Issue #93 -- November 2025

The Minimum Wages of Sin

by Edward St. Boniface

 

Even if you sell your soul at a discount like I did, the Devil always shows up to collect his royalties.

From the bestselling memoirs of international playboy publisher Heston Huner Vol IV: ‘How My Magazine And Video Empire Of Cleanswabbed Skin And XXX-clusive Lifestyle Consumer Advertising/Product Placement Financially Malfunctioned And Almost Totally Zonked Out’, Huner Enterprises Press, 1980uHyu. 

Transcript-excerpt from Black Hand Incorporated company confidential archives, miscellaneous operation-related files, financial claims and expenses validation section. Original spoken audio dialogue captured using replica micro-miniaturised tape recording device once the property of the Central Intelligence Agency. All operations discussed in context with illustrated expense claims and supporting material are strictly classified, company archivist’s eyes only. Subject of following discussion: Operation A-71.

SEE ATTACHED FILE DOCUMENT:

 

COMPANY EXPENSE FORM (File to Ledger: Allowable expenses, Operation A-71)

Date: (classified)

ITEM: Negative Pressure Ventilator (‘PULMOTOR’) Mechanical Respirator unit

(x 1)

SUM CLAIMED (per item): $ 6200.00.

SUBTOTAL (all items): $ 6200.00.

(DISALLOWED)

 

ITEM: Second-Hand Ambulance Vehicle, Fully Fitted & Marked, with forged registration papers & license plates.

(x 1)

SUM CLAIMED (per item): $ 1600.00.

SUBTOTAL (all items): $ 1600.00.

 

ITEM: Portable Electrical Generator + Ancillary batteries

(x 1)

SUM CLAIMED (per item):  $ 1275.00.

SUBBTOTAL (all items):      $ 1275.00.

 

ITEM: Appropriate uniforms & forged credentials.

(x 3)

SUM CLAIMED (per item):  $ 125.00.

SUBTOTAL (all items):         $ 375.00.

 

ITEM: Gasoline for vehicle, 1 refuel

(x 1)

SUM CLAIMED (per item):  $ 23.17

SUBTOTAL (all items): $ 23.17

 

SUMMARY:

All Receipts

TOTAL SUM CLAIMED: $ 9473.17 (SUBMITTED)

 

NOTES: Company Finance officer decision final, not subject to review.

 

(Sound of lever-arch folder being unlocked, papers removed and shuffled, prongs clicked back into place.)

 

GARY BANOMENA (Company president and team junior member for Operation A-71): (with incredulity) “…you’re actually disallowing the iron lung?...”

SURVIND JUGGERGHAZI: (Deputy President and company chief financial officer): “Regrettably so. Wouldn’t you say it’s more than a little counter-intuitive for us to be buying life-support systems than the more usual opposite we employ?”

DAG ULKÖLN (Team leader, Operation A-71): “It was an essential prop, Trucker. We were impersonating ambulance-men. If the target’s private doctor and surgeon didn’t see authentic functioning equipment he’d never have handed the old geezer over to us. Anyway, the manufacturers Emerson gave us a good cash discount for quick sale.”

SJ: “The charges imposed on us for uniforms and credentials from Polychrome Cross Medical Services also seem excessive. I believe they only charge employees forty-five dollars or so annually, and that for a set of three fatigues each?”

WARKENTIN WESTGATE (Team senior member, Operation A-71): “To be fair, that’s on a subsidised company plan for qualified staff. We had to directly bribe three of them to get the right sizes and for voluntary police statements saying they were all forcibly waylaid and abducted on the job and the vehicle stolen. Absolutely the three of us crewing had to look the part. Arrogant surgeon guy at the old man’s house looked us over with the beadiest beady eyes I’ve ever seen. Insisted on riding in the ambulance with us but we stymied him over a passenger liability insurance clause. Even so he practically tailgated us on the way to the supposed clinic destination until we lost him in traffic.”

SJ: “Adjusting by the described cost benefits of necessary purchase versus a thriving resale market in these machines, nevertheless I will have to enter it against our net profits for the operation. So it ultimately comes out of our own pockets.”

DU: “Not the capital reserve fund?”

SJ: “No. We have a difficult enough time with the Internal Revenue Service as it is.”

