TEN
SILVER
BULLETS
Edited by Adam Millard
First Published in the UK 2012
This edition published 2012
Copyright © Crowded Quarantine Publications 2012
The Moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-9571033-3-7
© Crowded Quarantine Publications 2012
CONTENTS
BLOOD MOON – R.S. Hunter 5
COMPTIME – Rebecca Snow 30
RHODESIAN NIGHTS – Douglas Vance Castagna 45
PAWPRINTS ON A HEART – Zoe Adams 60
WHAT'S THE SCOOP? - Chantal Boudreau 77
THE STRENGTH OF A PACK – Rebecca Besser 91
YOU SAY CURSE, I SAY TOMATO – Suzanne Robb 112
US 20 – David Naughton-Shires 128
FOR OUR SINS: A FABLE – Brent Abell 139
AFTERWORD – Adam Millard 156
BLOOD MOON
By R.S. Hunter
I jerked awake as the phone rang like a gunshot in my apartment. The cold sweat that coated my body made my sheets stick to my limbs. They ensnared my legs, and in a moment of terror that carried over from my restless sleep, I tried to kick them off. I calmed down when I realized where I was.
“Damn,” I muttered. The taste of stale whisky coated my teeth and tongue.
The phone rang again, definitely not helping my hangover. I lunged for it and managed to pick it up on the third ring.
“What?” I growled.
The sky outside was dark, all the stars hidden by the clouds. Rain pattered against the glass. Too much goddamn rain for my liking.
“It’s Jackson,” the tired voice on the other end of the line said.
Officer William Jackson. Maybe the closest thing I have to a friend, and it’s mostly a plus that he’s a cop. Except for when I got calls at three in the fucking morning.
“Meet me at this address. It’s Frank Garcon’s place,” he said as he gave me the address of a house a little further up the river and away from the French Quarter where I lived. Not so far as to reach the really big mansions with the columns, the plantation homes.
“Can it wait?” I asked. Based on the nightmares I’d been having I didn’t want to go back to bed. But I sure as hell didn’t want to venture out in the rain to some goddamn Frank Garcon’s place. Who the hell was he anyway? Name didn’t ring a bell.
“No. Get here as soon as possible.”
Jackson hung up before I could complain again. I knocked the phone off the night stand in frustration and stood up. Clothes were scattered around my cramped one-room apartment. I found the cleanest ones and put them on.
Half-full bottles of booze sat on my tiny kitchen table. I didn’t care that they were out in the open. Were the cops going to raid me? Hell no. To me Prohibition was a toothless beast. A silver flask and one of my guns lay next to the bottles. I grabbed them both. Flask first, shaking it to see if it had anything left in it. Almost full. Good. I grabbed the revolver, spun open the chamber to make sure it was loaded. All six, perfect.
I hoped I wouldn’t need to use the gun, but you didn’t last long in this business if you showed up places unprepared. Never bring a knife to a gun fight. That kind of thing.
Gun and flask in hand, I headed to the coat rack standing near my front door. I stuck the gun in a shoulder holster and shrugged it on. I switched the flask to my opposite hand while I pulled on my overcoat. Its contents sloshed around inside. One drink before going? No. Best not to waste it now. Might need it after dealing with whatever Jackson needed me to see. Or to help drown out the voices in my head that screamed at me with words no mortal was ever supposed to hear.
I put the flask inside my coat pocket, again not caring about the laws. Finally, I grabbed my hat and pulled it low on my head, creating shadows to partially hide my features. The rain pounded the sidewalk as I opened the front door. I sighed. Damn rain. I stepped outside into the early morning gloom. Water fell off the brim of my hat in a complete circle around my head.
I walked through the streets, both cursing the hour but also enjoying the solitude it gave me. The Quarter’s gas lamps flickered, and in other sections of the city, electric lights shone weakly. Every now and then the clouds broke, letting the round moon help light the way. Around me, New Orleans smelled like bananas and all the other smells coming from the port, dampness and fish. The smell of baking bread cut through it here and there as some bakeries started early. Finally, the rain started to let up.
Silhouetted under the streetlights, I saw a handful of whores. Wishful thinking on their part. Most of their clients had already passed out or purchased the services of their better looking companions. Some of them called out to me, half-heartedly, but we both knew they didn’t mean it. Like me, they just wanted to be inside, preferably asleep.
That was New Orleans for you. An old city, full of people, history, and magic. All of them brought from all corners of the globe. One of the perks or curses, depending on your perspective, of being a bustling port city.
After a short while the buildings changed to partly spread out houses, and I reached the home of Frank Garcon. A police car was parked against the curb. The house was stately but not overdone. As I walked up the front walkway, I saw the orange tip of a cigarette glowing on the front porch. Jackson waiting for me. The electric lamps flanking the front door were on, casting harsh shadows across Jackson’s face. It made the pock marks on his face look deeper than they were.