From Brooklyn With Love & other shorts

Three days ago a German film crew missed their flight out of Tehran. They were detained when a customs officer found the passport of a particular Dutch cameraman suspicious. There is no time for me to share the details of the interrogation that followed or the context in which my own name was there disclosed. I will soon be taken into custody where I myself will be encouraged to answer a great many questions; and there is no time to discuss those either. So I want to tell you about the fifth Beatle instead.

In 1959 a young clarinetist named Henry Altman abandoned his true passion: music and joined the army. On one bitter night, years later I'd asked him why. We were waiting beneath a broken street lamp on the crooked cobblestones of Prague, shivering and smoking endlessly. Hank looked at me and sighed, when the steam and smoke cleared he was smiling.

"What can I say Dick, Chuck Berry played guitar"

We laughed and that was good. It was something warm in a long string of cold nights.

Hank joined the army because he didn't think his music had a place in the world but let me tell you, when you're destined to do something...

Perhaps the greatest strength of the clandestine service, the Company as we used to call it, is the efficiency with which they use people. The way a proper Jazz solo writhes between order and chaos is much like a code and before long, the company had Hank crouched in a cubicle, a speaker in his ear and a stub of pencil slick with sweat in his hand trying to coax names and dates out of a symphony of beeps and clicks.

But the days of "Rusky Radio" where just a warm up, "Hallo Jazz!" was Altman's Opus.

Hallo Jazz! was an hour long radio show that ran in east Germany from 1961 until the spring of 63' when the Red government got wise and promptly made "unpeople" of the entire staff. It was a live music show with one little secret, every note and jingle was composed by a young Jewish American from Brooklyn named Henry Altman.

It was brilliant. The code was a simple application of the circle of fifths and a changing cypher Hank called the "control ditty" and Hallo Jazz! broadcasted instructions to operatives all over the eastern block.

All though Hallo Jazz! was blown, the 60's filled the airwaves with a cacophony of music that was diverse, beautifully strange, and the perfect cover for Altman's covert melodies to sing.

There are 2 fascinating stories I cannot tell you. First the exact circumstances that led to the Beatles involvement in Company work and the second, the actual meaning behind the song Penny Lane. Those operations are still active and I will not jeopardize the safety of the brave men and woman involved. But I will tell you, of all the musicians involved in covert actions, the Fab Four were the least hesitant to to get what we Company boys refer to as Wet.

Nowhere Man escalated a capture order to a kill order for 3 foreign dignitaries in breach of what is perhaps the most important international law: diplomatic immunity. And if the primal, thudding bass line of Helter Skelter didn't put blisters on Paul McCartney's fingers, strangling a KGB informant with the thick D string off of his Hofner certainly did.

Sitting at his Royal Standard model typewrite, Hank orchestrated both beautiful music and and questionable acts. Whether this was in service of his country or his true passion I cannot say. I think he was trying to find a harmony between them both. There is music in that too.

Everything went bad after the Beatles broke up. While civilians blamed Yoko, Company men blamed Ivan and a fair number of us thought they were one in the same. But Hank thought it was their Egos and that sounds right to me.

Mossad smuggled plastique explosives into the home of Ali Hassan Salameh "The Red Prince" in the form of records. CIA confirmed they were signed copies of the band on the Run EP. After they determined Paul's signature was genuine, the company black booked him.

I wish I could tell you that Johns cover got blown and he had to pick up a new identity or he was double crossed on a covert mission but his death was as pointless and ugly to me as it is to you. Sometime someone small and stupid can shove their way onto the stage and ruin the show for every body. If it's any consolation to you take a minute to listen to his music, secret mission or not, I'm pretty sure John Lennon died saving the world after all.

But for the most part the music portion of those operations is over, Hank Altman, the fifth Beatle called to warn me about the dutch film crew snafu.

"I'm to old to run, Dick." his Brooklyn accent still bright and easy "I figured you are too, but I wanted to let you know. Professional courtesy and all..."

I thanked him. Though I knew he was just on his cell, maybe in his kitchen or living room, I pictured him in one of those red London phone booths, talking into a rotary phone and smiled.

"Chuck Barry really did a number on you..."

It took him a minute to connect the dots but when he did we laughed and it was good.

