Pigs Read online

  Pigs

  Daniel James

  Pigs

  Copyright © 2019 Daniel James

  All rights reserved.

  This edition published 2019.

  Cover design by Matt Forsyth

  ISBN: 978-68068-139-0

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  This book is published on behalf of the author by the Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency.

  Author email: [email protected]

  To my family and friends for their support. A huge thanks to Ethan Ellenberg for giving me a chance. And of course, to whoever reads this, thank you.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  FREE BIRD

  NESTS AND BROKEN WINGS

  REST

  DEATH ON REPEAT

  LAKESIDE MOURNING

  JUNKYARD DIAMONDS

  HEAD FULL OF BAD IDEAS

  GROUNDS FOR DIVORCE

  A SUIT GOOD ENOUGH TO DIE IN

  RITES OF PASSAGE

  A MAN WALKS INTO A BAR …

  UP IN SMOKE

  FOOD CHAIN

  LUDLOW’S SOLO

  HANGING IN THE POCKET

  Q & A

  KILLING TIME

  PITCHERS

  SAFE HOUSE

  RAID

  DéJà VU IN DIGITAL

  FALSE FLAG

  FEEDING TIME

  SHOW TIME

  WEEKEND WARRIORS

  SLAUGHTERHOUSE

  NIGHT DRIVE

  SHOWDOWN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  Prologue

  The big bad wolf wore a navy single-breasted suit and black tie. His line of work tended to get messy, so he avoided the more formal double-breasted suits in favor of off-the-rack tailoring. The disposable surgical gloves stretched taut over his strong, slender fingers had originally been white; now they were stained with red and black poppies. One hand wielded a pair of fiendishly painful pliers, the other daintily held the freshly pulled fingernail of Lou MacKinnon’s right ring finger.

  “Give me the names,” the wolf repeated, his deep baritone voice patient and neutral behind the mask of latex and black faux fur. “Who else was involved in that job? Who set it up?”

  Huffing and panting from the ongoing ordeal, MacKinnon watched his brutaliser stand there in the harsh light of the barn through two swollen eyes, and once again attempted to dodge the question by feigning confusion and ignorance. He was now down to seven fingernails, or so he guessed. It had become difficult to distinguish the blistering heat of each sensory outrage at this point, and he had become lost in a confusing, pulsing throb of pain, the current tally of misery consisting of two plier-pried incisors, his right canine, multiple bodily contusions and various shallow, stinging cuts that cried out with every thump of his stressed heart. Behind this stranger with the rubbery snarl stood a line of similarly cheap-suited men, wearing rubber pig masks with some truly gruesome detail, a militant army of slaughtered swine led by their toothy apex executioner.

  The wolf-headed inquisitor, unsatisfied with his subject’s stubbornness, leaned in close, his shoulder blocking MacKinnon’s view. MacKinnon’s uncooperative attitude was crumbling proportionately with the systematic ravaging of his body, and yet his blood-engorged tongue, quivering behind his remaining crimson teeth, only surrendered an indeterminate plea which morphed into another screech of agony, bouncing off the weathered brick walls and timber beams of the empty cattle barn.

  Silently, the wolf backed away softly, and through tear-filled eyes MacKinnon noticed that he held something up like it was some important clue. It was his own right index finger, severed at the first knuckle. It would never pull another trigger, never caress a hot piece of ass or skim through a bundle of green backs. Unsurprisingly, he noted, there were some physical traumas which could still rise above his more comparatively trifling wounds, his missing nails and teeth briefly forgotten whilst his stump gushed. The wolf tossed the crooked digit into the bucket of slowly accumulating bloody pieces.

  McKinnon thrashed against the coarse ropes binding him to the rough wooden chair’s armrests, blanching a shade below bleached bone as he watched another warm, rhythmic jet spritz from his knuckle stump, barely missing the wolf’s polished black leather shoes. He was done—he couldn’t hold out any longer macabrely wondering how much of him would fit in that pail. It was amazing he had lasted this long. He was a part-time thief, not one of the hardened leg-breakers he regularly rubbed shoulders with, but when the only true deterrent against spilling secrets is the threat of violence, it quickly loses its power in the presence of actual violence.

