HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.2 - DANGLY BITS

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.2 - DANGLY BITS

By Debbie Davis

You eye the dead girl. Should you call the chief? Why are you even debating this? He’s useless as the day is long. There’s no time. The only back-up you need is right here with you. You’re unsure how much help Sweet Lou is going to be. His skin has taken on a horrible shade of green, like split pea soup mixed with the Chief’s pit juice. Sweet Lou looks like a nancy about to cry. In fact, you’re fairly certain you see tears pooling in his eyes.

Curly points a finger longer than your . . .. “He’s getting away!”

“Follow me, boys!”

You give chase, almost slipping on the intestine-littered sidewalk. It reminds you of that time you and the Chief went boxing together. You’d been surprised that he didn’t disintegrate in front of your very eyes. His perspiration was like Niagara Falls, and you almost slipped then, too.

As you pick up speed, you wish you hadn’t loosened your pants after consuming the three-meat lasagna. Right now, they’re trying to make an escape much like the trenched henchman. That bastard is fast; fortunately, your pants are not.

You wave your gun in the air frantically. “Not on my watch, you lousy good for nothin’!”

The man in black weaves through the alley. The pavement is uneven, and you’re having a hard time keeping up. To make matters worse, he’s looking back and overturning trash cans, complete with mice, to trip you up. You take pause as you notice the trash can from directly behind Gino’s is home to a particularly large swarm of rodents, and you feel the bile rise in your throat, the lasagna on the verge of making a second appearance.

Who is the nancy now? You think to yourself. Who is the nancy now? You give yourself a mental slap and get your head back in the game. You launch yourself up and over, hurdling the trash cans with so much ease that you surprise yourself. Your gut doesn’t slow you down nearly as much as it should, even though it jiggles a little like Chief’s jowls when he talks.

The darkness of night descends upon the alley, offering the fast bastard even more camouflage. The weather changes suddenly too, as you feel the air around you shift in a windstorm. Wait! That’s not the wind! It’s a tornado. A tornado of red and blue and stars and stripes. A tornado of limbs. A tornado of badass. Skilled hands like surgeons, powerful legs like workhorses. It’s the boys you know you can always count on. It’s the Globetrotters! Sweet Lou’s nancy moment has passed, and now you can only see a steely look of determination plastered on his face.

It’s this moment your brain chooses to send a signal to your body, a friendly reminder that you are no longer the young beat cop you used to be. Age has caught up with you and she hasn’t been kind. She’s been a sultry bitch. Your feet slow, your breathing becomes labored. You’re wheezing and can’t catch your breath.

You stop and put your head between your knees, just for a moment. Just until everything stops spinning. You can still see the bandit ahead and the Globetrotters closing the space between them with formidable speed.

“Get him!” You shout to no one in particular, waving your gun again. “Get the murderer!”

Curly stops. “I’m not playin’ anymore,” he yells. You look up in time to see him raise his arm over his head, armed with the deadly force of his favorite weapon: His basketball. He pitches the thing with no effort at all. From its current trajectory, the cop in you knows the trenchcoat killer is going down. Hard and fast. Still trying to catch your breath, you can’t help but wonder why Curly didn’t just do this in the first place.

The ball sails through the air. When it makes contact, you’re pretty sure Curly killed him. He falls to the ground, the only noise his head cracking on the pavement.

You summon the last of your energy and surge forward to catch up with the Globetrotters. Curly is now strutting like the hero he knows he is. “Nice job, kid,” you say, even though Curly probably isn’t that much your junior.

The man who fled is lying face down. You take off your fedora and bring it to your chest, bowing your head. Murderer or not, you’ve still just seen his life slip away. You are about to order a moment of silence until you see his chest moving ever so faintly. The bastard is alive!

You let out a scream, then recover by clearing your throat. “He’s alive!” You say.

Twiggy flips the man over with his foot.

You scream again.

