I'm Not Happy Till You're Not Happy

I’M NOT HAPPY TILL YOU’RE NOT HAPPY

Crime Stories

Ryan Sayles

Copyright © 2016 by Ryan Sayles

First Down & Out Books Edition March 2018

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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

Edited by Rob Pierce and Chris Rhatigan

Cover design by Chris Rhatigan

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

I’m Not Happy Till You’re Not Happy

They’re Pros, Each and Every One

It Just Goes Downhill From Here

Last Rites

Never a Vessel Large Enough

Brawny Diva Goes Out for a Latte

Sweet Little Ghosts

Highway Patrolman

The Ballad of J. Wilhelm

Overdose

Some Solid Dick

Bullet

It Passes the Time

Disco Rumble Fish

Postscript

About the Author

Also by the Author

The Down & Out Books Publishing Family Library of Titles

Preview from Accidental Outlaws by Matt Phillips

Preview from Blind Eye by Marcus Pelegrimas

Preview from Texas Two-Step by Michael Pool

For Donna, because everything is.

For Chris Leek, because he taught me a tonne (that’s British, right?) about short stories.

For Chris Rhatigan and Mike Monson, because those dudes gave a platform to a lot of talent that was flying under the radar.

They’re Pros, Each and Every One

Jugs was screaming threats and orders but none of the people in the bank were listening anymore, even though he was waving his gun as wild as he could.

Women were shrieking and a dude in a business suit fainted a split second after Tony shot himself.

Stupid ass.

Everything was going south. Everything. It was planned meticulously; they had trained and drilled. There were no variables. Jugs was orchestrating everything from his stopwatch. Nobody jumped out of the getaway car and tripped flat on his face before it all began. There was no Hollywood heist-type new jack who was a last-minute replacement for a regular guy who wound up being a bloodthirsty psycho to hose up everything. There was the plan, the training, now the execution.

Monty dropped them off and circled the block twice. Jugs led the charge, ski mask and Ray Bans on his face, moneybag in his left hand and .45 in his right; Cuz and Lizard in next, each taking a flank and Tony’s goofy ass pulling up the rear. He was there for appearances—four guns instead of three. He was in the plan—a favor to his brother Monty—but the rest of the plan read like this: Tony gets a gun but no rounds. Got it? Don’t actually arm the retard; just make him look good for the crowd. That’s the plan.

Then Tony ran in the bank door with his finger on the trigger—all the training said don’t do that until you’re ready to plug a fool—and tripped on some broad’s purse loop. The round that cut through Tony’s left thigh and took a chunk out of his femoral artery wasn’t supposed to be in the gun. Tony must’ve put it there. He would have seen the guys—pros each and every one—checking their firearms and re-checking and re-re-checking. He’d do the same. Find it empty. Go to Walmart or whatever and load up.

I’ll prove to them this isn’t just a favor to Monty, but a favor to them. I’m quality, Tony’d say standing at the checkout counter, box of ammo on the conveyor belt, on its way to killing him later.

Stupid ass.

So Jugs was screaming his very simple directions: face down. Fill the bag. No tricks. No heroes. Nobody gets hurt. Face down. Fill the bag. No tricks. No heroes. Nobody gets hurt. Then Tony trips, lights off a heater right into himself. Blood everywhere. Dude faints. People scream. Chaos, which was held in check by fear, now busts loose like an eighties’ break-dancer on a sheet of cardboard. Shit just got wild.

The female teller, chosen by Jugs during the dry runs because she looked young, naïve, and easy enough to scare that she wouldn’t drop a GPS or a paint bomb into the moneybag, turns ghastly white at the blood. Faints. Moneybag goes down with her on the other side of the counter.

Motherfucker! Jugs shouts. His watch says he has thirty seconds before it’s time to scram. Jugs runs to the teller counter. Jumps it. A man in a banker’s suit gets stupid as Jugs lands. The guy reaches out—he’s a freakin’ behemoth so he’s probably got Big Guy Balls—and grabs at Jug’s .45. Jugs knows the risks. He fires off three rounds in one second. Maybe less. Have to check his watch for the official count.

Mr. Behemoth gets cured of his Big Guy Balls affliction real quick. He drops; three rounds worth of his guts come crashing out through his lower back.

