New*Year, NEW NOIR ~ AT THE BIJOU presents ~ CALLING CARD, Helen Howell's Debut

C A L L I N G   C A R D 

By ~ Helen A. Howell 

I'd come down from New York to Chicago some weeks back. I had a score to settle with a certain thug. Not that he'd know me from a rotten apple. But I certainly knew him. He'd kicked in the face of my kid brother just because he didn't like his tone. Yeah, you could say I had a score to settle, but it wouldn't be easy. I swigged back my whiskey. It was the good stuff, sometimes hard to find in these Prohibition times. But the mobsters had it made, their clubs could supply it if you had the dough. Sharp prices but well, a fella's gotta drink hasn't he. I tapped out a cigarette and lit it. The waitress, as they liked to be known, a blond with large peaches, small hips and ruby red lips, hovered at my table.

"Can I get you anything honey?"

I took a drag on my butt and blew out a cloud of smoke as I eyed her up; had I time, was she worth it? Nah, I didn't need the distraction. "Just bring me a bottle of the good stuff doll."

She leaned down low, those peaches round smooth, heaved rhythmically with her breathing, and whispered in my ear, "Are you sure I can't offer you anything else?"

"Nice, but not now, just bring me the drink, maybe later." I slapped her on the rump, and she giggled as she walked away. These broads, read 'em like a book. The band in the corner were playing a Louis Armstrong number -- jazz was it right now and the Chocolate & Cream Club was one of the best known on the North side of Chicago.

The waitress came back carrying a bottle and a fresh glass. "Here's your drink big boy."

I threw some sugar on the table, she picked up the bills, pouted those full lips, winked and wiggled off back in the direction of the bar. Hookers . . . I lit another cigarette and poured myself another shot. I pushed the clean glass to one side while I waited for my meet to arrive.

I figured the only way I was going to get near my target was to join up with the mob. I tried to get into Capone's circle. That was where I really wanted to be, but Scarface was not easy to reach. I poured another shot and tossed it back. The heat hit my throat, so smooth, warm as it slid down. I clenched my teeth as I thought about Capone, stubbed out my butt and immediately lit up another. I'd heard that Al was worth around sixty million clams, made rich by the blood of others. Fucking Italian. The great Capone, the czar of Chicago, a finger in every pie; gambling, prostitution, bootlegging and still trying to take over everyone else, spreading like a cancer out of control. I never got a foot in the door, so my next choice had to be his rival Bugs Moran. The Irish might be tough but they were ready to recruit if they liked the look of you, and they liked the look of me.

I filled my glass again, checked my watch. Where is that sonofabitch? He's half an hour late already. Another ho stopped by; thin dress wrapped around her ample body, sheer enough to see through, tits worse for wear. "Buy me a drink honey? I can be nice."

I threw a bill in her direction, "Get lost doll." I'd need more than a bottle of this whiskey before I'd let her be nice to me.

"Screw you." She took the bill and wandered off.

Any other time I would have slapped her big mouth, but I didn't need the attention on me, not now, not till I had this job down. I spotted Moran's man coming across the room. I could tell who he was by his threads. He looked the cat's meow, with his two toned spats and silk suit. Fucking Irish, who are they kidding. He arrived at my table, pulled out a chair and sat down. I held the bottle of whiskey and nodded towards him, "Drink?"

"Sure." He pulled out a silver cigarette case, opened it and slipped a coffin nail between his lips, then snapped the case shut and placed it back in his pocket. I struck a match and held it out to him. He bent forward and sucked hard on his cigarette. Leaning back he blew out a stream of smoke and said, "Pour that fucking whiskey."

I did as he said and pushed the glass his way. He picked it up and swilled it down then pushed it back at me. I filled it again, slid it over to him, and poured myself one. I lit up another butt and leaned back in my chair. You have to show these thugs that you're not scared, if you can't do that, you're dead. I took a long slow drag on my cigarette as I waited for him to speak. He stared back at me. Maybe he was trying to see if I would falter in some way. Like I said, fucking Irish.

He picked up his drink, swallowed it in one go and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "I'm Danny, but most know me as The Doctor on account of this 'ere." He reached down to his belt and pulled out a double bladed knife with a long brass handle.

