Jeff Tsuruoka Week 142: The Gun That Won the West

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Jeff Tsuruoka’s Picture Choice: One

Title: The Gun That Won the West

“There's this great speech in Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid.

It takes place early in the film, when Butch and Sundance go to visit a veteran lawman they've come to know and trust.

'You should have let yourselves get killed a long time go,' says the lawman to our heroes. 'You may be the biggest thing to hit this area, but you're still two-bit outlaws. It's over, don't you get that? Your times is over and you're gonna die bloody. All you can do is choose where.'”

I sat back in the hard kitchen chair and stared at the revolver in front of me on the table.

Colt .45. The gun that won the west.

“That lawman was pretty smart, wasn't he?”

Marco, seated across the table from me, didn't answer. A sucking chest wound'll do that to a guy. His eyes darted from my Colt to my face, like he couldn't decide whether to eyeball the gun or the man who killed him.

“He could've been talking about us, Marco.”

He blinked. His thinning black hair sat matted to his sweaty head and his little mustache had blood in it.

“Well, you, anyway,” I continued. “For now. I'll give you that.”

The small room still stank of gunfire, gunfire and blood.

Marco sat across the kitchen table from me, dying and taking his time about it.

Two shots to the midsection had made him docile. He'd dropped his own gun to hold his guts in. When I told him to have a seat he had a seat.

I didn't have to worry about the three guys he'd brought with him.

A man packing a Colt, who knows how to use it, is a hell of an enemy. Marco's clowns got off one shot between them before they died, seconds after kicking down my mother-in-law's kitchen door.

Marco had come in fast behind them and he came in firing.

He got me too, creasing the right side of my ribcage before I could put two shots into him, center mass.

The fourth guy ran.

It didn't have to come to this.

Marco had his piece of things. I had mine. There was plenty for everyone. But that wasn't good enough for Marco. No, not for Marco.

Six years we'd been after each other, strike and counterstrike. I think between the two of us we kept the local undertakers in business.

“I'll tell you Marco,” I said, picking up my Colt to reload, “all the crap we've put each other through, the fighting and everything, I never took any of it personally.”

His eyes fluttered open but I don't think he was seeing much of anything. I waved my hand at him. His eyes didn't track it.

He slumped a little lower in the chair. His wiry body maintained the same posture. Rigor mortis was setting in. He just didn't know it.

I finished loading the revolver, then placed it back on the table.

He didn't stir.

“I never took that shit personally,” I continued, “until you came after my family.”

That got me a chuckle from him. It wasn't much, more like a strangled burp, but was enough.

“Even at our worst, Marco, I always thought there was a certain... honor... in the way we went about it. But then you had to go after my family. You set my fucking house on fire, Marco. My fucking house. With my wife and kid in it.”

I shut up for a second and listened.

The clock ticked. Floorboards settled. Crickets chirped outside.

“They're all right,” I went on, “but you know that. My wife got burned, but she's tough. Two skin grafts and she's pretty much good to go. My daughter still has nightmares about that night. We got her in therapy.”

I, picked up the Colt, then stood and paced around.

My mother-in-law's kitchen used to be a nice room, with good hardwood floors, a simple off-white paint job, with an antique table and chairs, and framed family photographs on the walls.

Now it was covered in blood and brains and had holes in the wall. And a kicked-in door.

My mother-in-law had passed almost a decade before. We kept the house because we liked it. It reminded us of her.

We'd moved in after the fire and we were pretty happy there. My wife and daughter didn't want to go when I told them they had to. I'd worked hard luring Marco to the house. Last thing I wanted was my family in a crossfire.

I heard the grumble of my pal Moe's engine in the distance. Only one van complained the way Moe's van did.

Moe drove a piece-of-crap van but he was the best cleaner in the business.

I leaned down to look Marco in the face. His jaw had gone slack and his eyes no longer had any of the shine they usually held. His breathing was ragged and irregular.

He'd be dead by the time Moe was ready to do his job.

“I wanted you to know why this happened, Marco,” I said, “to make sure you understood you had it coming. You're gonna die now and I'm gonna leave you to it. If your boys have a beef with me about this... well, I'll burn that bridge when I get to it.”

I stuck the Colt in my belt and headed for the door.

“See you around, Marco.”

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Jeff Tsuruoka is an author in search of a writing career. He has found a home in the Flash Fiction circuit and is grateful to the blog hosts that give him the opportunity to get his work out there. You can follow him on Twitter @JTsuruoka and be sure to keep tabs on his weekly contributions to Daily Picspiration.

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Jeff Tsuruoka Week 117: Colors

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Jeff Tsuruoka’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Colors

The two men drank off the last of their coffee, then crossed the dusty town square in silence.

