The Bus: And other stories

By Craig Conrad

The book is a collection of twelve tales about people in strange situations from a bus that never lets its passengers get off to a soldier who helps a buddy out of trouble. These stories were written during a time when slick magazines were in great demand. Time changes, everything, unfortunately not always for the better.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Conrad Press
• Release date: Sep 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781955243537

Craig Conrad

Author resides in Milwaukee. Wisconsin, has been hooked on mysteries and supernatural thrillers since reading his first H.P. Lovecraft novel. He has written twenty novels, fourteen of them are Paul Rice novels, his reluctant paranormal investigator, with cameo appearances in two others that feature two of his war buddies along with two Dutch Verlander stories, and a collection of short stories.

Book preview

1

THE BUS

It’ll be a piece of cake, Tommy Raggo said. We’ll be in and out slick as you please.

He sat, straddling chair, his short. Lean frame braced forward against the chair-back by two muscular arms. A lock of black hair hung down over his forehead, accenting a pair of strange eyes, crazy eyes, set in a sort of pleasant face, but a second look made you feel that it was not a face you would want to be alone with.

Whadda you think? Tommy asked. You in?

George Reese, Gomer to his friends because of his country-boy appearance, looked over the diagram spread out on the greasy, kitchen table in Tommy’s two-by-four apartment. Why do we gotta hit a place in our own neighborhood? he asked. Can’t we go farther out?

Tommy reached out and slapped him lightly alongside his head. ‘Cause that’s where the money is, you dope.

Tommy always did that to him when he didn’t catch on right away, which was most of the time. His brain just didn’t work as fast as Tommy’s, so he always let him do all the planning for both of them, something he had been doing since they were kids, stealing lunch money from third-graders. And that was a lot of years and prison time ago.

Yeah, but I kinda like the old guy, Gomer said, avoiding Tommy’s glare.

He’s a gook, Tommy said.

Yeah, but he ain’t a bad guy.

Who says? Tommy lit a cigarette from a pack on the table and blew smoke at Gomer. Whadda he ever do for you?

He gimme a carton of ciggies once when I was short a money.

Big, hairy deal, Tommy said. He tossed you a crumb, you jerk. He’s rollin’ in dough, just like all those foreigners that come here are.

They are? Gomer frowned.

You ever seen one didn’t have a store of some kind or a gas station? You and me was born here, whadda we got?

Tommy smiled his crooked smile. Unless you got gomethin’ I don’t know about, huh? You holdin’ out on me, Gomer? 

Gomer started to turn red, always blushing easily when kidded. I never had nothin’ my whole life. I wouldn’t hold out on you, Tommy.

Yeah, I know. Tommy took a deep drag and let the smoke out. So don’t worry about the gook. He’s got more than we got, he can afford to lose. C’mon, you in? I need you.

Gomer looked at the diagram again, then back at Tommy. All I gotta do is drive the car? I don’t gotta go in or nothin’?

That’s all, Tommy reassured him.

Okay, I’ll drive.

That’s the way to go, Tommy said, reaching over and slapping him on the back.

When do we do it?

In two days, Tommy said. Friday morning, early. He’ll have lots of money on hand for his little check-cashin’ service he likes to do for the neighborhood dorks with their social security checks. More crumbs for the slobs to dumb to figure things out.

You want I should do like always? Gomer asked.

Yeah, two days should give you enough time to steal a car and change the plates.

Okay, Tommy, I’ll get a car. He got up from the table.

No screw-ups, Gomer.

There won’t be. I promise.

Tommy shot him a look. Yeah, well, just don’t get caught stealin’ the damn car.

Pull up over there in the middle of the block and park, Tommy said.

As instructed, Gomer parked the stolen Chevy two buildings past the liquor store and started to turn off the ignition.

Don’t, Tommy said, grabbing his hand. Leave the damn thing runnin’.

Gomer started to blush. A goof-up was as bad as being kidded. Oh, yeah. I forgot.

Well, don’t forget. I’m countin’ on you, Tommy said, glaring at him. Just be here when I come out.

Tommy consulted his watch. I got nine-thirty, whadda you got?

Gomer checked his wristwatch. Nine-thirty.

Good, Tommy said. I should be back in five or ten minutes, tops. He checked the .45 automatic again for about the fifth time since they left his apartment, then, satisfied, shoved it back behind his belt under his jacket. He threw Gomer a look. Okay, I’m on my way. Just wait and keep the car runnin’.

Gomer looked contrite. I will, Tommy. I’ll be right here.

Tommy got out of the car and walked the short distance back to the liquor store. The only customer left the store as he entered.

A minute after Tommy’s entry into the store, Ray Bishop turned up Fowler Street and cruised the neighborhood shops in his patrol car. Most of the stores were little mom-and-pop businesses ranging from grocery stores to gas stations, all tucked shoulder to shoulder in a six block area. Ray always felt that they leaned on one another for support. The buildings were so close together that you couldn’t get a shoehorn between them.

He was into his second block of travel on Fowler, thinking the day might turn out bright and sunny at that, even after an all-night rain, when he spotted Gomer Reese sitting alone in a car with the motor running. Ray knew wherever Gomer was Tommy Raggo couldn’t be far away.

