Going South Read online

  EARLY READER REVIEWS

  ‘Going South explores conscience and consequence with a slowly building tension . . . the reader feels like they’re hanging on a frayed rope with no idea when it might snap’

  GOING

  SOUTH

  TOM LARSEN

  Published in 2021 by Dark Edge Press.

  Y Bwthyn

  Caerleon road,

  Newport,

  Wales.

  www.darkedgepress.co.uk

  Text copyright © 2021 Tom Larsen

  Cover Design: Jamie Curtis

  Cover Photography: Canva

  The moral right of Tom Larsen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, stored, or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library.

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-5272-9145-4

  To Andree: One Thin Love

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  If I’ve learned one thing it’s that you can never really know someone. Really know them I mean. You live with a man. You learn his ways and moods, his strengths and weaknesses. You come to count on them like you count on the sunrise. Then one day he tells you he’s done with it. The work is too hard and years have caught up with him. The ends no longer justify the means, not just for him, but for you too. And you know he’s been thinking about it. You’ve felt him toss and turn at night and you’ve caught him staring into space. Maybe it’s age or maybe it’s envy, but he suddenly wants so much more out of life, more time and more excitement . . . but mostly more money.

  So you tell yourself it’s a mid-life crisis. Chalk it up to male menopause and let him blow off steam. But you can’t help thinking what he’s saying makes sense. It is a crazy way to live. Trade your time for a paycheck and watch life pass right through you. You may think you’re content, but you’ve spent your life in self-denial. If you could see how the haves live you’d hang yourself.

  Then he tells you he has a plan. He’s had plans before, some good ones in fact, so you listen. But this plan isn’t like the others. This one makes you wonder who this man really is. He says this plan will set you both free and give you back the rest of your lives.

  All you have to do is kill someone.

  A total stranger, one life for two.

  And you see this man as you’ve never seen him.

  And you find yourself wondering if his plan might work.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Harry squints down Tasker into a smear of headlights, signals timed for stop and go, the cross-town mile in nineteen stops. He could walk there in the time it takes, but for his arches and the fucking rain.

  “See it?” Murietta calls from the doorway.

  “Not yet,” Harry slips the hood over his head. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

  “Oh it’s there alright. Probably three in a row, now we’re soaked to the skin.”

  He joins her under the awning. The old Nails ‘n’ Things gone bust long ago.

  “How long we been doin’ this Harry?” Murietta’s all eyes in her yellow rain hat.

  “Too long darlin’.”

  “That’s a fact. I remember you had a mean look then. And that moustache, you hippy dippy thing, you,” she slaps his arm playfully.

  “And you were gonna quit that job just as soon as your momma passed.”

  “Before she decided to live forever.”

  “Tell me something, Murietta. When that alarm clock goes off in the morning, ever feel like you can’t move?”

  “Paralyzed, like.”

  “Yeah. You know you gotta get going but you don’t have the strength.”

  “Every Monday through Friday. Knock on wood.”

  Harry reaches for his last cigarette. “How is momma anyway?”

  “Oh she’s fine. Thinks we’re livin’ in Baltimore,” Murietta’s eyes go all funny. “I tell her, ‘momma, if this is Baltimore how come the Philly cops keep comin’ to pull your ass out the toilet?’”

  “We’ll be there soon enough.”

  “Look here,” Murietta pulls a handful of knobs from her pocket.

  “What are they for?”

  “Everything. Stove, microwave, coffee maker, Cuisinart, you name it.”

  “You have a Cuisinart?”

  “I come home everything’s goin’,” she flips open a purse full of remotes. “Oprah’s on so loud I can hear her from here. Momma’s deaf as a post and blind as a bat.”

  “So now what’s she do all day?”

  “Stares at the Bible.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Better than torching the whole damn block!”

  Harry sees it coming, lumbering to the curb three blocks south, packing them in as the light turns yellow then blowing right through to a chorus of car horns. Last smoke, never fails.

  “It ain’t right how it ends up,” he drops it half-smoked in a puddle.

  “Amen to that.”

  The number 5 bus rolls in with the usual cast. Murietta sits with her sister’s kids; Harry takes the wet seat by the guy with TB, coughing and wheezing as usual. The bus stinks of stale sweat and cheap perfume. Somewhere in the back a baby starts yowling and the bag lady at Washington takes forever to board. The cast changes as they head north, Asian people where the Italians used to be, Filipinos and Mexicans everywhere else. No black people in this neighborhood.

  “Say man, help me out will you?” white guy, fucked up, practically leaning over TB guy to put on the touch.

  “What?”

  “Could you help me out, buddy? I’m hurting.”

  Harry looks around. “Why me?”

  “C’mon man, I see you around. Nelson’s? The Candlewick?”

  “You see me in a bar so I should give you money?”

  “Okay, forget it, okay?”

