Unlucky Stiff

Unlucky Stiff

Yvonne Morrin

© 2012 by Yvonne Morrin.

Smashwords Edition.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

About the Author

Publishing Information

For Hamish, my dweeb.

Chapter One

Sam Shore was tottering giddily down the street. An expensive mix of scotch whiskey and champagne had been sloshing around his almost empty stomach for a few hours and now his heart was joining in the party, pumping the alcohol via his bloodstream to his brain. The motor control and behavior inhibition centers of his brain thought this was just dandy.

In consequence, Sam smiled stupidly at the people he passed as he staggered down the street, not noticing as they swerved to avoid him, and not caring that none of them smiled back. Sam felt invincible. Yes, after months of submissions and endless rejections he had finally found an agent, and now his agent had at last sold Sam’s screenplay. So Sam had gone out celebrating. He didn’t know anyone in town yet, but hell, he deserved a bit of a binge.

Now, as he reeled along the crazy-paving path to his apartment, the giddy-feeling was starting to wear off. He was teetering on the brink between happy-go-lucky-drunk and throwing-up-in-the-bushes-drunk. Perhaps he shouldn’t have stopped off at that last bar, he thought. Oh, but its name had called to him. The Shakespeare Inn! And wasn’t Shakespeare a scriptwriter, just like Sam? Of course he’d had to go in and have a drink to toast old Will’s memory.

One drink had turned into three, and he vaguely remembered having a long rambling conversation with a very creepy looking guy, about – he thought for a moment – nope, it was gone. The next he’d remembered, he was outside on the street again, stumbling home. Now Sam lurched down the steps leading to his apartment in the basement of an old house. He pulled his keys out of his pocket. The door’s lock swam in his vision. Which key was it? Oh yeah. He inserted the key into the lock, and turned it, feeling the internal mechanism unlatch. He gave the door a gentle push, and was surprised when nothing happened. He pushed again. The door was stuck. That hadn’t happened before. Still, he had only lived in the apartment for a few weeks. He didn’t know all its quirks yet. Maybe the recent rains had caused the door to swell and stick. Shrugging, Sam gave the door a sharp kick.

The whiskey-fuelled kick did not cause the door to fly open, as Sam had hoped, but it did impart a significant amount of energy into it. It rattled. The energy traveled up through the doorframe, into the stucco wall of the house, up past Mr. Johnson’s apartment, to the Sanchez’s wrought iron balcony above. There, the vibrations traveled across the mesh floor of the balcony until they struck Mrs. Sanchez’s favorite scarlet geranium in its heavy terracotta pot. The last time Mrs. Sanchez had tended the geranium, crooning to it like a spoiled child, the phone had started to ring. Since she was eagerly awaiting a call from her son, she had replaced the pot hurriedly, not noticing that it balanced precariously close to the edge. The call had been from a telemarketer, and disappointed, Mrs. Sanchez had forgotten about her prize plant. Now the ripple of energy from Sam’s kick nudged it just enough to topple it over the side of the balcony.

Two floors below, Sam had backed up away from the door, ready to make a charge. A fantasy scenario, straight out of one of his unpublished scripts was playing out in his drink-sozzled mind. He was a vice officer, about to pull off a major bust. The drug lords were inside, counting their cash. Sam held his hands clasped together in a gun shape, index and middle fingers forming the barrel. He turned his shoulder to face the door and pushed off with his back foot, yelling, Freeze, motherfuckers!

At precisely the same instant he pushed off, the terracotta pot crashed down on his head. His skull fractured into a jigsaw of razor sharp pieces. One of the jagged pieces was driven down into his brain, slicing through the parietal lobe. The momentum of his traveling body kept Sam barreling forward, crashing the door open and sending him sprawling into the hallway. The door banged against its stopper, rebounded and clicked closed. Sam was quite, quite dead.

Mrs. Sanchez switched on her bedside lamp. Domingo! she said, elbowing her husband. Did you hear that? It sounded like the police! Mr. Sanchez grunted and rolled over. Mrs. Sanchez listened for a few minutes to the stillness of the night, then she frowned and turned the light back off. She did hope that their handsome new downstairs neighbor wasn’t going to be trouble. Young men these days!

Two floors below, her geranium lay in a puddle of soil and broken terracotta, shocked, but otherwise unharmed.

#

Bethany was exhausted. She hated driving, hated SUVs, and now here she was, inching this gas-guzzling behemoth through rush hour traffic. She felt grimy and hot. What a day! She’d spent the morning with her dad, shifting boxes from her apartment to her parents’ house, moving back into her old bedroom. At twenty-two, to be moving back home was an embarrassing state of affairs. It’s only temporary, she told herself. You’re doing it as a favor. There was some truth to that – her parents were going on the vacation of a lifetime – four months in Europe, and her seventeen-year-old brother, Gerald, would be left home alone. Well, not really alone. His dweeby friends practically lived with him. And there was Doofus, the elderly dachshund. But in any case, as Bethany was fond of pointing out, Gerald was book-smart and life-stupid. So, she’d agreed to keep an eye on him.