I hung up the phone and took a moment to write this to no one. But now I'm done and there seems to be a an eerie calm all around. I think I'm getting ready to go, a knock comes on the door...

*******************************************************
Lions,Tigers, And Other Treasures.


Like a dead battery, the gold cigarette case had lost its charge. It used to be that by simply holding the cold polished metal, Julian Tepper could revisit the night he had killed the owner of the case and taken it as a keepsake.

Closing his eyes, Julian clutched the box in his palm, his thumb randomly tapping along the smooth flat surface and Julian was transported. The rain was squelching in his shoes and dripping icy wet tendrils passed his collar and down his back. There was a man dying at his feet; the smell of his sweat corrupting the otherwise fresh scent of the storm.

On that night, as the scene played out in the spotlight of Julian's headlamps, the world was very small, predator and prey it's only inhabitants.

The dying man was like a failing battery himself. His own energy draining out of the long gash on the side of his neck.

Julian had originally planed on taking the mans ID. knowing his birthday and street address would lend a resonance to the times in the future when he would want to relive this moment. He would even know the mans name. But looking down, Julian realized it was the golden cigarette case he wanted. He would add it to his collection the way an African Hunter takes as his trophy the heads of the beasts he has slain.

The man at Julian's feet, semi conscious and fading fast had managed to lay his hand on the case he had dropped when Julian's car had struck him. His thumb was tapping weakly on its smooth flat face in a gesture his killer would later mimic while reminiscing about the murder.

With mild amusement, Julian realized his victim (by now almost completely exsanguinated and undoubtedly seeing stars) had mistaken the cigarette case for his cellphone and was trying to call for help.

Yes, the cigarette case would do just fine.

Before he could bring the case to his ear (an action that was futile in every conceivable way) the man passed out and died in the rain.

Julian reached down and plucked the golden case from the corpses hand before climbing into his car and driving away.

The killer never bothered to learn his victims name.

But now, as Julian sat sipping coffee at the all-night diner he'd begun frequenting for the passed few weeks, he reflected on how his trophy had lost its charge. All of its power, used up satisfying an urge that at best would diminish but never truly disappear. The cigarette case no longer colored or lent vibrancy to his memories; whatever power it once had was gone.

Reaching under the greasy chipped table and into his pocket, Julian gripped the dead relic. Squeezing the sturdy flat box, hoping to capture even the faintest spark like a desperate drunk upturning an empty bottle for the sake of single burning drop. Absorbed by his desire, Julian hadn't noticed his waitress approach. When she spoke, he snapped to attention, a glimmer of shock in his wide sunken eyes.

"That gonna do it?" She noticed his startled expression and smiled kindly, "Sorry Hon, didn't mean to spook ya"

"It's fine, I'm fine. I'll take the check now."

The waitress took notice of his tone, clipped and unfriendly and decided against suggesting a slice of pie. After plucking a stub of pencil from behind her ear, she produced an oil stained pad of checks from her similarly soiled apron. She chewed the end of her pencil while doing some quick math and then scrawled a total across the bottom of the pad. A quick whisper of tearing paper and the woman laid the check upon the counter.

"Cash or charge, Hon?" she asked.

Julian did not answer. His expression had flattened to a distracted blank stare that was both upon and beyond her.

"Feeling alright sweetie?" her voice was coarse but caring.

Her customer came around slightly.

"Oh yes, please," he was still distant, "just the check please."

The waitress stared at him, she was somewhere between annoyed and bewildered.

"Okay, well it's right here," she tapped the table for emphasis "so do you want to pay for it with cash or a credit card?"

Julian did not answer but only produced a wallet from his coat pocket and handed his waitress a single bill in a slow deliberate manner.

Taking the money, she felt suddenly relieved that she had not suggested dessert. There was something she did not like about this man and she was happy he was leaving.

"I'll be right back with your change."

"Okay," Julian responded as his server headed away to the register but he hadn't really been listening to her. Something else had gotten his attention.

While Julian sat, wondering what time the woman's shift ended, the golden cigarette case sat in his pocket unnecessary and forgotten. It was now one more trophy, a stuffed lion or mounted tiger to adorn the hunters lodge while he stalked the planes. The real treasure was the hunt itself.