 

(Groans from team-members for Operation A-71.)

 

SJ (continuing smoothly): “Gary, you of course as company president have the option of veto.”

GB: “Nope, I trust your discretion, Trucker. Anyway, I was designated the junior team member. That said, I think a price tag of under ten thousand cartwheels for an operation like this is a purty good accounting for ourselves, so to speak.”

WW: “It did go flawlessly. Occupant exited said iron lung body and soul directly into the concrete foundations of the new Cosmo-Salamander development over in Bedford Stuyvesant. You know, that new egghead avant-garde concert hall and music conservatory? It was a Sunday, no work on, so we only had to drive into the site careful. Did the nefarious deed in broad daylight. There was even some cement in a mixer handy, so we made sure the target had a suitable concrete sarcophagus to keep the secret safe. Rest of the pit will be filled in Monday morning, and no one the wiser.”

DU: “We switched off the iron lung and portable generator, but on the way back I could swear I heard that unholy thing breathing. I think we were being haunted.”

GB: “Probably it just had mechanical asthma.”

 

(General laughter from all four participants.)

 

* * *

 

As previously, Subject: Operation H-71.

 

SEE ATTACHED FILE DOCUMENT:

 

COMPANY EXPENSE FORM (File to Ledger: Allowable Operational Expenses, Operation H-71)

Date: (classified)

                                                

ITEM: Specialist Freshwater Species Breeding Service Fees

(x 15)

SUM CLAIMED (Per Task): $ 1000.00.

SUBTOTAL (All Tasks): $ 15,000.00.

(QUERIED)

 

ITEM:  Water Tanker Purchase & Special Conditions Adaptation Plus Additional fittings

(x 1)

SUM CLAIMED (per item): $ 19, 400.00.

SUBTOTAL (all items): $ 19, 400.00.

(QUERIED)

 

ITEM: Custom designed pressurised flush-pump with hydraulic feed unit

(x 1)

SUM CLAIMED (per item): $ 3,700.00.

SUBTOTAL (all items): $ 3,700.00.

(QUERIED)

 

ITEM: Custom Made Galvanised Rubber Hose, Triple-Segmented (x 3)

SUM CLAIMED (per item):  $ 780.00.

SUBTOTAL (all items):         $ 2340.00.

(QUERIED)

 

ITEM: Butcher’s Offal

(including refrigeration & delivery service) (x 25)

SUM CLAIMED (per item): $ 50.00.

SUBTOTAL (all items): $ 1250.00.

SUMMARY:

TOTAL SUM CLAIMED:     $ 41, 690.00.

(All receipts subject to detailed review, enquiry pending, date TBA classified.)

 

(Humming sound of an office mimeograph machine, then the repeated hole-punching of documents, opening and closing of lever arch folder after document insertion.)

 

SJ: “Did we get the target?”

GB (long pause): “Eventually.”

SJ: “Over-elaborate far beyond the absurd. I was very much in two minds about us taking on the original commission. A simple seafood platter laced with an appropriate marine creature venom, or several to be certain, would have done far more simply and efficiently.”

WW: “Logistically and planning and coordination-wise though, it was good crisis training.”

DU: “Despite we had to go back to the same people more than twenty times just for the raw living materials alone, because they kept dying of one cause or another. One heck of an object lesson in never trusting the old wild kingdom to help you when you really need it.”

WW: “On the technical side with the aquarium vehicle and the pump and the pool delivery extension hoses, just about everything that could go wrong did go wrong.”

GB: “But the bait did end up as bait.”

SJ: “So we don’t have to write it all off as a loss.”

GB (uncomfortably): “His colleagues on the board won’t pay, though. They say we took too long.”

SJ (pause): “Is this the same board of directors who have a regular swimming club and rent isolated country resorts with indoor pools for private skinny-dipping parties, Dag?”

DU: “You got it.”

WW: “I have a working tap on their corporate secretary’s phone line as well as all their personal homes. The secretary makes all the group holiday bookings. They have one coming up in this place on Hecla Island in Manitoba, Canada. Isolated defines the joint.”

GB: “Sounds like our collision course is clear.”

