Slightly Bent/A Dirty Way to Die and other stories

By Stephen B. Smith

Story themes, all unrelated, run from mystery to satire (the killing of a persistent mime), to war, to time travel (a love story), to a lethal duel in an Arizona desert, along with an autobiographical story of a car of German manufacture that nearly exsanguinated our bank account. Humor, bloodletting, the occasionally surreal, and grim drama unfold in these pages.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen B. Smith
• Release date: Nov 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9798215578070

Book preview

Silt / A Dirty Way to Die

. . . she was shaking violently even before she touched bottom, as much from the cold as from the lifeless, unforgiving medium the fifty-pound concrete anchor tied to her wrists had plunged her into. Tugged by vagrant currents her clumsy arrival had set in motion, her natural buoyancy caused her to sway on the mushy floor of the inlet. Air bubbles trickled up the exposed skin of her arms and legs with erogenous mockery. At a depth of nine feet or more the water was shockingly cold and enveloped her in its gelatinous embrace as if to welcome her into this insentient world in which she would separate and dissolve and join forever in its slow eternal heave. She shook the image with its false promise of peace from her brain and confronted her aloneness and horror at being in this alien element, pressed against on all sides by cold murk with silt particles darting at her face like derisive insects. The sheer outlandishness of finding herself in this place seized her scalp and strangled thought. For a moment madness offered release but inside her head voices squalled in panic.

There isn’t time for this, they screamed. Move! Go for the shallows. Get going, damn you, lashing her will as if it were a balky mule.

Her lungs were beginning to burn. Knowing she probably had less than a minute before her oxygen was used up and some instinctual mechanism would override this unnatural refusal to breathe and force her to gulp water instead, she bent to lift the concrete anchor lashed by nylon rope to her wrists, urging her unresponsive body forward. The vise-like pressure squeezing her chest demanded she expel some air but she didn't dare—the trail of bubbles would alert him to her movements . . .

Santos Silva watched Paulie Trattiore tie the nylon rope to the concrete rowboat anchor. With a grunt, Paulie pulled the knot tight so there was no loosening it by her fingers alone. Santos' face hardened. His breath hissed out audibly.

That should do it, Paulie said.

He shoved his bulk up from the edge of the warped dock and stood facing her. Staring into her eyes, he smiled, and the sheer ugliness of that gesture twisted in Santos' guts. He wished Paulie would turn his back to him so that he could go for his handgun, but the Garagnelli's chief enforcer kept constant peripheral awareness of Santos, knowing, as did everyone who worked for Garagnelli Brothers Imports, that Santos had a case for her. He knew he was being tested.

Then Paulie stepped closer. Thinking he was about to kiss her, the ultimate insult in this miserable affair, Santos snapped, Back off, Paulie! Don’t touch her.

His tone brought Paulie up short. He regarded Santos mildly for a moment. I forgot, you’re still a virgin. Well, you’ll get over it. Meanwhile just watch and keep your damn yap shut.

Though hating his part in it, there was nothing Santos could do but bide his time unless he wanted to go off the dock with her. He forced a neutral expression on his face and gazed at Alessandra’s full figure standing at the edge of the weathered dock in the aqua print dress she had worn to work that morning. Though it was a late summer day she shivered perceptibly. The bruises on her left cheekbone seemed to glisten in the afternoon light. Santos winced. To hit a woman, especially in the face, was vile and unnatural, like swearing in church . . .

Two hours earlier, at Boss Garagnelli’s urging, Paulie had found her in the break room at GBI. With a sweeping backhand he had knocked the coffee cup from her hand, grabbed her upper arm and yanked her to her feet. She flared with anger, but before she could say anything, Paulie said, Boss’s office. Walk or I’ll drag you by the hair.

She complied stiffly, though with her naturally regal manner, and stalked into the office. While Santos took a tense position by the door, she went right up to Boss Garagnelli’s desk.

What in hell is this about? I won’t be manhandled by this fat ape.

Angelo Garagnelli gazed up at her from his padded captain’s chair. Irregularities in your accounting methods have been brought to my attention, Alessandra. It seems you’ve been giving yourself unauthorized bonuses. And you who have been like a daughter to me. I’m deeply disappointed.