As Julian waited for his change he thought of his waitress and the little toothmarks in her pencil. He wondered how his own bite would line up with the small impressions in the wood. He felt quite certain they would line up very closely and wondered how long something personalized like that could keep its charge.

* * * *

Short story:

Mark leveled the gun at Harvey's chest. His eye settled on the fat sweating pig of a man just beyond the the white, unblinking, uncaring eye of his pistols sight. But he could not keep his vision from flicking back to the sad broken thing on the floor he knew to be his little girl.

Harvey seemed to coming closer each time Mark would look back to him though he hadn't seen him take a step.

"I didn't do it," Harvey reasoned, or tried to. "Don't do anything crazy."

I need to go to her, Mark thought. I need to hold my little girl

"We can call the ambulance.." Harvey reassured. He wasn't moving, not between the glances Mark would steal of Susie, but Harvey was crouching slightly. He was getting ready to move.

The urge to go to her was overwhelming. But Mark knew he could not manage Harvey once she was in his arms. Then whatever was left of him would be good only for grieving.

I know she's too far gone for the doctors...

Mark could see from the blood on the floor, the small twisted shape...

But something of her would remain at least a short while. She shouldn't be alone.

"You could call 911, I'll stay with h-"

The gun roared three times. Mark heard the first shot only. It was as if he were within a great bell. High tones wrapped in low pitches filled his ears; cherubim sing baritone.

Three messy spots appeared across Harvey's belly. They could have been the ellipses following his last coherent sentence before he fell on his back and lent his own, far less angelic howls to the choir.

Even if he COULD have heard them, Mark would not have noticed Harvey's screams. He raced to his baby girl and gathered her in his arms. And then he was screaming too.

Time lost definition as Mark cradled Susie and wept. Once during that horrid phase of no-time, a black swell of hatred bore Mark up through his sea of agony long enough to regard Harvey once more with his pistol. Mark squeezed and watched the top half of the mans kneecap disappear in a storm of blood and bone. A putrid creature, a twisted mockery of pleasure came to the sounds of Harvey's screams, Mark chased it away with rebukes and shame before returning both victorious and defeated to his despair.

She was so small.

By the time he was certain Susie had left, Mark laid her down, with his jacket to pillow her head. He kissed her hands and told her he loved her before rising to his feet.

Mark turned to the man who murder his daughter.

"Hold out your hands."

Harvey looked up with panicked eyes. Mark could see his doughy flesh was pallid and covered in sweat. But it looked like he could survive, at least long enough for what Mark had planned.

He point the gun down at the quivering wreck. It was good that Harvey should experience this role reversal so soon. Mark believed it made the lesson more...pure.

"I said hold out you fucking hands."

Harvey cried out, a blubbering "NAAAH!" sound and protectively pulled his hands to his chest. The sight of his fists tucked into those chubby little balls looked infantile to Mark and it filled him with rage. He delivered a savage kick to Harvey's side. The crying ended in an abrupt yelp. After that he only sobbed.

"Now Harvey," Mark spoke calmly, "One of two things is going to happen. Either I'm going to shoot you in the throat and watch you choke on your own blood.

Harvey covered his face as Mark aimed down at him.

"OR... I can use the last two bullets to blow off your hands before I beat you to death with mine."

Harvey stared silently up at Mark and realized, with growing dismay and terror that one of those thing were going to happen.

"Can you hear the voices Harvey?"

For a moment he thought Mark was simply hallucinating. Perhaps he was taking about the same voices that had suggested his current ultimatum. But maybe...

"You do hear them Harvey."

And he did. They were distant and he couldn't understand them. But Harvey could hear the voices.

"They've heard the shots. And the screams. They will have already called the police. You could make it Harvey. Maybe not with a bullet in the neck but..."

Mark smiled. His humor was gone. It had left with Susie. But that wasn't quite right because those things had been taken from him. So now he just peeled back his lips and showed his teeth.

"Do you want to make it Harvey?"

He did.

"Then hold out your hands."

He did.

* * * *

By the time Mark heard the sirens, and saw their blue lights his shoulders were burning. His fists had gone numb.



Note: During a writing workshop, I read the scene from Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones, where Susie Salmon is murdered. I was so upset by what I read that I wrote this. I will be changing the names, but in concept it's still fan-fiction (something I normally wouldn't write) but it is a testament to Sebold's writing and story; I found the villain so monstrous that I had to borrow him and punish him in my own prose.

