Jacked

Praise for Jacked

"Jacked is chock full of white-knuckle stories to propel the reader along at a breakneck pace. Don’t sleep on this anthology. It’s well worth the price of admission."

- Eli Cranor, author of Don’t Know Tough

"Man, whatever your flavor is, Jacked has a story for you. Between the heavy hitters and some new names, if you don’t dig the stories in here, you don’t dig crime fiction. Full stop."

- Todd Robinson, author of The Hard Bounce

Jacked is an off-the-rails anthology showcasing a diverse array of crime writers, from newbies to veterans, writing from the viewpoints of cops and criminals, mothers and kids, but all sharing the same razor-sharp style, all telling stories that hold taut until snapping on the very last line.

- Steph Post, author of Miraculum

An uncompromising yet balanced co-ed collection that runs the gamut/throws the gauntlet of modern crime. Stories of human wreckage and inhuman folly written by journalists and cops, noir-upstarts and English teachers, TV scribes, and sleaze-pulp veterans. From alternate histories to the very ‘now,’ you’ll find guns alongside Samurai swords, TikTok killers in tandem with auto-asphyxiation disasters—all presented with a reflective sheen of steel-eyed erudition.

- Gabriel Hart, author of Fallout From Our Asphalt Hell

"Jacked presents to the reader a varied collection of crime fiction short stories running the gamut from dead serious to comedic. Clichés be damned, there’s something here for everyone. All the writers provide short, sharp jabs of entertainment only those without a pulse will fail to enjoy."

- Alec Cizak, author of Cool It Down and Lake County Incidents

"The stories in Jacked cover a whole spectrum of crime writing from the grisly to the cozy and everywhere in between, dipping their toes into the murky waters on both sides of the law. It’s an impressive debut from Run Amok’s brand new crime imprint."

- Joey R. Poole, author of I Have Always Been Here Before

These stories are gritty, bleak, often times funny and brutally honest. Noir bleeds from these pages with deception and a heavy dose of hard-boiled desperation.

- Mark Pelletier, BookTalk

. . . 21 stories of murder, mayhem, and wry mystery that rise way above expectations.

- Beth Kanell, Kingdom Books, Mystery Reviews

" . . . every single one was a well-written short story . . . Jacked is one of those collections that I’m going to remember for a while."

- H.C. Netwon, The Irresponsible Reader

. . . an anthology packed to the gills with good stuff. Vern Smith harvested a handy crop of writers in this one.

- Rusty Barnes, Tough magazine

Jacked © Vern Smith, 2022

Individual authors retain all copyrights to their respective works published within this collection.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author and/or the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Assistant Editor: Krysta Winsheimer of Muse Retrospect

Book Design: Gary Anderson

Cover Design: Gretchen Jankowski

Cover Photograph: Garth Jackson

ISBN: ISBN: 979-8-9869930-0-3

Run Amok Books, 2022

First Edition

Jacked: A Crime Fiction Anthology

Edited by

Vern Smith

For Brad and Lyle, who put the good platters on the player as they were being pressed.

Foreword by Vern Smith

As soon as the word Jacked was uttered, I consulted Merriam-Webster, where I found definitions revolving around excitement, custom cars, muscles, injury, and the state of being high. Once we got into colloquialisms, regional idioms, and what some still consider profane (write your own joke here because we have an answer for that, too), the possibilities seemed endless. I remember pausing to think before saying, yes, absolutely. Any good crime story should be able to answer to the concept. That was the truth, the full truth, and nothing but the truth. So, about that time, we ditched our high-minded themes and went off in search of the best fresh crime fiction we could get our hands on, without a single worry of what any of it could be about.

Genre, non-genre—we didn’t care. Our only concern was that somewhere a law had to be fractured. Little did any of us know that these authors would have to survive a grueling selection process that saw some four hundred stories auditioned, meaning each had to be very, very good, yes, but also singular in such a way as to give this book another gear.

No pressure.

