Wrong Place; Right Crime

Crime Fiction by Marek Z. Turner

Biting his lip, Jack contemplated the risk he was taking. His parole conditions specified no alcohol. Yet, there he was on his first day as a free man, rocking on the spot in front of the rows of chilled lager on display at the rear of the Hudson Mart.

He listened to the familiar buzz of the large, refrigerated units and recalled the last time he drank booze. The night had started innocently enough. A quick drink to celebrate finalising a deal. His first one for a long while. Since his wife left, in fact, not that he would admit that the two were related. In just six short months, he had not only lost top dog status in the company, but also his wife. To the same man. That indignation had led to some lonely nights with only booze for company, and so when he finally turned a corner and made a sale, he was determined to let everyone know he was back. The celebratory toast soon led to some cocktails, followed by shots and who knows what else. He had ended up in a casino at three A.M. waving a piece around while demanding chips. It was an honest misunderstanding. He was just hungry. Besides, hard liquor had caused that episode. A light beer or six wouldn’t affect him in the same way.

That innocent mix-up cost him eight months of his life, his livelihood, and almost his shitty one-bed apartment. Thankfully, a prison connection helped him raise the funds to keep it, but Jack had misunderstood the terms and conditions. Embarrassing for a former insurance salesman. Those lenders were now demanding repayment. At an extortionate level of interest. So, without a job, after all, who wanted to hire an alcoholic ex-con, it turned out he was going to lose everything, anyway. And get a severe beating to boot.

As he yanked the large refrigerator handle towards him, a gust of cold air hit him in the face. He shook his head and shivered.

He grabbed a six-pack and hoped it would be enough to chase away those thoughts of what would happen tomorrow when those thugs came for their first instalment.

The little bell by the entrance chimed, snapping him out of his self pity.

“Hands up!” shouted a gruff voice.

The words ricocheted through the brightly lit store, reverberating off the mosaic of shabby advertisements that adorned the walls before piercing Jack’s ears.

His mind went blank, fingers loosened, and the pack of booze tilted.

The words swirled around in his brain before reforming into something coherent. He blinked and mouthed one word. Fuck.

Gripping the cans in both hands, Jack crouched and made his way down the back aisle and then toward the far corner of the store, moving in an almost L-direction.

With every step, the heels of his canvas trainers peeled up off the sticky linoleum, and his stomach tightened. By the time he reached the end-cap display, he was certain that he had developed a cramp.

After placing the beer on the floor, he peered around the mountain of Cheetos that marked the end of the aisle.

One man. Balaclava. Pistol in right hand. No gloves. Cheap baggy tracksuit.

Although he had only attended a handful of karate sessions in his youth, Jack was confident that he was tough enough to deal with any situation. You didn’t build up an impressive collection of action films without learning a thing or two about kicking ass. Why pay for classes when you had Norris and Segal available twenty-four hours a day?

He ducked his head back and rubbed his chin.

Obviously, he could get involved and save the day, End up with his picture in the paper. That would show everyone. Become the hero he knew he was inside. Especially considering he had the element of surprise. However, he was on parole and didn’t know how the police would act. Suspicious bastards, they are. Maybe it would be better if he just let the two men sort it out themselves.

His eyes widened as they dropped to the cans of refreshing amber liquid, and his tongue ran over his lips. The question of how quietly you could open a can wrestled his thoughts from minor things like the robbery.

His outstretched hand hovered over the plastic six-pack ring, and despite his mouth being awash with saliva, the back of his throat turned dry as his heart pounded against his ribs in a desperate attempt to reach its true love.

As if he was unwrapping a present before the big day, his fingers moved with surprising nimbleness, freeing the first can before a nail gently slid under the ring-pull.

“The money, now,” said a gruff voice.

The commotion drowned out the hiss of the released carbon dioxide, and Jack seized the opportunity to chug the amber refreshment.

“You’re messing with the wrong people, son,” said the elderly cashier by the register. “You ever heard of Don Teflon?”

“I know it’s his money. That’s why there’ll be a lot. Now open the till!”

“I can’t. Not without you making a purchase,” said the old man.

Jack admired the guy’s balls, although it would be better for everyone if he just paid up. The longer this continued, the more chance that the fuzz would turn up.

Now squatting on his haunches, he kept the beer flowing down his throat. By the third swig, the can was empty, but the siren call from its sisters grew louder and louder, all but overpowering the noise just a few feet away.

Jack’s toes tapped against the floor and his legs became restless. He turned his head, staring through the gaps in the stack of chips. His forehead creased, and he strained his neck forward as he attempted to hear if the men had progressed in their negotiation.

The cashier was at the point of referencing a heart condition. Bless him, the poor old guy was trying every trick in the book not to pay and the robber, well, he had made a hash of this. If Jack had robbed the place, he’d immediately show he meant business, and get the cash right away. Easy. He wouldn’t be wasting people’s time.

