Sex, Thugs, and Rock & Roll Read online

  Knockout Raves for

  Hardcore Hardboiled

  AND

  Thuglit

  “So good, it’s almost dangerous.”

  —Crimespree

  “So hard-boiled, the shell is still on.”

  —bn.com

  “Solid…will appeal to those with a taste for explicit violence.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A showcase of new and exciting talent.”

  —Charlie Stella, author of Shakedown

  “Thuglit has become one of only a small handful of must-read sites for devotees of dark, tough, mean crime fiction.”

  —Charles Ardai (Richard Aleas), Edgar-and Shamus-nominated author of Little Girl Lost

  “You have to look hard to find two consecutive pages that don’t deal with sex or violence, but why would you want to? If you’re man enough, you’ll love this book. If you’re not, give it to your girlfriend. If she accepts it and enjoys it, never turn your back on her.”

  —Otto Penzler

  Also by Todd Robinson

  Hardcore Hardboiled

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  sex, thugs, and rock & roll

  EDITED BY TODD ROBINSON

  INTRODUCTION BY SARAH WEINMAN

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Sarah Weinman

  A Message from Big Daddy Thug

  Todd Robinson

  Double Down

  Jason Starr

  Like Riding a Moped

  Jordan Harper

  Viddi and the Bucharest Brawler

  Jónas Knútsson

  A Flood of Mexican Porn Star Tits

  Justin Porter

  Markers

  Albert Tucher

  Bullets and Fire

  Joe R. Lansdale

  Judy’s Big Score

  Patrick J. Lambe

  Killing Billy Blain

  D. T. Kelly

  Buddha Behind Bars

  Daniel Hatadi

  The Days When You Were Anything Else

  Marcus Sakey

  Cramp

  Anthony Neil Smith

  Private Craps Shooter at Dawn

  Steven M. Messner

  The Trouble with Trolls

  Patricia Abbott

  Eulogy for a Player

  Richard J. Martin Jr.

  Politoburg

  Jedidiah Ayres

  Haermund Hardaxe Was Here

  Allan Guthrie

  We All Come from Splattertown

  Hugh Lessig

  The Switch

  Lyman Feero

  Big Load of Trouble

  Greg Bardsley

  Violated

  Mike Sheeter

  Black Sun

  Gary Carson

  Customer Service

  Matthew Baldwin

  High Limit

  Scott Wolven

  About the Authors

  Raise Your Glasses…

  Introduction

  Sarah Weinman

  It’s a strange time to be a writer of short mystery fiction. On the one hand, print magazine outlets have dwindled to the point where longtime stalwarts Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock are still just about the only places to get paid a decent wage. On the other hand, thanks to Akashic’s “City Noir” series and upstart small presses like Busted Flush Press and Bleak House Books, the anthology market is so glutted that I pity anyone judging the short story category for the Edgar Awards.

  But if you’re a writer and your voice and style doesn’t fit EQMM or AHMM’s guidelines, if you don’t have an in with specific editors or if you’re still not known enough to be picked up by one of the themed anthologies sponsored by the major crime writing associations, where do you go?

  For the last few years, the answer is online.

  It took a while for that answer to gain any sort of traction. Like any new medium, the Web was greeted within publishing circles and by would-be authors with skepticism and scorn, and often for good reason: poor presentation, questionable editing, and seeming instability. Many heralded early players like Blue Murder, HandHeldCrime, and Plots with Guns no longer exist; others have severely curtailed activity or dropped fiction altogether. For those that remain, creating their own distinct presence, adopting strict editorial guidelines and producing quality fiction, what still remains a sticking point is the lack of cash—the equivalent of a couple of high-priced beers if the writer’s lucky.

  So why go online?

  Several reasons. First, it gives undiscovered writers a wonderful opportunity to get their unique voices heard and distributed to, potentially, a bigger audience than a tiny print magazine that goes out of print after a month. Second, because of the dwindling print markets, more publishing professionals are looking to the Web for talent and quality. I can name example after example: Scott Wolven, whose stories have almost exclusively been published online, has been included in six consecutive editions of the Best American Short Stories, published a collection of short stories with Scribner, and has a novel in the works with Otto Penzler’s imprint at Harcourt. Allan Guthrie, who went from publishing his first story online to three-book deals with Harcourt and the Scottish publisher Polygon. Ray Banks, following Guthrie’s trajectory almost note-for-note; and Dave White, moving from critical acclaim for his Jackson Donne short stories to similar acclaim for his Jackson Donne novels published by Three Rivers Press.

  The Web has become a haven of experimentation and risk—of stories that don’t quite fit a particular mold. It’s inspired a new wave of noir and allowed younger writers to have their voices heard, and there’s no better example of this than Thuglit. From the moment Todd Robinson launched this online magazine in late 2005, I’ve been impressed with the caliber of stories, the quality of prose, and the gut-wrenching emotions that pulsate on the virtual page. No wonder Thuglit made the jump to print format, mixing all manner of dark doings originally published online with original stories by the brightest (or is that blackest?) stars of contemporary noir like Wolven, Guthrie, Joe R. Lansdale, Jason Starr, and Marcus Sakey.