"Nice." I carried on smoking.

"I'm showing you this, so you know that if you cross Bugs I'll be paying you a visit."

"I'll be sure to remember that."

"Let's get down to the business then. This is how it plays out. Tonight Capone is transporting a truck load of hooch. Bugs wants you and two others to hijack it. Capone uses drivers that don't carry, so the whole thing should be duck soup."

"Sounds like a piece of cake." I held his stare.

"The driver and the others are to be chilled, you understand?"

"Sure bump 'em off. I got it."

"You carrying heat?"

"I got a .38." I tapped my hip.

"The other two will have shot guns, maybe you should have one too."

"I prefer my 38." I screwed my cigarette into the tin ashtray and picked up my glass.

"O'Reilly and Doyle will pick you up outside here in another hour. You get this right and you're in. I'll be in touch."

"Oh I'll get it right, all right."

He held out his glass for another refill, I topped up both glasses. We nodded and downed our drinks. Then he pushed back the chair and strode out of the club. I had an hour to kill, I looked around for the blond, and signalled her over.

"Hi honey." Her shape was tantalising and those red lips so inviting.

"How much?"

"One hundred bucks."

"You'd better be special for that price."

"I can be anything you want." She took my hand and led me towards one of the back rooms. 

An hour later standing outside, I waited for Moran's men. I didn't have to wait long. They pulled up in a Lincoln. I jumped in and the car sped off. 

"I'm O'Reilly, this is Doyle." He indicated to the driver.

"Frank," I nodded at him.

"The Doctor filled you in?"

"Yep he did."

"Good."

We traveled the rest of the way in silence. The car drove off the road and pulled in among the trees. It was nearly midnight. O'Reilly and Doyle jumped out.

"Come on, we have to pull a log out into the road. How else will we get them to stop?" O'Reilly gestured with his head that I should follow. Together the three of us pulled out a fair sized log and laid it across the road.

Then Doyle went to the boot, opened it and lifted out two shot guns. Handing one to O'Reilly he looked at me. "You carrying?"

"Sure." I took out my .38 and waved it at him.

We didn't have to wait for long before the noise of the truck could be heard. It approached and pulled to a halt just before the log. The door opened and a man jumped down. O'Reilly sprung out followed by Doyle and myself.

"Hands up. You others get out of the cab if you know what's good for you." Doyle waved his shot gun at them. They scrambled down, hands raised.

"Don't shoot, we've no guns," called one of them.

"Shut your yap," yelled O'Reilly.

"You know who this shipment belongs to? You'd be crazy to take it."

"I said shut it. Capone won't know what hit him. But we can't leave no witnesses." O'Reilly's finger twitched on the trigger. I could see he was anxious to blow 'em away."

"That's right," I said, "no witnesses." I turned and fired my .38 into O'Rielly, then Doyle. They didn't know what hit 'em." Then I turned back to Capone's drivers. "You be sure to tell Mr. Capone who rubbed out Moran's men for him. The names Frank, Frank Tate. Now take him his hooch."

Those men hurriedly moved the log, scrambled back into the cab of the truck and took off so fast that smoke came off their tires. I figured that this was one calling card that Scarface couldn't ignore. Perhaps I would get close to him after all -- I still had that score to settle . . . .

©2012  DEBUT Author ~ HELEN A. HOWELL

Cold crimes for  Jump-Jivin' January NOIR  ~ AT THE BIJOU

"Now Helen, our good Miss Kate absolutely asked you a few questions a few weeks ago. My notes are crisp. My notes are cool. Your answers though - they show you're nobody's fool."

"Cary, Cary, Cary, Kate thought of absolutely everything to have YOU doing my interrogating. Remind me to bake her up something special for the New Year. Right now I'll feast on how delicious YOU are. Mmmmm, Mmmmmm."

 HH  Wait, you may be gorgeous and take my breath away, but Cary, Cary, Cary, if Kate has absolutely not shared us anything in promotional flair, it's to grab the gusto of a shameless plug when the spotlights are dancin' all over our glimmery Opening Nights *AT THE BIJOU*. My brain is working again, I want the folks I've been sitting with in our rowdy Noir audience to have a handy link to my writing blog ~ helen-scribbles . . . where I share snippets of my writings.