  “Okay,” he begged, his naked body hot and sweating profusely in its agonies, so much so that the nightly chill sinking deep into his bones was incapable of offering any further discomfort. Gagging on his own copper-zinged blood, he gobbed it out like thick red wine. “I’ll give you the names.” Between his racking sobs and pouring tooth sockets, speech was messy work. “I’m dead either way.”

  The wolf nodded quietly, dispassionately, at the captive’s accurate assessment of his situation.

  Afterward, he speed-dialled a number whilst one of the slain pigs in suits placed the cold muzzle of a semi-automatic pistol against the base of MacKinnon’s skull and splashed his dreams, fears and any other secrets he harbored across the hay-strewn muddy concrete.

  “He sang, sir. We have the names.” The wolf obediently listened to his following orders then hung up.

  It was feeding time.

  Free Bird

  It was going to be a long ride north to Chicago. Five and a half hours. But it couldn’t possibly feel as long as the ride down here to the Menard Correctional Center of Randolph County, Illinois. Isaac Reid leaned his head against the cool glass of the Grayhound’s window, feeling the prison transport bus lurch and roll on with the hydraulic hiss of a giant silver snake. With the prison and the muddy Mississippi River at his back, Isaac listened to the conversations of the jubilant passengers overlap into a susurrus of good cheer and excitement. Some of the men talked about their cravings for cigarettes, booze, food, female companionship, and, in less salty instances, their eagerness to be reacquainted with their relatives. Good for them, was all Isaac thought. Outside his window, the rambling farm lands looked gray, matching the sky and making the whole horizon resemble flesh on life support.

  He was nervous. Nervous about the coming reunion. Nervous about letting Maggie and Will down. Nervous about ruining this fresh start.

  Yeah, it was going to be a long five and a half hours to the last stop.

  A heroin-thin Latino with an impoverished black caterpillar over his top lip gave Isaac a friendly nudge. Isaac turned to look at the young banger beside him, bristling with energy, his gray sweater draped over his bony frame like a tent. “You know what else, we’re all freezin’ our nuts off in these prison-issue rags, broke, but I’m not seein’ that as a reason to be pissed.” Isaac glanced down at his own prison-issue black sweatpants and not-nearly-thick-enough sweatshirt, garments which would be of little use once autumn shrivelled and died under the imperialist frown of winter, and looked back up at Hector ‘Hex’ Bermudez. “To me it’s a push in the right direction. It’s telling me that I fucked up once before and I ain’t ever goin’ back to that place. No way, dog. No way. I’m out of that life, not wasting my time with that bullshit.” The young reformer’s voice was gaining traction and speed as he worked
to convince himself with his pumped-up pep talk. “Lost enough vatos already, know’msayin’.” He was holding tight to his manila envelope packed tight with family photos and letters which had seen him through the hard parts of his stint.

  Isaac’s own hands were empty, but his trouser pocket did carry the standard Bureau of Prisons pay-out. Twenty dollars. Barely enough for a bus ticket once he reached Chicago. He could have called Maggie for a pick-up. His release wasn’t a surprise for her and Will, but he didn’t want them driving to pick him up from the bus depot. Call it pride, or most likely shame.

  “That’s cool, Hex.” Isaac gave him a supportive smile. “Sounds like you got yourself some big game-changing ideas.” Hex was one of the few allies cool with Isaac. Squealing on others was a strict no-no, even if it was purely out of vengeful spite. It tended to leave a mark on one’s rep, fortunately for Isaac, his rep could boast of associations with enough powerful names to balance out his one act of finger-pointing.

  “You’re a sarcastic pinche cabrona.” Hex smirked, exposing a few gold teeth.

  ““Fucking bitch”?” Isaac cocked one eyebrow, wondering if any of the gutter Spanish he’d picked up had stuck.