*************************************************
In the light of the setting sun.

Am I here to take something?

Thoughts gathered around Jacobs consciousness like birds lighting on a tree. At first, just a few.

I hurt. There is sawdust. I can taste it.

Then more.

No. I am here to stop something. But I am also here to hide.

With this thought, Jacob became aware of time and how very important it was. It was then that he realized his eyes were open. The slanting blades of tired yellow light had something to do with time and his current predicament.

It's the sun. The sun is setting.

With a start, he jerked into full consciousness and sat up. Dust wafted around him in lazy pinwheels through shafts of light.

I'm in a tool shed.

An angry throb in his skull reminded Jacob he had struck his head when diving into the coffin sized shack that was now his sanctuary. Though the picture was coming together, his memory seemed to be functioning on a "don't ask, don't tell" basis. Nothing was known to him; answers must be sought.

What am I doing here?

You came with Martin.

Why?

To stop them.

Who are they?

His stomach turned. Despite how far he had come and what he was willing to do, Jacob could not bring himself to call them what they were. But as the light in the shack slowly sank from yellow to orange he could no longer ignore the truth.

They were vampires. They knew where he was. And the sun was going down.

Jacob felt a sudden rage towards Martin for getting him into this. After all it was Martin who had learned what they were and where they slept. It was Martin who had guilt tripped Jacob into helping stop them. Was it the right thing to do? So what if it was. It was Martins burden. Jacob wished him dead which he probably was.

Jacob stumbled against the side of the shed as he rose to his feet. An arsenal of garden tools mounted on the wall clattered and his head gave another sharp protest. The court yard was visible through chinks in the shed and the sun was just beginning to slip behind the dilapidated house thirty yards away.

Jacob noticed with growing dismay that a shadow was forming on the lawn before him. It was perhaps an eighth of the way between the house and shed. Each second brought it closer. He couldn't yet see them but they were near.

Jacob had raced out of the house when things went south. He and Martin had been ambushed as if they had been laying in wait. Martin had the car keys and he was missing in action.

The shadow crept forward several more feet and then Jacob did see them. A row of hatefully ghostly faces, lined up against the house, waiting for the darkness to escort them to their meal.

Jacob felt feverish. His hands were shaking when he reached out and took a rake from the wall. He wedged it against the rickety wooden door.

Another look through the cracks. The shadow was a quarter of the way across and they were coming forward with it.

He snatched a rusted shovel from the wall and told himself he just needed to hold them off long enough...

Long enough for what?

That was when he remembered the drums of fertilizer planted around the house, the one Martin had managed to get into the front hall before they had attacked.

"Take this." Martin had said when he tried to hand off the watch.

"What for?"

Jacob now felt like an idiot for declining. He looked through the cracks again.

Half way now.

Martin said it was synchronized with the detonation.

"Those drums are going to explode in thirty minutes whether I take the watch or not"

There had been 18 minutes left on the timer whey they got overrun and were forced to fall back. Had it taken 60 seconds to reach the shed? Jacob tried desperately to determine how long he had been out.

For that matter, how long have I been up?

Three quarters of the way. They were close enough to make out their teeth. They looked sharp.

Why didn't I take the watch.

What does it matter? Martins voice mocked, maybe from his subconscious, maybe from the grave. Darkness is coming whether you have it or not.

The edge of the shadow was less than ten feet away. Jacob could smell them now. Blood and mildew. They were laughing.

The shed seemed to shrink as it darkened and cooled. The sun was gone. A bruise colored sky was all it left behind.


SHRED

1.

Eddy hissed, yanking his hand back from the slick glossy neck of the guitar.

Damn thing bit me. He thought.

Blood welled around his fingernail where that mean little B string had slipped beneath, and stung.

The store clerk, who looked like Bruce Dickinson, if he had swallowed Ronnie James Dio, slapped his considerable belly and laughed. The bellowing guffaw echoed down a wall off Acoustic Guitars and hummed within them.

"See," the clerk flashed a gold tooth from within his crooked grin, "you're shreddin' already!"

Eddy smiled grimly. There was an ache in his hand and blood on the guitar. But that was OK. It was Rock n' Roll.