SJ: “We cannot allow our clients to set payment terms and dictate contractual nuances under any circumstances. They wanted their corporate debt-ridden chairman devoured by piranha fish in his home swimming pool for whatever reason, and we delivered to that criteria despite numerous difficulties. If they subsequently renege on due remuneration, the natural justice of consequence should be the same.”

DU: “I’ll put it together operationally toot sweet, Trucker.”

SJ: “Thank you, Dag. Meantime, I will draw up a revised scale of final charges to present to our surviving recalcitrants in the aftermath. It will reflect these financial inconveniences with a certain emphasis in our penultimate ultimatum.”

GB (playfully): “Mebbe we should jest send them our pet Kraken?”

SJ (rejoinder in same tone): “…Black Tentacles Incorporated now as well?...”

 

(Uproarious general laughter from all four participants.)

 

*

 

As previously, Subject: Operation R-71.

 

SEE ATTACHED FILE DOCUMENT:

 

COMPANY EXPENSE FORM (File to Ledger: Allowable Expenses, Operation R-71)

Date: (classified)

ITEM: 5000-volt single discharge batteries, weatherproofed

(x 5)

SUM CLAIMED (per item): $ 320.00.

SUBTOTAL (all items): $ 1600.00.

 

ITEM: Radio-controlled circuit breaking trip switch + UHF transmitter unit

(x 1)

SUM CLAIMED (per item): $ 145.00.

SUBTOTAL (all items): $ 145.00.

 

ITEM: Auto repair shop conversion, painting, seat re-installation, Misc.

(x 1)

SUM CLAIMED (per item):  $ 670.00.

SUBTOTAL (all items):         $ 670.00.

 

ITEM: Thermoplastic recorders (musical instruments) octave-variable junior orchestral set

(x 4)

SUM CLAIMED (per item): $ 9.25.

SUBTOTAL (all items): $ 37.00.

 

 

SUMMARY: All receipts submitted.

TOTAL SUM CLAIMED: $ 2452.00.

NOTES: (discussion/review required)

 

(Shuffling of papers, tapping of fingers on desk surface)

 

SJ: “…Recorders?...”

DU: “To attract the mountain goats. The two-octave one worked best in the end.”

 

(Long pause.)

 

SJ: “I’ll take your word for it.”

WW: “Crazy as it sounds, that old-timer hunter we talked to in Utah just before recommended pipe music to attract and lead wild grazers and it worked just the way he said. I had my Leica and telephoto with me to show the slope before and after we started. Look at that.”

 

(Sound of large photographs being slid out of a case and flattened on desk surface.)

 

GB: “I was there too, Trucker. It was eerie how fast they turned up. Perfect for our purposes. We got that shooter party right up to the top of the mountain to blast the hell out of the things en-masse, then got into position ourselves to catch them as the bus came back down the same road.”

DU: “Looks more convincing if an accident happens on the way down.”

SJ: “What went wrong, exactly?”

WW: “Nothing operationally. The driver was a plant and the bus a mocked-up substitute. A specialist company in the nearby town uses old modified school buses for hunting parties. We just had their markings copied from photos in this garage outside Reno and drove it there ourselves. Thing was sabotaged to electrocute the driver by radio-tripped batteries we hooked up and concealed under the floor panels.”

GB: “Worked perfectly too. They went past us on the way down, I hit the transmit button and the dupe fried. Unfortunately instead of going over the precipice the bus ran into a wooden guide-pylon and slid right over it. Somehow the stupid cussed thang braced the bus from going down the way it should have and they were all rescued. We had to escape on foot down the mountain slope on the opposite side.”

SJ: “A debacle of bad luck, rather.”

DU: “We had to ride back in a boxcar until we could finally get off unseen past midnight at the Chicago marshalling yards, too.”

GB: “Remember that smell? It must’ve been a mobile abattoir or something.”

SJ: “Perhaps a couple of concealed thermite bombs attached to the gas tank activated the same way might have been more expedient.”

WW: “Well, crash and burn, even at those altitudes, is less easy to evidentially justify. Using that particular modus operandi again wouldn’t be a good idea though, law enforcement will latch onto it.”

SJ: “Leaving us considering the character of our next shot at this obnoxiously lucky group of company directors.”

