New Fiction (and Commentary)

For those of you clamoring for new fiction from me (all five of you), here’s the first chapter of an unpublished novel. Every few weeks, I’ll post another chapter along with my author commentary. I hope you like it. And if you don’t…well… just keep scrolling.

VICIOUS CIRCLE

by Slade Grayson

Chapter One

A year ago:

In a Northern New Jersey strip mall, Charlie Grace sat at the brass-railed bar of Kelsey’s Food and Sprits and sipped his drink—a mixture of Kahlua and cream. It tasted like chocolate milk but had a decidedly stronger kick. The cream gave his stomach a thick coating to buffer the alcohol, which was good because Charlie had been having stomach problems, probably the start of an ulcer, although he refused to admit it. He resolved to lay off Mexican food for a while and maybe chew some Tums. He thought thirty-six was too young for a man to have to worry about his diet, but he didn’t relish the thought of going to a doctor either. What if it wasn’t an ulcer? Thoughts of stomach cancer nagged at him and kept him awake at night. Charlie also thought thirty-six was too young to have to worry about ulcers and cancer.

The bar was brightly lit, and the walls were adorned with street signs, old photographs, laminated newspapers, and other bits of Americana. An old wagon wheel was mounted back by the restrooms. A jukebox in the corner belted out ‘80s pop hits.

Charlie thought about ordering something to eat. The ribs were rumored to be quite good, but his stomach lurched at the idea. Maybe he would stick with a salad. Stomach cramps were not on Charlie’s agenda tonight because he was hoping to get lucky.

Soon, Happy Hour would begin, and the secretaries from the office park across the street would file in. Anticipating them, Charlie was perched precariously on his stool, his gut sucked in, attempting to look smooth. Right on cue, the door opened, and two women entered, their high heels clicking on the tiled floor.

Charlie watched them take a seat at a cocktail table. Their skirts hitched up as they sat on their stools. The bar obstructed his view of their legs, but he had the sense they were pretty spectacular. He was more of a breast man, however.

The women were both blonde and attractive, though heavy on the make-up, and dressed in pseudo-corporate attire. The one on the right was more to Charlie’s taste. Her hair was teased to Hell and back, giving her a rich, golden halo. He liked teased hair. It made a woman look like she had just received the royal screwing of her life, and Charlie thought there was nothing more attractive than a well-sexed woman.

He motioned to the cute brunette behind the bar for another drink. She gave a barely perceptible nod and reached for a fresh glass. She was more naturally attractive than the blondes, with a nice figure poured into black slacks and a white frilly blouse. He thought it might be a good idea to keep her on the back burner in case he struck out with the patrons. He didn’t usually hit on the hired help, but he liked the way her dark hair curled around her shoulders, and he could picture it fanned out on his pillow.

He took a ten from his wallet, folded it lengthwise, and held it steepled between his fingers. Grinning good-naturedly, he waited for her to finish mixing his drink. He would say something clever, show her what a smooth, sophisticated customer he was, not like the other losers that came in to drink themselves silly. He would say something like: “Come here often?” or, “Are you a natural brunette?” or maybe, “Could I get one of those little umbrellas for my drink?” Yeah, that’s what he would say.

Instead, she brought him his drink, dropped a fresh napkin on the bar, and snatched the ten from his fingers like she was plucking a hot coal from a fireplace. She rang it up and brought him his change with less enthusiasm.

”I’ll be right back,” Charlie mumbled. “Keep an eye on my spot?”

The bitch didn’t even make eye contact, just nodded and made an affirmative sound. Well fuck her then, Charlie thought, and headed for the men’s room.

Once there, he checked himself in the bathroom mirror. Gray was beginning to fleck his curly, sandy hair, and his cheeks were turning jowly. Maybe he would watch his diet even closer, lay off the fried egg sandwiches for breakfast and the cheeseburgers for lunch. Eat more salads, he told himself.

To hide the thin roll of fat around his abdomen, he pulled his red polo’s shirttail out and let it hang over his jeans’ waistband. It was a bit sloppy, but with his gray tweed jacket, he didn’t think the overall look was too bad. He fluffed his hair and wished the curls would loosen up. As Charlie grew older, the curls had become tighter and coarser, aging toward the consistency of steel wool.  He shrugged at his reflection, unbuttoned his top two shirt buttons, and headed back to the bar.

A man in a black suit occupied the seat next to his.

Charlie slowed to a stop. The brunette behind the bar handed the black-suited man a drink, smiled flirtatiously, and looked the man square in his eye. The man said something to her and pointed to her ear. The brunette brushed her dark locks back and showed the man her dangling turquoise earrings. It looked like the man said something complimentary, and then, Jesus Christ, she actually leaned across the bar and let the man finger one of the earrings.