Although we didn’t ask for ID at the door, I can comfortably say that Jacked spans five decades of crime writers from five countries, whose stories and novelettes range in style, voice, politics, sexuality, experience, era, and perspective.

Riding with everyone from Emmy nominees to a real-life cop, we find unusual suspects struggling to get by at the end of the biker wars; lavender cowboys robbing a stagecoach in the old west; and a burlesque performer holding up an Italian jeweler at gunpoint. In 1940s Montreal, a budding lawyer is dabbling in tainted love with an injured pin-up model. The art of the Samurai is being corrupted by a rogue ex-detective, circa 1981 L.A., and the ethics of accounting are being violated by a modern pulp-and-paper town bean-counter who can no longer hide from the people she’s been cheating. In contemporary Ireland, verbal barbs inside a theater are escalating to actual violence. While somewhere in England, a man of few means is delivering what might be a head in a bag, or maybe it’s just a MacGuffin.

Abuse is clearly a crime on the minds of writers, and the fate of one perpetrator is revealed during a tire-change in Oklahoma as sure as that of another is foretold in Wisconsin, highlighting issues of gender, family, race, and class. Likewise, when gold is struck in the bellies of mountain critters, it’s a matter of day-to-day survival, just as it is when your slacker roommate uses your vehicle as a getaway car for hire. If that’s not enough, we have patricide, a TikTok murder, a spy in a spot without ID, a murder suspect who’s unsure of his innocence, and more than one double cross.

In each case, we find characters lurking in the gray areas, blurring the lines between good and bad, which is where I believe every great crime story starts.

You won’t find David Caruso chasing around bad dudes selling good kids bad drugs in these pages. No. As a matter of fact, in one case, the detective is the junkie.

Such characters are three-dimensional people compromised by their lives, loves, lusts, demons, obsessions, affiliations, jobs, and situations. Time and again, the literary trick will be getting inside their heads once the stimuli—crime, in this case—is introduced. That’s the human mystery driving every one of these pieces. It’s about what real people do when they find someone in the trunk of an alpha car they just stole, as much as what they say upon discovering that said person is a dedicated Nazi.

Talk about blurring the lines.

And look, dear reader, no reprints. All first-run crime fiction here. Not only is the book you’re holding a first edition, but every story contained within is a proper first as well—my gift to the experts at the bar.

Anyway, I could go on about these writers and the great stories that they tell, and I will in other settings. But my only real role here was to curate a table of contents—a diabolical mixed tape, if you will—collecting twenty-one authors at the top of their powers, who, together, form a literary murderers’ row that’s about to challenge your favorite anthology. Otherwise, they need no introduction. So please, let me just get out of the way and hand the mic over to Paul Alexander, wherever he is, to describe what happens when one struggling comedian convinces another to bring a loaded gun onstage.

Vern Smith, July 2022

Paul Alexander is a comedian and author who has appeared on MTV’s Half Hour Comedy Hour, A & E’s Evening At The Improv, and Comedy Central’s Comedy Product. His debut parenting memoir, Our Baby was Born Premature: the same way he was conceived, can be found at all the usual places where books are sold even though Paul is currently in the witness protection program in Canada.

Shorty Cocked His Gun

It was a moon cops hate. Full. The sky was the color bats fly in.

And it was the second time I saw Shorty or Short for short. He was driving his ’76 white Toyota pickup truck. Russet patches on the hood and doors, dents and troughs in the body, bald tires, and a slipping transmission—perfect for the hills in San Francisco.

It banshee-screeched to a stop in the midst of shiny traffic in front of the Golden Eagle hotel where I was waiting. The G in the Golden neon sign was burned out. Guess I’m staying at the olden Eagle hotel.

I opened the squeaky door as a red light changed to a green at Montgomery and Broadway.

Inside—a ripped-up turquoise blue seat that fit two in a squeeze—Shorty got visibly annoyed if his hand touched your leg, even for a microsecond, while he shifted gears.