  “No, I mean now we’re ridin’ the bus together, so what, I should put you through college?”

  “Fuck it, I thought you was straight up.”

  “Straight up, what’s that?”

  The guy waves him off, turns away and a strained silence settles in. The silence of two guys getting mouthy then having to ride another dozen stops together. The guy gets off downtown, flipping the bird as the bus pulls away. Harry sees himself pounding his head to mush.

  By Vine Street it’s standing room only. Harry squeezes out the back with a sharp stab to the small of his back and a wide stain on the seat of his pants. Wind ripples the puddles in Printers lot, pinning trash to the cyclone fence. Head bent to the gale, he passes through the trestle and
slips into Janey’s Café. Pauline, the woman on the counter, calls to the grille.

  “Cholesterol special for Harry!”

  “And a large coffee, black.”

  “You want the IV bag with that?”

  “You’re a scream, Pauline,” Harry looks across the street. “Paper come in yet?”

  “Couldn’t tell you, doll. You want me to put this on your tab?”

  “Put it on Baldini’s tab. Has Leon been in?”

  “You see that Leon you tell him he owes for two months parking. Janey got bills to pay too you know.”

  “Good luck. Leon still owes me for the last Ali fight.”

  “And give this lite-lunch menu to Estelle,” Pauline stuffs one in the bag. “She been sneaking salads at Mickey D’s.”

  “Anything for you, love. Throw a bagel in there would you?”

  He sees the delivery truck pull away and ducks across the street to the corner stand. The vendor sits behind the glass leafing through the tits and ass.

  “Daily News?”

  “I don’t open till 7.00 a.m.”

  Harry glances at his watch. “Yo pal, it’s five to, cut me a break.”

  Fat fuck doesn’t even look up. “I ain’t open yet.”

  “It’s fuckin’ pouring out here.”

  The vendor looks to the heavens. “Might stop by 7.00.”

  Harry storms off half a block then doubles back for a whole bundle. A hard gust hits head-on at the trestle and he curses the wind that blows both ways. Curses the crap piled to the arches and the gaggle of crackheads burrowed therein. Spots Leon’s pickup parked at the hydrant, tires showing thread but a brand new sticker on the windshield. Rounds the corner, climbs the stairs and leans on the buzzer. Through the window he sees Leon shuffle toward the door to let him in.

  “What’s that?” Leon fumbles his paper.

  “Daily News. I got a deal on ‘em.”

  Harry circles the shop passing out papers. Everyone gets one, even Millard, though his is the top one, caked in pigeon shit. The bell rings, machines clatter to life and eyes glaze over like lights going out. Harry clocks in, circles back to his press and settles down to breakfast. Minutes later Baldini enters with an armload of the daily grind.

  “Hey Watts, am I paying you to read the paper?”

  Harry looks up. “Evidently, Ed.”

  “Let me tell you something, Watts,” Baldini looks around. “These jigs see you readin’ the paper they all want to read the paper.”

  Harry looks around. “And?”

  Baldini steps in close. “You know something? You’re a real smartass, Watts.”

  “Fuck off, Baldini.”

  “You think you’re top dog around here, but I got news for you, smartass. You’re expendable, just like the rest of them.”

  “So expend me.”

  “I got a better idea,” Baldini smirks. “You know that personal day you put in for next week? Forget about it.”

  “I don’t think so, Ed.”

  “You don’t show, I dock you a day’s pay. How’s that hotshot?”

  Harry turns back to his paper. He usually gives as good as he gets, but the Baldini routine has worn thin. The whole fucking thing has worn thin.

  “You hear what I’m saying, Watts?”

  “You’re in my light, Ed.”

  ***

  Morning passes without a thought. Harry runs the easy jobs first saving the tough stuff for some other time. He can feel Baldini watching through the office window, gearing up for the noon go-round.

  “Hey Watts, are you making a career of this job?”

  “That’s good, Ed,” Harry shoulders past him. “A pissant with a punchline.”

  Baldini flushes but lets it pass. “That Fidelity brochure has to run today and this–”

  “First thing in the morning, Ed.”

  Baldini pauses for a beat. “Oh, so now you make the deadlines?”

  “Only in a real sense.”

  “You are really pushing it, hotshot.”

  “Hey Ed, if I broke your nose would you hold it against me?”

  Baldini gives him a dangerous smile.

  “Let me tell you something tough guy, you’re not the only one from the neighborhood. You want to threaten me? I got family all over Southside. I got goombas and wise guys up the wazoo.”

  “Goombas.”

  “You think I got where I am today by eating shit?”

  Harry pulls a sheet right past Baldini’s nose. “Where you are today is about halfway through running your old man’s business into the ground. Your crew hates you and I, for one, would gladly break your nose. Although I gotta admit this goomba thing has me a little spooked.”