The man held the earring and said something that deepened her smile. He let the earring go, and she was off with a swing in her hips to the other end of the bar to wait on other customers.

The man’s either a movie star, Charlie thought, or he’s the epitome of smoothness.

He took his seat and gave the man a once over: He was good looking, in his early thirties, and had a strong, closely shaved jaw line. His black hair was cut short on the sides, longer on top, and combed straight back 1950’s James Dean style. And not a hair out of place.

His black suit’s unnatural sheen distinguished it as more than ordinary wool. Charlie had seen suits like it before in old gangster flicks. It was sharkskin. The man had a hard look beneath his handsome features, as if someone had pulled skin over a granite sculpture. Charlie was seriously considering changing his seat when the man noticed his stare.

“Everything okay, chief?” The man in the sharkskin suit had an easygoing tone to his voice, but a rasp like smoke on ice.

“Oh…yeah,” Charlie answered. “I was just admiring your…” He was going to say “suit,” but changed his mind at the last moment. His eyes flicked down. “Your boots.”

He heard a voice in his head, that little voice that told him he was driving too fast on an icy road right before he went into a skid and demolished his car two years ago. It was the voice that also said, “I told you so,” as the towing company pulled his car from the ditch.

The voice was jabbering at him non-stop, but the words came from too far away through a fog of Kahlua.

“Thanks,” Sharkskin said.

  They really just looked like a pair of black boots, but improvisation was never Charlie’s forte. Still, polished glossy enough to see himself in, Charlie assumed they were expensive.

 “You know how difficult it is to find a plain pair of boots in the city?” Sharkskin said. “Every place you go, it’s cowboy boots. I’m not trying to be John Wayne. You know?”

Charlie never shopped for a pair of boots in his life, but he nodded anyway. By “the city,” the guy could have meant New York or Azure City. Both were equal distance away.

“Every store I went to,” he said, “had gray boots, red boots, boots with a picture of a cactus on them, fringe. And always with the pointy toes. Finally, I had a shoemaker work up a couple of custom pairs like these. Nice, soft leather, reinforced soles, steel toes—the works. And absolutely no rodeo designs.”

Charlie laughed and sipped his drink.

“What are you drinking there, chief?”

Charlie told him, and the man grimaced.

“Why waste your time with a candy-assed drink like that?”

“It’s easy on my stomach,” Charlie said. ”I’ve been having sharp pains. I think it’s an ulcer.”

“Yeah, that could be an ulcer alright.” He said it matter-of-fact with a shrug. No false sympathy.

“Yeah.” Charlie sighed and downed his drink.

“Denise,” Sharkskin said to the brunette bartender, “another Seven and Seven for me, and another drink for my buddy, please.”

Her expression didn’t change, but her face lit up with a slight smile at the corners of her mouth as she mixed the drinks. Charlie reached for his wallet. Sharkskin put a hand on his arm.

“I got this round.” He reached inside his suit coat pocket and pulled out a money clip stretched taut around a wad of bills. Charlie watched as the guy leafed through the cash, mostly hundreds, until he found a twenty.

“What do you do for a living?” The question came out impulsively, and Charlie worried he might have offended the man.           

“I’m a contractor,” Sharkskin said.

Charlie nodded. Okay, sure. Whatever that meant.

“I’m in insurance. Charlie Grace, by the way.” He extended his hand, and Sharkskin shook it.

“Dominic,” he said.

Denise brought their drinks, smiling at Dominic all the way and ignoring Charlie.

He handed her the twenty and said, “Thanks, doll. Keep the change.”

Christ, if Charlie had ever called a woman “doll,” he would have gotten a dirty look, or worse, a roll of the eyes. Denise acted as if she just got proposed to by Brad friggin’ Pitt. He felt so sorry for himself, he let Dominic buy the next round, too. And the one after. Before he knew it, he was unloading his problems on the guy.

“I really thought the marriage would work out,” Charlie said. “But while I was out working fourteen-hour days, trying to get this insurance company off the ground, she was screwing everyone but the mailman.” He was on his third cigarette. “Who knows, maybe she screwed him, too.”

“Twenty-three’s too young to get married,” Dominic said.

“Yeah, I know. She was my first steady girlfriend. We were together six months, and I talked myself into thinking it was true love.”

He was talking too much. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol or something about this guy that made it easy to release his emotional baggage. Dominic had a sympathetic look in his eyes. One of those Good Samaritan types who gets satisfaction from helping the less fortunate. An alien concept to Charlie.

“I bet you don’t have much trouble with the ladies,” Charlie said.

“Can’t complain.” Dominic shrugged and sipped his drink.

“Course not. I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a good-looking guy. I’m sure girls throw themselves at you. Me, I always had to be persistent, wear ‘em down find some angle. I was never what you’d call handsome.”

“Charlie, looks have nothing to do with it. It’s all attitude.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re—”

“Look at Denise for a moment.”