Those two were thicker than thieves, which is exactly what they were. Tommy was a short, wiseass punk who had a rap sheet as long as his 5-5 height, and Gomer wasn’t much better, although Ray thought most of Gomer’s trouble came from palling around with Tommy. They were a Mutt and Jeff pair, and both had spent the majority of their thirty odd years of life behind bars.

Ray passed Gomer without so much as a look, continuing on for another block hanging a right. His cop nose was telling him that something smelled bad, and after fourteen years on the police force, it had never steered him wrong. Circling the block, Ray parked a good ten cars behind Gomer, who was still there, two stores away from Kim’s Liquor. Ray knew that Kim Soong always kept a lot of money on hand during that time of the month when the social security checks came in so he could cash checks for his senior customers.

It was Ray’s guess that’s where Tommy Raggo was at the moment. Tommy hadn’t killed anyone yet, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of it. Ray called for backup, then got out of the cruiser and headed for the liquor store. He withdrew his service weapon from its holster and held it down alongside his leg.

At the store, Tommy flipped the entrance-door’s OPEN sign to read CLOSED and headed for the checkout counter.

Kim Soong was behind the counter near the cash register amid shelves of various brands of liquor. He was a small, rail-thin man whose gray hair was losing its fight with baldness. Kim started to smile a welcome when he first saw Tommy, but something in the younger man’s manner killed the smile before it reached his lips.

Tommy stepped to the counter and pulled out the .45. Okay, papasan, lets have the money. Open up the cash drawer.

Kim just looked at him with big eyes and pretended not to understand.

Tommy pounded on the cash register and cocked the .45. Open the damn thing up! he shouted at him.

Kim rang open the drawer and emptied all the paper money onto the counter.

Tommy looked it over and shoved it in his pockets. Where’s the rest of it? There’s only two, three hundred here.

Kim feigned ignorance again, hoping the man would take what he had given him and leave.

C’mon! Don’t get cute with me! I know you cash checks here!

Kim shook his head and spread his hands in a I-don’t-understand gesture.

Tommy lost his patience and struck him over the head with the automatic, knocking him to the floor. Dumb, gook, Tommy said and jumped over the counter, searching for the rest of the money. He found a small safe under the counter which was open but empty. Not far away, he also found a cigar box loaded with cash.

Tommy smiled. That’s more like it.

Drop the gun, Tommy! a voice in back of him said.

Tommy froze. He knew that voice. It belonged to a flatfoot who cruised this beat. Sure, I’ll put it down, he said. Just don’t shoot.

Put your hands above your head and drop the gun!

Sure, sure! Don’t shoot! Tommy started to raise his hands, but he wasn’t about to go back to the pen, not again, not anymore. Most of his life had been spent behind walls, and Tommy couldn’t stand another stretch.

Halfway through the motion, he turned quickly, ducked low, and started firing. He didn’t remember how many times he pulled the trigger, four or five, maybe, but he saw the cop go down and started running for the door. Tommy ran past the fallen cop and out the front door, moving straight for Gomer’s car - - only Gomer wasn’t there.

Stupid shit! Tommy swore, knowing that Gomer had heard the gunfire, turned chicken, and took off.

Tommy could hear police sirens getting closer, soon the cops would be all over the streets. He stuck the cigar box under his arm and put the .45 back in his belt, hiding it under his jacket. His hand came away bloody. He stared at it a long time, like this was the very first time he had ever seen his hand, then looked under his jacket. His body was bleeding badly. The cop must have hit him, but he didn’t remember getting shot, didn’t even feel it.

He needed a place to hole up, and fast. His wound was dripping blood on the sidewalk, a sure trail for the cops, and he wasn’t about to make it easy for them. Tommy shook out a handkerchief from a back pocket and pressed it against the wound to stem the flow, moving farther down the block before ducking into an alley.

Moving slowly, checking back for any blood-trail, he made his way behind an apartment building where he was able to force a basement door open and staggered in. The door had large hook and eye on the inside that hadn’t been locked and Tommy fastened it and hunted out the darkest corner of the basement he could find. He found one suitable behind some old furniture and dropped down with his back against the wall.

The wound didn’t hurt that much, in fact, it hardly hurt at all, but Tommy knew he needed help, probably a doc. He thought of Gomer again and cussed him out under his breath.

Above him, about ten feet away, beams of daylight made their way through cracks in a painted-over basement window. Tommy watched dust motes dance about in the streams of light coming through the window cracks. It made his eyelids heavy; it made him sleep.

When Tommy opened his eyes again, the window was dark. He checked his watch and the luminous dial told him it was five after nine. He hadn’t meant to sleep, but the rest seemed to have done him some good. Anyway, he felt better and got to his feet, letting himself out the way he got in. Outside, Tommy examined his chest-wound under a light hanging over the basement door. The blood had dried, caking his shirt and sticking it to the wound, but it had stopped bleeding. Another good sign. Maybe he wouldn’t need much help after all.

Keeping to the alleys for another six blocks, he eventually made his way cautiously back to the street, looking sharply for any sign of cops whom he knew were still out and about somewhere. His mother hadn’t raised any stupid children. Tommy also knew he needed some quick transportation,