"Sorry I got blood on this thing man."

Eddy noticed a crude Scorpion tattooed on the clerks hand when he waved away the apology.

"You're buyin' it anyway." The clerk said, as if Eddy had already paid.

"I guess I am." he said and looked the guitar over.

He had no business wanting it. Eddy never would have imagined himself shredding and wailing on a clunky wood grained guitar. It belonged slung around the neck of a guy wearing Buddy Holly glasses and a string tie. But it's price tag, like the contents of Eddy's wallet were on the low side of three digits. The very low side. And there was something he liked about that wood grain finish. The knots looked like faces. Faces that were screaming.

As he handed over his cash, it occurred to Eddy he had no idea what type of guitar it was. The clerk had said something about it "finding its way into the shop" but that really meant nothing. The space on its head, usually reserved for the makers tag, was blank.

"So is this a Fender? Gretsch?" Eddy asked, "I mean, what is it?"

The clerk lifted his Scorpion tagged hand, scratching his chin while he considered. The gold tooth flashed once more.

"It's yours."

And so it was.

2.

Within 30 minutes of getting home and plugging in, Eddy was seriously regretting having bought the guitar. It sounded so full and crisp in the shop but now it was toneless and cutting out. He figured the pick-ups must be defective because they seemed to be getting some radio signal; he could hear voices, distorted and distant issuing from his amp. It wouldn't stay in tune. Again it had sliced his finger, this time tearing his pinky on the fat low E.

When the D string opened the tender flesh at the crease in his pointer finger, Eddy cursed and threw the guitar down on the couch beside him. He rose to his feet and stormed across the room. He wanted a refund. He was getting his money back.

Eddy was half way to his car keys when a loud PANG! stopped him in his tracks. He turned and saw the B string had snapped. It swayed like a drunken cobra, a drop of blood dripped down its length.

PANG! ... PANG!

Two more popped as he watched dumbfounded. Then another.

PANG!

The last one snapped with such force it slashed the couch cushion opening a cotton stuffed wound.

The instrument crashed to the floor as the lasts string broke.

The body of the guitar swelled and became distended. The enamel cracked across the surface and the wood broke out in what looked like scales. All six string went rigid and stood straight up. Eddy watched as they curved, their needle sharp tips pointing down towards the floor. Three strings went to one side, three to the other. Violently those living wires stabbed into the floor and began to push the guitar up like a bloated insect rising to its feet.

With his heart in his throat, Eddy turned to flee. He made it two steps before he tripped and went sprawling. The tangle of chords snagged around his ankle and yanked an amp down on top of him, The weight of the speaker shattered his knee and pinned him to the floor.

Eddy screamed himself hoarse. The agony of his ruined bones, the hideous abomination transforming before him, these things broke something within the young musicians mind. He felt as though his brains rolled and boiled within his skull. .

The creature, (Eddy no longer thought of it as a guitar) was engorged and had doubled in size. Its mass would expand the contract. Expand and contract.

It's breathing! Sobbed a tortured voice within his fragile mind.

A throbbing atonal screech brayed from the amp, those twisted faces screamed along with it. Eddy saw their tormented expressions in the wooden flesh of the monster dragging itself towards him.

The creatures neck gave a sickening crunch and snapped. Putrid bile colored foam oozed from the fracture and there was another crack. Then another. And another. The neck was breaking in segments at every fret and it was curling over the top like a scorpions tail. What was once the head of the guitar was inflamed and swollen. What had been tuning knobs became jagged barbs, green puss dripped from their sharpened points.

Eddy tried to dislodge his leg and failed. Screaming seemed like the only thing to do. So he did. Right to the end.

The grinding buzz and howling shrieks rose to a crescendo. It was quiet after that.

3.

Jan and Steve admired the instruments hanging throughout the store. Their son squirmed and wailed in his fathers arms, the infants plight unknown. Steve was rocking and soothing the child when his eyes caught a modest wood grained guitar with a price tag he could afford.

He reached out without thinking and brushed the strings. The open chord sighed in pleasant dissonance and the child was silent at once.

Jan smiled at her husband "Music soothes the savage beast."

"Sometimes, music is the beast," a voice spoke from behind the counter, "Why don't you take that down, strum a few chords. See if it grows on you."