DU: “The junior management who hired us are not happy. They want a fast result.”

SJ: “Do they hold ‘The Mighty Hunters Return’ kinds of celebration banquets?”

WW: “I think the juniors said the night after they all get back, usually. They get caterers into the corporate HQ for it and party in the boardroom with their latest trophies mounted on the wall.”

SJ: “We shall be the caterers this year. Roast mountain goat is a new dish to me, but I’m sure I can find something suitable to embellish it. Batteries not included.”

 

(Chuckling from all four participants around desk.)

 

*

 

As previously, subject: Operation X-71.

 

SEE ATTACHED FILE DOCUMENT:

 

ITEM: 2-inch steel ship’s rivet

(Wholesale, army surplus)

(x 1)

SUM CLAIMED (per item): $ 00.57.

SUBTOTAL (all items): $ 00.57.

 

ITEM: Box of elasticated rubber bands (office supplies, bulk discount)

(x 1)

SUM CLAIMED (per item): $ 00.15.

SUBTOTAL (all items): $ 00.15.

 

SUMMARY:

TOTAL SUM CLAIMED: $ 00.72.

NOTES: Approved without query.

 

(Sound of a single document insertion, decisive closing and locking of prongs on a lever-arch folder.)

 

SJ: “That, my friends and colleagues, is what I call a cost-effective operation.”

WW: “It’s terrifying what you can inflict with simple stuff like that.”

DU: “None of us ate lunch that day; I can tell you.”

GB (long pause): “Ugh.”

 

*

 

COMPANY ACCOUNTANT’S MEMORANDUM (added December 29, 1971):

 

At close of annual business, and adjusting for the ordinary Internal Revenue Service tax schedule for small-to-medium sized companies in our cover sectors, I can report to colleagues and fellow board-members our gross profits for 1971 are well in excess of two million United States dollars.

 

A full annual company statement for Black Hand Incorporated, giving fully-costed summaries of operations, gross and net profits, and parallel tax details of fund management will be confidentially distributed to board members on or before 07 January 1972.

 

Copies will be available on request from the chief financial officer. They will be ordinarily stored in the designated company records safe situated in the boardroom under floor panel 29. As per company charter, copies are not to leave the boardroom, or more generally floor 12 of the Iron Tourniquet Building, under any circumstances.

 

Company chief technical officer Warkentin Westgate has verified to me as of 22 December 1971 that the Thermite-based emergency incineration system linked to the safe’s locking mechanism is in perfect working order. Other records-security defences such as standard intruder alarms, explosives, contact poisons and lethal gas compound emitters are in place and similarly verified working.

 

Marked cabinets containing appropriate medical supplies, antidotes and one functional gas mask (regular testing recommended) have been installed in the kitchenettes of each suite of director’s personal quarters in floor 14 of the building. A duplicate larger cabinet containing four masks, aforementioned supplies and emergency portable surgical kit with defibrillator unit has also been installed in the company laboratory on Floor 13, fitted into the alcove to the immediate right of the pressurised punchcode-activated entrance door.

 

May I wish colleagues all best wishes for the coming holiday season. With regards!

 

 

 

Edward St. Boniface is Canadian by origin, permanently resident in London UK and writes across various genres from contemporary to crime and fantasy and science fiction. He is interested in offbeat and subversive scenarios, surprising and seemingly wrong-headed characters and the outright blatantly deranged.

Issue #90 -- August 2025

WHISKEY DICK

by John Patrick Nelson

 

It was his own damn fault, really.

He'd always wanted a cool nickname. The rest of the guys all had bitchin' nicknames, like they were superheroes, or G.I. Joes. There was Ripper, and Boston, and they sometimes called Jimmy "Eyefuck," 'cause he had those sharp blue peepers, parted a thousand legs.

Naturally, Richie thought he deserved the same.

So he was loaded at a house party with the fellas one Friday night, cradling a bottle of Jack Daniels in his crotch. He looks down at his lap, gets a brilliant idea, leaps up and yells, "Listen up! As of right fuckin' now, call me... Whiskey Dick!"

Turns out, he wasn't aware that phrase had already been, uh, co-opted.