“Go on, have a pack. May as well wash them down with another beer too,” said Chester Cheetah.

After a double take at the talking animal, Jack nodded, lifted a couple of packets of chips, and placed them next to the beer. He winced as the cheap plastic packaging crumpled under his touch.

Exhaling, he leaned his head round the corner and watched as the two men continued their haggling. With a smile, he returned to his shopping, pinching the sides of a bag, while continuing to listen as the cashier lost his dignity but held on to his cash.

“… CCTV.”

At the reference of CCTV, all three men glanced up and around.

Jack’s fingers pulled at the top of the packet, separating the seal.

A loud pop travelled down the aisle.

Followed by an audible gasp from the robber as the cashier drew a shotgun like he was in an old western.

The first shot caused Jack’s shoulders to hunch, while the second roar of gunpowder saw his Cheetos spill all over the floor.

Two agonised screams filled the air, disappearing quickly beneath the shrill ringing that rattled around in Jack’s skull.

He bashed his left ear with his palm and gingerly stepped out.

The tracksuit man’s lifeless body lay sprawled across the floor. Well, most of it anyway. A gaping hole existed where his stomach used to be with what looked like raw sausage meat coiled around and out. A dark pool of crimson seeped out from beneath him.

Jack’s nose had wrinkled and his mouth had contorted at the fetid stench of excrement rising off the body. It had left a taste so bitter that no amount of masticating air could shift it.

Turning his head, more out of horror than curiosity, he had noticed the open black duffle bag on the counter. Adorned with specs of red.

“Hello?” said Jack, with his orange stained hands raised up and out to his sides.

There was no reply beyond the monotonous low humming of the overhead fluorescent tubes.

Jack’s feet shuffled across the linoleum, squeaking with every movement, until he reached the counter.

He peered over.

The cashier was sitting on his ass. His forehead displayed a small purple dot to the right of centre. Blood framed his cranium like a grotesque halo.

Suddenly, it was as if the air conditioning unit had kicked into overdrive, and Jack’s skin erupted with goose pimples.

Shaking, he made his way along the counter and looked into the bag.

Wads of cash filled the inside. Mostly clean, and more than he’d ever seen in one go in his life.

Jack’s eyes darted between the door, the bodies, and the bag. Yet his feet felt encased in concrete. Possibilities flooded his mind. Jail or freedom. Debt or affluence. 

His muscles tightened as he cleared his throat, it felt like his chest was going to implode. Lucidity returned. Still rooted to the spot, he glanced up at the CCTV camera in the corner. That would determine his next action.

Jack’s gaze settled momentarily on the blinking red light in the corner of the flimsy black plastic unit before following the thick lead that snaked along the wall and past a row of liquor bottles before disappearing into a small hole.

A drop of blood dripped from where he bit into his bottom lip as he launched forward, grabbed the bag, and made for the exit. Fuck it.

As he reached the door, he took one last look at the carnage behind him and paused. There were no sirens wailing in the distance and no busybodies coming to investigate the commotion. It would take ages for anyone to identify him from the footage, if they ever did. And especially if he stayed away for a while.

The realisation lightened his chest, and he dashed back to the body of the robber. Dropping the bag with a satisfying heavy thud, and avoiding the viscera as much as he could, he patted the dead crook down and, using just a finger and a thumb, pulled out a set of keys from a trouser pocket.

A smile worked its way over his face, and he cocks his head. Rows and rows of shining glass liquor bottles stared back at him. Swallowing a mixture of bile and self-repulsion, Jack clambered over the counter and grabbed the closest bottle of bourbon.

His right foot nudged the arm of the deceased shopkeeper, and as Jack gazed at the lifeless body, he raised his bottle as a tribute to the brave man.

“You did good, gramps,” Jack said.

Condolences over, Jack climbed back over into the front of the store, unscrewed the bottle and took a cathartic drink. After using the back of his sleeve to wipe the remaining liquid from his mouth, he dropped the bottle into the bag with the cash and practically skipped out of the store, over the weed infested cracked concrete, and toward the only vehicle in the parking lot.

Settled in his new ride, a battered Plymouth Neon, the bag and bourbon on the passenger seat beside him, Jack fought hard to resist revving the engine, but imagined the romanticism of sending a plume of dust and grime into the air behind him. Just like in his movies.

As the rubber burned, he contemplated the way his luck had changed. His mind ignited with flickering memories, synapses firing as he recalled whispers of a fresh casino nestled a couple of towns away. He put the car into drive and tore out into the night. He had an appetite for life again.

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Bio: Fueled by caffeine, Marek Z. Turner is an English writer whose fiction focuses on those for whom life hasn’t been kind to. His work encompasses crime fiction and noir with a dash of humour.

He can be found at his Website.

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