She started to protest, but the boss abruptly shoved his hand up. Don’t waste my time with denials. You will now go to your office where you will restore what you have stolen back into the appropriate accounts. The team of accounting specialists who discovered your clandestine activities will witness that you do so. He gestured her away.

Paulie prodded her toward the door and followed her out of the office. Santos followed so she would know he was nearby. He hoped she'd interpret that correctly. In less than ten minutes they were back. The boss looked up at Paulie.

It’s done, boss. The accounting guys are satisfied. But it won’t go through until tomorrow because of the amount.

The Boss nodded, tapping his index finger on his mahogany desktop.

So what now, Boss.

Garagnelli leaned back in his chair and threaded his fingers together. Do her, he said dismissively. You know where. And take the new man with you.

Standing by the door, Santos stiffened and felt his insides convulse.

Alessandra leaned against the desk and smiled seductively. You sure we can’t work something out, Angelo? I know you’ve always had an eye for me.

Angelo made a sound that Santos took for amusement. In the momentary surprise that followed she lunged for the letter opener on his desk. Grabbing it, she shifted it in her grip while kicking backwards at Paulie’s shins. She spun growling and hissing, her eyes glaring malevolently, and slashed at his face with the letter opener before Paulie managed to fend off her wild attacks and grab her right wrist in his left hand. He cocked his free fist and slammed it into her left cheek. It popped her head sideways, stunning her momentarily and burning the meaty smack forever into Santo’s brain.

She shook her head, then grabbed at the opener with her left hand, grunting in frustration when the opener slipped from her grasp and fell to the carpet,. She sagged as if woozy from the punch, then came at Paulie in a shrieking rage, stabbing at his eyes with the nails of her left hand. Paulie ducked away, grabbed her left hand and pulled her toward him, butting her forehead with his. Her knees buckled and the fight went out of her.

The three of them took the freight elevator to the parking garage, Paulie holding her right hand folded back between her shoulder blades, forcing her to stumble over the concrete surface. At his gray van, Paulie flipped the keys to Santos, then yanked the sliding door open, shoved her across the seat against the other door in the back seat and climbed in beside her.

On a two-lane off the expressway Paulie had started in. Well, babe, this is where you offer to suck us off if we’ll let you go. How about it? I’m game. He laughed and glanced at Santos.

Santos said, Knock it off, Paulie. She doesn’t deserve shit like that from you or anybody else.

You got a soft spot for our little friend here, pally? Maybe you—

Shut the hell up.

Giving Santos a steady look, Paulie said, "We'll talk about this later . . . pally."

Her hair now lifted in the breeze—titian was the color someone once said—a vibrant deep reddish hue Santos had rarely seen on another woman. It was auburn at night or in dim light, but in daylight, golden highlights glinted with every movement of her head. The effect was hypnotic, glorious, and the warmth evoked in him at the sight of her made his participation in this barbarity something that was going to haunt his every living moment.

He sighed raggedly and glanced over the bay to his west. A passing boat was unlikely as game fish no longer inhabited this inlet on the east side of Barataria Bay. Decades earlier the defunct cannery behind them had discharged its processing effluvia directly into the inlet, killing the bottom feeders and driving the pan fish into deeper waters.

A breeze brought a hint of her perfume to him. In her position as head accountant for GBI she maintained a distant and dignified demeanor. Always dressed in the finest blouses and complementing skirts, she stood out among the other office women like a ripe peach among juiceless apricots. From her Italian mother came her earthy spirit and voluptuous shape. Her fresh complexion, vibrant hair and sharp wit were the product of her Irish father. Santos used to stare at her when she brought the paychecks around while guys got on their knees with their tongues hanging out and panted like dogs. It was disgusting but she ignored it, now and then favoring him with a wink because he refused to sink so low. Her smiling glances always made him feel like creamed butter.

What had led her to siphon off a percentage of the company’s profits, Santos couldn't fathom. Paulie said she made over sixty grand a year as a specialist in something called financial disbursements. She had a master’s degree in computer science from some big Midwestern school and was said to have a genius for investing. She saw to the creative side of the company's finances, shifting it between island accounts so there was no tracing it. The company had been growing at a steady rate for the last five years, though its profits fell just short of expectations.