She was at the other end of the bar, swaying her hips to the music.

“Now close your eyes.”

Charlie did it, feeling stupid, but caught up in Dominic’s confidence.         

“Describe what she was doing, how she was standing, what she’s doing with her hands.”

Charlie cleared his mind and pictured her the way he had seen her a moment ago.

“She’s dancing a little, moving around.”

“What’s she doing with her hands? Keep your eyes closed. No peeking.”

“Uh, she’s…” The image was dim in Charlie’s mind. It was a ghost image that dissolved the more he tried to concentrate on it.

“I can’t remember,” he admitted.

“Because you don’t pay attention to the whole package,” Dominic said. “Open your eyes. You see?”

Denise was slicing limes on a small cutting board beneath the bar, still swaying to the music. Cutting up limes…why couldn’t he picture that?

“See her hair? It’s brushed behind her ears to show off the earrings I complimented her on.”

“Right, right, her hair was over her ears when I first got here,” Charlie said. “I should’ve noticed she changed it.”

“When you look at a woman, treat it like you’re looking at a work of art. Notice every fine detail: her hair, her jewelry, what she’s wearing, how she’s wearing it. Understand?” He pointed to Charlie’s eyes. “And when you talk to a woman, you look her in the eye, not her breasts. Women hate that. They want to know you’re really listening to them; you care about what they’re saying. Even if you don’t care, pretend that you do.”

“Yeah, but how do you start a conversation? Like Denise over there. How’d you get her to talk to you? She must have fifty guys hit on her every night.”

Dominic shook his head. “You have to be unique in your approach. Distinguish yourself from the other wolves out there. Like the way I singled out Denise’s earrings. You show interest without appearing to be interested. Understand?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “I think so.”

 “No you don’t. You’re just saying you understand because you’re afraid of looking stupid.”

 Charlie shrugged. He was unsure of when it happened, but he had begun to seek Dominic’s approval. If Dominic thought he was an okay guy, a smart guy, a smooth guy, it wouldn’t matter what anyone else thought, because he would have gained the respect of a man he had always aspired to be

 “You’re right. I don’t really understand.”

 Dominic said, “Who in this bar besides Denise do you find attractive?”

 Charlie pointed to the blonde with the teased hair. She was still sitting with her friend, but at some point, two guys in suits had joined them and had been steadily purchasing them drinks.

 “What, the woman who looks like her head was caught in a windstorm?” Dominic rolled his eyes, and Charlie instantly regretted his pick.

 “What’s wrong with her?”

 “She’s cute, but Christ, if you married her, you’d go broke on hairspray.” He leaned back and sighed loudly. “Okay, what do you notice about her? Besides the hair, I mean. Everyone notices the hair.”

 “Her skirt’s really short.”

 “No kidding? Charlie, you should’ve been a detective. Forget the short skirt. You can’t open a conversation with that.” Dominic looked at her fully and cocked his head side to side. “How about her fingernails? See how they’re painted like a peach color? Very unusual. I bet nobody comments on that.” He stood up, and Charlie grabbed his arm.

 “Hey, Dom, wait. You’re not going over there, are you? There are two guys already sitting with them.”

 “Yeah, but they’re not with them. They were sitting with the group of car salesmen in the corner, celebrating something or other, I don’t know, dipshit’s birthday or asshole’s job promotion. They’re not boyfriends. You see what I mean about paying attention to everything?” He gave Charlie a pat on the cheek. “After I get her phone number, wait five minutes, then meet me outside.”

 Dominic headed for the table.

***

Brendan O’Brien thought he was the best damn used car salesman Riley Motors ever had the fortune of hiring. It didn’t matter that his sales reports were mediocre or that his manager continually dressed him down for his three-hour lunch breaks or spending too much time with customers who had no intention of buying. Truth was, Brendan liked to talk, especially about himself. If a customer came on the lot and showed the least bit of interest, he would talk to them all day long about his Irish roots, the high pressure world of car sales, and whatever else came to mind.

 Riley Motors was a nationwide chain of car lots that had recently opened its newest location in Los Angeles. Rumor had it several people from the East Coast dealerships would be offered the chance to relocate. The owner wanted aggressive, take-no-prisoners-style salespeople on the West Coast hawking convertibles to would-be starlets and studio executives. So the sales team had adjourned to the local pub for mutual merriment and backslapping, celebrating not only that bit of news, but also the fact that they had another record-breaking month. Year-end bonuses were expected to be an all-time high.

 Brendan knew he didn’t have a chance in Hell of relocating. “Not ambitious enough,” his manager told him. “Not enough of a go-getter. You spend too much time bullshitting with the customers instead of pressuring them to buy something.” Plus, the guy was still giving him grief about the Corvette incident.