In fact, Bethany had an ulterior motive for wanting to move back home. She was broke, two months in arrears on her rent, and about to be thrown out of her apartment. She couldn’t tell her parents this – they’d wonder where the money they sent her each month was going. The answer, of course, was that Bethany was spending the money on clothing. Bethany reasoned that as a designer she had to project a hip image. Since graduating from art college last year, however, she’d sold only four designs. Two were purchased by a rockabilly clothing manufacturer, and two by a custom motorbike shop. She suspected the motorbike shop owner had only commissioned the designs so he could ogle her breasts during design meetings. Knowing this, she’d worn a low cut top every time. A girl had to get ahead somehow.

A gap opened to her right, and Bethany surged her mother’s SUV forward, cutting off a man wearing a suit and driving a salesman’s Ford. He leaned on the horn, and Bethany flipped him the finger. God, she was hot and cranky. Rush hour coming home from the airport was hell. Still, her parents’ flight would be just about to take off now, and when she got home, she’d have their whole house to herself. Almost.

Sweat trickled down Bethany’s back. She’d dressed relatively conservatively today, because of the rigors of moving, and also because she didn’t want to get into a fight with her dad. She was wearing a black turtleneck, under navy blue denim overalls, flared wide in the leg. Her dark wavy hair was pulled back and covered by a red scarf, and she wore only a touch of mascara, eyeliner and red lipstick – minimal for Bethany. The look was 1940’s working woman. Rosie the Riveter.

She finally reached her turn-off and her eyes were drawn to the beckoning golden arches. Grunting, she swung the hated SUV through the McDonalds drive through, picking up a quarter-pounder, filet-of-fish, fries and a coke. Then she sped home, the bag of food hot on her lap, the smell of fries making her salivate. She hit the garage door remote, and pulled the SUV in beside her dad’s electrician’s van. Home sweet home – more or less.

She pressed the remote again to close the garage, and cracked open the internal door to the house. Her brother and the dweebs were hanging out in the living room, watching a cheesy sci-fi DVD. The hero fired some sort of weapon, and alien goo splattered on the screen. Mmm, just what she wanted to see at dinner time. Morons. She tried to sneak past, but one of them pressed the remote, freezing the goo in place. Gerald and the strange skinny girl she had seen earlier pointedly ignored her, but she noticed the other new kid – the Asian one, staring at her, and the fat kid – Lawrence – sang out, Hi Bethany! Do you want to join us?

The short one – Keith – added, We’ve got plenty of popcorn! Face aglow, he shook a bowl of the artificially yellow snack at her. Doofus the dachshund, who had been asleep at his feet, stood up and barked at him.

Nu-uh, got dinner, Bethany said, waving the McDonald’s bag at them. Keith’s face fell, and Lawrence looked pained, although Bethany wasn’t sure whether his anguish was due to her arrival or that of the McDonald’s bag. Bethany made it easy for him by leaving the room. She closed her bedroom door, stuck her ipod headphones on, and ripped open the bag. She shut her eyes, and sunk her teeth ravenously into the quarter-pounder. Hot grease dribbled down her chin. Mmm, junk food and Morrissey. Heaven. She let out a small orgasmic groan of pleasure.

Listening at her door, having pretended to need the bathroom, Lawrence almost wet himself. He was in heaven too. Bethany was back!

Chapter Two

This was some hangover, Sam thought, as fog slowly lifted from his brain and consciousness returned. His head was pounding, and he was bitterly cold. Well, no wonder. He was lying on his stomach on the bare tiles of his entranceway. Had he been so drunk he hadn’t even made it to bed? Groaning, Sam climbed unsteadily to his feet. Fresh waves of pain shot through his head, and he put his hand to his scalp. His hair was matted and sticky. Now this was weird. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and walked through to the kitchen, turning on the faucet and waiting for the water to run hot. He adjusted the mixer until it ran lukewarm, then bent over, sticking his head under the running water. The cascade of soothing warmth felt great, but Sam was alarmed to see that the water running down the drain was rust-colored. As he probed, a few solid bits came loose from his hair, clattering into the sink. Finally, the water began to run clear. Sam turned off the faucets and rubbed his hair dry with the towel. His skull was still a little tender, but nowhere near as painful as it had been. He examined the bits in the sink. They looked like small chunks of orange pottery. Sam frowned and shook his head. He threw the bits into the trash.