Grease from their fried egg and tomato breakfasts warred with the bitter, spicy coffee in their stomachs, making them sweat in the fresh morning air.

The taller of the two-- a mustachioed, top-heavy man with an untamed head of black hair-- was the heavier sweater of the two. His gray shirt was already dark around the collar and beneath his arms.

His companion, despite his stocky build and ruddy face, appeared to be faring better in the South American climate. He looked relatively dry and comfortable in his olive green traveling clothes.

Each man wore a straw hat and carried a canvas rucksack over his shoulder.

They stopped at the open doorway of a small brick and adobe building at the far corner of the square.

The tall one took off his hat and ran a sweaty hand through his sweaty hair.

“This is the place, Ehud,” he said. “His studio.”

Ehud doffed his own hat, shading his eyes with the brim.

A wiry man in a dirty painter’s smock fussed with an easel behind a wooden counter inside the shop.

Ehud compared the painter’s angular chin and the shrapnel-scarred cheeks with those of the man in the photographs in the dossier he’d spent the previous month memorizing.

“Looks like him, all right, doesn’t he, Zeff?”

His companion twisted one end of his mustache as he looked inside.

“He doesn’t seem to be working very hard at hiding.”

“Ready?” he asked his companion.

Zeff put his hat back on, then shrugged his massive shoulders.

“I can only think of one way to find out,” he replied, pushing past Ehud on his way inside.

Ehud, swearing, followed him into the studio.

The man in the smock looked up and bid them good morning in awful Spanish.

Ehud replied in awful German.

All three of them exchanged bemused looks.

The artist broke the silence.

“It’s all right, son,” he wheezed. “You can speak English. You must be Americans. Your German is atrocious.”

Ehud grinned.

“Thank God. I deserve a medal for trying, though.”

The man in the dirty smock showed half a smile.

“Yes, perhaps you do. But not from me.”

Zeff stopped playing with the ends of his mustache and chortled.

“You’re not gonna sell much with customer service like that.”

The man behind the counter set his palette down, then rubbed at a charcoal smudge on the ridge of one hand.

“I’m an artist. The joy is in the creating, not the sale.”

I studied his hands as he spoke, noted the pale, smooth skin beneath the stains left by his trade. The years in his Argentinian sanctuary had been kind to him.

Zeff roamed the periphery of the room, stopping to scrutinize each abstract drawing on the wall.

The splendid morning light caressed the art through the open window and doorway. The glow deepened the earth tones and brought out the slashes of red and orange that dominated the German’s work.

“You don’t mind if I look around your studio, do you?” asked Zeff. “I’m fascinated by your technique.”

He caught and held the artist’s eyes.

Ehud watched both men with interest, hoping his companion’s trademark stoicism would hold.

Zeff put a hard edge into his stare. The corners of the German’s mouth turned upward for a second, then slackened.

“You may look to your heart’s content,” said the artist.

Zeff nodded and continued to move about the room. Their host made no objection when he stepped behind the counter to inspect the man’s supplies.

I pointed to some of the drawings.

“What do they mean?” I asked.

The German watched Zeff sort through the collection of charcoals and pencils on the work table beneath the window. A warm breeze stirred the thin white shade, presaging the heat the afternoon would bring.

“They are representative of a previous chapter of my life,” he said. “Another time, a different place.”

“I see,” I replied. “Doesn’t seem to have been a very happy chapter.”

Zeff went still as he reached the end of the table. A circular arrangement of pencils held his attention. They’d been laid out, points in toward the center, grouped by shade and color.



“Happiness is a luxury,” said the artist. “Few men know it. Even fewer live to appreciate it."

“You’re right about that,” answered Ehud.

“Indeed.” He sent an annoyed glare toward Zeff, then turned back to Ehud. “Shall we dispense with the charade?"

Zeff answered in flawless German.

“If you like, Herr Buchberger,” he said.

“Who are you?” demanded Buchberger. “You’re not art lovers. You’re not even Americans.”

“No,” said Ehud. “We’re not.”

“Israeli?” he asked.

Ehud and Zeff nodded in unison.

“You do not deny your identity?” said Zeff.

“Why would I do that?”

“Do you know what is going to happen to you?”

“Your people found Eichmann. I know what happened to him. I knew it was only a matter of time before you found me. I chose to spend what time I had living instead of running.”

The two Israelis let that pass without comment, though both of them agreed with the sentiment.

“Tell me before we go,” began Buchberger, “something on that table gave you pause. What was it?”

“Your pencils,” replied Zeff. “We have numerous accounts from the camp of colored pencils arranged just so in your quarters.”

The German nodded and smiled.

“Of course,” he said.

He stared hard at Buchberger, then growled and upended the table. Pencils and charcoal flew everywhere. The table broke in two as it hit the floor.

