Fiction River: Fantasy Adrift by Fiction River Read Free Book Online Page B

underwear, proudly showing off his swastika tattoos, made his way towards him. Sam let down his window. This man might be of some help.
    “So what are you in the market for?”
    “Last time I have been here, this was still Italian territory.”
    The guy gave him a yellow-teethed laugh.
    “When were you last here?” he said.
    1967.
    “It’s been a while.”
    “Yeah we just recently acquired this particular street. And we are forever grateful you give your patronage to the honest, Christian, hard-working Americans that live here. So what’cha want?”
    “Jerimia Antonio Falcone. They called him Stubnose, but it’s been a while.”
    He laughed again. Only this time there was an edge to it.
    “He some kind of mobster?”
    “Yes. Well, freelancer, not a made man. But most of our customers were Family.”
    “Never heard of him.”
    “Are you sure? He would be about seventy right now. Lived just down this street.”
    “Listen. I’m a busy man. Buy something or piss off.”
    Sam glanced ahead. The homeless man had moved out of the way now. He did the math. This was probably the least supernatural street in what had to be the universe’s worst neighborhood. There were no crevasses, wrinkles, side-side-alleys or even nooks anywhere to be found. He was driving a ’97 Mercedes 190. It looked new though, because it was. There was an Inbetween factory in Germany that never stopped making them. Best car Mercedes ever built and—cut off from all his resources—his only ride.
    “I have a thousand dollars for you now,” said Sam. This got the man’s attention “Two thousand dollars afterwards. Consider it a tip for keeping an eye on my car.”
    Sam got out, counted the money and handed it over, getting two thumbs up in return.
    “You stack the honor of your gang on the condition of my car?”
    “Yessir. As Jesus Christ, Savior and Ruler of All Men is my witness, not a single scratch as long as I got bullets!”
    In a neighborhood that had rampant bands of addicts stripping houses for copper, that was as good as it could get. Not that Sam had many options. Time was not his ally on this one.
    “Excellent. On behalf of... well... white people everywhere, thank you.”
    Now he just hoped Stubnose was still living here. And alive. Otherwise this was going to be a short trip.
     
    ***
     
    The shotgun’s thunder was followed by a rain of wooden splinters of what had formerly been a door.
    Sam pressed himself against the wall next to it, his eyes searching for better cover. Sam’s resistance to sleep deprivation, extreme temperatures and—as he found out—microwave radiation not withstanding, he was pretty sure his delicate brain would get cranky about receiving a shotgun blast.
    The floor was dirty and the stairs reeked of piss.
    “Stubnose, it’s me!”
    His voice carried far. No doubt people were listening to their conversation. He wondered how many of them cared.
    An old man’s voice answered him.
    “Jimmy sent you here to finish me off?”
    “What? I killed Jimmy.”
    “You telling me you killed Jimmy Addams?”
    “Who?”
    “Who is this?”
    “It’s Sam.”
    “Bullshit.”
    Another shotgun blast ripped a hole into the wall, too close to Sam’s head for comfort. Sam’s left ear was throwing a fit.
    “It’s Samuel Alastor Virgino Jeremiah Whitestaff. We met fifty-three years ago at that job with the Chinaman? Two days after, that Irishman bit part of your nose off?”
    An old geezer put his head through the hole in his door, narrowly avoiding a mean splinter. He only had a small patch of silver hair left and his nose had a crater where others had a tip. He had the wrinkles of a grumpy son of a bitch, but now he smiled, revealing cheap dentures.
    “Well, fuck me!”
    “Done worse. You letting me in or what?”
     
    ***
     
    Stubnose’s apartment was a blast from the past. The carpet, lamp and sofa in his living room had been ugly in 1965, now there was almost a designer quality to it. Stubnose had a