News & Features » August 2014 » “Sugartime” by Erik Arneson

“Sugartime” by Erik Arneson

Mondays Are Murder features brand-new noir fiction modeled after our award-winning Noir Series. Each story is an original one, and each takes place in a distinct location. Our web model for the series has one more restraint: a 750-word limit. Sound like murder? It is. But so are Mondays.

This week, Erik Arneson changes Philadelphia’s fortunes, for better or worse. Next time, Siobhan Lyons takes us back to a dark New Year’s in Sydney.

Sugartime
by Erik Arneson
Spring Garden & Fishtown, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA

I was running a dust cloth across the top of the glass display case housing my most prized first editions—Hammett’s The Dain Curse and Christie’s Perilat End House among them—when the bell above the door jingled and a middle-aged man stepped into my used bookshop in Philadelphia’s Spring Garden neighborhood. His cashmere trench coat made me hopeful for a big sale, but the ratty Yankees cap and knockoff sunglasses he didn’t remove gave me pause.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “I’m closing in fifteen minutes. Let me know if you need any help.”

He browsed the entire quarter-hour, skittering around the room and pulling a few hardcovers off the shelves, but never opening one to check the price.

“Closing time,” I said. “See anything you like?”

“I, um, that is, uh . . .” He looked up, down, out the front window—anywhere except straight at me. I’d seen this kind of behavior plenty of times.

“It’ll help if you remove the sunglasses,” I suggested.

He hesitated, but complied.

“Better,” I said. “Now, what’s on your mind?”

After a few false starts, he finally reached the point: he wanted me to kill someone. Specifically, Harold “Sugartime” Evans, the city councilman he was running against in next month’s primary election.

“A politician? No problem,” I said.

Mr. Cashmere Trench Coat handed me a manila envelope containing my standard fee: two hundred and fifty neatly wrapped one hundred–dollar bills.

*

I always find a reason to despise my targets. You dig deep enough, there’s a reason to hate everyone. In this case, it wasn’t difficult. Philadelphia politicians guard their time-honored tradition of corruption more fiercely than my six-year-old daughter does her American Girl dolls.

Evans was neck-deep in scandals: contract rigging at city hall, ticket fixing in traffic court, personal and campaign expenses charged to taxpayers, you name it. The feds had been investigating him for more than a year. I figured I’d be saving them some time and expense.

*

One week later, on a Friday night, I followed Evans to SugarHouse Casino at the south end of Fishtown. I sat at a five-dollar blackjack table, wearing a ratty cap of my own and avoiding unwanted attention. The councilman had no such compulsion. “Sugartime” wore a navy Armani suit and a silver Rolex Submariner while shooting dice amid a dozen raucous hangers-on at a nearby craps table. His jet-black hair was brushed straight back, not a strand out of place.

Just after two a.m., Evans sauntered out of the casino with a moderately attractive brunette in a spectacularly low-cut dress. Her curly hair stopped where her cleavage began. They caught a taxi and I followed suit. Fifteen minutes later, the councilman and his cocotte were dropped off in the parking lot of an appalling two-story motel off Roosevelt Boulevard in Northeast Philly. A neon sign proclaimed rooms could be rented by the hour.

I paid my driver and he pulled away. Apart from an occasional passing car, no one else was outside.

Strolling up the litter-speckled sidewalk, I stopped when I was thirty feet away from the couple. I took out my beloved Glock 35, suppressor attached, and shot Evans once in the forehead, an inch below his perfect hairline. His body fell to the asphalt with a thud.

His companion dropped her gold-sequined purse and covered her mouth with her hands. She began hyperventilating but didn’t scream. I slipped the gun back into my belt and glanced around. If anyone had heard the muted shot, they were smart enough to stay inside.

I approached her and asked, “How much was he paying you?” She said nothing, moving her eyes back and forth between the body and me. I raised my voice and repeated: “How much?”

“Please don’t kill me,” she whispered. “I won’t tell nobody.”

“Good,” I said, ignoring the double negative and bending down to take the councilman’s wallet and his watch. “Tell me how much he agreed to pay you.”

“Two hundred.”

I opened his wallet. The cheap bastard only had eighty dollars. I added some cash of my own. “Here’s four hundred. Walk away right now, forget everything. You understand?”

She nodded rapidly, without blinking. I handed the bills to her, and she grabbed her purse from the sidewalk before leaving as quickly as she could in her five-inch heels.

I looked down at the corpse that had been Councilman Harold “Sugartime” Evans and wondered if I had changed my city’s fortunes for better or worse. Or not at all.

###

Sugartime
por Erik Arneson (translated from the English by Carolina Maria Russo-Holding)
Spring Garden y Fishtown, Filadelfia, Pennsylvania, EE.UU.

Yo estaba limpiando con un paño la parte superior de la vitrina de cristal que aloja mis primeras ediciones más preciadas—The Dain Curse por Hammet y Peril at End House por Christie, entre otros—cuando la campanilla de la puerta sonó y un hombre de mediana edad entró en mi librería en el barrio Spring Garden de Filadelfia. Su gabardina de cachemira me dio esperanza para una gran venta, pero la gorra vieja de los Yankees y anteojos de sol de baratos que no se quitó me dieron otros pensamientos.

“Buenas tardes,” le dije. “Voy a cerrar en quince minutos. Déjeme saber si usted necesita cualquier ayuda.”

Él navegado toda la esquina, deslizándose alrededor de la sala y tirando un par de libros de tapa dura de los estantes, pero no abrió uno para comprobar el precio.

“La hora de cierre,” le dije. “¿Encontró algo que quiera?”