This was hardly enough to arouse suspicion, but with the Garagnelli brothers any hint was sufficient. They brought in a team of third-shift accountants who discovered she had been skimming into a personal account a scarcely noticeable percentage of the interest from the company’s investments for years, which was the end of her. Most other companies would simply have fired her in public disgrace, maybe sued for lost income, but she had to know what to expect from the Garagnelli's.

Santos watched as she gazed off into the distance, neither tearful nor pleading, her chest rising and falling with her breathing. Savoring her last sunset, he guessed ruefully. Then Paulie was saying, Okay, we're ready.

Santos glanced at him, then at her. A breeze lifted her hair from her face. Then her face turned and her eyes locked on his in a way that sent shards of pain through him as if something made of glass had burst inside.

Paulie smirked at him, shook his head wryly and took a step toward her.

Goodbye, Santos, she said, and he sensed in her voice something both personal and jarring, disappointment edged with regret that struck home where he lived.

And then he was charging, ramming his right shoulder into Paulie's lower back, lifting his two-hundred thirty pounds of fat and gristle off his feet and shoving him off the dock. Feeling himself about to go airborne, he sank to the splintery wood with his hands braced in time to hear the thunderous splash and see it shoot above the level of the dock. He scrambled to his feet and dug the flick knife from his pocket.

The sound of Paulie's cursing made him stiffen. He cut her loose and bent for the anchor. Treading water, Paulie said, What'd you do that for, you crazy sonofabitch? Then him lifting the chunk of concrete above his head and flinging it down at Paulie's head—

Movement jerked him back to the present. Paulie had lurched backwards. A moment passed before Santos realized that Alessandra had waited until he was close and then kicked at his right shin with the toe of her dress shoe, narrowly missing but sending him a step back in surprise. By the time Santos' stunned brain made sense of this unexpected act, something even more astonishing froze him. Alessandra had tugged the anchor to the edge of the dock where she took a deep breath, heaved it off the edge of the dock and threw herself into the water after it.

Paulie’s mouth gaped. "God damn! What a gutsy move. He whacked Santo’s arm. Hey? Can you believe the balls that dame has? Had, anyway. He shook his head in wry admiration and muttered, Ho-ly shit." His hoarse laughter jarred Santos.

Now that things had started, Santos jerked free of his frozen state. He had the presence of mind to check the second hand on his wristwatch. He strode to the edge of the dock, his breath hissing through his nostrils, and stared down at the still roiling surface, impenetrable for the churning silt.

Hey, Paulie said, punching his shoulder. Relax. It gets easier. I was half expecting you to do something stupid like jumping in after her, but maybe you’ll work out after all. And how about the guts of that dame, hey​

Santos made an irritated gesture with his head. If only he'd done something. Coming home to someone like her was the closest he'd ever get to heaven. He'd have gone on the run with her without a second's thought. Take on the world for her. All he had to do was pull his gun and shoot his fat partner.

Right, and while he was jerking his weapon from his pants, probably catching the hammer on something, Paulie would already have pulled his from his shoulder holster where he kept it off safety and ready to fire. I guess you fail the test, pally, he'd say, lifting his handgun.

Alessandra was gutsy, though. She wouldn’t give up without a struggle. The nylon cord wouldn’t fray against the edges of the concrete anchor, but maybe she landed on some broken bottles and could use the glass to cut herself free, then swim under the dock where she could get a breath and hang on to one of the pilings until they left. A bleak possibility at best. He found it hard to breath, chafing for Paulie to leave.

Let's go. Paulie whacked his shoulder with the back of a meaty hand.

Santos stood looking over the end of the dock at the still roiling surface, his insides dancing with impatience. Some fifteen seconds gone now. He sensed Paulie studying him.

Yeah. I just . . .

Hey, it's over. Get used to it. He gave Santo’s shoulder an impatient nudge. C’mon, I gotta take a piss.

Don't do it off the dock, Santos snapped. Go off there somewhere. He gestured toward the van. Show some decency.

Paulie raised his hands, lips pursed, eyes dancing with mock fear. Okay, champ. Say your goodbyes or prayers or whatever, and let’s go. With a snort he lumbered off. Using both hands to shove his bulk upward, he climbed off the tilted dock onto the higher ground.

