeah, Jim Lewinski, she read from her screen. Multiple felony drug charges, been in and out of prison for almost a decade. Under investigation for dealing but we only ever got him on possession. As far as I can tell, never coached any basketball.

No—

And another thing, she said, now talking like a cop, rather than an ex-wife, although there was a narrow distinction between the two, don’t go asking questions at murder scenes. That’s a good way to get your face on the suspect board.

I shrugged. Good thing the two morons you had on the beat were, well, morons.

Mhmm.

Besides, you got it all wrong. Ten years back Coach was on the verge of getting an NBA gig. He got derailed because of drugs. Then he got clean, and now works as a janitor back at Apollo Cove. As I rattled off all I could remember about Coach’s story—so glorious when he had regaled us back in The Shack—her faced turned from annoyed to confused to concerned. My mind grasped for words that would make her understand, but, as I explained, I couldn’t even convince myself. Her head was shaking, and I doubt she even noticed.

Then, I remembered the night of my birthday.

I stood up. "Fine. I get it. The fix is