rustworks

[rustworks]

The Brokowski Files - 10

Fahey slid out of the car at sloth speed. Brokowski smiled and nodded casually. “Detective.”

“Hey there, Detective Mauer!” blurted Fahey. “Long time no see, sir! Ha ha! You know, because we just saw you?”

“That we did,” Mauer cooly replied. “Been trying to find you. We’ve figured things out and you’re a big reason why.”

“Oh man, Detective Mauer! I can explain! My old lady lost her job and I’ve…”

The detective held out a hand. “Easy there. Let me finish.”

“Of course, Detective Mauer sir!”

“I don’t know how you do it, Brokowski.” Mauer gestured to somebody behind him. It was Officer Menchie, holding a bag of Funyuns. “That look familiar?”

Fahey laughed hard. “Those are the Funyuns you snagged! Now they’re getting wet, amigo sir!”

“You did it,” Menchie said. “You boys did it.”

Fahey started to fidget, but Brokowski spoke first. “Do tell, bros.”

“Always playing it cool, Brokowski,” Mauer said with a laugh. “Care to weave your tale?”

Brokowski shrugged. You should. Sound it out for us.”

Mauer smirked. “I’ve got to hand it to them. Smuggling cocaine in bags of Funyuns. Their inside men sticking them behind the normal bags. But you two still found them.”

“We did?” Fahey screwed up his face. Brokowski elbowed him.

“Not the time to be modest, boys. You sniffed out the Riaz Crime Ring. Paying their head honcho a visit really spooked them. And then your master stroke, Brokowski…”

Brokowski grinned and shrugged modestly, so Mauer continued. “Mr. Incognito, is it now?” He chuckled. “Your little ‘anonymous’ call to Mueller’s show? Calling out Riaz publicly? That was the death blow. You could have just come to me, but that ain’t your style is it? Always got to add the Brokowski sizzle!”

“What’s he…ow!” Fahey hopped, clutching the foot Brokowski’d just stomped on.

“You rattled Perlman too, during your little confrontation with him.” Mauer pointed at a nearby squad. Perlman was scowling at them from the back seat. “His thugs holding up QuikMarts to find the drugs first? Bold move to take on the Riaz Family, but crime doesn’t pay for either of them when Brokowski’s on the case!”

“I just like clean streets,” replied Brokowski.

“You care to explain why there’s high-quality reefer in your warehouse?” Menchie suddenly called out, motioning some fellow officers to join them.

Fahey made a sound that surely meant more bad news for his trousers. Brokowski shook his head. “You’re asking the wrong guy, bro. Ask him.” He gestured at Coggs.

Coggs’ eyes went wide. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“This one of your crew?” Mauer asked Fahey, gesturing to Coggs.

Brokowski answered. “Clearly not, bros. Fahey doesn’t deal that crap.”

Coggs cried out in protest, but Menchie’s men dragged him away.

“You’ve done this city a real solid,” Mauer said. “The check’s going to be in the mail. Have a good day, friends.” He tipped his hat and strolled off.

“Thank you, sir! Always a pleasure, Detective Mauer!” Fahey called out, waving like one does when they see their grandma after years.

“Can we finish our business?” Brokowski impatiently asked.

Fahey rushed to his car. “I crapped my pants again. Thank God I carry extras in the trunk!”

“Is this a common problem, bro?” Brokowski followed him. Man, he needed a grit.

Fahey flung open the trunk and started laughing.

“Now what, bro?”

“Look at that! All this time, I had the KB in the trunk! That’s pretty hilarious, bro!”

[rustworks]

The Brokowski Files - 9

Fahey had gone silent. While it was nice to have a break from his endless jibber jabber, the abnormal behavior made Brokowski wary.

“Bro, now what?”

Fahey’s jaw was tense. “Amigo, those cops near my warehouse got me all nervous. What if they are closing in? I’ve got bills to pay!”

“And what if a meteor hits your shitty Charger right now?”

Fahey jumped and looked up. “Can that happen?”

“My point, bro, is stop overthinking shit. You don’t even know why they’re there.” Brokowski wanted a cigarette, but he’d given Perlman his last one. Dammit.

The Charger turned down Chino. By God, were they finally getting to their destination? Fahey slammed on the brakes suddenly, nearly sending Brokowski’s head into the glove compartment door.

“What the hell, bro!”

“Cop cars ahead! Look!” He jabbed a shaky finger at the obvious - there were three squad cars, frenzied red and blue eyes going, a block ahead.

“Jesus Christ,” Brokowski snapped. “It’s always a good idea in the presence of cops to do super suspicious things like slam on the breaks in the middle of the road.”

“Wow, Brokowki’s in a mood,” quipped Fahey. “They’re after my goods! I hope Coggs and Boz are okay.”

“To hell with Coggs.” Brokowski noticed the cops were at Chino & Cochise. Maybe things weren’t so rosy.

“That looks like Perlman’s Hummer!” Fahey squeaked, pointing at a bright yellow suburban assault vehicle parked near the squad cars.

Brokowski didn’t look. His phone was ringing again. He couldn’t ignore Sad Eyes forever. He answered.