In your worst possible nightmare, you couldn’t have imagined this. You’ve seen the Chief in the shower at the station before and you were sure nothing could be more terrifying than that. You were wrong. You make a mental note to find a therapist.

Underneath the grandeur of the trenchcoat, the man is naked. Naked as the day he was born. You inadvertently notice something else hasn’t changed much since the day he was born either. You squint and try to adjust your eyes. The last thing this fellow needed was a ball to the head. He’s got enough problems.

“You think it’s real?” Curly asks.

You shake your head. “I’m not sure. How could nature, how could God, be so cruel to one man?”

“Naw,” Twiggy shakes his head. “It can’t be real. It’s like part of it is missing.”

As much as the size—or lack thereof—of the man’s manhood—or lack thereof—intrigues you, you can’t waste any more time talking about it. “Someone has to pat him down,” you announce. “Check for the murder weapon.”

The Globetrotters look at you like you’ve lost your mind. Like you look at the Chief when he attempts to tell you about his relations with his lady friends. You roll your eyes and sigh. “You’re a bunch of nancys! The whole lot of you!”

Twiggy steps forward in a threatening stance until you point your gun. “Don’t test me, Twig. Not today.”

“You’re the cop,” he says, “you pat him down.”

The bile is back in your throat. Obviously he’s got nowhere to conceal a weapon aside from the coat, so it can’t be all that bad. You force the bile down and inhale sharply. “I’ll do it.” You mutter something else about nancys under your breath as you check the man’s pockets. You check a second and a third time just to be sure.

There is no weapon. “He’s clean. He’s got nothing,” you say.

It appears your killer has made a stealthy escape. The man who ran is merely a flasher. A meager, meager flasher.

Curly’s temper erupts. “All that for nothing! Nothing! I’m gonna kill him myself.”

Should you...

A. Allow Curly to let loose on the little man, sure that you’re doing him a favor?


B. Instruct the Globetrotters to haul the flasher into the station, then go back to the crowd to look for evidence of the real killer’s whereabouts?


C. Bring the flasher into the station yourself and call it a night?

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.1 - GO BACK FOR SOME LASAGNA

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.1 - GO BACK FOR SOME LASAGNA

By Yasamine Alisha

Just as you are about to take off, Sweetwater pops his meathook onto your shoulder. “Best to pass the buck to the other Joes for now, ya jive?” 

“Sure. No point in getting all roughed up before dinner.” You walk back into the restaurant, step behind the front desk and pick up the phone in front of the pretty young olive skinned girl sitting at the desk. You flick the receiver clip a couple times and tell Bernice the operator to connect you to the precinct.

“Got another one.” Pause. “Sure.” Pause. “Dead as a doornail.” Pause. “Okay, okay, spare me the gobbledygook.” You hang up the phone, pinch the girl's cheek, and wink before heading back to the table. 

You sit at the table with the ‘Trotters and enjoy a nice bottle of wine. Other than the murdered dame out in front, the restaurant isn’t really that bad. You figure whether or not it’s true what they say about the I-talians cooking rat in the meatballs, the joint still made the best lasagna you've ever had.

"Ah! Longa time noa see!" The owner walks up with another bottle of wine. 

"What's the good word, Rocco?” You ask, knowing the owner always has something up his sleeve.

“Molto Bello! You looka good! You losea weight? Ah! You needa my mama's lasagna!” Rocco pats you on the shoulder and walks away, only to return to your table with a large platter of steaming lasagna. “Even the deada bird will not stop the lasagna!” He shakes his head as he serves you and the ‘Trotters each a heaping chunk of meaty, cheesy layered pasta. 

You stuff your face. The Sweetwater is arguing with Twiggy about the importance of parmesan cheese. Everyone else is silent in their feasting as you listen to the beat cops cordoning off the crime scene.

“Got anything new on the menu?" You ask. 

"I bringa new dessert!" The rotund owner says as he walks back into the kitchen, his thick accent hanging in the air. 