 Last summer, Fourth of July weekend, Brendan had finally gotten the girl in the accounting department to agree to go away with him. He rented a bungalow down the shore, packed his swimsuit, and decided to take the classic red Corvette convertible down. Salespeople were allowed to take some of the cars off the lot, but the rule was it couldn’t be one of the expensive cars and not outside a fifty-mile radius. Brendan always felt, if you were going to break one rule, break them all.

 He blew all his money the first day, got rip-roaring drunk, and decided to drive the Corvette onto the beach where it promptly became mired in the wet sand. Between the sand in the engine and the body damage the tow truck driver inflicted, he had enough reason to stay intoxicated the rest of the weekend. The girl from accounting took the bus home, wouldn’t return his phone calls, and wouldn’t make eye contact with him when they passed each other in the halls. C’est la vie, Brendan thought.

 Since then, he had put up with the manager’s snide comments and the snickers behind his back, and he had pretended to be a company man by occasionally drinking with the sales crew. One day, he knew his luck would change. It had to.

 Maybe it had started to, he thought, when the two blondes walked in and sat at the cocktail table across from the Riley’s crew. They didn’t appear to be with anyone, and Brendan knew the other hounds in the bar would be scoping them out soon enough. He had to act fast.

 He asked Pat to come over to the table with him and act as his wingman. They walked over and offered to buy the girls a round.

 Pat was the newest addition to the sales crew—an ex-marine who kept his head shaved and was built like a pit bull, with the temper to match. What he lacked in emotional stability, he made up for in social graces. Because of his manners, the elderly customers considered him their surrogate grandson. With the veterans, he traded boot camp stories and stories about life in the field. But Brendan thought the guy was a time bomb. He sensed a seething rage beneath Pat’s polite exterior, but what the hell. As long as the guy didn’t explode around him, Brendan didn’t care.

 Sally something-or-other, the big-haired blonde Brendan was working, had already declined to give him her number. He decided to stick it out another round of drinks. Maybe he could wrangle her work number. A small concession, but better than nothing.

Sally was halfway into her story of the foibles involved in operating a fax machine, when Brendan noticed the man at the end of the bar stand up and walk toward them. An Italian-looking guy, about 5’10”, dressed in a shiny black suit. The man looked like he just stepped out The Godfather. He eyed Sally as he walked toward them, and Brendan thought, What the hell is this?

The man stopped and said something to the brunette behind the bar. Brendan watched her smile and glance away shyly, then shake her head in a sad fashion. The man handed her a twenty and said something else. The brunette shrugged.

Yeah, Guido, Brendan thought. You work on the barmaid and leave the blonde to me. I’ve staked enough time and money. This territory’s mine.

But the man turned away from the bar and walked to their table, his eyes fixed on Sally as if the others didn’t exist.

“Excuse me, I was wondering, what color are your nails? Is that peach?”

Brendan thought Sally looked as if someone had just shot ice water up her miniskirt. He tried to think of something to say, something to brush the greaseball off with, but Sally regained her composure.

“It’s coral.” She smiled a “where have you been all my life?” smile, and Brendan felt the last hour of work drain away. He caught Pat and the other girl with their mouths agape. He resisted the urge to reach over and knock their heads together, Three Stooges-style.

“May I?” The man took her hand before she could answer and bent for a closer look. His eyes moved from her nails to her face and back again. “Beautiful color. I’d like to find a tie with this color.”

Brendan thought an archeologist wouldn’t study a fossil as closely as this guy studied Sally’s nails.

“Hey, pal?” Brendan said. Jesus, his voice had actually cracked. “This is kind of a private party. So if you wouldn’t mind…”

The man didn’t acknowledge him, as if he were invisible.

“My name’s Dominic, by the way.”

“Sally.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sally. May I be a bit forward for a moment?”

Lord almighty, she giggled like Prince Charming had just asked her to the ball.

 Brendan said, “Like I was saying, this is a private party. Five’s a crowd.”

 Pat stirred from his dumbfounded expression and shifted back to his on-edge, spoiling-for-a-fight sneer. It made Brendan feel brave.

“So take a hike before my friend here shows you some moves he mastered in boot camp.”

Pat flicked his eyes to Brendan, then back to Dominic. He shifted in his seat, as if readying himself to come out of it quickly. Brendan figured he would give the guy a kick in the ass right before Pat tossed him into the parking lot.

The man looked Pat square in the eye, and said, “Crewcut, you come out of that seat and I’m gonna carve my initials into your forehead. You understand what I’m saying?”

Brendan counted silently as the two men stared each other down. Four, five…. any second, Pat would get up and bitch slap the tough-talking guinea. Eight, nine…. Brendan felt the heat come off their psychic battle of wills. Twelve, thirteen…. Come on, Pat. Get up and mop the floor with this guy. Then I’ll buy us all a round and we’ll have a good laugh.