Buchberger flinched, the veneer of confidence faltering.

“What’s wrong, Herr Buchberger?” asked Ehud.

The German seemed smaller than he had mere seconds before.

“I find that, all of a sudden, I am afraid to die.”

Zeff grabbed him by the arm and began to march him toward the door.

“Well that just too damned bad, isn’t it?” he said.

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Jeff Tsuruoka is an author in search of a writing career. He has found a home in the Flash Fiction circuit and is grateful to the blog hosts that give him the opportunity to get his work out there. You can follow him on Twitter @JTsuruoka and be sure to keep tabs on his weekly contributions to Daily Picspiration.

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Jeff Tsuruoka Week 115: Monsters

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Jeff Tsuruoka’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Monsters

“You'll find monsters where you least expect them,” said Mrs. Petry. “Wouldn't you agree, Sheriff Barton?”

The sheriff moved his hat to place his teacup on the end table.

“I'll always be Rollie to you, ma'am.”

The old woman patted the back of his hand, then sat next to him on the settee.

“I know it, but I believe when a man's earned the right to be addressed by a title folks ought to go ahead and use it.”

“Fair enough,” said Rollie.

He looked around Mrs. Petry's parlor.

It was a room he'd been in dozens of times over the years and it never seemed to change.

The furniture -the old settee and end tables, a sideboard, table, and chairs- was the same. Gingham was everywhere from window treatments to tablecloth to Mrs. Petry's dress.

He tried to think of the last time he visited the house.

“It was right after my Wilson passed, Sheriff Barton. You came over with your ma and brought me a chicken pot pie.”

“I do believe you're right.”

He took a sip of tea, looking at the framed photograph of the Petry’s on the end table. They looked happy, he thought, smiling together on a fine, windblown day.

His police radio squawked, then fell silent.

“Maggie radioed you wanted to see me?” he asked.

Mrs. Petry put her teacup down and cracked her knuckles.

She was a still a strong woman, wiry strong and as tough as they come. She raised seven sons, lost three of them to the VC in '71. Her husband, Wilson, was gone almost six years.

“Your pa was a good man,” she said. “Good sheriff too.”

“That he was, ma'am. Thank you for saying so.”

“It's a damned shame, him up and vanishing like that. Must've been tough on you and your ma.”

It was.

In all the years since there'd been nothing new. Everyone had looked for the missing sheriff, up to and including the Federal Bureau of Investigation, over the years. None of them came up with even a hint of a lead.

Rollie worked the case sometimes, running down the old information in the file, turning it around in his head in the hopes of something new shaking loose.

“Well, I called you out here today on account of the Wilkes and Thompson case.”

Rollie just about choked on his tea.

Donna Wilkes and Jimmy Thompson. A couple of hitchhikers who disappeared back in the late '70s. The case confounded Rollie's father. It ate at him right up to the day he disappeared himself.

“It has to do with your pa and the time he came to see Wilson and me about it.”

“I didn't know he questioned you. Isn't in the file.”

“Drink your tea, dear. I'll tell you about it.”

He took a gulp and winced. “I was gonna ask, what kind of tea is this? Kinda gamey.”

“Hemlock,” said Mrs. Petry. “Don't you like it?”

Rollie wanted to answer but couldn't form the words.

“It's all right, Rollie. I've never yet had one that cared for the taste of it.”

She got up and locked the front door.

“I'll be back to check on you in a spell. Then, if you're ready, I'll take you on down to the cellar to see your pa.”

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Jeff Tsuruoka is an author in search of a writing career. He has found a home in the Flash Fiction circuit and is grateful to the blog hosts that give him the opportunity to get his work out there. You can follow him on Twitter @JTsuruoka and be sure to keep tabs on his weekly contributions to Daily Picspiration.

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Jeff Tsuruoka Week 111: The Boathouse - Part Two

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Jeff Tsuruoka’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: The Boathouse - Part Two

They spent the next few minutes of uneasy silence looking around the old boathouse.

The warped, water-stained wood all around us failed to live up to the standard set by the fresh coat of white paint on its exterior. What remained of the dock hung broken and split over the water.

Broken rays of dusty light slipped through the cracks in the roof, leaving the corners o the structure in deep shadow.

One solitary boat, an ancient, rotting dinghy, floated in the water, still tied to the dock.

“I assume you all got letters?” asked Billy James.

Each man told the others about the typewritten letter he’d received, letters containing instructions for him to appear at the boathouse by an appointed hour. Their voices cracked when they described the price of non-compliance.

“Not just letters, man,” murmured Vin.

“My kids,” blurted Murph. “Pictures of my damned kids. At school, in front of the house, out to dinner.”

“Yeah,” said Billy. “Same here. They threatened to--”

“Don’t,” butted in Murph. “Just don’t.”