Jugs grabs the moneybag, takes the remaining handfuls of cash, jumps back.

Let’s go! he shouts. Steals a glance out the window. Monty’s pulling up. Right on time. No cops yet. That’ll change real soon. Thanks for the gunshot, Tony.

Tony is writhing like a bitch on the polished marble floor. Screaming, crying. Even yanked his mask off. Cuddling his thigh like it’s not trying to kill him. He stuffs one palm into the wound, trying to stave off the flow. No use. He looks up at Jugs. Their eye contact is all Jugs needs to know that in two seconds Tony is going to die, but before he does he’ll do something even stupider than trip and shoot himself with a gun that isn’t supposed to be loaded.

He’s going to say Jugs, help me.

Jugs don’t want his name out there with all these ears listening.

Tony better die in one second, then.

Jugs put two rounds in Tony’s face and turns to the door. Cuz and Lizard are standing there, holding the space. Just like in the drill. Notice those two don’t deviate from the plan. They’re good. Jugs runs out the door, the guys follow.

Jugs runs around the rear of the car and up the side, opens Monty’s door, pulls at him. Yanks him right out of the driver’s seat. Change of plans, Jugs says, swinging Monty out onto the street. Monty knows the phrase change of plans should never come from Jugs’ mouth. Something was indeed very wrong.

Where’s Tony? Monty asks, that near-avalanche of oh shit looming above him. No Tony. Disconcerting, seeing as how Monty promised his whore mother while on her deathbed made of cancer and STDs that he’d watch out for her idiot youngest son. Maybe letting him get in a robbery crew wasn’t a good definition of watching out for, but that’s a debate for another time.

Monty looks around; his heartbeat making it obvious things went wrong. Very wrong. Where is Tony? Where’s my fucking brother?

Half-brother, Jugs says as he grabs Monty by the shirt and heaves him out into traffic. Monty hits face first into a trash truck easily doing forty. Goes under the wheels. Flops around as the bulk of the thing crunches along overhead. The brakes lock up trying to avoid the inevitable. Too late.

The remaining guys jump in the getaway car. Tires screech, burn rubber. They’re gone.

On the way, Jugs says, You guys know why Monty died, right?

Both nod. They’re pros. They know. It’ll be hard finding another wheel man who could plot eight different to- and from- routes, time the lights, know the traffic patterns and controls, prime the cars, have the schedules down to a habit and drive the same way Monty could, but a good wheel man distraught by his dead kid brother is a loose end.

They’re pros. They know.

Back at the place, Jugs walks up to the same table where he laid out the plan, the same table where they played cards and ate out of drive-thru sacks, and he dumps out the moneybag.

All three sit around as Lizard brings the cash counting machine. Grand total, $56,117. Luckily, two out of the five forfeited their shares. Divided by three it comes to $18,705.60 apiece.

Jugs stacks it evenly into three wads, ties up the bills. Sits one in front of each dude. Game over, then. Job done.

Cuz, how’s your mom doin’? Jugs asks.

Cuz looks at Jugs and crumples his eyebrows. It’s his tell; Jugs figured it out during Texas hold ’em. Fine. She’s just the way she’s always been. His tone has that fake, quizzical sound to it, like someone no good at hiding things trying to hide something important.

The reason I ask is because you’re behind on her debts to that casino over on Eighth Street.

What?

Yeah. Mommy likes how warm the seats are at the high roller table. You like mommy so you shoulder her burdens.

Things go from celebratory to tense the way a stoplight suddenly goes from yellow to red when you’re already speeding and too far out to brake. The room gets too hot and too cold all at once.

Cuz’s balls crawl up into his abdomen. Lizard just looks back and forth, back and forth. He hopes this is all an act. He hopes when Jugs gets done with Cuz, he don’t turn on him. He hopes to hell he’s ready for him if he does.

Cuz finds his voice and says, That’s horseshit Jugs and you know it.

I know it to be to the tune of almost forty-five large.

I— Cuz looks to Lizard for support. Lizard likes Cuz, but if he smells what Jugs is putting out there, this is bad. Lizard finally looks at Jugs, just says it point blank; You sayin’ Cuz is goin’ to fuck us for the dough? Pay off his mom’s debts?