At the count of eighteen, the unthinkable happened. Pat swallowed hard and looked away. Brendan didn’t know how to react. He had never seen a pit bull back down before.

Dominic returned his attention to Sally. He didn’t look smug as much as he did disappointed in Pat.

Like becoming another person, Dominic apologized to Sally for being rude and started asking her about whether she’d consider accompanying him on a trip to buy clothes, maybe make a day of it, have lunch, etc. etc. Sally’s cheeks flushed, and sweat beaded on her upper lip. She wasn’t flustered anymore; she was turned on.

“Shopping?” she squeaked. “I…okay.”         

“Great.” Dominic smiled. He stroked her hand. “I suppose I’ll need your phone number so we can firm up our plans.”

Sally leaned toward Brendan and whispered, “Do you have a pen?”

Brendan thought, If I ever see this man again, I’m going to kill him.

***

Ten minutes later, Charlie exited the bar and found Dominic leaning against a silver Cadillac, one leg crossed over the other, smoking a cigarette.

Charlie smiled and shook his head. “I’m impressed. I gotta admit, that was something.”

Dominic shrugged.

“When are you going to call her?”

“I’m not,” Dominic replied. “I just got her number to prove something to you.”

“You…you’re not going to call her? Let me have the number, and I’ll call her.”

“Nah, don’t waste your time.” Dominic crumpled the napkin Sally had jotted her number on and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Jesus, Dom, I can’t believe you’re just tossing that away. You know how hard it is for me to get anywhere with a woman like that?”

Dominic rolled his eyes and exhaled sharply. “Charlie, weren’t you paying attention? You don’t want a woman like that. A woman like that will drain your bank account, screw your friends, and then as soon as some tough guy comes along and kicks sand in your face, she’ll dump you for him.”

He made sense, but Charlie didn’t want to admit it. It wasn’t as if that sort of thing hadn’t happened to him before. It had, more times than he cared to admit. But it was a velvet trap he constantly fell for, always hoping the next woman, the next relationship, would be different. He always ended up cursing the day he met them, no matter how sweet or sensitive they initially appeared.

Dominic said, “Charlie, you want a woman who’s loyal. Loyalty comes from intelligence. Therefore, you want an intelligent woman. And you’re not going to meet her at a place like this.” He flicked his cigarette.

“Hop in, chief.” Dominic patted the car, then walked around to the driver’s side and looked expectantly at him.

Charlie thought, Who the hell is this guy?.Dominic was the type of mentor he always wished he had—someone to teach him Zen and the art of being smooth.

Screw it. Charlie got in.

Not a speck of dust on the midnight dashboard, not a trace of lint on the plush carpet, and although it had to have been a least several decades old, the car had that new smell like a freshly purchased leather jacket.

“What about my car?” Charlie asked.

Dominic was already behind the wheel and starting the engine. “We’ll come back for it. I’m going to take you to an exclusive club where you can meet the right kind of women.”

They pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the Interstate.

“I didn’t really plan on being out that late.”

“Charlie, when you see these women, you’ll forget all about being out late.” Dominic nudged him. “Reach in the glove box and pick out a CD for some driving music.”

Charlie opened it and found a stack of CDs: Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Tom Jones, and Elvis Presley. Jeez, the guy had the same taste in music as Charlie’s dad. He found a Bobby Darin CD and slipped it into the tray slot. The rhythmic tempo of “Beyond the Sea” came through the speakers. Dominic grinned and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the song.

“Good choice,” he said.

Charlie leaned back and lay his head against the headrest. The seat was soft and molded to his body. Beneath the music, the sound of the engine was a distant hum.

“Nice car,” Charlie said. His voice sounded tired. He really should have eaten something. The alcohol mixed with the hypnotic sway of the ride threatened to pull him into dreamland. “Your job must pay way better than mine.”

Before Dominic could answer, Charlie closed his eyes and succumbed to sleep.

He woke suddenly when Dominic turned off the engine.

“Are we there?” He stretched and rubbed his eyes.

They were parked on a seemingly deserted street flanked by rows of warehouses, many with broken windows. It was much darker now, and Charlie had no concept of where they were. Only a few streetlights worked, casting long shadows over empty buildings.

“I thought we were going to a club.” His voice sounded hoarse.

“We are. Right there.” Dominic pointed to a brick building. No windows were visible, so it was impossible to determine how many people were inside. Still, it seemed a strange section of town for a nightclub.

As if he read Charlie’s mind, Dominic said, “I told you, it’s an exclusive club. And we’re early. This place doesn’t start jumping until about midnight.”

He got out of the car, and Charlie followed.