Short’s nature was sore. An unfinished jigsaw puzzle with a few pieces jammed into the wrong places. He wore a distinctive snapping turtle mouth and he loved to snap.

Shorty had come to San Francisco in that truck all the way from Pensacola, Florida, loaded with an acting resume which included a high school play where he played Lenny from Of Mice and Men. He had a unicycle. He also had a lawn mower—in case he had to get a day job while trying to make it as an actor.

All this he pledged inside a minute.

We were flying south to Emerson’s Bar and Grill in Palo Alto because they were doing a Comedy Night.

There was a .38 caliber handgun stashed behind the seat, a portable Lloyd’s cassette player held together by electrical tape under the dash, and a rancid towel on the floor.

Short lit up a Camel and blew out the smoke as he voiced his ideas on a set at the upcoming bar and grill which was forty minutes away—maybe thirty at this speed.

I wanna try a character, he said.

I told him, You should open by taking that .38 out on stage.

He laughed and then got a gleam of excitement in his sockets.

I’ll do it, he slurred, as if daring the world to stop him.

He was all over himself with glee. By the time the Palo Alto city limits were on us he had it figured that he would go out on stage in the guise of a mental guy and tell a joke whereupon he would pull out his .38 caliber handgun and point it at someone in the front, and say, "Get it?"

I said, Isn’t that a felony?

Short’s confederate jalopy rattled into the parking lot at Emerson’s Bar and Grill.

The room was the same as every bar and grill. A bar. A bartender. A waitress. A big screen TV with a football game on and another TV that had Keno on it. And scattered around the room at various tables, a few patrons. The comics were in the corner of the room by a makeshift riser that had a microphone stand on it.

The show started.

Shorty went on early, like second or third. Since the first few acts didn’t get anyone’s attention it was up to Short to set the pace. After the MC introduced him, my new friend slowly wandered up to the stage in character; making baby steps to the microphone with his shiny six shot held out to one side. He was doing his best impression of a mentally-challenged individual—staring at the lights with an innocent sort of stare—and then he spoke with a vibrato, Hi. My name’s Shorty. At this, he waved his weapon around.

This is my gun. This one’s for killing . . . And with his free hand he pointed towards his crotch. ". . . and this one’s for fun."

A man at the table closest to the stage didn’t want to be there, but it was too late as Short aimed his gun right at him. Get it?

The man was a figurine of panic. His wan smile was frozen in prayer.

And Shorty couldn’t see for looking—his preconceived notions of bravado were dying. Disaster had been created. The climb out of trouble was unnatural and time stood still in a place where nobody wanted to be. It didn’t matter that nothing followed his opening remarks except an old joke that had nothing to do with anything that came before or after: What’s the first thing Adam said to Eve? Stand back, I don’t know how big this thing gets.

Abandoned is the comic who isn’t funny; especially one with a gun.

Shorty, bathed in silence, left the stage less gingerly than when he entered.

The guy that ran the comedy night told Short, I can’t have you back, man. I mean—I could have called the cops.

Short shrugged. You’ll hear about me. And walked out, shocked, into the brisk explosive night.

I forfeited my set that was coming up and escaped with Shorty to the pickup truck. Our common ground being no money and no funny. Short vented and put the hammer down until we got back home, wherever that was.

I forgot to check the chamber before I went on stage. It had a round in it, man, he confessed.

Now that’s funny, I lied, and quickly left the truck.

Eric Beetner is that writer you’ve heard about but never read. When you finally do you wonder why you waited so long. There are more than 25 books like Rumrunners, All The Way Down and The Devil Does’t Want Me so you’d better get started. He’s been described as The 21st Century’s answer to Jim Thompson (LitReactor), been nominated for three Anthony’s, an ITW award, Shamus, Derringer and six Emmys.

First Timers

We dumped our bikes behind some bushes about two streets away after we’d circled the block twice to see if anyone was looking. We’d found the perfect car.