Santos checked his watch: eighteen seconds. He withdrew his flick knife and snapped the blade open while a vision of Alessandra standing helpless with hands tethered and shoulders hunched small and fearful on the floor of the inlet coated him with chills. He would have wept but for the sudden notion that she was probably even stronger than he and giving up was not in her makeup.

He rocked tensely back and forth. Once Paulie was in the car it would be safe to go in after her. If he'd only move his fat ass. Come on, come on . . .

At this depth the water was numbingly cold, forcing her to stay focused on each step. The anchor was heavier underwater than she expected, which was to the good as it counteracted her natural buoyancy. Orienting herself by the dim glow through the turgid water of the late afternoon sun, she scanned for the dock, blinking continuously as particles of silt darted at her face with insectile persistence, and made out the shadowy form of the two pilings fronting the dock. She worked off her shoes and started toward the rightmost piling, testing the surface at each step to avoid twisting her ankle in a hole or against a rock, and hoping to feel a bottle or broken glass, willing to trade a gash for something to saw the ropes off with. Before she had gone three steps the silt stirred from the bottom muck by her passage obscured the piling. She trudged on, bent over to reduce the water’s resistance. It was like plowing through deep snow. And even with the water's support the anchor was starting to tear at her forearm muscles.

It had been only ten or twelve seconds ago that she had taken a full breath before hitting the water, but some primitive survival instinct within prodded her to open her air passageway as if she had forgotten her need for oxygen. She wondered if it could overwhelm her will power. She had once held her breath for seventy seconds at a YWCA swim class and knew that movement underwater used oxygen twice as fast as remaining still, and that she had to smother her fear because she could endure maybe a minute and more if she didn’t give in to the panic building inside her head.

She was trudging upwards now, her calf muscles growing taut as she waded through the muck. The rounded piling rose out of the murk before her like a ghostly apparition. With slow springy lunges she passed by the right side of the dock, shoving herself at a lean against the clingy weight of the water to the second piling while her lungs sent up intensified signals of distress. A horde of goblins popped braying out of every closet in her head. The clamor for air made her head throb.

She reached the piling and tilted her head against it, adjusting her balance. Gambling that the bank beyond was too steep and slippery to climb and that this was her only way up, she lifted the anchor overhead against the piling to neutralize the drag of its weight, crouched low at its base and sprang upward, clamping her legs at the peak of her leap around the slimy wood and hooking her ankles together. As her weight settled, barnacles dug painfully into her inner thighs, helping stabilize her and giving her a tenuous sense of security. She slid the anchor above once more. Using her core muscles, she relaxed her legs and lunged, scissoring the piling again, managing maybe a foot.

Be there, Santos . . .

She gained increasingly less each time and immediately felt herself inching backwards, fearing to look up and find that the surface was still far away, causing her to lose hope and falter. The blood from her cuts made the going even slipperier, forcing her to clamp her thighs together ever more tightly. Her thigh muscles spasmed and began to cramp and she knew she was seconds from collapse. The best she could do was continue rocking upward to regain the few inches lost to sliding back. The muddy hue of the water had become grayish, her brain starved for oxygen and beginning to misfire. Her lower back muscles ached from holding the anchor above her head. Through the silty water, clearer at the surface, she made out the edge of the dock three or four feet above. No sign of Santos.

Where the hell are you damn you

It was out of her hands now. All she could do now was resist the urge to open her lungs for breath while shaking off the seductive voices saying it was alright to give in, to just let go. Her mind was shutting down, growing foggy and dim. And from somewhere distant she began to hear music, chimes that soothed her feverish brain with the promise of the euphoria that was hers if she'd only allow herself to slide painlessly out of this unpleasant messy place. Inflamed at this cringing betrayal from something weak inside her, wanting instead to lash out screaming and cursing at the life just out of her reach, she focused on counting backwards from twenty. Within seconds she found herself counting measurably faster.

At thirteen something touched her head. Fingers spread across her scalp and clawed her hair into a painful knot. She froze, waiting for it to push her down and hold her there until her lungs emptied. And then her scalp began tearing free of her skull . . .

Thirty-two seconds. In five more Santos knew he was going in the water after her. If he could stand to wait that long. Damn, damn, damn.

Every muscle in his body had