Charlie’s stomach lurched when he hit the night air. It smelled of sulfur and burning rubber, probably from nearby textile mills. They had to be near the waterfront, Charlie thought. Most of the factories that spewed noxious gases into the atmosphere were located near the water. The neighborhood was devoid of noise. No sounds of traffic or boat whistles. Nothing. Just unnatural stillness.

Charlie steadied himself against the car door and caught Dominic watching him.

“I really need to get some food in me.”         

Dominic nodded. An unusual sadness shaded his eyes. Or maybe Charlie only imagined it. It was hard to tell with the sparse lighting and the way his vision blurred around the edges.

He followed Dominic to a huge wooden monstrosity of a doorway set in the red brick structure that was coated with enough grime to make them battleship gray.

Dominic rapped on the door. Sawdust sifted through the cracks. The voice in Charlie’s head was talking again, but he didn’t want to hear it. Tomorrow, he told the voice. I’ll listen tomorrow. Right now, I just want to sit down and look at some pretty girls.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps, then a gruff voice came from behind the door.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Dominic said.

“What’s the password?”

“Manny, open the goddamn door!”

“That’s it,” came the voice. A thunk as a bolt slid back and the door creaked open.

Dominic placed his hand on Charlie’s shoulder and half pushed, half led him inside. They passed through a narrow, dank passageway. A hulking shape of a man loomed a few feet ahead of them. On the other end of the passageway, they emerged into a large storeroom lit by several overhead hanging lights. Wooden rafters crisscrossed the ceiling over a concrete floor. Several wooden crates were aligned along one wall. One crate was being used as a makeshift table—several magazines and fast food cartons littered the surface.

A thick plastic tarp covered the majority of the leftover floor space. It ran ten feet by fifteen and crinkled as they stepped on it. Charlie’s equilibrium shifted involuntarily. Dominic steadied him and guided him to the middle of the tarp.

The man who had opened the door for them sat down on a metal folding chair next to the table. It groaned under his considerable bulk. He gave Charlie an appraising stare.

 Like Dominic, the man was definitely Italian. He had a high forehead that stood out against a receding hairline. His thinning hair was a shade lighter than Dominic’s, sprinkled with gray and combed back to conceal a bald spot. He was at least six-two with massive arms, fingers like sausages, and a prominent gut that drooped over his belt.

 He wore a plain black linen suit, a wrinkled white shirt, and a wine colored tie, loosened so the knot hung down his chest. His shoes were black and scuffed, with worn-down heels, and white socks. For some reason, that stood out to Charlie. White socks with a cheap black suit.

“I expected you hours ago,” the man said. “I was beginning to think somethin’ went wrong.”

His voice was like two cinderblocks rubbing together. He had a face to match the voice: fleshy cheeks, beady eyes, and a nose that had been broken and badly set at least half a dozen times.

“Charlie, this is Manny,” Dominic said. “Manny, Charlie.”

“How ya doin’, kid?”

“This doesn’t look like a club,” was all Charlie could think to say.

“Chief, I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

Charlie turned toward Dominic and saw him remove a gun from a shoulder holster beneath his suit coat.

“What…what…what’s that?” His stomach burned now and hot acid threatened to erupt and spill its contents.

“This,” Dominic said, “is a semi-automatic 9mm Beretta. And this,” he pulled a small metal cylinder from his left pocket, “is a silencer.” He screwed it to the gun’s barrel, pulled the slide back, and flicked off the safety. “Now, what I’d like you to do is lie face down in the middle of this plastic, please.”

“I don’t have much money on me,” Charlie whimpered. Tears welled up inside and overcome any false sense of bravado he might have mustered.

Dominic sighed, “Jesus, Charlie, I’m not robbing you. I brought you here to kill you.” He shook his head sadly and looked at Manny, like, “poor schmuck.” He said it so calmly, Charlie nearly breathed a sigh of relief, until the word “kill” resonated in his head.

“Kill me?” His lower lip trembled.

Manny said, “Dom, after this, let’s stop at Gino’s and get a cup of coffee and maybe a cannoli or somethin’.”

Dominic nodded dryly and looked back at Charlie. He motioned with his gun. “Down on the plastic, please.”

Charlie remained standing. “I don’t understand. Why do you want to kill me?”

“Oh, I don’t want to kill you, Charlie. I have to. It’s my job.”

“You’re a…a…”

“Hitman,” Dominic finished for him, “fixer, button man, mechanic, contractor…. There are many different names for my profession.”

Charlie sobbed. He would get on his knees and beg if he had to. “Why…why are you going to kill me?” He was outright crying now, not even bothering with pretenses.

“I work for the Tagliani family. You don’t know them, but you’ve been doing business with them for the past three years.”

Charlie was confused. Nothing Dominic said made sense, and he couldn’t get his brain to slow down enough to grasp the words. All he could focus on was the gun in Dominic’s hand.

“Listen, I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Charlie said, “But every insurance policy I’ve sold is legit. I never knowingly ripped anyone off. You gotta tell your boss.”