“Yo, um, es decir, uh . . .” Miró hacia arriba, hacia abajo, por la ventana, en cualquier lugar excepto directamente hacia mí. Yo había visto este tipo de comportamiento muchas veces.

“Tal vez ayude si se quita los anteojos de sol,” sugerí.

Dudó, pero obedeció.

“Mejor,” le dije. “Ahora, ¿qué tienes en mente?”

Después de algunos intentos fallidos, finalmente llegó al punto: él quería que yo maté a alguien. Específicamente, Harold “Sugartime” Evans, el concejal de la ciudad con quien estaba compitiendo en contra en las elecciones primarias del próximo mes.

“Un político? No hay problema,” le dije.

Sr. Gabardina de Cachemira larga me entregó un sobre de manila que contenía mi tarifa estándar: doscientos cinquenta billetes de cien dólares cuidadosamente envueltos.

*

Siempre encuentro una razón para despreciar a mis objetivos. Uno investiga profundamente y hay razón para odiar a todo el mundo. En este caso, no fue difícil. Políticos en Filadelfia esconden y cuidan su antigua tradición de corrupción con más fiereza que mi hija de seis años de edad, y sus muñecas American Girl.

Evans estaba que no le faltaban escándalos: arreglo contratos en el ayuntamiento, la desaparición de multas de tráfico, gastos personales y de la campaña cobrados a los contribuyentes, lo que sea. Los federales lo habían estado investigando durante más de un año. Me imaginé que les estaría ahorrando a ellos tiempo y gastos.

*

Una semana después, el viernes por la noche, seguí a Evans a SugarHouse Casino en el extremo sur de Fishtown. Me senté en una mesa de blackjack de cinco dólares, con una gorra vieja mía como para evitar la atención no deseada. El concejal no tenía esa obligación. “Sugartime” llevaba un traje azul marino de Armani y un reloj de plata Rolex Submariner y jugando a los dados en medio de una docena de parásitos estridentes en una mesa de dados cercana. Su cabello negro peinado hacia atrás, ni un mechón fuera de lugar.

Justo después de las dos de la mañana, Evans se paseó por el casino con una morena moderadamente atractiva con un vestido espectacular y bien escotado. Su cabello rizado se detuvo donde comenzó su escote. Cogieron un taxi y yo hice lo mismo. Quince minutos más tarde, el concejal y su compañera fueron dejados en el estacionamiento de un terrible motel de dos pisos en Roosevelt Boulevard en el noreste de Filadelfia. Un letrero de neón proclamando que las habitaciones se pueden alquilar por hora.

Pagué a mi conductor y él se apartó. Aparte de un coche u otro que pasaban de vez en cuando, no había nadie afuera.

Paseando por la vereda sucia, me detuve a trenta pies de distancia de la pareja. Saqué mi amado Glock 35, con supresor adjunto, y le disparé a Evans una vez en el frente, a una pulgada por debajo de su cabello perfecto. Su cuerpo cayó al asfalto con un golpe seco.

Su acompañante dejó caer su bolso dorado de lentejuelas y se tapó la boca con las manos. Ella comenzó a hiperventilar, pero no gritó. Me puse la pistola en el cinturón y miré a mí alrededor. Si alguien hubiera oído el disparo silenciado, eran lo suficientemente inteligentes como para permanecer adentro.

Me acerqué a ella y le pregunté: “¿Cuánto te paga?” Ella no dijo nada, moviendo los ojos hacia atrás y adelante entre el cuerpo y yo. Alcé la voz y repetí: “¿Cuánto?”

“Por favor, no me mates,” susurró. “No se lo diré a nadie.”

“Bueno,” le dije, y me incline para tomar la billetera del concejal y su reloj. “Dime cuanto el acordó en pagarle.”

“Doscientos.”

Abrí la billetera. El bastardo barato sólo tenía ochenta dólares. Añadido un poco de dinero de mi propia. “Aquí hay cuatrocientos. Aléjate ahora mismo, olvídate de todo. ¿Entiendes?”

Ella asintió con la cabeza rápidamente, sin pestañear. Le entregué las facturas, y ella agarró su bolso de la vereda antes de salir lo más rápido que pudo en sus tacones de cinco pulgadas.

Bajé la vista hacia el cadáver que había sido el concejal Harold “Sugartime” Evans y me preguntaba si yo había cambiado la fortuna de mi ciudad para bien o para mal. O para nada.

***

ERIK ARNESON graduated from Temple University in Philadelphia and works for a politician in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. He’s an editor for the website Shotgun Honey and his fiction has appeared in Otto Penzler’s Kwik Krimes, Needle, Grift, and Mary Higgins Clark Mystery Magazine, in addition to numerous websites and anthologies. He can be found at ErikArneson.com and on Twitter @ErikArneson.

***

Would you like to submit a story to the Mondays Are Murder series? Here are the guidelines:

—Your story should be set in a distinct location of any neighborhood in any city, anywhere in the world, but it should be a story that could only be set in the neighborhood you chose.
—Include the neighborhood, city, state, and country next to your byline.
—Your story should be Noir. What is Noir? We’ll know it when we see it.
—Your story should not exceed 750 words.
—E-mail your submission to info@akashicbooks.com. Please paste the story into the body of the email, and also attach it as a PDF file.

Posted: Aug 25, 2014

Category: Original Fiction, Mondays Are Murder | Tags: Bilingual, Carolina Maria Russo-Holding, Erik Arneson, flash fiction, Mondays Are Murder, Noir Series, Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, short fiction, Spanish, Sugartime, translation