That is what I’m saying, Jugs says. All of a sudden the too hot and too cold room is real quiet. Tomb quiet.

You don’t know nothin’. Give me my cut. I’m outta here, Cuz says. He twitches just enough to light it off.

Guns out. Just like that. Too hot and too cold becomes too electric. Mexican standoff.

Everybody’s a quick draw. Lizard and Jugs on Cuz, Cuz with his one piece erratically going back and forth between both of them.

This the plan, Jugs? Cuz asks. All along?

I caught wind of some things. Figure we’d sort it out afterwards. No use in shortening the team on a heist, or ruining the morale beforehand. Jugs smiles, says, But yes. It was in the plan.

Cuz’s face boils with indignation. See what he’s doin’, Lizard? He’s peelin’ dudes off the score. Tony wadn’t supposed to have no damn bullets in his gun but I bet Jugs hooked him up! He probably knew that short bus kid would shoot his self! And then he whacked Monty. Monty! We’d been rollin’ with him for years!

Monty wasn’t going to take his half-brother’s death very well, Jugs says, cocking the hammer on his .45. He would’ve tried to blame us for not helping Tony—he would’ve blamed me for blasting the fat retard—then it’d be a matter of seconds before he shot or called the cops or both. Not in the plan, gentlemen. Now, Cuz, were you going to kill us as well?

I ain’t gonna do nothin’! I just want my cut!

We can work it out, Jugs says. Put down your gun. Give us a show of faith.

You gonna kill me? A whine.

Jugs does his best reassuring laugh ever. No.

Cuz slowly leans to the ground, sets the gun on its side. There. Show of faith. Now we work this out.

Jugs swallows hard. Do you—

BOOM!

Jugs drops like an I-beam falling from a skyscraper’s roof. He pumps two rounds into the ceiling before he pretzels his entire body in agony. His knee is missing, sprayed along the floor behind him. His gun falls and bounces out of reach the way they always do in those moments where the bottom drops out when you least expect it.

And Lizard stands there with a second piece out at arm’s length, barrel smoking and aimed where Jugs’ knee used to be. He’s a pro. Carries a back-up.

Jugs roars with anguish and fury. Clamoring at his knee, writhing. Every vulgarity known to man spilling from his mouth like a hole punched through a dam. No one was supposed to have a second piece! It was in the plan!

Yeah, well. The plan ended as soon as we entered the bank, Lizard says. Holds up the second heater. Insurance, my man. Please don’t tell me I’m the only one packing a back-up? He casts a sidelong glance at Cuz. Cuz shakes his head. Cuz also notices Lizard’s original gun is still pointed at his head.

Lizard says, Cuz, you gonna fuck us?

Cuz nods slightly. I was gonna fuck Tony. Victimless crime as far as I can tell. That’s all. I promise. Just a down payment to keep mom from getting— he looks down at Jugs, his face purple-red and straining—kneecapped.

And when Monty came around?

Cuz, with a little laugh, a silvery, warm one reeking of cruelty, Monty was in on it, bro. We was gonna split it. And that’s the truth.

Lizard kneels to Jugs, motions at the wound with his gun. You wanna live?

Jugs, sweating like his saint mother just caught him masturbating to the men’s underwear section of her Sears catalog, nods furiously. He grits his teeth like he’s giving birth.

It’ll cost ya about eighteen grand. You good for it?

You no-good piece of—

Nah, you got me all wrong, Lizard says. Stands. I’m only gonna charge you five for the car ride, but the doc I know who’ll fix you and not call the cops, he’s gonna cost you the rest. You want that, or you wanna go to a real ER and speak with the police?

Jugs looks away. Vision swirling, throat dry. Sweating bullets—no pun intended. He sees the table, all the bundles of green. Looks at his gun, a million miles away across the floor. No way he’d get within ten feet of it before eating hot lead. He knows damn good and well if he says the real ER he’s getting plugged right here and now. They won’t take the chance of him diming them out. Jugs wants to vomit. Looks to Lizard and Cuz, says he’s good for it.

Then he does vomit.

Jugs rides shotgun, Cuz drives, and Lizard is in the back.

At Lizard’s feet is the money. Next to him, the grab bag of military-grade everything his brother-in-law bought from some Mexicans last year. Lizard swiped it the night before