The Bus and Other Stories

Craig Conrad

Description

The book is a collection of twelve tales about people in strange situations from a bus that never lets its passengers get off to a soldier who helps a buddy out of trouble. These stories were written during a time when slick magazines flourished, pulp fiction was popular, and magazines were in great demand. Time changes everything, unfortunately not always for the better.

Sujets

• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 07 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669836940
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Bus and Other Stories
 
 
 
 
 
 
Craig Conrad
 
 
Copyright © 2022 by Craig Conrad.
 

Library of Congress Control Number:
2022912523
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-3696-4

Softcover
978-1-6698-3695-7

eBook
978-1-6698-3694-0
 
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
 
Rev. date: 09/07/2022
 
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
843156
CONTENTS
Chapter 1 The Bus
Chapter 2 The Bird Man
Chapter 3 The Promise
Chapter 4 The Salterman Tapes
Chapter 5 Payback
Chapter 6 Brothers Of The Moon
Chapter 7 The Perfect Woman
Chapter 8 The Patriot
Chapter 9 The Hiker
Chapter 10 The Wife
Chapter 11 Surrogate Soldier
Chapter 12 Buddies
1
The Bus
“It’ll be a piece of cake,” Tommy Raggo said. “We’ll be in and out slick as you please.”
He sat, straddling his chair, his short, lean frame braced forward against the chair-back by two muscular arms. A lock of black hair hung down over his forehead, accenting a pair of strange eyes, crazy eyes, set in a sort of pleasant face, but a second look made you feel that it was not a face you would want to be alone with.
“Whadda you think?” Tommy asked. “You in?”
George Reese, “Gomer” to his friends because of his country-boy appearance, looked over the diagram spread out on the greasy, kitchen table in Tommy’s two-by-four apartment. “Why do we gotta hit a place in our own neighborhood?” he asked. “Can’t we go farther out?”
Tommy reached out and slapped him lightly alongside his head. “‘Cause that’s where the money is, you dope.”
Tommy always did that to him when he didn’t catch on right away, which was most of the time. His brain just didn’t work as fast as Tommy’s, so he always let him do all the planning for both of them, something he had been doing since they were kids, stealing lunch money from third-graders. And that was a lot of years and prison time ago.
“Yeah, but I kinda like the old guy,” Gomer said, avoiding Tommy’s glare.
“He’s a gook,” Tommy said.
“Yeah, but he ain’t a bad guy.”
“Who says?” Tommy lit a cigarette from a pack on the table and blew smoke at Gomer. “Whadda he ever do for you?”
“He gimme a carton of ciggies once when I was short a money.”
“Big, hairy deal,” Tommy said. “He tossed you a crumb, you jerk. He’s rollin’ in dough, just like all those foreigners that come here are.”
“They are?” Gomer frowned.
“You ever seen one didn’t have a store of some kind or a gas station? You and me was born here, whadda we got?”
Tommy smiled his crooked smile. “Unless you got somethin’ I don’t know about, huh? You holdin’ out on me, Gomer?”
Gomer started to turn red, always blushing easily when kidded. “I never had nothin’ my whole life. I wouldn’t hold out on you, Tommy.”
“Yeah, I know.” Tommy took a deep drag and let the smoke out. “So don’t worry about the gook. He’s got more than we got, he can afford to lose. C’mon, you in? I need you.”
Gomer looked at the diagram again, then back at Tommy. “All I gotta do is drive the car? I don’t gotta go in or nothin’?”
“That’s all,” Tommy reassured him.
“Okay, I’ll drive.”
“That’s the way to go,” Tommy said, reaching over and slapping him on the back.
“When do we do it?”
“In two days,” Tommy said. “Friday morning, early. He’ll have lots of money on hand for his little check-cashin’ service he likes to do for the neighborhood dorks with their social security checks. More crumbs for the slobs to dumb to figure things out.”
“You want I should do like always?” Gomer asked.
“Yeah, two days should give you enough time to steal a car and change the plates.”
“Okay, Tommy, I’ll get a car.” He got up from the table.
“No screw-ups, Gomer.”
“There won’t be. I promise.”
Tommy shot him a look. “Yeah, well, just don’t get caught stealin’ the damn car.”
“Pull up over there in the middle of the block and park,” Tommy said.
As instructed, Gomer parked the stolen Chevy two buildings past the liquor store and started to turn off the ignition.
“Don’t,” Tommy said, grabbing his hand. “Leave the damn thing runnin’.”