 CG  "Ah, that's the old redhead, no bitterness, no recrimination, just a good swift left to the jaw. So Helen, what's the best holiday gift you ever received?"

 HH  "Philadelphia Story? Oh, you're a teaser Mr G. One year though, there was a small emerald ring I had looked at in the jeweler's window lovingly, knowing it was just a dream— my son surprised me with it as a Christmas gift. What made it the best, is not that it was an emerald ring, but that he knew how much I liked it and got it for me."

 CG   "He's quite sensitive about you - he's going to watch us like a hawk. What was the best you ever gave?"

 HH   "Notorious? Is that where you re-swiped that line Mr gorgeous G? You know Kate absolutely calls that Nigel chap Noirtorious. But I think that's been 'cause he's changing cue cards around backstage. Oh, my answer -- That would have to be fun and laughter topped off with a large dollop of love, Cary."

 CG   "What a ridiculous way to start a day. Well, I hope it doesn't get any worse. Just pulling your leg Helen. Our Absolutely*Kate dared me to sneak in as many of my good lines as I could whenever you waxed eloquent. I'm holding up just dapper, don't you think? What, where or how does one gift dazzlin' HELEN HOWELL Writings for greater happiness in a world that certainly needs it?" 

 HH    "Monkey Business? That was a tricky one. But you and the vast *AT THE BIJOU* audiences can find all my scribblings of Flash Fiction, Drabbles poems etc. at helenscribbles.com." 

 CG    "The last person who said that to me was Archie Leach just a week before he cut his throat. That one was a stretch, but you stretched two adept plugs into your site Helen. Good Girl. Now do your song and dance Toots. You're centerstage *AT THE BIJOU*. You're dressed rather splendid by the way. All that glitter. All that glam. Our director, Absolutely*Kate's introduced you and handed you the mike. Tell our red-velvet seated audience the one liner bio you wish them to remember about the author you see yourself being . . ."


 HH     ✿•*¨`*• "She writes, she reads and she's versatile  •*¨`*•✿ And was your last line from His Gal Friday???"

 CG     "Very good Helen. You got another one correct. Who helps with your material, by the way? And, how does a girl like you get to be a girl like you?”

 HH    "I never believed I could be a writer, let alone think that anyone would find my stories entertaining, compelling and worth reading. I hope I can continue to entertain you, Kate and our assembled audiences with my writing . . . . . . . . uh . . . North by Northwest?"

 CG    "Well give the girl a cupie doll! And Helen, will you give a New*Year's wish prophecy to come true for all that are now reading you, oh lovely author whom *AT THE BIJOU* is lucky as loaded dice to know? Go right ahead little lady. Make our Katie prouder than she already is to know you. You can’t be a true person, or a true woman, Helen, until you have learned to have some regard for human frailty.”

 HH     "I wish that words may flow freely into all your lives in such a way as to brighten your day, captivate your hearts and thrill or chill you to the bone — entertaining you in a way that only writing can. How'd I do Mr Grant? And -- Philadelphia Story again?"


 CG    "Bingo! Now gal, let's scoot. Our pal Bogey is giving me menacing brow wriggles and hates to be upstaged. You did swell gal, just swell for your splendid debut *AT THE BIJOU*."

"Holy hot shot, Helen, I couldn't have put better words into Cary's spontaneous scripting if I tried. I'm smiling though. I can still remember you sneakin' back stage and tellin' me you'd have jitters comin' up on stage with all our regulars and other roustabout ringers. Darlin' tough broad. You wrote quite a tale for us all . . . AND showed your savvy in cinematic acclaim with  any ol' movie star who walks in the BIJOU door. Harry though is a little miffed. Seems Cary took Harry's favorite chair.  The next ruckus you hear could be testosterone . . . "

 Testosterone? Nah Katie girl.

I'm tough enough on my own wit this rowdy crowd youse got goin' and any chair, Harry or Cary out there muckin' up the theatre seats are gonna have some serious answerin to do. 

Don't dem guys know you got SHOWS goin on?