  Hex flashed a bit more of his polished grill, his wide grin accentuating his gaunt cheeks and deep, cadaverous eye sockets. It was some kind of miracle that he had managed to kick his habit in the joint of all places. “Pretty smart, blanco. So, phase one is—” He framed an idyllic picture with his inked hands. “Get the fuck away from my block.”

  “How do you manage that with only that change in your pocket? You’ll spend most of that on smokes.”

  “Well, that’s phase two. Remember when I told you my cuz was looking to hook me up with a job at the car wash?”

  Isaac did, vaguely. “And who said getting that diploma wouldn’t pay off?”

  Hex nudged him again, the both of them trading survivor’s smiles, and the young Hispanic flitted off to try to bum a smoke and further conversation from one of the other dozen ex-cons. Last night’s lack of sleep snuck up on Isaac, covering his eyes with its heavy hands. It wasn’t excitement which had kept him awake. He wasn’t too surprised to accept it as fear. A crawling sensation, marching its century of centipede legs around his neck and guts. Did the other guys on this transport feel the same way? Isaac splayed his right hand, the dirty slush-colored sun glinting off his wedding band. They had just hit St. Louis.

  Only four hours to go.

  He clenched his right hand into a fist and allowed the sleepy thief of time to take him under, the vibrations and the ocean noise of chatter washing him away to an uneasy sleep.

  Isaac snapped awake to the buzz of excitement in his ears. The antiseptic white lights of the bus were on. Isaac squinted away the poor excuse for slumber and noticed the cause of the celebration. The bright skyline of Chicago was a large electrical etching against the amber dusk.

  The bus finally wheezed to a stop outside the Greyhound station on West Harrison Street. Stepping off the bus into the chilly scrape of the Windy City, Isaac tried to work out the kink in his lower back, lightly stamping his feet to get the blood pumping again. He watched the other fifty-fifty make-or-break cons hug and kiss emotional relatives and friends. He eased through the affectionate gatherings unnoticed. A few of the other loners were slinking off in the direction of halfway houses, down unreachable rungs of a slippery economic ladder. A few more of the doomed group would be strolling off toward their next relapse or the grave.

  He was about to step off the curb when a hand gripped his shoulder. It was Hex, teeth already chattering from the cold but his smile broader than ever. “This is it, man. The future starts here.” A tricked-out ocean blue Cadillac was prowling along the curb toward them, subwoofers decimating the paving with Cypress Hill or some such. Isaac wasn’t too clued up on rap music, Latino or otherwise. Hex cocked his head to his ride. “Drop you someplace?”

  “I’m good. Been away for a dime, I could use the walk. Figure out what I’m going to say to them.”

  Hex clapped Isaac’s right hand and pulled him in shoulder to shoulder, slapping him on the back. “You take care of yourself out here, amigo.”

  “You too. Be good.”

  Hex slid around to the passenger side. “Hey, if you ever need your car washed, look me up.”

  Isaac smiled and watched him vanish into the probable cause on wheels. He hoped Hex made it, he sincerely did, but he was a realist.

  There wasn’t much chance of anybody making it with only $20 in their pocket. They were all left to fend for themselves now in this cold world without tools or fire.

  Nests and Broken Wings

  Isaac stood on the wooden porch of Maggie and Will’s home. A lovely four-bedroom detached property of hardwood and brick on North Hermitage Avenue. It was a quiet suburb in Uptown. A place with history and lots of aesthetic appeal. Picket fences, lots of green spaces, illuminated by soft street lights. Peaceful neighbors. Isaac felt like he was on an alien planet. His palms were greased, his heart was going into overdrive. He paced back and forth a little and became paranoid a neighbor might spot him looking guilty in undesirable sweatpants and top, on a dark porch, and decide to call the police. He knocked, tentatively at first, then with more confidence for the final few raps. What if she doesn’t take me back? Maybe Will wants nothing to do with me. What if they only visited me out of some strange sense of obligation? Like a burden they couldn’t quite cut loose. Isaac couldn’t answer so many rising voices of discontent.