Ashton and I knew it had to be older. No key fob and fancy starter stuff. I had a screwdriver in my back pocket and Ashton had a rubber mallet, both swiped from our respective Dad’s toolboxes. That’s how we’d get it going. At least, that’s what the YouTube video said to do. We’d never done this before.

Shit, man, it’s beautiful. Ashton’s voice was a whisper as we crept up behind the shiny black car. It was some kind of old muscle car, the kind somebody had obviously spent many weekends bent over, torso under the hood or on their backs laying on a roller to get the view from underneath. It looked big and mean and had a chrome number 440 on the side. Beyond that, all I knew about the car was that we were going to take it. At least I was kinda sure.

You really wanna do this? I asked.

Ashton looked at me like I’d just asked him if I should screw my sister. Yeah, dude. This one’s perfect.

I mean, should we do this at all?

We’ll bring it back. Not like we’re gonna strip it for parts or nothing. Just a little joyride. It’s not even stealing, just borrowing.

He had a point. And besides, what the hell else were we gonna do on a Friday night in this shit town?

Ashton pulled the Slim Jim from his pant leg. His uncle had given him a lesson and I’ll be damned if it didn’t work on the first try. The door popped open and he gave me a smile there in the dark of the empty street, like he’d just unzipped the skirt of the hottest girl in school.

One more look around to make sure nobody was spying on us and I slid in behind the wheel. Ashton circled the car and I opened the passenger door for him. I put the screwdriver up against the keyhole and Ashton hammered it home. I let out a quick exhale and turned the handle. The car came to life.

Damn, it was loud. Our laughter was louder. I reached up to the steering column and dropped her in gear and we sped away for the night of our lives.

The engine sounded so sweet. Like a tiger, but one you’d want to have as a pet. We blew through stop signs, took corners too fast, the whole time my brain kept repeating, You just stole a car. You just stole a car. It came out my mouth as laughter. We kept the engine revving and the sound ear-splitting until I had to slow down to keep from running off the road. It wasn’t exactly a life of crime but it kept the boredom at bay for at least one night. We weren’t big drinkers, Ashton and me. And we stayed away from drugs since we’d seen too many people get seriously fucked-up and it’s not a good look. You want to never do drugs in your life? Stay sober around stoned people. You see them and think, hell no, man.

Damn, dude, Ashton said. I wish we knew some girls to go pick up and take for a ride.

We both sat quietly trying to think of someone who would be properly impressed by this vehicle, and someone who also might let us take her in the back seat for a while. At seventeen, girls and the possibility of scoring with girls was always working somewhere in the back of our minds.

In the quiet, and with the engine finally calmed down, I heard a knocking sound. I worried that I’d broken some part of the vintage car, but then I heard a voice. A muffled, very desperate voice.

You hear that? I asked.

Yeah. Ashton and I both craned our necks around to look at the back seat, and we knew the sound was coming from the other side, in the trunk. Whoever it was pounded again and we both jumped.

Shit, what do we do?

Someone’s in there, man.

I know that.

Ashton punched the dashboard. Shit, man. We gotta help them. Ashton had trained as a lifeguard, kept talking about wanting to be an EMT when he graduated. He had a natural instinct to help people, I guess. I’d have been fine to park the car where we were and walk back to our bikes.

I steered the car to the curb and we got out. We walked around to the back and could hear him clearly now. He pounded on the lid of the trunk, shouting behind that layer of steel to be let out.

Ashton and I looked at each other but had no idea what to do. We could ditch the car, with him in it, but we’d driven miles from where our bikes were and from home. And I had no idea if the guy would run out of air before someone else found him or what. My earlier instinct to run had faded. I knew we needed to help him, too.

What do we do? I asked.

Ashton leaned closer to the trunk. H . . . hey man. You okay in there?

The car rocked on its shocks as he hammered on the trunk lid. We could hear his shouting more clearly now.

Hey! You gotta get me out of here. They locked me in here. They have my brother in the house. They’re gonna kill us both.

What the hell had we gotten into?