   LINK delicious INFLUENCES of ~

                OUR NOIR AUTHORS' "JUST DESSERTS" ~

   LINKS TO OUR NOIR SO FAR ~

  

Kevin Michaels ... Graham Smith ... Julie Morrigan 

  

Chris Rat-a-Tat Rhatigan ... Joe Grant ... AJ Hayes

 Absolutely*Kate co-noveling with AJ Hayes

Paul Bishop ... Anthony Venutolo ... Eric Beetner 

Matt Hilton . . .  Jeanette Cheezum ... Nigel Bird 

 Zelda Martin . . . The GRIMM TALES Gang ...

Ian Ayris . . . Steve Miscandlon  

and Absolutely*Kate so far . . . . 

   NOIRTORIOUS COMING ATTRACTIONS ~ 

Every-other-day cold crimes . . . jump-jiving January's New*Year NEW NOIR

Paul Brazill ... Kevin J Mackey ... Leon Jackson Davenport

BR Stateham ... Fiona Johnson ... Jack Bates ...

Luca Veste, on the record 'bout OFF THE RECORD

Sal Buttaci ... Julian Bramwell Slater ...  

Christina Vincent ... Charlie Wade ... 

Darren Sant ... Aidan Fritz ... Lily Childs ...  

Thomas Pluck and the Lost Children benefit show

New Year, new NOIR, Publisher BLASTED HEATH

editor John Kenyon, publisher of GRIFT magazine

with stories of GRIMM TALES' greats 

Rex Pickett picks a surprise ... 

plus . . . return of our pally, the great Randisi ... 

AT THE BIJOU'S Harry B Sanderford ... Matthew Magda ...  

plus intermittent intermission pizazz by masters of the ceremonious ~ 

Kevin MadDog Michaels and Absolutely*Kate ... 

Why ~ Who knows who's getting into the act? . . . 

RAYMOND CHANDLER may be channeled! 

  

ABSOLUTELY*KATE, BOGEY & PALLY PRODUCTIONS

Jump-Jivin' January's New Year, New NOIR  AT THE BIJOU

HE'S SO HOT HE'S COOL! *BIJOU DEBUT*

LOQUACIOUS LADIES

AND GROOVY GENTS,

Hot enough for you?

Come inside . . . 

*AT THE BIJOU*

COOLY PRESENTS

An Author who flashes fiction with finesse in Friday's frenzy filled feast around cyber'town and keeps the rest of the week words-worthy as well. Sit back and chill ... ERIC KRAUSE is staging a cool one in our house!

Welcome Eric!

~ Absolutely*Kate,

an enlightened audience

and our fine staff of renown

TRAPPED UNDER ICE ~ By Eric J. Krause in cool BIJOU Debut

TRAPPED UNDER ICE

  By ~ Eric J. Krause

Other than off a cliff or the top of a skyscraper, I couldn't have picked a worse place to trip and fall. I'd hoped the ice would hold, but I didn't even stay above surface for a second. It shattered and dropped me through into the freezing water below.
 
I tried to scream, but the air in my lungs was wrenched from my body. I'd been known to hold my breath for well over a minute when I swam with my buddies. If you're going to prank anyone in the pool, you have to stay under for awhile. None of that helped now. I'd be lucky to last fifteen seconds.
 
Though I'd only been under for a couple of heartbeats, feeling already drained from my extremities. I tried to push to the surface, but at the very best I treaded water. More likely I sunk a few feet closer to the bottom.
 
No, I wouldn't end like this. I thrashed about for another second or two, and then concentrated on propelling myself up. Easier said than done. The parts of me that weren't already numb felt like they had tiny needles pushing through them. I swam up and saw where the night air and icy water met. That surface moved ever so closer. I braced myself for the cold air to rush into my lungs when I hit the ice sheet over the pond.
 
In my short foray underwater, I'd drifted away from the opening. I pushed at the ice, but it didn't budge. I had to be close to where I fell in, and that bit of ice had proven fragile enough, but further efforts were no more successful in getting me to precious oxygen.
 
I did my best to remain calm. My lungs burned. I'd passed out once before, as a child, so I knew all about the unpleasant black rim around my vision. I gave a quick glance left, then right, but I couldn't see the opening. I'd have to choose a way and hope for the best. If I picked wrong . . . well, it was the same as if I didn't pick at all.
 