He spent hours trying to convince everyone he meant to say Whiskey Rick, call him Whiskey Rick. Cuz his name was Richard, see, and he was drinking whiskey, right? But no, everyone assured him they were fine sticking with Whiskey Dick and laughing their balls off, so he spent the rest of the night sulking in the bathtub.

The name, unfortunately, hung around his neck. Guys sneered at it, and no lady's gonna let some dude near the honeypot if they can't stop laughing. Didn't help that Richie was already kind of a weasel-looking kid, skinny, barely any chin, all bones and angles.

There's that threshold most punk kids hit, where they either get their heads together, start to straighten up and fly right, or go whole hog on the crook life. Didn't help that in Casa del Oro, the jobs with the most room for growth were working for one of the two crime families that kept the town running, the DeCauls or the Grimes. Most kids were working for one of them by the time they were in double digits, whether they knew it or not.

Richie was never gonna be able to hold down a decent job, given he was kinda weird, always saying the first stupid thing popped into his brain, and laughing like a goddamn chattering monkey. Weren't all his fault, sometimes you're just born with bad wiring. But best he could hope for was working night shift at a gas station, or competing for stock boy jobs at the Smittys.

But Richie figured he was destined for better.

And hey, maybe he was. Cuz he did have one singular talent that set him apart--he had an uncanny knack for getting dirt on people.

Comes with being a perv, sneaking around outside people's windows.

That's how he killed the long hours as a kid. First, peeping on his mama and daddy, trying to catch her naked, so he could yank his taffy, and trying to catch his pops with some other snatch that weren't his mama. He was a direct cause of their divorce, a fact that secretly heated up his cheeks and nutsack every time he thought about it.

The older he got, the less satisfied he was with keeping it in the family, and turned his powers to the girls at school. Got caught more'n once outside their windows, and though a couple thought the notion of him trying to catch a peek at their bra strap or butthole was kinda romantic, most would rightfully sic their daddies or older brothers on him.

Richie had to take a lot of beatings. If he had any other skill worth noting, it was being able to hack all the physical abuse he took.

But since his boner was too hard to quit gawking in windows, it forced him to figure out ways of making himself quieter and more invisible.

So it went, him peeping on his off-hours, and running with the wrong crowd the rest of the time. He fell in with Jimmy, The Boy Who Would Be Eyefuck, at around age nine, and by the time he was in his teens, he was unofficially on the Grimes payroll.

But he never lost his taste for sneaking. And once he'd learned to shift his dowsing rod away from naked girls and toward more useful fare, he started to make himself valuable.

One night he was crouching under the window of AA+ Motor Services, a mechanic on the DeCaul payroll. Not really expecting to hear anything, but just because he'd shoplifted a beer from the Circle-K down the street and needed to get out of sight. So there he was, sipping the beer, listening to old man Goldie yammer on the phone.

"... got damn shits been stealin' the got damn parts right from out the got damn cars! Hell, I even got Sam's Toyoter up on the got damn rack..."

It had gone by fast in Goldie's mushmouth, but when Richie heard "Sam," he figured that could very well be Sam DeCaul, big boss of the DeCaul family. Everybody knew DeCaul drove a Toyota like a regular fella--American Made, the given reason, but really on account of Sam being a goddamn tightwad, never mind how many millions he was supposedly worth. Richie took that info, ran to the nearest payphone, and dialed up the lowest level shitbird he knew in Grimes's organization.

Two hours later, Grimes's people had planted a listening device in DeCaul's truck. DeCaul'd find it eventually, he always did, but any way Reuben Grimes could get an edge on the old boy, he'd take it. Turned out, it was over a week before DeCaul's men pulled the bug out, and Grimes had gotten some tasty info by then.

And that was how Whiskey Dick plopped on Grimes's map.

He tried a few new tricks. One was buying info off people. He didn't have much to barter with, but sometimes, he could trade a bite of gossip for a juicy tidbit. Mostly that just got him a long list of who was fucking who, which wasn't terribly useful to Grimes, but could sometimes be of utmost importance to others.

Plenty of dudes didn't want their wives or girlfriends finding out who they were fucking on the sly.