“Charlie, listen to me. Three years ago, a man came to you with a deal. You were to rent the storage facility next door to your insurance office.”

It was all coming back now. His mind slowed, and Dominic’s words began to sink in. He was going to be killed over that stupid deal he made, one he knew better than to get involved in, but went ahead with anyway. All because of the money.

“You rented the storage place in the name of your company. Every month, you were paid rent money plus a thousand dollars, all for just putting your name on a lease and making sure the monthly bill was paid. For over two years, you were good. You didn’t run your mouth to anyone. You made sure the rent was paid on time. Then six months ago, what happened?”

Charlie had stopped crying. Jesus, this was stupid. He could talk his way out of this. Dominic was a reasonable guy.

“Okay,” Charlie said. “You’re right. I screwed up. What happened was, I went to the track and had a really bad day. I mean major league bad. You know?”

“Playin’ the horses, huh?” Manny made a tsking sound and shook his head. “That can break a guy.”

“Tell me about it.” Charlie settled, figuring he had their sympathy now. “I bet a lot. It was supposed to be a sure thing.”

Manny nodded like, yeah, he understood. Happens to the best of us. Dominic was, well, unreadable. But he could be won over. He liked Charlie. Hell, he had given him tips on how to pick up women. He must like him.

“Well, I got in over my head. I used the rent money from the storage building and my own office space. Business hadn’t been good for me the previous year. I had to fire a secretary, then she sued me for sexual harassment. That cost me a bundle to settle. I couldn’t get back on my feet. You know?”

“See,” Dominic said, “you should have called the number we gave you and told us you couldn’t pay the rent instead of skipping out like that. Once the landlord found out what was being stored there, he called the cops. Now the cops have our property, along with lots of questions for you.”

“Okay, that’s not a problem. My apartment is leased under my ex-wife’s name. I’ve been staying there trying to put together enough money to reopen my business. The cops won’t find me.”

“If I found you, I’m sure the cops can find you.”

Manny said, “It ain’t really a question of what you can tell the cops, ‘cause you really don’t know nothin’. It’s a matter of how much money you cost the family when they lost that merchandise.”

He said “merchandise” like “moichendize.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Charlie said. “Maybe we can work something out. How much money are we talking about?”

Dominic grinned, but the smile didn’t touch the hardness in his eyes. “Obviously,” he motioned to his gun, “enough money to kill for, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

Charlie felt the situation spiral from desperate to hopeless. He started weeping again and dropped to his knees.

“Come on, man,” he blubbered. “We can work this out. I’ll do anything. Please!”

Dominic said to Manny, “See, I screwed up. I should’ve popped him as soon as we walked in. He wouldn’t have known what hit him. Now the poor bastard’s begging.” He grunted and shook his head. “I hate when they get like this.”

“Look, I can run away. Disappear,” Charlie said. “Tell your boss you couldn’t find me.”

Dominic was already shaking his head. “You don’t understand, chief. I don’t get my kicks this way. This is my job. And if I don’t do it, they send someone else. Someone who maybe isn’t as nice about it or considerate. You understand what I’m saying?”

Charlie nodded, but Dominic went on.

“There are individuals in my profession who enjoy this kind of work. They get some kind of perverse thrill out of it. They won’t kill you quick like I will. They’ll drag it out for hours until you’re literally begging them to end it.”

“Please, please, please, please….” Charlie put his face in his hands and sobbed. He looked up and saw Dominic glance at Manny, who frowned and rolled his eyes.

“Okay, Charlie. You win,” Dominic said.

Charlie stopped sobbing. He wiped his cheeks with his coat sleeve.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll figure something out. Come up with a story. But you’re gonna have to leave town. The state, too.”

Charlie lit up like he had just won the lottery.

“You mean it? You won’t kill me?”

“No, but you have to do exactly what I tell you, or this whole thing won’t work. Okay? If my boss finds out I let you go, both our lives will be worthless. Capisce?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Charlie was willing to agree to anything as long as he walked out of there alive.

“First thing,” Dominic said, “you’ll have to hide out here for about a day.”

For the first time, Charlie took a good look around. It wasn’t the Ritz, but he could do it. Stretch out behind some crates; maybe use his coat as a pillow.

“I don’t mean here, exactly. Too many members of the family come through here. You might get discovered if you stay in this room. You’ll have to stay in the basement.”

“The basement?”

“Yeah, but don’t look so worried. It’s actually nicer than this room. See that trapdoor there?” Dominic pointed to a spot on the floor under the tarp, about three feet to Charlie’s left. “Lift that up, and there’s a ladder leading down to the basement.”

“There’s a trapdoor?”

“Yeah,” Dominic said. “It’s under the plastic. Feel that handle?”