We gotta get him out, Ashton said.

We don’t have keys. This car was from before remote trunk opening buttons.

Use the screwdriver. Ashton leaned forward and tapped twice on the trunk. Hey, buddy. We’re gonna get you out. Hold on a sec.

I positioned the screwdriver into the keyhole and Ashton hit it three times with the mallet. It took more twisting and hammering than the ignition had, but we got it open.

The dude was drenched in sweat. His hands were tied, and his feet. He was a white guy, probably mid-twenties. Longish hair, jeans. Just a regular looking guy, I guess, aside from being stuffed in the trunk of a car and left for dead.

Holy shit, thank you. Thank you. He tried climbing out, which wasn’t easy without the use of his hands. Where are we? We gotta get back to the house.

What house? Ashton asked.

I smacked him on the shoulder. The house where we stole the car, dumbass.

They got my brother.

Why?

They’re fucking psychopaths.

Great. The first car I steal belongs to a psycho. Just great.

They stuck me in there and said they were coming back for me, after they killed my brother. We gotta go. We don’t have much time. He was already moving toward the door. Ashton and I followed him. I tried closing the trunk lid but now it wouldn’t close with the lock broken.

I got behind the wheel again and wondered if I’d be able to find my way back. Ashton leaned over the seat and started to untie his hands.

So who are these guys?

The dude in the back finally realized he didn’t know us. He scrunched up his face. Wait, who the hell are you?

Ashton tried stalling him while I put it in drive. It’s . . . we’re not . . . it doesn’t matter.

Yeah, whatever man. You saved my life.

I gotta say, that felt good. As thrilling as it was to steal the car, it was a bigger rush to rescue someone. I retraced my route back toward the house, keeping it slower this time. Ashton got him untied and the guy looked out the window, rubbing his wrists. I hope we’re not too late.

What’s your name, man? Ashton asked.

Gene.

Ashton. He pointed to me. Clark.

Thanks, guys.

We passed by the bushes with our bikes and I pulled the car to a stop in the same spot where we’d taken it from. I figured that would be it. Gene would go rescue his brother and we’d get back on our bikes and ride away, forgetting this ever happened. But no.

Okay, listen, these are bad motherfuckers. We need to go in hard and take no shit, okay?

Ashton and I looked at each other. We weren’t go in hard kind of guys. We were in marching band.

Oh, I said. I didn’t know we were . . .

You gotta help me, dude. That’s my brother in there. He might already be dead.

Then what help would we be? I wanted to know. Ashton and I tried to communicate with just our eyes, but we came to no decision that way. Gene made up our minds for us.

Come on, man. He opened the door and got out with a sharp slap to the back of the seat. Ashton and I got out too. We huddled quick by the front bumper.

I mean, the guy needs help, I said.

And we already saved his life.

It’s the right thing to do.

It would be shitty to leave him here alone.

Reluctantly, we walked over to where Gene stood by the passenger door. I’d kept the screwdriver in my hand and I held on to it like it was a rope keeping me from falling off a cliff.

I’m fuckin’ psyched you guys are with me, man. So good to have soldiers who understand the cause. Cause? What cause? Now let’s go get my brother. He leaned in the passenger window and opened the glove box, then came back out with a gun. Ashton and I looked at it like he’d pulled a rabbit out of a hat. Or maybe a spitting cobra. He walked toward the door. We followed several paces behind.

Gene raised his leg and kicked in the front door with a practiced swing. We barreled inside and found ourselves in a room with three of the biggest black dudes I’d ever seen in my life.

Damn right, it’s me, Gene said, sounding like a pro wrestler entering the ring. He held the gun out before him. Y’all motherfuckers didn’t think you’d see me again, did you? Now listen up, I want all you dirty fuckin’—

Gene proceeded to drop the N-word several times in succession. He pointed the gun like an angry finger at the three men in the room and when he jabbed it forward I could see a swastika tattoo peeking out from his T-shirt. We had gotten ourselves on