Since my body is right side dominant, I figured I'd pushed myself to the left when I fell in. I could maneuver back to the right and find the hole. I was sure of it. Before I moved, though, someone above the surface looked down at me. A savior? Though I should have been moving,
I took the time to see who it was.
 

# # #

 
"Little Tiddle likes to piddle right in his pants! Little Tiddle likes to piddle right in his pants!" Every child in the neighborhood except poor Ronnie Tiddle yelled the chant at the top of their lungs. To his credit, he didn't run away crying, a sure way for the teasing to never end. Instead, he stood still, staring at everyone, one at a time. When his eyes met mine, I stuck out my tongue and continued the chant. I was proud of myself at the time, but that didn't last. Only life-long bullies and psychopaths look back at the playground mentality of their childhood and smile.
 
Ronnie Tiddle brought that lesson home early.
 
I don't remember how our group bullying ended. I'm sure an adult, be it a teacher or parent, came onto the scene and shooed us away. No one paid any mind to little Ronnie Tiddle. I later learned everyone figured he wandered home like the rest of us.
 
He didn't show up for school the next day. The day after that his parents put up missing child posters. We -- the neighborhood kids -- looked at each other with a mixture of fear and pride. We'd forced him to run away. We'd won, but had we really wanted to?
 
All pride drained from us a few days later when the police dredged the pond and found his bloated corpse. The adults kept the truth from us, so I never heard the full story. From what I've gathered, as Ronnie wandered home, a drifter snatched him up and killed him. I'm sure there were horrific acts that went on in-between the kidnapping and the murder, but I don't like to think about it. Even as a hateful, self-centered little boy who'd been the instigator against him, I knew Ronnie Tiddle didn't deserve such a fate. Hell, I don't even remember why I picked on him in the first place.

# # #

 
Little Ronnie Tiddle stood on the hard surface and stared down at me through the ice. He looked exactly as I remembered him that fateful day. I wanted to yell up at him, tell him how sorry I was, but the cold had drained all air, all possibility, out of my lungs. I knew I should move to search for the opening, but I couldn't tear my eyes off of his translucent form.
 
All hope I had of him coming to my rescue vanished. He looked down at me, gave that half-smile I'd always despised, shrugged, and turned away. I couldn't tell if he disappeared or kept walking. The black overtook me. 

ENDDDD

(c) 2010 ~ Author Eric J. Krause

Absolutely*Kate's Visualization on ice  ala talented Gregory, 2004

  

It's the end of a terrifically terrible story but not the glory of ERIC KRAUSE showing up AT THE BIJOU to rouse the house for where the spotlights and kliegs like to melt the ice.  

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eric J. Krause pens stories from Orange County, California, just minutes away from Disneyland. He's had over two dozen short stories published in The Absent Willow Review, Trail of Indiscretion, Allegory, and Nocturnal Ooze, just to name a few. You can visit his blog on writing at ERIC J. KRAUSE'S WRITING SPOT. From giving out some zing in spectulative fiction prompts weekly to how he Flashes Fiction when a Friday turns the calendar, you're gonna want to click that link, sip a little more coffee, browse around and let your mind go to simmer. 

Yep, he's that inspirational. One cool guy (pun intended, absolutely).  

Eric lives with his wife, Amber, their dog, Spike.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ABSOLUTELY*KATE:  So Eric, why does this sensation of scribing show us a great glimpse of You, oh {cool} Writer Man? 

 

AUTHOR ERIC:  Well Kate, I'm glad you asked that question. This story is a good indicator of my work because I like to take something that can happen to anyone (in this case, being clumsy and falling into a lake, albeit a frozen over one) and then add an element of horror to it -- sometimes natural, and sometimes supernatural; or in the case of this one, a bit of both. I'm proud of this one, and I hope people enjoy it as much as I do. 
  

ABSOLUTELY*KATE:  Eric, it gave me the creeps which makes me all the more proud you let this one play up on the stage AT THE BIJOU. It's a stunner and we look forward (with the house lights on) to many more of your {cool} scribe-gems!

Cool Thanks, with more than a half-smile

from our fine staff of renown . . .

*AT THE BIJOU*