“This can’t be happening,” moaned Buck.

“It is happening,” growled Vin. “And we all know why.”

“You really think so?” asked Murph. “I mean, we did a lot of crazy shit back then.”

Billy stepped away from the group, then tried the door.

“We’re locked in here, boys,” he reported.

“I can’t believe this,” groused Murph. “All because of...”

The sound of a shotgun being racked silenced them. The harsh noise bounced off the walls and the water.

“All because of what?”

It was a female voice, rough and knowing.

And familiar.

“Because of what?” the voice repeated. “Because the four of you drugged me, took turns raping me, then left me for dead out in the woods?”

The woman stepped out of the shadows.

All four men gasped at the sight of her.

Five foot one, long red hair, black t-shirt, faded jeans, and new workboots.

And a 32-20, ready to fire.

“It can’t be,” whispered Buck. “You disappeared after...”

“Maybe I did,” she replied. “But I’m here now.”

Buck and Billy stared at her in stupefied silence. Murph looked to Vin.

“I’m sure one of you was stupid enough to bring a weapon,” she continued, “and I’m willing to bet it was you.”

She pointed the shotgun at Vin’s belly.

“Get a hold of yourself, boys,” spat Vin. “There’s four of us. No way she can get us all if we rush her.”

“You’re right,” she said. “It’d be much easier to deal with three of you.”

She pulled the trigger.

Vin took the rounds low in his midsection. His mouth opened in a soundless scream as he dropped to one knee.

“You gutshot me, you bitch,” he hissed.

Buck, Murph, and Billy stood there, staring at their wounded friend as the blood began to pool around him.

“Check him for weapons, big guy,” she said to Murph.

Murph hesitated.

“Now.”

“Just do it, man,” muttered Buck.

Murph nodded stupidly, then rifled Vin’s pockets. He brought a handgun out of his friend’s jacket pocket and showed it to the woman.

“Drop it in the water,” she ordered.

Vin slumped down to the deck, his breathing ragged and shallow.

Murph looked at the handgun for a long few seconds, then tossed it away.

Billy James sighed as their last shred of hope sank to the bottom of the river.

She racked the shotgun again.

“Throw him in too.”

“He’s not dead,” stammered Murph.

“That’s his problem.”

Murph hesitated again, but not for long. Vin hit the water with a slight splash, then floated beside the dock.

The three remaining men, broken, beaten men, looked to the woman.

“All right, boys,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

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Jeff Tsuruoka is an author in search of a writing career. He has found a home in the Flash Fiction circuit and is grateful to the blog hosts that give him the opportunity to get his work out there. You can follow him on Twitter @JTsuruoka and be sure to keep tabs on his weekly contributions to Daily Picspiration.

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Jeff Tsuruoka Week 109: Bad Day at the Boat House - Part One

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Jeff Tsuruoka’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Bad Day at the Boat House - Part One

11:44AM

Sheriff Clarkson swore as he set the receiver back into the cradle.

Deputy Walsh, a fresh coffee-- untasted-- in her hand, watched as he unfolded his gangly six foot, eight inch frame and got out of his chair.

The sheriff rubbed his upper lip and shook his head. A single lock of thin brown hair fell down across his forehead.

Walsh suppressed a smile. If she looked closely enough she could still make out the shape and breadth of the mustache that, until the week before, lived beneath his nose.

“What is it, boss?” she asked.

After a dozen years with the department, she’d thought she’d seen every face the sheriff had-- anger, disgust, fatigue, frustration, empathetic. Outright bafflement was a new one.

He stared down at his telephone like it was some strange alien device.

“It’s the damnedest thing,” he muttered. “Just got a call. Said there was gonna be a shooting. And a fire.”

“A shooting and a fire? Where? When?”

“Didn’t say. Did say I was gonna need five body bags.”

Walsh set her coffee mug down, then ran her fingers through her close-cropped blonde hair. She pulled off the crew-cut look through sheer force of will, the same will she used to survive breast cancer four years earlier.

“Crank is all,” she replied. “Some guy phoning in some vague threat.”

“That’s the thing, Walsh. Wasn’t not some guy.”

She raised one eyebrow at him.

“It’s a woman.”



5:52PM

The wiry, balding man eyed the pier in each direction before turning toward the boat house.

The fresh coat of white paint didn’t quite mask the passage of seven decades of life on the river. The place looked good from a distance. Up close it was impossible to not see how many boards were cracked or warped beyond repair.

The river itself was as clean and blue as he remembered it. Sixteen years away from town had not dampened his love for that particular body of water.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the letter he’d received the previous day.

