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Texas, Hold Your Queens
By DeLeon DeMicoli
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Federales
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A Brutal Bunch of Heartbroken Saps
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Dead Clown Blues
By Mike Miner
Hurt Hawks
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Knuckleball
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The Place of Refuge
(*) Coming soon
Back to TOC
Here is a preview from Les Cannibales, a crime novella by DeLeon DeMicoli, published by Shotgun Honey, an imprint of Down & Out Books…
Chapter 1
The maroon Cadillac ATS slowly pulled into the empty space on the street, leaving its back end to stick out and block traffic. Commuters voiced their displeasure by laying into their horns.
Phil remained calm and took his time to parallel park the car. He knew if he returned home with any sorta mark on his wife’s caddy, he’d never hear the end of it. How he saw it: he’d rather listen to car horns for as long as it took for him to park the car just right than feel rushed and end up on his wife’s shit list.
Phil carefully adjusted the car’s back end. Traffic began to flow. Once he felt comfortable with the amount of distance between the cars parked in front and behind him, he turned off the engine and raised the steering wheel. He popped up the faux fur collar on his coat and lowered his skull cap over his eyes.
“Mind if I smoke?” Syd asked while seated in the passenger seat. He dug in his pockets and pulled out a pack of American Spirit cigarettes. He looked like a man who knew what it felt like to get punched in the face.
“Don’t even think about it. Rose will chop my balls off—swear ta God.” Phil raised his right hand like he was sworn into office.
Syd pocketed the smokes while fidgeting in his seat, looking to get comfortable. The seat may have been made of leather, but it didn’t provide the same lumbar support like his La-Z-Boy recliner back at his ma’s.
Seated in the backseat was Phil and Syd’s partner from out of town, Carlo. He grabbed Syd’s attention by pushing on the back of the passenger seat headrest.
He said, “Hey, plant it already. You’re driving me nuts with all the moving, and I ain’t got a lot of leg room back here.”
Syd leaned forward and looked under his seat.
“Phil, where’s the seat mover doohickey?”
Phil’s eyes were shut, arms rested on top of his big stomach. He pointed to the passenger door.
“Side there at the bottom. Be careful with the controls—they’re delicate.”
Syd located the lever and pushed it. The seat slowly moved forward.
“Say when,” he said over his shoulder.
“When,” Carlo said while yanking on his junk like he was delivering the punch line to a joke. “Now the boys can breathe.”
“How long we stuck here for?” Syd asked. “You know being seated for long periods of time causes blood clots, my ma tells me.”
Carlo scooted to the middle of the back seat to look at himself in the rearview mirror. He had the chiseled mug of a Spanish soap opera star and began patting his hair like some old lady on Forty-Second Street returning from the salon.
“You listen to everything your ma tells you?” Carlo asked.
“For sure,” Syd said. “Who else you gonna trust to come get you when you gotta make bail?”
Phil pushed the rim of his hat off his eyes and pulled back on the cuff on his coat. The gold Rolex watch attached to his wrist read late morning.
He said, “Dance already started. Once we see the van pull out, we can make like aircrafts and jet.”
“I need ta take a piss and have a smoke,” Syd said.
“Smoke outside, why don’t cha?” an annoyed Phil responded before adjusting the driver’s seat to an incline position.
“You kidding me? I ain’t about to have some Joe Blow ID me on the street for the five o’clock news. I got mouths ta feed and two strikes against me,” Syd said. He turned the key in the ignition and pushed seek on the car radio. Electronic sounds and heavy bass pumped through the stock speakers.
“You’re making my ears bleed,” Phil said while using the back of his hand to itch his Jewish nose.
“What’s your problem, baby? You don’t like this?” Syd asked. “She’s an all right singer, don’t cha think?”
“This ain’t music. Sounds to me like a broken kitchen appliance,” Phil said.
“I think it’s pretty swell.”
“That’s because you’re a fricking retard. I’ll take Dion and the Belmonts over this clown any day of the week.”
Syd turned around in his seat and gripped the leather headrest.
“You dig this music, Carlo?”
Carlo was busy watching the traffic. He despised being lookout. He liked the action, the adrenaline rush that came with stealing shit and pointing a gun in someone’s face.
“Sounds like two alley cats screwing in a garbage can, you ask me.”
Frustrated, Syd said, “Both of you sound like a couple of old farts.” His bulldog snarl softened once the rhythm set in. He snapped his fingers and bopped his head. He hummed along. “We listened to pop music when we was young and our parents hated it too. Just trying to keep an open mind so I can connect with lil’ Mickey.”
“Your son, Mickey, is just a kid. I’m an old man. Old men like quiet, and since you’re in my car, I make the rules. And when I say turn down that goddamn radio, you better turn down that goddamn radio or else I’m gonna pop one of these off into that simple head of yours.” Phil pulled out a .38 Remington snub-nosed revolver from his coat pocket and rested it up against the steering wheel.
“Take it easy, Phil,” Syd said nervously while doing as Phil instructed.
“Don’t tell me to take it easy. Stop being a wiseass,” Phil responded with the hard steel in his hand.
“Put that thing away before some schmuck sees you and puts your face on the Internet,” Carlo said while reaching over Phil’s headrest and grabbing the shooter.
“Hey, Phil, I don’t mean any disrespect—just bored is all. What else am I supposed ta do ta pass the time?” Syd asked.
“Why don’t you go have a smoke on the corner with the brothas over there and start an a cappella group?” Carlo opened the cylinder to the shooter and dumped the ammo into his hand.
Phil turned to Carlo and said, “Can I have my gun back?”
Carlo placed the ammo into the pocket of his leather jacket and handed the gun back to Phil. Phil placed it in his coat pocket.
“Man, wish I was able to get off in there. I live for that shit,” Carlo said. He pulled out a slim, black toothcomb and ran his thumb down the plastic teeth.
“Maybe next time. Let the cowboys take the heat on this one if things go sour,” Phil said.
“Whaddya plan on doing with your cut?” Syd asked.
“Buy shit for the grandkid. Maybe take a vacation with the wife. This is my last run. Getting too old for this. Men my age play shuffleboard and stare up young waitresses’ skirts, not
pull jobs.”