Gomer started to blush. A goof-up was as bad as being kidded. “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
“Well, don’t forget. I’m countin’ on you,” Tommy said, glaring at him. “Just be here when I come out.”
Tommy consulted his watch. “I got nine-thirty, whadda you got?”
Gomer checked his wristwatch. “Nine-thirty.”
“Good,” Tommy said. “I should be back in five or ten minutes, tops.” He checked the .45 automatic again for about the fifth time since they left his apartment, then, satisfied, shoved it back behind his belt under his jacket. He threw Gomer a look. “Okay, I’m on my way. Just wait and keep the car runnin’.”
Gomer looked contrite. “I will, Tommy. I’ll be right here.”
Tommy got out of the car and walked the short distance back to the liquor store. The only customer left the store as he entered.
A minute after Tommy’s entry into the store, Ray Bishop turned up Fowler Street and cruised the neighborhood shops in his patrol car. Most of the stores were little mom-and-pop businesses ranging from grocery stores to gas stations, all tucked shoulder to shoulder in a six block area. Ray always felt that they leaned on one another for support. The buildings were so close together that you couldn’t get a shoehorn between them.
He was into his second block of travel on Fowler, thinking the day might turn out bright and sunny at that, even after an all-night rain, when he spotted Gomer Reese sitting alone in a car with the motor running. Ray knew wherever Gomer was Tommy Raggo couldn’t be far away.
Those two were thicker than thieves, which is exactly what they were. Tommy was a short, wiseass punk who had a rap sheet as long as his 5-5 height, and Gomer wasn’t much better, although Ray thought most of Gomer’s trouble came from palling around with Tommy. They were a Mutt and Jeff pair, and both had spent the majority of their thirty odd years of life behind bars.
Ray passed Gomer without so much as a look, continuing on for another block before hanging a right. His cop nose was telling him that something smelled bad, and after fourteen years on the police force, it had never steered him wrong. Circling the block, Ray parked a good ten cars behind Gomer, who was still there, two stores away from Kim’s Liquor. Ray knew that Kim Soong always kept a lot of money on hand during that time of the month when the social security checks came in so he could cash checks for his senior customers.
It was Ray’s guess that’s where Tommy Raggo was at the moment. Tommy hadn’t killed anyone yet, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of it. Ray called for backup, then got out of the cruiser and headed for the liquor store. He withdrew his service weapon from its holster and held it down alongside his leg.
At the store, Tommy flipped the entrance-door’s “OPEN” sign to read “CLOSED” and headed for the checkout counter.
Kim Soong was behind the counter near the cash register amid shelves of various brands of liquor. He was a small, rail-thin man whose gray hair was losing its fight with baldness. Kim started to smile a welcome when he first saw Tommy, but something in the younger man’s manner killed the smile before it reached his lips.
Tommy stepped to the counter and pulled out the .45. “Okay, papasan, lets have the money. Open up the cash drawer.”
Kim just looked at him with big eyes and pretended not to understand.
Tommy pounded on the cash register and cocked the .45. “Open the damn thing up!” he shouted at him.
Kim rang open the drawer and emptied all the paper money onto the counter.
Tommy looked it over and shoved it in his pockets. “Where’s the rest of it? There’s only two, three hundred here.”
Kim feigned ignorance again, hoping the man would take what he had given him and leave.
“C’mon! Don’t get cute with me! I know you cash checks here!”
Kim shook his head and spread his hands in a I-don’t-understand gesture.
Tommy lost his patience and struck him over the head with the automatic, knocking him to the floor. “Dumb, gook,” Tommy said and jumped over the counter, searching for the rest of the money. He found a small safe under the counter which was open but empty. Not far away, he also found a cigar box loaded with cash.
Tommy smiled. “That’s more like it.”
“Drop the gun, Tommy!” a voice in back of him said.
Tommy froze. He knew that voice. It belonged to a flatfoot who cruised this beat. “Sure, I’ll put it down,” he said. “Just don’t shoot.”
“Put your hands above your head and drop the gun!”
“Sure, sure! Don’t shoot!” Tommy started to raise his hands, but he wasn’t about to go back to the pen, not again, not anymore. Most of h