“He stinks of garlic, but damn can the man cook." you mutter as you start to imagine the owner's mother's special cannolis.

Rocco walks out with a tray laden with plates of what looks like custard. "Marcello is back from that French school for the summer. Is called crème-a brooley." he sets the plates down and pulls out the blow torch. 

"Whoa, what are you, a blockhead? That's for buildings, not pudding. Geez." You instantly back up from the torch.

"No, paisano! Trusta in Rocco!" He lights the torch, lowers the flame, and brushes it gently over the top of the custard. It caramelizes as the sweet smell makes your mouth water.

“I'll be damned. Ain't that about a bitch. It’s crispy!” Twiggy says as he drops his ball and shovels a spoonful into his mouth. 

"Well I’ll be a monkey's uncle," you mutter as Rocco wanders around the table blasting everyone's pudding, yours being last.

"Prego!" He says, waving the torch dangerously close to your head.

"Watch it, bub."

"No, no, I havea the perfect control!" He spins the lit wand. It slips from his fingers and brushes past your head as it hits the table. The flame blasts to life and lights your hair on fire. The pomade is like butane in your hair and on your forehead as you suddenly burst into flames! You scream for help, but your aftershave ignites the fire further down your neck and over your entire body.

You stand and run from the table through the front door and trip falling onto the corpse, incinerating the evidence. You live just long enough for Rocco and Sweet Lou to douse your fire with a boiling pot of spaghetti. You die in agony, burnt to a crisp as the ‘Trotters, standing around you, eat cannolis dipped in the creme brulée.

"Well damn, there goes our free throw backup,” Meadowlark mutters are he licks his spoon.

Oops...Return to Chapter 1

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.1 - HOTHEADED OLD GOON

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.1 - HOTHEADED OLD GOON

By Steven Novak

The Chief is covered in sweat. His shirt is wrinkled, and the awful yellow stain of his pit juice is peeking out from underneath the crooks of his arms. He looks tired. He looks tired and beaten, and his face is more worn than the notoriously overcooked steaks at Rocco’s on the corner of 5th and Vine. He rubs his eyes, groans and sighs deep. When you offer him a cigarette, he waves it off. When you offer him a handkerchief to clean the rivers of perspiration running through the wrinkles on his forehead, he instead uses it blow his nose — then has the moxie to hand it back.

Lousy good for nothin’.

For a moment you consider reaching across the desk and bopping him square in the beezer. That would be stupid though — wouldn’t accomplish anything. Instead you opt to zip your gums and uncoil your meathooks. While it would be fun to put the old goat in his place, it isn’t worth your job and it sure as hell isn’t worth an unceremonious return to one of the flophouses downtown.

The Chief leans as far over your desk as he can before his belly impedes his progress. “We found two more this morning…both of them high priced girlies with gams for ages. He plugged ‘em both in the forehead, opened their chests like cans of sardines, pulled out their insides and tossed what was left in the dumpsters behind Rocco’s.”

Rocco’s? Yet another reason to stop waddling into Rocco’s at three in the morning, hopped up on goofballs and hungry for a tall stack of wheats. 

The Chief makes a fist and wallops your desk so hard you’d think it was his wife. “Find this son of a bitch! Do you hear me? When you find him, don’t you dare bring him in! The press is so far up my keyster on this one, I’m smearing them on my finger when I pick my nose!”

His eyes wide, his teeth clenchedb and his chest heaving like a doll on her back getting it all sorts of good, the old bull waits for a reaction after putting the period on his sentence.

You don’t give him one.

A second later the big lug is on his feet and heading for the door. Halfway there, he stops and turns again in your direction. “I want this egg boiled, peeled, and dropped in a Chicago overcoat by the end of the week. Got it?” 

After another puff of your cigarette, you nod. The Chief shakes his head and turns with a grunt. The fact that the seat of his britches is as soaked at the pits of his arms isn’t lost on you. 