  The door opened. Isaac froze. The doubtful voices were about to get their answers.

  Maggie stood there and smiled, but it looked awkward and uncertain. She was dressed comfortably in dark lounge slacks and a white zip-up top, her long, black, curly hair framing her angelic but troubled face. Isaac’s heart was in his throat, blocking his words. After a horribly difficult pause she beckoned him in and embraced him tightly.

  Isaac broke through his panicked stall and held her tight. “I missed you.”

  She held a hand to his face, feeling the light cheek stubble she hadn’t felt in so long, its blond fuzz the same color as his short hair. Her brown eyes were tearful with relief, triggering a reactive leak in Isaac’s own dark eyes. Movement on the stairs caught Isaac’s attention. Will, in his jeans and t-shirt, slowly descending the beige carpeted steps, not racing down them to meet his dad for the first time without a toughened window between them.

  “Will, hey buddy.” Isaac moved a step further into the hallway to make the first move, then hesitated and looked at Maggie for permission, still unsure of where they currently existed as a family. Was that too strong a word at this juncture?

  Maggie pressed him on, her hand on his shoulder, helping to slowly build the courage up in Isaac. Will remained at the bottom of the stairs, a cautious smile, much like his father’s, settling into place. Having never hugged each other before, the pair of familial males seemed unprepared for the custom, and struggled through a painful handshake.

  “How are you, kiddo?” Isaac squatted before him, needing some form of close connection.

  Will nodded quietly. His shyness had never been this pronounced during the prison visits. Then, mercifully: ‘I’m okay.” He glanced to his mom, perhaps for some practised cue, then back to Isaac. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  Isaac draped a large hand on Will’s shoulder. “Me too, kid.”

  Isaac sat on the softly swinging bench hanging on the back deck, enjoying the peaceful view of silvery moonlit flowers and the company of his family. It still felt like that at any moment he might make some error, say something or do something which might implode this whole dream. Wrapped in a thick, warm blanket, he and Maggie drank hot coffee whilst Will, sat at the opposite end of the bench, keeping Maggie as a buffer between himself and Isaac, sipped a glass of juice. Isaac was a little hurt by Will’s distance at first but he could understand. If he hadn’t messed up so spectacularly in life he wouldn’t have spent the past decade watching his bo
y grow up from behind glass or in photos. As it was, he felt a quiet but deep contentment he hadn’t thought, or dreamt, possible. The slow, stumbling process of forging a rapport with Will, and perhaps rekindling the spark of trust with Maggie, was beginning to feel tenable. Will had politely indulged Isaac with talk of his friends, his school, and even updating him on his ongoing love of science fiction. Isaac had loved every moment of it, but now, half-in and half-out of the bonding session, Will was entertaining himself with his phone.

  Maggie tousled Will’s black hair, a physical trait he received from her. “It’s getting a little late now, hon. School night. Say goodnight to your dad.”

  Will obediently crawled out from under the warmth of the blanket and stood there looking like a third wheel. Isaac felt agitated, not knowing whether he should try to hug him now, or would that be overstepping a boundary? And he didn’t want another formal handshake with his young son. His actions seemed to be issued by signals from a confused brain. He put his mug of coffee down on the wooden boards and made to get up.

  Will had made the decision for him, slowly inching toward the French doors. “Goodnight, Dad.”

  Isaac was afraid his voice might break. “Goodnight, son. I love you.”

  Will nodded and smiled pitifully, like Isaac was a wounded animal needing to be put out of his misery. He paused at the doors and looked back at his father. “Grandpa said you’re a really bad guy. That still true?”

  Isaac felt like the air had been stolen from him.

  Maggie didn’t glare at Will, but looked pained, her hand going to her forehead.

  “I made some dumb choices in the past. I hope I’m not a bad guy any more. I don’t want to be. I just want to be with you and your mom.”

  Will’s face was unreadable. “Goodnight.” He went in and closed the patio doors behind him.

  “I’m sorry –’ Maggie started to apologise, but Isaac swept it away.