  “Okay Watts, I don’t have time to swap insults,” he drops more work jackets on a banded stack of cartons, “I’m not kidding about the Fidelity thing. A.S.A.P., like it says on the docket.”

  Harry turns back to the sports section.

  “I swear to Christ,” Baldini fumes. “You been working with these guys too long.”

  “Hey Tyrone,” Harry yells over, “boss says I been working with you lot too long.”

  Tyrone chuckles. “Like hell! Man can’t even hold a tune. Yo Leon, you ever hear Harry sing?”

  “Anglo Saxon motherfucker,” Leon mutters.

  And on into the afternoon. Harry sambas by the feeder to the tune on Manuel’s boom box. Music to work by, leave it to the Mexicans. Baldini keeps coming by to check on the Fidelity job and Harry keeps not getting to it. Leon dawdles at the sink as the time runs down, the rest mill around like they don’t know what’s coming.

  “What are you doing, Watts?”

  “Washing up, Ed. Like it says in the manual.”

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere. Not until that brochure’s done.”

  “Screw that brochure.”

  Baldini sees them listening but let’s fly anyway. “You want a job tomorrow, you finish today. Period!”

  Harry rises to full height. The room falls silent but the pissant stands his ground.

  “Okay boss, you win.”

  Baldini snickers. “That’s better. In the end money talks, right hotshot?”

  “That’s right, Ed,” Harry digs out the Fidelity job. “In the end, you do the right thing.”

  “Damn straight,” little shit struts off like the heavyweight champ.

  And the right thing goes like this. Harry pulls an old flat from his workbench drawer, a flat he’d been saving for such an occasion. While the plate’s burning he throws black ink in the fountain and loads up the Fidelity stock, pricey stuff, sixty pound rag with a deckle edge. The bell rings as he’s hanging the plate and by the time he’s inked up the men are shuffling by. Leon stops on his way out the door.

  “Seen everything now, Harry towing the line.”

  “Life’s a bitch, Leon.”

  “I don’t get you, man. You played right into his hands.”

  “Hey Leon, the Ali fight?”

  Leon’s nose wrinkles like the name smells funny.

  Harry claps him on the shoulder. “Forget about it.”

  “Hey Harry, that ain’t the Fidelity job.”

  “Take care of yourself, will you Leon?”

  While he’s running up the press he checks the classifieds, vacation rentals – Puerto Vallarta, three bedroom beachfront, maid included. He jogs a sheet through and rules it up, keeping an eye on Baldini’s office. Sees the little bastard in there telling the story, Watts bending to his iron will. Harry circles the machine, throws his stuff in a duffel bag and cranks up the speed. Ten sheets through and he’s off and running, ten thousand impressions, three hours easy. Harry pries a brick from the floor, takes a last look around and ducks out the loading dock door.

  The press doesn’t miss a beat, cylinders chugging, sheets firing out in a blur, two lines running in endless sequence:

  EAT SHIT

  I QUIT

  *
**

  He’s halfway home when he remembers it’s Lena’s day off. Not that she will bug him, but Harry doesn’t feel up to the dance and pulls the cord at Ned Brennan’s. No one’s there but Ned stocking shelves and Fearless Fuller staring holes in the pig’s knuckles jar. He and Fearless go back to grade school, but Harry’s into the little punk for a few bills and he doesn’t feel up to that dance either.

  “What can I get you, Har?” Ned’s all smiles to see anybody.

  “I’ll take a Bud Lite,” instead of the bourbon he came in for.

  “Where you been Wattage,” Fearless’ calls up an old playground tag.

  “I been around.”

  “Haven’t seen you. Then again I don’t get out much. I heard there was a little scuffle over at the park.”

  Harry shrugs. “Beats me.”

  “Tong war, Crips and Bloods,” Fearless moves a seat closer.

  “I thought those Crip guys were Latino?” Ned sets Harry up.

  “Not anymore,” Fearless sets Ned straight. “Everybody’s getting’ into the act. What is it, Cambodians over there, Wattsy?”

  Harry doesn’t say.

  “Yeah sure, and Vietnamese. Skinny little gang bangers with the do rags and the whole nine yards.”

  “Jesus,” Ned says just to be agreeable.

  The door opens behind him and Jack McCabe comes in, throwing off meanness like heat from a bulb, nods to Ned, nods to Harry, ignores Fearless completely. Ned walks a shot to the corner as McCabe slips in behind it.

  “Like I was sayin’,” Fearless continues. “Cambodians, Vietnamese, it’s like the freaking Ottoman Empire over there.”

  “Ass wipe,” McCabe weighs in.

  “What’s that?” Fearless freezes.

  “The Ottoman Empire was in Turkey, seventeenth century, Islam and high culture.”

  “What do you know?”

  “I know this. An ignorant fuck shouldn’t run his mouth.”

  “Screw you.”