The simple, typewritten note had come in the mail, without a return address and without any postal markings on the envelope. In it, its writer had instructed him to appear, alone, at the boat house by six the next evening. Failure to do so-- or contacting police-- would result in the carrying out of several specific, terrifying threats. An accurate description of his morning routine helped him to understand the gravity of the situation.

He’d done everything he’d been instructed to do. He’d told no one where he was going, parked his car at the old quarry site outside of town, and walked down Main Street to the pier.

Now that he was there, the .45 he had stuffed in his pocket provided far less comfort than he’d hoped it would.

“Hey Billy! Billy James!”

He spun in the direction of the voice, identifying its owner it as he did so.

Buck Hoskins. A pal from the old days in town, one he hadn’t seen in almost sixteen years.

The voice, huskier and more damaged by cigarettes and cheap whiskey than Billy remembered, matched the man who stepped around from the far side of the boat house.

Where Billy, with his full head of red hair and still spare frame, had aged with a measure of grace, Buck Hoskins had crumbled.

Buck’s leathered and pock-marked face and receding hairline made him look sixty-two rather than thirty-two. His gut and shoulders tested the elastic qualities of his shabby clothes.

“You too, huh?” he croaked.

Billy shrugged.

“Seems that way.” He looked around the dock again. “Anyone else?”

“Murph and Vin,” replied Buck, nodding toward the boat house. “They’re already inside.”

“You, me, Murph, and Vin,” murmured Billy.

His mind tumbled back sixteen years, to the last time the four friends had been together. He thought about the letter again.

Buck read his thoughts.

“It’s gotta be,” he said.

Billy nodded. “Nothing else makes sense. But how?”

“Don’t you mean who?”

“I’m not sure it’s such a smoking hot idea to bunch up in there,” he said.

“Yeah? Well I don’t think it’s such a smoking hot idea to piss off whoever this is. Least not ‘til we know what the fuck we’re dealing with.”

Billy chuckled.

“You’re smarter than you look, Buck. Always were.”

“Good to see you too, Billy James.” He opened and held the boat house door. “After you, pal.”

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Jeff Tsuruoka is an author in search of a writing career. He has found a home in the Flash Fiction circuit and is grateful to the blog hosts that give him the opportunity to get his work out there. You can follow him on Twitter @JTsuruoka and be sure to keep tabs on his weekly contributions to Daily Picspiration.

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Jeff Tsusuoka Week 107: Night Train Part Fourteen - The Last Chapter

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Jeff Tsuruoka’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Night Train Part Fourteen - The Last Chapter

Madeline and I waited for O’Shaughnessy to stick his gun back in his jacket, then stepped clear of the woods.

The rustling of our footsteps in the underbrush sounded very loud in the post-gunfire quiet.

The hint of moonlight that penetrated both the clouds and the tree cover gave the barrel of my Colt a dull glow.

“You’ll do me the courtesy of putting that away,” said O’Shaughnessy. “There’s no need among friends.”

I kept my gun where it was.

“Are you my friend, Ty?”

He reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette.

“You’re a walking contradiction in terms, boyo,” he replied. “An intelligent lad who asks the stupidest questions.”

I glanced down at Hersch Lerner’s dead face. Death had caught him mid-sneer. He’d croaked with his upper lip curled and his teeth bared.

Better him than me.

“If I wished you dead,” continued O’Shaughnessy,”you’d be on the ground, surrounded by a fine forest fire.”

I holstered my gun.

Madeline stepped around me, failing to not look at Hersch as she passed. She went right to her convertible, as if touching the smooth, red exterior was a source of great comfort. She opened the driver’s side door.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Moe,” said O’Shaughnessy. “Step into the light.”

I stepped into the light.

“Tell me, Moe,” he began, “why is it that every time I see you lately you look like someone’s used you to plow a rocky field?”

“Dunno, Ty. Must be my sweet personality.”

Madeline stormed back in our direction, glaring at O’Shaughnessy.

“You’re insane!” she yelled, wheeling on me. “The both of you!”

The two of us stood by and let her scream at us, the safest course of action. She still had her gun in her hand. It waved all around as she gestured while giving us the business.

“Standing around, having a pleasant conversation with a house full of dead policemen in front of you!”

“Dead policemen?” asked O’Shaughnessy. “Where?”

She blinked.

I sighed, my suspicions confirmed.

“Nobody’s dead in there, Madeline,” I said, “unless some dumb bunny shot himself by mistake.”

O’Shaughnessy looked to his man on the porch.

“That didn’t happen, did it Liam?”

Liam shouldered his tommy gun, and glanced behind him.

“No, boss. No one’s bleedin’ now that wasn’t when we got here.”

O’Shaughnessy looked at Madeline.

“It doesn’t do to make enemies and leave bodies if one doesn’t have to,” he said.