It must have been quite some celebration, he told himself. Still, it was morning now, and he had to get his act together to get ready for work this afternoon. Sam had arrived in the city six weeks ago, and virtually walked into a job, pumping gas at a station a little way down the road, from noon to six p.m. daily. It was a boring, soulless job. A chimpanzee could do it. Actually, a chimpanzee would probably resent doing it. But it was money. It paid the rent, and still left him enough time to work on his writing. He had spent every morning for the first two weeks phoning, faxing, emailing and generally not-taking-no-for-an-answer with every agent in town until he’d found one who would take him on. And now, only a month later, that agent had actually sold something of Sam’s – his first screenplay. The advance would allow him to tell ‘Mr. Edwards’, his eighteen year old pimple-faced shift manager at the gas station to take the job and pump it full of premium unleaded. When he’d finished the edits, and the advance came through, it would pay his living expenses for at least three months, letting him write fulltime. He’d finally be able to say I’m a writer, without the inevitable embarrassment that followed. This statement, a half-truth at best, invariably led to the question would I know any of your work? Sam would have to admit to the questioners that no, they wouldn’t. It was still better than telling the truth: he was a pump-monkey. But not for much longer.

Last night he had paid for his drinking binge with money taken from his overdrawn account. The juicy advance payment for his screenplay was still three weeks away, and dependent on some pretty nifty edits, so Sam figured he needed to get to work on the editing this morning, before heading out to work. But first, some breakfast was in order. His stomach was raw and empty – stressed out, no doubt from running on whiskey fumes. He glanced at his watch, and did a double take. Five o’clock? That couldn’t be right. Had the battery stopped? But the treacherous second hand was sweeping around just as smoothly as it always had. The clock on the microwave said the same thing. Five o’clock. It was too light to be five a.m. – the shadows on the wall indicative of late afternoon, which meant…Shit! He’d actually missed work. How could he have slept, sprawled on the freezing hall floor, for eighteen hours? Even during his university days, he’d slept off the worst of his occasional binges in ten hours or so.

Sam was ferociously hungry, but there was no time to eat. He bounded through to the bedroom, pulled off his shirt and swiped at his armpits with deodorant. He threw on a new shirt and changed his shoes and socks, then raced to the front door, wrenching it open. On the stoop, the geranium sat forlornly in its pile of broken terracotta. Sam stared at it, noting that the shards of broken pottery looked suspiciously familiar. Then he shook his head, scooted the mess to one side with the edge of his foot, locked the door, and began to jog down the street. It was times like this he regretted selling his car. But he’d needed the money to get established in the city – buying furniture and paying the first month’s rent.

He made it to the gas station at 5:40. ‘Mr. Edwards’ was standing at the cash register, smirking as Sam came panting in. Sam wondered again what his first name was. At the interview the spotty teen had reveled in the fact that he would be Sam’s superior, despite being five years younger than Sam. He’d reached this position of seniority simply because he had worked there since he was sixteen. He had proudly boasted that gas station management was his dream career. Well, Sam had thought, whatever floats your boat. So, he had been polite to the kid, calling him ‘Mr. Edwards’, as he had insisted, and following his sometimes absurd directions. It was just a job, a temporary job at that, and Sam had needed the money.

So, you got my message, Sam’s boss said sternly, his voice cracking slightly. Sam glanced again at the name tag the kid wore. C. Edwards. What was the C for? Cory? Cameron?

Your message? he said.

‘Mr. Edwards’ frowned. "Yes. I left two messages on your voicemail at home, and one on your cellphone, saying that if you didn’t put in an appearance today, I’d fire your sorry butt. As it was when you didn’t turn up at twelve I had to go out and pump gas myself! He said this as if it was beneath him, his lip curled up distastefully. And then when you hadn’t even called by two, I had to call in Paula to cover your shift." Paula was a solidly built middle-aged woman. Her husband had walked out on her a year ago, leaving her with two teenage boys and a whopping mortgage. Sam knew Paula needed all the work she could get, and so he didn’t feel too guilty that she was working an extra shift because he had overslept.

Jeez, but how had he overslept? Eighteen hours, - and, if Mr. Edwards was to be believed, he had slept through at least three phone calls. He must have been dead to the world.

Are you listening to me?

Sam snapped his attention back to the kid. Colin? Charles? Sam was tempted to tell him what he could do with the job – but no, there was still three weeks until he could get the script money, and his overdraft was near the limit.

I’m sorry, Mr. Edwards, he said instead. There was a family emergency. It won’t happen again.

It had better not, Sam, or it’s your job. Suddenly, the kid’s face twisted into a parody of concern. He leaned in towards Sam, and said softly, You know, this kind of behavior is not the way to make it in the gas station attendance industry.