  The big guns may be the draw to entice readers to open this anthology’s pages, but the reprints—from Jónas Knútsson’s knucklebuster tale of a Budapest brawler to Justin Porter’s depiction of Mexico City at its seediest to Patricia Abbott’s sly twist on noir conventions—are the meat of Sex, Thugs, and Rock & Roll, dripping so much blood and guts and marrow that it’s impossible to read this book in more than a single sitting. Be prepared to be shattered, shell-shocked, and bruised as Thuglit’s emissaries continue to write wrongs that are very, very right.

  A Message from Big Daddy Thug

  Welcome to the second collection of the best crime fiction culled from the depths of Thuglit.com and some of the best literary purveyors of mayhem and attitude on the planet.

  Sex…

  We got femmes fatales, lying Lotharios, and some Mexican porno comics, to name a few elements of the horizontal chicken dance we got going on between these covers.

  Thugs…

  Open any page. There’s bound to be one there. Hell, we even got a couple of bisexual ass-kicking Vikings on a Crusade.

  No. Don’t read it again. That’s what I said.

  Rock & Roll…

  Shee-yit, brothers and sisters…we are Rock & Roll. These stories are the guitar-slingin’, drum-kit-kickin’, bass-amp-exploding riders on the storm of pulp fiction.

  Testify!!!!!

  Where else you gonna find psychotic street gangs, jailhouse lunatics, brawlers, psychopaths, pimps, hookers, and PIs all in one place? And in case you think you’ve seen it al
l, we still got those kooky Vikings.

  Who else is going to give it to you, if not Thuglit?

  You’re welcome.

  —TODD ROBINSON (BIG DADDY THUG)

  Double Down

  Jason Starr

  I needed the six horse to win the fourth race at Belmont in a big way, but as the horses went around the far turn I knew it wasn’t happening. The six made the lead but he was all out and another horse, the nine, was flying on the outside. In mid-stretch the nine hooked the six, but the six dug in—just to extend my torture a little longer—and they went neck and neck past the sixteenth pole.

  “Hold him off, you cocksucker!” I yelled. “Get up, you fucking son of a bitch!”

  Naturally, I was wasting my breath. Seventy yards to the wire, the six hit quicksand and the nine drew off to win by an open length.

  I went back into the grandstand, cursing, ripping tickets. The six was my big play of the day. I bet my lungs on it—five hundred win and another six hundred in exactas and triples. Yeah, I hit a couple cover exactas on the nine-six, but what would that get me, a hundred and change? Big whoopy shit.

  I rode the escalator to the second floor, went to the saloon, and ordered a J.D. straight up. I downed it in one gulp and asked for a refill. A guy sat next to me. He was my age, early forties, had a big gut and thinning gray hair. He was in an expensive suit and was wearing a Rolex. But he had a wannabe way about him. Maybe he was rich, maybe he wasn’t, but he wanted everybody to think he was.

  He ordered a gin and tonic, then said to me, “How you doin’?”

  At the racetrack when somebody asks you how you’re doing they’re not inquiring about your health.

  “How do you think I’m doing?” I said, figuring I’d let the fact that I was at the bar downing J.D.’s at two in the afternoon on a bright sunny day do the talking.

  “Had the six in the last, huh?” he asked.

  “Tell me how he fuckin’ loses that race,” I said, getting aggravated all over again. “I mean, okay, the nine was good. But with the fractions he got, what, half in forty-seven and change? He should’ve won by open lengths.”

  “Maybe he was a little green?”

  “Green? Come on, give me a fuckin’ break. It was, what, his fourth time out? Mark my words, that horse’ll never win a fuckin’ race, not at this track anyway. Maybe if they ship him up to fuckin’ Finger Lakes or some shit track he’ll break his maiden.”

  My heart was racing and my face was burning up. I felt the way people probably felt before they had heart attacks.

  “Well, thank God there’s five more races to get ’em back, right?”

  “Not for me. I came here to be the six horse.”

  “And I came here to talk to you.”

  During our conversation so far, I’d been looking away and at my glass mostly, but now I looked at the guy in the suit and said, “And who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “Your name’s Jimmy Guarino, right?”

  He got my name right, but I said, “Who the fuck’re you?”

  I’d been doing PI and protection work for eleven years, three on my own. I hadn’t made a lot of friends along the way and I never knew when somebody’s life I’d fucked up would show up looking for payback.

  “DiMarco,” he said, extending his hand. “Andy DiMarco.”

  I didn’t shake his hand, just asked, “The fuck do you want?”

  “Big Mikey said I could find you here.”

  Big Mikey was a good guy, a bookie/loanshark from Staten Island. He grew up in my neighborhood—Brooklyn, Bay Ridge—and when I was a teenager I went out with his sister for a while.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, feeling bad for treating him like shit. I smiled, trying to make nice, and said, “I hope you’re not looking for a hot tip, ’cause I’m telling you right now, you came to the wrong guy.”