Madeline grimaced, shrugged, and rolled her eyes, all at once. She took a second to collect her thoughts, then spoke to me in a cool, even tone of voice.

“I’m gonna get in my car in a second, chouette,” she said, “and in two minutes I’m starting her up and I’m not stoppin’ ‘til I get someplace with a nice stretch of beach. If you’re in the car when I leave, great. If not?”

She went to the car without another word.

“What are your plans, boyo?” asked O’Shaughnessy.

I didn’t answer right away.

“I know what I’d do,” he quipped.

“What’s your plan here, Ty?”

“Oh, I’ll be spending a little time reminding the local constabulary who it was that saved their lives-- Herschel wanted them all dead. And then I’m going home, Moe.”

I nodded, glancing over at Madeline.

“Am I going to see you back in New York at some point?” he asked.

“You think I can go back?”

“I don’t see why not,” he replied. “The city’s fresh out of Lerner brothers.”

He stuck a meaty hand out in my direction.

I shook it.

“Don’t miss your ride, Moe.” He turned and walked toward the cabin. “New York’ll still be there when you return.”

He stopped by the porch steps to watch me climb into Madeline’s breezer.

She didn’t give me time to wave goodbye.

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Jeff Tsuruoka is an author in search of a writing career. He has found a home in the Flash Fiction circuit and is grateful to the blog hosts that give him the opportunity to get his work out there. You can follow him on Twitter @JTsuruoka and be sure to keep tabs on his weekly contributions to Daily Picspiration.

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Jeff Tsuruoka Week 105: Night Train Part Thirteen

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Jeff Tsuruoka’s Picture Choice:

Title: Night Train Part Thirteen

Madeline and I slipped into the dark woods just as the first of the vehicles-- a sheriff’s department car-- rolled to a stop by the cabin. Four deputies piled out and gathered in light of the headlamps, waiting for everyone else to arrive.

  

We stopped a little outside of point-blank range. I crouched down low, then drew my Colt and one of the revolvers. I put the revolver down on the ground in front of me.

   She rested her hand on my shoulder. I felt her breath, warm against the side of my face. The scent of her sweat surrounded me, strong but clean. I loved Madeline’s sweat.

   “What now, chouette?” she whispered.

   “If anyone we don’t know gets out of those cars we take them out, then shoot out every tire that isn’t on your breezer.”

   The headlamps on the sheriff’s car made the red paint of her convertible glow in the half light.

   “Suppose it’s someone we do know?” she asked.

   “I’m working on it,” I growled through clenched teeth.

   Two more cars pulled up and parked in front of the cabin. Three guys got out of each.

   “Work faster,” said Madeline.

   I spotted Tynan O’Shaughnessy’s big head by silhouette. I’d know that homburg and those big ears anywhere. He cleared the door, then stretched as he unwound to his full height. Hersch Lerner got out next. The top of his fedora barely reached the big Irishman’s shoulder. His light colored suit glowed even brighter when seen against the other man’s dark attire.

   I recognized some of the four men who came with Hersch and O’Shaughnessy. I didn’t know any of them well. Hersch brought his own boys, not Jack’s.

   He waddled over toward Madeline’s breezer. He ran his fingers over the shiny red paint.

   “It’s hers, all right,” he said.

   O’Shaughnessy kept his trap shut.

   “So we’re here already,” groused Hersch, his voice shredding what remained of the quiet. “The sheriff too busy to come out and greet his guests?”

   Unintelligible bellowing came from deep within the cabin.

   The deputies all clambered up onto the porch and forced their way inside.

   Hersch’s guys reached into the cars and came out with tommy guns.

   He pointed at the man nearest to him.

   “Go in after ‘em.” He looked to his right. “You two, go around back. It’s like we planned.” He nodded at the one remaining hood, then patted the convertible. “Stay by this car.”

   O’Shaughnessy wandered toward the tree line, stopping to light a cigarette about three yards out. He turned his back to the cabin and peered into the woods.

   Madeline’s grip on my shoulder tightened. I held my breath.

   Hersch came over and stood beside O’Shaughnessy.

   More hollering came from inside the cabin. The shooting started a moment later. The tommy guns provided the overture, blasting out a rhythm in deadly bursts. The reports of police revolvers chimed in as the machine gun fire slackened.

   I pictured the sheriff and Tobacco Man, still cuffed to their chairs, shot to pieces in the back room, while deputies and hoods worked to kill each other. I felt bad for a couple of seconds, then shook it off.

   “You made a bad decision, sheriff,” I said under my breath. “You messed with the bull.”

   Hersch spun and growled at the man he’d posted by Madeline’s car.

   “Get in there!”

   The man raised an eyebrow and looked to O’Shaughnessy, who nodded and touched his hand to the brim of his hat. The gunman nodded in return and made his way inside the cabin.