This could've been dangerous for Richie, but it was understood that Richie had been touched by the king on high, and even if it was just a little touch, messing with him could be way more trouble than it was worth. But that didn't make him invulnerable. Wrong guy knew Whiskey Dick had pins on him, they might kill him first and ask for forgiveness after.

In this, for perhaps the first time in his life, Richie played it smart. Instead of setting up a cottage industry in minor extortion that would only net him pocket change, Richie kept his mouth shut.

And then, if the moment presented, he'd ask for a little something. Not outright blackmail, just, "Hey, we're all men of the world here, and you know that I know. So, how's about you cough up some little bit about such-and-such?"

He didn't say it that pretty, but you catch the drift.

It got so guys would just straight up offer him information, with the understanding that he would keep his mouth shut about their extracurriculars. It was a wacky type of protection racket, but after awhile, it was just considered good business to keep Richie informed. Those bits didn't usually add up to much.

But, from little seeds are born great oaks 'r some shit.

So, word gets passed down to Eyefuck's boys, they're gonna be moved up to a drug crew, led by this underboss, Pegg. Pegg's whole crew had gotten shot to fuck in Mexico, in a 'disagreement' over a haul, and Pegg needed quick fill-ins. Pegg was in charge of the 'transportation' division, organizing drivers for the product coming in and out of del Oro, but his crew was mostly there to be glorified slaves, humping boxes of skag from one truck to another. And if there's ever a meeting of the lieutenants, Pegg brings his crew of dumbshits to mill around with the other crews of dumbshits, so everybody can see how big everybody else's crew is. Dumbest dick-measuring contest you can think of.

So, Eyefuck's little coffee klatch gets assigned to Pegg, and Pegg, he immediately starts treatin' 'em all like they're his stepkids to abuse, bossing 'em around, making them go get his fucking Mad Dog or Juggs magazines or whatever else he wants. And he does that stupid shit where if something goes wrong, he starts smackin' people around. Most of 'em'll take it once 'r twice, but he does it too much, they start getting mean looks in their eyes, and he has to move to the next one. But pretty soon, he figures out Richie is the guy he can slap and slap and nobody's gonna say 'boo' about it, so he makes Richie his personal speed bag.

That's bad enough, but even worse, at some point Pegg hears somebody callin' him Whiskey Dick, and boy, does that amuse the piss outta him.

"Whiskey Dick!" he's yellin', every time Richie comes around the corner.

And he's a boss, so Richie can't say shit about it, just gotta take it on the chin every time Pegg yells, "'ey, Whiskey Dick, come clean out my shitter!"

Or

"Yo, Whiskey Dick, you wanna drink? Probably better not, huh? Cuz'a yer little problem?"

Or, his favorite,

"Whiskey Dick! That broad give you a boner? Guess not, huh?"

And then braying like a goddamn donkey.

So, Richie has every reason to hate this asshole.

Now, if you're looking down the line of succession, Pegg was somewhere between fifteenth and four hundredth place in line to take Grimes's spot. That evidently didn't sit well with Pegg, and he'd started getting... notions.

Just like the military, everyone in this organization got a goddamn second in command, and Pegg's got this big motherfucker named Synge. And Synge is all the way loyal to Pegg, these two were in fuckin' pee-wee pop warner together 'r some shit, so saying they was thick as thieves was an understatement.

When you're working what essentially amounts to a warehouse job, humping crates most of the time, that gives somebody like Richie all kinds'a room to wander around, and do what he does best, listen in on conversations, and pick up tidbits.

So it wasn't too long before Richie picked up on Pegg's plan to take out Grimes.

First bit came when he was wandering around the main office, refilling the coffee pots and cleaning out the ashtrays. Most of Eyefuck's crew had zero interest in such paltry shit, but Richie had volunteered for it, knowing that was how he'd get the best info.

So he's creepin' around the hallway, ostensibly emptying trash cans, when he hears Pegg and Synge whispering in Pegg's office. Door's open a crack, and there's no window, so Richie can stand just on the other side and listen. And if somebody comes around the corner, he's got a bag of trash in hand to explain hisself.

He's lurking outside the door, can't really hear them, when Pegg suddenly loses his goddamn mind, hisses, "Fuck Grimes! Fuck 'im!"