You’ll need to burn the chair he was sitting on.

“There is one thing, Chief.”

The hotheaded old goon stops in the doorway. His back pops audibly when he turns toward you once more.

“Can’t do this one on my own. This jobbie’s playing with a full deck and I’ve got a hunch there’s a field full of dirty lettuce backing his operation. I’ll need some help.”

The Chief immediately knows exactly what “help” you’re talking aboutb and he’s immediately against the idea. “Oh no. No. No. No. You do this on your own. I don’t want those numbskulls anywhere near this case.”

You take another drag of your cigarette, lift your head and blow the smoke into the air. “You want this trouble-boy pinched? This is how he gets pinched. We need to take the direct route, Chief. No more fiddle-faddlin’ around the edge like a couple of crumb-bums betting on the bangtails.”

The Chief lowers his head and stares at his shoes over the mound of his gut. He knows you’re right. He knows you’re right and understands all too well it’s the only way. The aftermath of burger he swallowed down for lunch lurches up his windpipe and pops from his yap. You can smell half-digested onions from across the room.

“Fine. Do whatever you have to do. You bring those boys in and it’s on you. Got it? I’ve got nothing to do with this. If they drop the ball you’ll be dealing with the high-pillows, not me.”

When he leaves the room, he slams the door. 

Lousy good for nothin’.

Two minutes after that you’re on the horn with the only cats in town capable of finding the button man who’s been offing professional dames for the past month.

They offer to meet you at Rocco’s. You suggest Gino’s.

Thirty minutes later you stroll into Gino’s and spot your boys at the opposite end of the room. They’re in full gear — dressed to the nines in pinstripes and stars — afros reaching for the clouds.

They’re the best damn gumshoes the city has ever seen: Fred “Curly” Neal, Nat “Sweetwater” Clifton, George “Meadowlark” Lemon, “Sweet Lou” Dunbar and James “Twiggy” Sanders. They’re the Harlem Globetrotters, and there ain’t a jingle-brained jasper been born that can put one over on them.

While Meadowlark meets you with a smile and shakes your hand, Twiggy sneaks up behind you and pulls your trousers down. The regulars at Gino’s erupt into laughter.

Despite the Chief’s reservations, you know you’ve made the right choice.

You fill the boys in on the situation over a family style plate of Gino’s three-meat lasagna. Sweet Lou dives in for seconds before everyone has finished their firsts. You let it pass — only because it’s Sweet Lou.

When dinner’s done and Curly has licked his plate clean, you loosen your belt, let your lasagna-laden belly flop free, and ask the boys if they’re willing to help.

Sweetwater retrieves a basketball from under the table, spins it on his finger and transfers it to the tip of your fedora. As expected, the trick elicits a round of cheers from Gino and his loyal patrons.

With a smile and a wink, Sweetwater adds, “Does that answer your question?”

Honestly, you’re not exactly sure.

Before you can respond, the sound of some chickie screaming just outside the front door fills the air. Sweetwater’s ball still spinning on your noggin, you and the ‘Trotters are on your feet quicker than a con in a creep joint. By the time you make it to the street, the leggy broad with the impressive screambox is already dead. Her chest’s ripped open and her intestines have been pulled halfway down the block.

A crowd of onlookers is already beginning to swell. The dames are in tears and a few of the Brunos don’t look much better. The damn newsie-leeches are already on the scene, forcing their way into the swelling crowd and starting a ruckus.

Out of the corner of your eye you spot a tall drink of water in a dark trench darting into an alleyway on the opposite end of the street. You retrieve the heater from the holster on your hip.

Time to go to work.

A. Round up the 'Trotters and hunt down the man in the trench?


B. Leave the 'Trotters to deal with the newsies and the crowd, and go after the jacketed goon yourself?


C. Forget about everything and go back into Gino's for another plate of lasagna?