Sam realized that the kid was trying to sound avuncular. It was hilarious. Sam bit his lip. No Mr. Edwards, he murmured.

Alright then. A pretty young woman had come in to pay for her fuel. Sam began to walk away as his boss turned to serve her. Oh, Sam, he called out. Remember what I said. It better not happen again, or I’m going to have to fire you.

Sam knew he was only repeating this for the benefit of the pretty customer. The spotty teen was jealous of Sam’s good looks and maturity. He gritted his teeth, put his head down and kept walking, waving to Paula on the forecourt as he passed her.

Casper giving you a rough time? she called to him. Casper was her name for Mr. C. Edwards. Apart from his bright red pimples, the kid was pretty pale and ghostly looking. Sam nodded. I think his balls may have dropped, she called out loudly so that their boss could hear her inside the shop. The kid was a little afraid of Paula, so she could get away with that sort of thing. Sam chuckled and moved on. Now that he was out of the apartment, he might as well head down to his local shopping center for some dinner. He was starving. For some reason, he was craving meat. Red meat, and lots of it. Gravy too, and mashed potatoes… His stomach rumbled, and he groaned.

And, he reflected, since he was at the shopping center, he should check his email. Much to his annoyance, email service still hadn’t been connected to his apartment. He needed to write a few emails too. He owed his mother a long answer in response to her latest message. She’d sent him several pages packed with interesting details about her research work in Antarctica. It seemed that she had an infinite supply of penguin anecdotes. It would be good to tell his mother about selling the screenplay. She’d be proud of him. As for his Dad… well Sam supposed he should at least let him know his new address and phone number. Just in case. But definitely after he’d eaten.

#

Although Sam had only been living in the city for a couple of months, he knew his own local shopping street well, and now he headed for a greasy-spoon diner which served huge portions of many different cuts of meat, cooked anyway you liked them – just as long as you liked them fried in artery-hardening lard. Sam had eaten a stomach-turning breakfast of bacon and eggs there two weeks back, and had vowed never to return. Now he felt uncontrollable cravings for just such a meal.

A surly busboy, aged twenty-something but balding and resenting the fact, waved Sam towards the diner’s sticky counter. None of the tables was free. Sam perched on a padded seat, placing his elbows carefully on the counter to avoid bits of crusted egg and other dinner debris. He picked up a plastic-covered menu, and began almost at once to drool. When the elderly waitress shuffled over, her attitude equally churlish, Sam ordered the biggest ribeye steak they had, with garlic butter, fried egg, mushrooms, and a baked potato stuffed with sour cream and coleslaw. The waitress merely nodded. When the food arrived, Sam bolted it down – and then ordered the same again. This time, the waitress raised one plucked eyebrow. My, what an appetite, she breathed. Sam grimaced.

When he was finally satisfied – after two dinners, an ice cream sundae and a piece of pecan pie – Sam continued on his way. There was an internet café up the street which he’d been using to contact agents. He booked in some time, and caught up on correspondence, letting his mother know he was still alive.

He was finally full, and he’d discharged a couple of obligations, yet Sam left the internet café feeling unfulfilled. Dusk was descending, yet he didn’t want to go back to his lonely apartment, to watch TV yet again, as he’d done every night since he’d moved here. Maybe he should go out, although another night of drinking by himself didn’t hold much appeal. What about a movie? He’d look a bit of a loser buying a single ticket, but once the movie started that wouldn’t matter. Just toying with the idea, Sam strolled to the nearest bus stop and examined the timetable. Almost immediately, a bus pulled up, its destination downtown, where all the movie theaters could be found. Well, it was obviously meant to be. Sam climbed on board, paid his fare and managed to find a seat near the middle that wasn’t smeared with something suspiciously sticky.

Sam had been downtown only a couple of times since his move, so now he watched carefully out the window for familiar landmarks. There – he recognized that bizarre twisted statue. That meant that the cinemaplex he’d checked out once before was just around the corner. He pushed the stop button nearest him. Nothing happened. The bus rumbled along. Grumbling, Sam moved seats and pushed a different button. This time, his request rang a little bell at the front of the bus. Instead of stopping, however, the driver drove on, turning two corners before pulling over at a depot, where he removed his cash box, and left the bus. Sam and the other passengers shuffled off. It was obviously the end of the line. Sam looked around. Why were big city bus depots always so shabby, and poorly lit? The inadequate streetlights showed buildings covered in graffiti and tatty posters stuck haphazardly to every surface. Scruffy people were dotted around the various benches too. Sam frowned in distaste, wishing he still had his car. Never mind. The bus had only turned two corners, so he should be able to work his way back.

He noticed that most of the passengers leaving the depot were heading in the opposite direction to the one Sam had chosen. Nevertheless, he had a plan, and felt he should stick to it. Nervously,