Synge says something under his breath, but Pegg won't shut up, "That fuck's head's gotten bigger than his fat ass, he's fuckin' beggin' to get popped in it!"

Just then, one of Pegg's people walks around the corner, and Richie moves to the next office before the old guy can look up and see him.

Richie tried to get an ear on more over the next couple weeks, but Pegg managed to hold his mud, so Richie never got any more in that direction.

It was about then Richie figured he had to start employing technology. He went out and bought one'a them mini-handheld tape recorders, the voice-activated kind. Set him back a pretty penny, but he figured this was his investment in his future.

Also bought a little mic, with a loooooooong cord.

Then, he set about planting the thing. He waits until Pegg had gone home for the night, creeps into Pegg's office, using keys he'd swiped from the front desk. He fumbles around in the dark, unscrews the A/C vent above the door, tapes the mic to the side of the shaft wall, stretches the cord out toward the vent in the office on the opposite side, using a broom handle to push it as far back as he can.

He screws the vent back on, sneaks out of Pegg's office, then has to go do the whole operation in the room across the hall, opposite Pegg's, which happens to be the 'Comptroller's' office, who's really just a Grimes bookkeeper, comes in every couple weeks to fix the books.

Richie takes the vent off in that room, plugs the mic cord into the mini-recorder, then real careful tapes down the recorder as far from the vent as he can, so as not to block the air coming out and attracting attention, muffles it by wrapping it in a dishrag.

He leaves the recorder, and waits.

And sure enough, Pegg is too stupid to keep his mouth shut in his own office. The guy was around for Watergate, you'd think he'd be more careful, but then again, if he were a genius, he wouldn't have been planning to off the big boss.

Every week or so, Richie would sneak into the Comptroller's office to replace the tape. He had to buy a second recorder to listen to them. Was starting to get expensive, but Richie was hoping it'd pay off.

Stupid as he was, though, Pegg still had the good sense to talk in vaguenesses to Synge. They never said Grimes's name, just "that guy," or "that asshole." Pegg kept throwing out ways to kill him, usually to be shot down by Synge.

"Could get 'im in whatsis, that club he goes to sometimes," Pegg would say.

"He's rolling like twelve deep when he's out, Don," Synge would rebut.

Pegg would yell "Fuck!" but then drop it.

Another time: "Could poison the fat fuck. Crush up glass and put it in his goddamn angel hair."

"Think he can see glass in his pasta, Don," Synge said.

"Fuck!"

It was funny for Richie to listen to, but it wasn't exactly proof.

Then the day comes when Richie's creepin' around, sneaks up on Pegg's door to catch a listen. He hears Pegg, clear as day, "... it's the perfect shot! We wire the damn car, light him up when he's halfway down the freeway!"

Synge muttered something Richie couldn't hear. Then, Pegg hisses loud, "Fuckin' nobody's gonna give two shits if Grimes is in chunks on the damn freeway!"

Bingo. Richie figures he's got Pegg, dead to rights. All the blood rushes to his head 'n' nethers, and he has to fight the urge to fuckin' cheer. He creeps off, nobody's the wiser.

He comes back that night to retrieve the tape. Hallway's deserted, Pegg's door's locked, as expected--Richie checks that shit religiously. Wouldn't do to be caught unawares, especially now that he's so close. He figures, get this tape to Grimes, maybe he'll get moved up to something important.

He pulls a chair over, unscrews the vent, has to remind himself to go slow, take deep breaths, so he don't make too much noise and blow the whole thing.

He reaches in the vent, gropes for the recorder. He's done this a half-dozen times by now, he knows exactly where it's supposed to be...

... 'cept, it's not.

His heart starts pounding.

He stretches to try and find the damn thing, but all his hand comes across is the duct tape he used to keep the thing down. He pulls the piece of tape out, squints at it in the dark. Can't figure out what happened to it.

Til the door flies open, knocking him off the chair and on his ass. The lights flip on, and standing there is Pegg, with Synge right behind.

And Synge has a gun.

"Whiskey Dick!" Pegg says cheerily, looking kinda surprised. "God damn, I didn't think you had the stones to try something like this. I figured it was one'a DeCaul's people."

He holds up the tape recorder in Richie's face. "Lookin' fer this, ya piece'a shit?"

