Crawlspace. Lonni Lees
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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011 by Lonni Lees
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For my husband, Jonathan DuHamel, who is forever slaying the numerous evil gremlins that lurk in my computer, for his patience and invaluable assistance.
And for Gary Lovisi at Hardboiled magazine, for all of his support and encouragement along the way.
INTRODUCTION
Deep beneath the surface, they hide in all of us. The crawlspaces, cobwebbed basements, shadowed alleyways and musty attics of our minds; they are the dark and dangerous corners of the human psyche. Dormant, they lie in wait. Some pretend they’re not there and go about their innocuous lives, while others grab hold and pull them to the surface, feeding on their dark forces. Whether a career criminal, a madman, a thug, an abused spouse or an innocent child, within these pages you’ll find those who have embraced that darkness. Some tap into it for survival, some for greed. Some use it for destruction, some just because it’s there. It dwells within all of us. Waiting.
—Lonni Lees
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
These stories were previously published as follows, and are reprinted (with minor editing, updating, and textual modifications) by permission of the author:
“The Blue-Eyed Bandit” was originally published in Hardboiled #37, March 2008, and reprinted in More Whodunits: The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories, edited by Robert Reginald, Borgo Press, 2011. Copyright 2008, 2011 by Lonni Lees.
“Crawlspace” was originally published in Hardboiled #42, December 2010. Copyright 2010, 2011 by Lonni Lees.
“Dead Man’s Dance” was originally published in Yellow Mama #18, February 15, 2010. Copyright 2010, 2011 by Lonni Lees.
“The One-Eyed Belly Dancer” was originally published in Deadly Dames, Bold Venture Press, 2009. Copyright 2009, 2011 by Lonni Lees.
“Tumbleweed” was originally published in Hardboiled #36, January 2007. Copyright 2007, 2011 by Lonni Lees.
“Irrefutable Evidence,” “The Watercolor Witness,” “Daddy’s Girls,” and “Possum” are published here for the first time. Copyright 2011 by Lonni Lees.
THE BLUE-EYED BANDIT
The hot wind blew. Dust smothered the afternoon sun to a grotesque twilight as the old ’32 Ford sped down the highway between Ensign and Copeland. The dust bowl continued to wreak its devastation on this isolated corner of Kansas, annihilating lives and livelihoods, leaving nothing but ruin and broken dreams in its wake.
Frank Lanigan grumbled aloud as he floored the gas pedal, putting as much distance between himself and Ensign as he could. And as quickly as possible. He doubted he was being chased but wasn’t taking chances. He hadn’t become successful at his trade by being careless; but today something screwed up; blighted his stellar reputation. Now, in a split second, it was fucked.
Earlier that afternoon Frank had walked into the Ensign bank, Tommy gun held firmly in his grasp, empty black leather satchel tucked under one arm. He’d hit a good ten banks between Chicago and Kansas, an easy living in hard times, and he was damn swell at it too. Just in and out and nobody gets hurt. Hell, if he was in the “Auld Sod” they’d be singing songs of praise about him.
He swept the room with a motion of the gun’s barrel and the customers dropped to the wood plank floor like trained monkeys. An elderly security guard stood frozen in a corner, eyes round and unblinking in fear. Beads of sweat freckled his upper lip. Frank sauntered to the cage, dropping the satchel on the counter. The small-town broad looked more like a barroom floozy than a bank teller. She had bleached Jean Harlow waves with dark roots and lips bright as a maraschino cherry in a Manhattan. She looked like she passed out her favors as easily as she counted out dollar bills.
From the floor he heard someone whisper, “It’s him. It’s the Blue-Eyed Bandit.” Frank’s lips curled in a cocky smirk. Damn but he loved that moniker. Some pimply cub reporter south of Chicago called him that and it had stuck. It fit him like a felt Fedora. Those eyes got him under more skirts than he could count. He wasn’t like Charles Floyd, who’d hated the tag “Pretty Boy”. Pretty’d been a swell dresser but he was a fool. Shit, the day the coppers pumped him with seventeen bullets all he could say was “I think I’ve been hit”. The words of an idiot—or brilliant understatement. Frank suspected the former.
“Fill it up, Toots,” he said, indicating the satchel with a tilt of his head. A flicker of recognition twinkled in her eyes, putting a come-on smile on her luscious lips. Any other day he’d have obliged, pounding her through the mattress ‘til she was too weak to walk and he was spent. But today was all business, then on the road before the hot winds kicked up even worse. She’d have to settle for a tale to tell her grand-kids. After all, he was damn near legend.
The blondie was shoving the last of the bills into his bag when Frank heard the hammer-click behind him. He spun around, blasting the guard with five rounds before the guy could squeeze off a shot. The old man looked surprised as he folded to the floor, still holding the pistol with his withered fingers.
“Damn, fuck, shit” Frank muttered. He grabbed the loot, slammed his shoulder against the door, exited, and high-tailed it to his car. Tires screeched as he fish-tailed down the street and onto the open road.
The wind gusts pushed violently against the car. He gripped the steering wheel tightly to maintain control. His heart was pounding hard enough to punch a hole through his chest and come out dancing a jig on his belt buckle. Why? He asked. Why did the old geezer unholster his gun? Frank was a bank robber but he wasn’t a killer; no punk who mowed down bystanders just to steal a headline. Frank had principles. It was the guard’s doing, he told himself. It certainly wasn’t his fault. Now things were changed forever. If the cops weren’t chasing him the G-men would be. The last thing he wanted was Feds on his tail.
His guts were twisting hard enough to churn butter. His summer seersucker suit was glued to his sweaty skin. He rolled down the window, shoved his head out. A hot blast of air splattered his vomit onto the car’s side. As he gasped, his mouth filled with dry Kansas dust that mixed with the sour bile caught in his throat.
It was getting more violent out there by the minute—and dark as a Mafia funeral.
* * * *
Maggie stood by the stove, stirring the simmering pot as she stared blankly out the window. As long as they had pigs there was food so they were better off than most. For now. One by one the pigs were dying, if not from hunger then from the dust that filled their lungs. The pigs were dying; their feed withered in the field; men were dying. Some men drowned in the sea of dust; some blew their brains out; some just gave up. The dust bowl turned men mad.
She sighed as she turned on the radio. Static filled the room.
“First Farmer’s Bank...Ensign...Blue-Eyed Bandit...dead.”
At least there’s some excitement out there, she thought with a cynical grimace. She spun the knob searching for band music. Gave up. Turned it off.
Pops came through the door, pulling off his protective mask, a huge cloud of dust in his wake. Turbulent and sinister. Maggie barely heard the pigs over the wind’s roar, but their squeals always triggered something uneasy inside of her. Something she could never quite put her finger on. It gave her the heebie-jeebies and always reminded her of when Mom left. How old had Maggie been? Six? Seven? She remembered Mom’s brisk goodbye. Pops had made little Maggie stay indoors as he followed Mom out. She sat abandoned, hands over her ears, silencing the frenzied squeals and restless snorts of those damned pigs.
When Pops came back in that morning he’d tried to explain that Mom was a city girl at heart. The loneliness out here tied down her spirit. He’d walked her up the road to catch the Dodge City bus. She’d be back, he had said, but from that day on his eyes were empty.