   A fresh round of chopper fire silenced the sheriff’s deputies’ revolvers.

   When it was all over, silence rang in our ears.

   Hersch and O’Shaughnessy turned toward the cabin.

   The last man to go in was the only one who walked out.

   “What’s the story?” croaked Hersch.

   O’Shaughnessy turned back around, resuming his contemplation of the darkened woods.

   “It’s a mess in there, boss,” reported the gunman.

   “You see what we came to see?”

   He shook his head. “Bunch of locals is all. They put up a hell of a scrap.”

   Hersch glowered at O’Shaughnessy.

   “Moe and what’s her name are probably halfway to New Orleans by now,” he spat.

   The Irishman never took his eyes off the woods.

   “Oh, I doubt that very much, Herschel,” he replied. “I’d wager that our friend Moe Shabansky is through running, if that’s what he’s been doing at all.”

   He scanned the woods some more.

   I took a quick breath, then raised the Colt. Madeline’s gun appeared in her hand. She aimed over my shoulder.

   “Take it easy,” I whispered.

   She smacked me in the back of the head.

   Hersch stepped closer to the tree line.

   “You think so, Ty?” he asked.

   “Moe may be many things, but he is not a coward.” He smiled. “Are you, Moe?”

   I sensed, more than saw, Madeline’s finger move against the trigger.

   “Not yet,” I hissed at her, forcing her gun toward the ground. “I won’t kill O’Shaughnessy unless I have to.”

   She wanted to answer that but swallowed her retort. Just as well. I didn’t need to hear the words to know what she was going to say.

   “You know me,” I shouted. “I’m too dumb to be a coward!”

   I grabbed Madeline by the hand and moved back a few yards, looking for a thick tree to get behind. She made sure we didn’t run into anything on the way there.

   “You shot my brother, Shabansky!” barked Hersch . “What the hell’d you do that for?”

   “It was his turn! Jack came gunning for me first.”

   He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a gun.

   “What did you think was going to happen when you sent me over there to see him?” I

demanded.

   “He was still my brother.”

   “He was trying to bump you off too, you sap.”

   “Hokum! Jack might’ve gone a little screwy. A lot screwy, even. But he’d never kill his own blood.”

   “Go on thinking that if it helps you sleep at night.”

   Madeline leaned close to my ear.

   “What are you waiting for, chouette? Do you want to get shot again?"

   “I got a theory.”

   “A theory. I hope it’s better than your escape plan.”

   I ignored her and Hersch both and concentrated on O’Shaughnessy. The big man hadn’t moved. He also hadn’t pulled a gun.

   “You got three seconds to come out of there, Moe,” said Hersch. “Then I’m comin’ in after you.”

   “Chouette?”

   “Hold on,” I grunted.

   “Hold on? What on earth for?”

   “You’re going to have to trust me, Madeline.”

   He took another step forward. O’Shaughnessy stayed where he was.

   “You’re digging your own grave, Hersch!” I hollered.

   “One!” called out Hersch as he stepped into the woods.

   I leveled the Colt, taking aim at his great big belly. Madeline did the same with her pistol.

   O’Shaughnessy reached into his pocket.

   Hersch kept walking.

   “Two!”

   He never got to three.

   O’Shaughnessy shot him in the head before he could get it out.

   Hersch shuddered and bounced off a tree before he hit the ground.

   Madeline released the breath she’d been holding. She did not lower her gun.

   I stepped out from behind the tree and stared at O’Shaughnessy as the last of the gunshot’s echoes faded away.

   He stashed his piece back in his pocket, then lit another cigarette.

   “Come out of there, Moe,” he said, “and bring the lady with you. We’ve had enough theatrics for one night, boyo, wouldn’t you say?”

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Jeff Tsuruoka is an author in search of a writing career. He has found a home in the Flash Fiction circuit and is grateful to the blog hosts that give him the opportunity to get his work out there. You can follow him on Twitter @JTsuruoka and be sure to keep tabs on his weekly contributions to Daily Picspiration.

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Jeff Tsuruoka Week 103: Night Train - Part Twelve

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Title: Night Train - Part Twelve

The sheriff offered me a helping of the same silence I’d fed him. He sat up straight in his chair, breathing through his mouth. Blood coated the lower part of his face.

   Tobacco Man turned his head like he wanted to pipe up but changed his mind halfway there.

   I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped the blood off my own face.

   “All right,” I sighed, moving toward the broken glass door. “How’s our pal out there?” I asked Madeline.

   “He’s gonna have one hell of a headache when he wakes up,” she replied.

   “Any serious bleeders?”

   She gave him the once over.

   “He’s leakin’ sauce but I don’t see any big ones.” She tried and failed to haul him toward the edge of the deck. “You gonna give me a hand or just watch?”