He starts kicking Richie, really going to town on him. Richie balls up, tries to protect himself, but Pegg is out for blood, kicking him in the mouth, knocking bits of teeth out.

Pegg is raving at this point, yelling and screaming and cussing. He gives Richie another kick, then yanks the cassette outta the recorder, and yanks the long string of tape out, wadding it up and pulling it apart like taffy. Throws the recorder on the floor and stomps on it, plastic pieces flying.

Finally, puffing hard and sweating, he puts a hand against a file cabinet to catch his breath. He coughs, spits a green wad right in Richie's face. "Jesus Christ," he finally croaks, "Please, flush this turd."

Synge pulls the hammer back on his piece, puts it in Richie's bloody face. Richie puts his hands up, yells, "Just lemme say one thing!"

Pegg looks down at him. "What?" he coughs.

"No," Richie says, "to him."

He looks at Synge. Synge looks confused.

Richie makes sure he says it clearly through his broken teeth. "You know he's been fucking your wife?" he says.

Pointing to Pegg.

At first, Synge chuckles. Thinks it's a joke.

Then, seeing Richie's eyes, realizes it's not.

He looks up at Pegg, and whatever he sees, the gun is suddenly in Pegg's face.

"Jesus!" Pegg yells.

"It true?" Synge says, deadly calm.

Pegg licks his lips, "Jesus Christ, man, gimme a second to--"

POW.

Pegg flies into the file cabinet, gray brains and red blood on the wall calendar behind it.

Synge turns back to Richie, gun at Richie's face again.

"Still gotta kill you, kid. Can't let this get back to Grimes. Shit, I should kill you just for not tellin' me about my wife sooner, you hole."

Richie's hands curl, leaving just the index fingers extended. "I'm thinking, if Mr. Grimes hears my side of it, there's a better chance we both walk away, with no problem."

Synge's eyes narrow. "What's your side of it?"

 * * *

Couple hours later, the place is buzzing with a couple dozen Grimes lieutenants, bodyguards, and muscle. Like a bunch'a cops at a crime scene. Almost funny, really.

Grimes stands with Synge in the Comptroller's office in front of Richie, who sits on the desk. Grimes, called away from a party he really didn't wanna leave, shakes his head, his shaggy black hair glinting in the low light. "I don't get it, how come you didn't come to me first?" he asks in his raspy voice, just a little hint of the accent he brought over from Mexico.

Richie looks at Synge. "Well... I wasn't positive. Figured I'd ask Mr. Synge first what he thought, and if he agreed, then we'd come to you. But, then, Mr. Pegg comes in screaming and he's got a gun..."

Richie shrugs, like he hadn't planned out every pause and lick of his lips.

Grimes looks at Synge. "He telling it right?"

Synge nods. "Just like he says. I mean, you know how he is, he sees the kid talking to me, suddenly he starts screaming, kicking the shit outta the kid, pulls out his gun, starts yelling he's gonna blow me away. Hadda protect myself."

Grimes looks at Pegg's body, still draped across the file cabinet. Synge had thrown Pegg's personal piece on the floor next to his body, for, y'know, verisimilitude. Richie, you have to imagine he's praying hard as he can that Grimes is buying this shit.

For a second, it's so quiet, you can hear a pin drop.

Then, Grimes lets out a booming laugh. Ticks a finger at Richie, big grin under his black mustache, "This guy..." he says, "Always in the pocket, this guy. You're all right."

He turns to the rest of his boys, waves his hand for them to clean everything up.

Grimes puts a hand on Richie's shoulder. "I'm not wasting you here cleaning toilets, you're sticking with me from now on."

Richie, he looks like he might bust from happiness. All his best dreams, coming true, all at once.

Til Grimes heads out the door, yells over his shoulder, "My new main man, me 'n' Whiskey Dick!"

Cue the sad trombone.

Anyhow, that's how a guy with a handle like "Whiskey Dick" came to be the whisper man for one of the biggest crime bosses in the southwest.

That answer your question?

 

John Patrick Nelson a writer/TV editor living in Los Angeles. He's had stuff published in Popcorn Fiction, Guilty Crime Story Magazine, Shotgun Honey, and an upcoming issue of Black Cat Weekly.