  “I’m not looking for any tips, I’m looking for a good PI, and Big Mikey said you’re one of the best.”

  “I always do what I’m hired to do if that’s what you mean by good.”

  “I was interested in hiring you to do a job.”

  “What kind of job?”

  He took a sip of his drink, swallowed hard, then said, “I think my wife’s fucking somebody.”

  He sounded a little choked up, like it was hard for him to talk about it. I almost felt sorry for him.

  “Take it from me,” I said, “guy’s been divorced three times. If you think she’s fucking somebody, she is.”

  “Yeah, well, I want to know for sure.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m telling you for sure.”

  He glared at me, then said, “I want the fuckin’ evidence.”

  They always wanted evidence. I guess seeing was better than believing, or at least it made it easier to walk out the door.

  But I didn’t know why I was giving this guy marriage counseling. Cheating spouses were my easiest cases, how I made most of my money. I liked them because they were fast and uncomplicated. When spouses cheated, they were so lost and in-love that they got careless: writing incriminating e-mails, making long phone calls, doing public displays of affection. It was almost like they were begging to get caught, to get out of their shitty marriages. So I just took the pictures, got paid, and everybody was happy.

  “If you want evidence, I’ll get you evidence,” I said.

  “Thank you,” he said. “What do you take up front?”

  I usually took five hundred as a retainer, but I took another glance at the well-pressed suit, the gleaming Rolex, and decided to roll the dice.

  “A thousand,” I said.

  “No problem,” he said.

  Fuck, should’ve asked for two. Talk about nothing going my way.

  He opened his wallet and took out a money clip. He peeled off ten hundreds from the wad and handed them to me.

  I pocketed the money, then asked, “So why do you think she’s cheating?”

  “She’s acting funny,” he said. “Been acting funny for a year, wanna know the truth.”

  “Funny?” I asked. “What’s funny?”

  “She doesn’t tell me where she’s been, sometimes I can’t get her on the phone, shit like that. I swear to God, I don’t know how many times she’s told me her cell phone wasn’t working or she couldn’t get service. Shit like that.”

  “Who do you think the other guy is?”

  “Got no fuckin’ clue, that’s why I’m hiring you.”

  I asked for the usual—his address and phone numbers, his wife’s work address, the time she left for work in the morning, the time she usually came, et cetera.

  “And I’ll need a picture,” I said.

  He opened his briefcase, took out a photo, and handed it to me. I suddenly understood why he was so worried. Some guys came to me, worried their wives were cheating on them, and then I’d see a picture of the old cow and think, What’s your problem? You should be thanking God she’s fucking cheating on you. But Debbie DiMarco was a total knockout—wavy blond hair, dark tan, and somebody had paid good money for that rack.

  “Good-looking woman,” I said.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” he said seriously, like he really thought I wanted to bang his wife. I did want to bang her, but still.

  “Take it easy,” I said. “It’s a compliment. You have great taste.”

  I looked at the picture again, thinking, There’s no way in hell this broad ain’t cheating on this guy.

  “Sorry,” he said, calming down. “I just get a little possessive sometimes, I guess. As you can see, she’s very beautiful. I was the happiest man in the world when I met her, but now she’s making me fuckin’ miserable.”

  Jesus Christ, he wasn’t going to cry, was he?

  Yes, he was.

  He dabbed his eyes with a napkin, then blew his nose into it. People were looking over.

  I downed the rest of my drink, then said, “Look, I’m gonna do everything I can to get you what you want, but just get ready because it probably won’t
be pretty.”

  He stood up and looked at me, eyes all bloodshot, and shook my hand, squeezing much harder than necessary.

  “Thank you, Jimmy,” he said. “I’m really counting on you, man.”

  He finally let go of my hand, and I walked away, letting Mr. Rich Guy pick up the tab.

  I probably should’ve left the track with DiMarco’s thousand bucks and considered myself a winner for the day, but when was the last time I did the thing I “should’ve done”? Instead I went back downstairs and invested about two hundred bucks in triples and pick threes and watched the bets go promptly down the tubes as none of the horses I needed on top hit the board. This time there was no drama, no close calls. I just bet, watched, ripped.

  In the next couple of races, I didn’t fare much better, dropping another couple hundred. I knew it was happening, that there was no way I was leaving the track a winner, but I stayed and bet the rest of the card. I hit a nice exacta in the seventh race, which built up my stake back to about a thousand, but then I went banzai in the late double and walked out with about two hundred bucks in my wallet.

  I knew the smart thing to do was to stop gambling and get right to work on the case, but I got in my car and drove right to Yonkers Raceway. By the fourth race, around nine o’clock, I was back in my car, driving home to Brooklyn, broke and feeling like shit. I knew this wasn’t any way to live my life, but I didn’t know any other way to live it. I didn’t smoke, barely drank, and never did heavy drugs, but I’d been gambling for years, losing my money faster than I earned it. Sometimes I felt like I was falling, except, unlike a dream, I didn’t wake up and find out everything was okay. My nightmare went on and on.