   I stepped outside and helped her arrange Lazy Eye in something like a sitting position. Madeline relieved him of his weapon and handcuffs, then secured him to a post by the boat slip.

   “Your boy’s all right,” I called out to the sheriff. “Keep the gun on him, babe. I need to have a word with the law.”

   I re-entered the cabin and walked right into his bloody glare.

   “What do you care if he’s all right or not?”

   “I don’t kill cops when I can avoid it, pal. Haven’t always been able to. But I do try.”

   “That sure makes me feel a whole lot better, mister.”    

   “You’ve got nothing to worry about, fella.”

   “I’ll be the judge of that, Molloy. Or whoever the hell you really are.”

   I smiled at him, still tasting the blood on my lips. It couldn’t have been pretty.

   “Killing policeman is the quickest way to the morgue,” I said, “and if I’m headed for the slab it’s not going to be on account of a sap like you.”

   He didn’t blink.

   “Now, about those heavy hitters you mentioned, sheriff. The ones on their way here?”

   I grabbed his broken nose before he could answer and gave it a twist.

   He hollered and tried to flop around. Tobacco Man’s weight in the other chair kept him from tipping over.

   The scent of cigarette smoke reached my nostrils. I looked toward the deck where Madeline stood, smoking and leaning against the rail next to Lazy Eye.

   I let go of the sheriff’s schnozz and waited for him to get still. Then I slapped him. Hard.

   He opened his trap to speak. I hit him again.

   We repeated the process until he flinched when I raised my hand.

   “You probably won’t believe me,” I began, “but this isn’t fun for me.”

   Tobacco Man started groaning like he’d been the one taking the beating.

   “Shut it,” I growled.

   He shut it.

   “Be a pal, sheriff,” I continued. “You want us out of your town. I want us out of your town. Tell me what I need to know and we both get our way.”

   “Just tell the man, Phil,” piped up Tobacco Man. “This creep ain’t worth dyin’ for.”

   “The man’s talking sense, Phil,” I agreed.

   I tried to look as reasonable as the guy who’d just rearranged your face can look.

   He took a deep, racking breath, forcing the air through his ruined nose. Then he blinked twice and stared at me with a sad  emptiness in his bloodshot eyes.

   “You have no idea who’s coming, do you?” I asked.

   He shook his head.

   “Called a guy I know on the force in New York,” he mumbled. “Told him we had a tough guy from up there, traveling with a real bearcat in a red convertible. He put me in touch with a guy he knows.”

   “Another copper?”

   “Didn’t ask. Didn’t get any names either.”

   “Must’ve been some deep conversation you fellas had.”

   He didn’t have a reply.

   “When did you call New York?” I asked.

   He chuckled. “Right after I left the diner.”

   Madeline let a fresh stream of profanity loose.

   I did the math and came to the same conclusion.

   “Plan to bring ‘em out here, Phil?”

   He nodded.

   “The mick ought to be here any minute."

   “Mick?” I asked the sheriff.

   “Had to be, with that accent.”

   Everything went quiet. I looked to Madeline. She looked back at me.

   O’Shaughnessy. Had to be.

   “Chouette?” she called out.

   “I’m thinking!”

   She stomped in off the deck and snatched each officer’s handcuff keys. I watched as she went back outside, flung the keys into the water, and returned.

   “Time to go,” she said. She put her arm around me and tried to guide me to the door.

   “This is your escape plan?” I asked

   “No. My escape plan involved negotiation and less facial damage. You kinda put a bullet in that plan, honey.”

   “That leaves my plan.”

   “You have a plan?”

   “I always have a plan!”

   She gave me the stink-eye.

   “I usually have a plan,” I mumbled.

   “That’s what I thought,” she growled. She grabbed a hold of my hand. “Let’s go.”

   I stopped to pick up my Colt and collect all available police revolvers.

   “I’ve had it with running, Madeline.”

   “It’s better than going to your funeral,” she shot back. “I look awful in a black veil.”

   I swallowed what remained of my indignation and followed her out the front door.

   The thick woods obscured almost all of the moonlight, leaving the entire area shrouded in darkness.

   We spotted the headlights in the distance right away.

   This time we cursed in unison.

   The sound of their engines cut through the trees.

   “Well,” I said, “I needed to see O’Shaughnessy sooner or later.”

   “You going to shoot him too?”

   “I don’t know, babe. That kind of depends on him.”

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Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Jeff Tsuruoka is an author in search of a writing career. He has found a home in the Flash Fiction circuit and is grateful to the blog hosts that give him the opportunity to get his work out there. You can follow him on Twitter @JTsuruoka and be sure to keep tabs on his weekly contributions to Daily Picspiration.

#DailyPicspiration