Charlie was on his hands and knees, patting the floor. The concrete under the tarp was perfectly smooth where Dominic pointed.

“I think I feel it,” Charlie said, though he really didn’t feel anything. Where was it?

“Sure you do, chief.”

***

There was a pop like the opening of a champagne bottle, and Charlie pitched forward. Dominic stepped closer and fired a second shot into Charlie’s head. The first shot had been fatal, but he wanted to be sure.

He patted Charlie’s pockets until he found a set of car keys. He tossed them to Manny.

“Blue Toyota,” he said.

Manny helped him wrap the tarp around Charlie’s body. “Do we have to go back for his car? My back’s killing me from sitting around all night.”

“You know we do.”

They would abandon the car in a rundown section of Azure City where it would be stripped clean within twenty-four hours. The alternative was to leave it in the parking lot outside the bar. Eventually, it would be reported as abandoned. The police would check it and see whom it belonged to. It would link to Charlie’s name. More than likely, they would begin showing Charlie’s photo around and ask if anyone remembered seeing him.

And, more than likely, someone would. The pretty, dark-haired bartender might remember Charlie. Of course, she would definitely remember the sharkskin-suited man who had sat with him for an hour and a half. It was a potential headache Dominic wanted to avoid.

“He was really cryin’ at the end, wasn’t he?” Manny said.

Dominic nodded. They finished wrapping up the body.

Manny said, “Had a big nose on him, doncha think?”

“You think so?” Actually Dominic thought Manny’s nose was bigger than Charlie’s, but he wouldn’t tell him that. Manny was sensitive about his appearance, and he didn’t want to say anything to hurt his friend’s feelings.

“Shit, yeah,” Manny said. “If his nose was full of dimes, we’d be millionaires.”            

“Hey, Manny?” Dominic said in all seriousness. “Let’s show a little respect for the dead. Okay?”

AUTHOR’S COMMENTARY:

Did you see that coming?

Opening chapters of my novels tend to be “cold opens.” I liken it to the first few minutes of a movie or TV show where you get a snippet of something: character, story, atmosphere. All of that and hopefully more. In many cases, you can take the first chapter out and treat it as a separate short story.

Years ago, I submitted a slightly different version of this opening chapter to a small press that was putting together an anthology of pulp-style stories. They accepted and the story was published.

I won’t plug the book here because I’ve never received a royalty check from the publisher. Also, the last time I checked, their site hadn’t been updated in several years, so I’m guessing they’re no longer publishing. I guess they took the millions they made and absconded to the French Riviera where all small publishers go to spend the huge amounts of money they make.

Sarcasm doesn’t translate well. Anyway…

The anthology received some positive reviews. I remember one review mentioned my story by name. That was nice.

The chapter has been rewritten several times since its initial publication as a short story. But it hasn’t changed all that much.

The title of the novel comes from an unmade screenplay by David Goodis. Goodis is a crime writer from the 40’s and 50’s, a particular favorite of mine, who wrote about desperate characters in desperate situations. His stories rarely had happy endings. Check out SHOOT THE PIANO PLAYER, a really good, tense crime story, or the Humphrey Bogart movie DARK PASSAGE, which was adapted from Goodis’s novel of the same name.

The title, VICIOUS CIRCLE, also relates to the four main characters in this novel, who are all willing to do whatever it takes to get what they want. You’ll see what I mean if you stick with it.

I like the mind fuck of this opening chapter. Readers tend to think Charlie is going to be a main character, albeit an unlikeable one, and then I kill him off. I like doing that. I like to surprise the reader and go against expectations.

Dominic comes across as a stereotypical mob hitman. The way he dresses. The car he drives. Even the music he listens to. You’re probably surprised I didn’t have him dressed in a black shirt and white tie and have him pull a tommy gun out of a violin case. Wouldn’t that be cool? But there’s a fine line between stereotype and parody.

Dominic’s drink: Seven & Seven. Lots of my male Italian relatives drank this. My dad did. So did my uncles. I did, too, for a while, although I tend to go for a craft beer or a Guinness these days. The last few times I ordered a Seven & Seven, the wait staff didn’t know what I was talking about. I guess the drink is no longer that common.

Dominic is a stereotype with all the clichés and tropes, but as the story goes on, you’ll see there’s so much more going on with him below the surface. I try to do that with the whole book: go against the grain of expectations.

Let’s see, what else…

My son’s name is Dominic. The beginning of this book – early drafts, anyway – were written years before my son was born. Dominic the character was born years before Dominic my son. My son wasn’t named after him. I was actually pushing for the name “Ivan.” “Dominic” was second choice. Maybe third (I think “Dimitri” was second choice.) But “Dominic” was the only name I suggested that didn’t spark an argument with my then wife. So there you go.

Please leave your thoughts and comments below, and be sure to check back in a few weeks for Chapter 2.