“Sorry, bro. I can’t talk right now. We’re in the middle of something. Be home soon.” He hung up, which he knew would go over as well as a vicar at a brothel.

“What do we do now?” cried Fahey. Brokowski cranked off the radio. Scritti Politti wasn’t providing the right soundtrack for this drama.

“Well for starters, bro, get the car moving.”

“Where?”

“Your damn warehouse, bro. Unless you’ve got illegal stuff just laying around, we act cool.”

Fahey reluctantly drove. “They’re literally parked outside my warehouse, amigo! Look, there’s Boz and Coggs right there. And Mauer! Shit!”

“Sounds like a ‘you’ problem, bro.” Brokowski started to think a night in prison would be more enjoyable than this ride. “I haven’t done a damn thing wrong, so no matter what I’m good.”

“I thought we were friends, amigo! Amigos!”

“You’ve jerked me around all day. Maybe if we had just gone to your damn warehouse right away, we’d have avoided this. As it is, I’m in the dog house with Sad Eyes because of you. And that ain’t a place I want to be.”

It started raining lightly again. Mauer spotted them and waved. They realized it was less of a greeting and more of a “come here”.

Fahey slammed the brakes again. Fed up, Brokowski flung himself out of the car.

“Gentlemen!” Mauer called out, a light smirk on his face. “Just the two I’ve been looking for. We need to talk.”

[rustworks]

The Brokowski Files - 8

Now it was JoJo’s call that Brokowski was dodging. He let it go to voicemail, which now flashed a red “2”.

“Why don’t you answer that, amigo?” Fahey asked. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to some Al Jarreau.

“And tell them what, bro? That I’d have gotten them their KB hours ago if it wasn’t for the slapass I’m doing business with?”

Fahey ignored that. Instead, he belted out, “‘And like berries on the vine, it gets sweeter all the time!’” He looked right at Brokowski as he sang.

“Knock that shit off!” Brokowski snapped, turning away. “God I hate that.”

“Whatever, amigo. I’ve got the voice of an angel!”

“You try to serenade me like that one more time and I’m doing business with Perlman. He’s a jerk, but at least he doesn’t sing.”

That shut up Fahey. They listened to Al Jarreau quietly for the rest of the song.

“Oh!” Fahey suddenly yelled over England Dan & John Ford Coley. “I need to call ahead. Make sure my peeps are at the warehouse.”

“Hold on, bro,” Brokowski felt his face get hot. “All this and there might not be anybody at your place? Why didn’t you think of that before?”

“Settle!” Fahey responded with what he thought was a charming smile. “My boy Coggs lives nearby anyway. If he’s not there, he can be there in time.”

He dialed up the phone through the car. As the ringtone filled the Charger, Fahey added, “John Coughlen, amigo. We all call him Coggs. You’ll love him.”

“I ain’t bailing you out this time, Gay-hee!” came a gregarious voice on the other end.

Fahey practically squealed with laughter. “Knock that off, Coggs! This is a business call!”

“What business? Are you selling your old lady? I ain’t paying when I get it for free every night!” Coggs’ cackle sounded more like a cough.

Brokowski hated him already, but kept quiet.

Fahey flipped off the phone, even though it was pointless. “Oh you! Knock that off. You at the warehouse now?”

“No way, Gay-hee,” Coggs shot back. “I’m at your mom’s house! Ha!”

“He’s the worst!” Fahey commented to Brokowski, giggling like a child.

“No argument here, bro,” muttered Brokowski, looking out the window.

“Seriously, amigo! Are you there or not? We got some business to do.”

Coggs quipped, “Yeah I’m here. Where have you been anyway? The gay bars aren’t open until six!”

Brokowski wanted to get out of the car, even though it was moving.

Fahey was still laughing when Coggs continued, “Come around back when you get here though. There’s some cop action going on nearby. I’m hoping they are finally taking down Perlman.”

That made Fahey grow as serious as a heart attack. “Cops? Dang. Maybe we should take our time getting there…”

“No!” exclaimed Brokowski. “Enough dawdling, bro!”

“Who’s that? Your boyfriend?” More cough-laughing from Coggs.

Fahey was about to respond, when Brokowski beat him to it. “Ram it, Coggs.” He hit the Disconnect button.

[rustworks]

The Brokowski Files - 7

Fahey let out a long exhale once they’d left the Burger Baron. “That was intense, amigo!”

“You’re either kissing up to people or afraid of them, bro,” chided Brokowski, sucking down a chili fry.

Fahey stepped onto the parking lot. Brokowski grabbed his arm and yanked him back, just as a car screamed by.

“Easy there, Orson Bean!” Brokowski snapped. “Didn’t you learn ‘look both ways before crossing the road’ as a kid?”

The near-miss had Fahey even more on edge. Finally, he carefully continued on to the Charger.

They were cruising down Martocci Street when Fahey twisted a knob on the radio. “We need some noise, amigo. This hasn’t been my day!”

“That makes two of us, bro,” muttered Brokowski. “Worst business transaction ever.”

“I won’t hold it against you!” Fahey now fiddled with the tuner.

A low, slurry voice popped out of the speakers. “This is P. Rick Mueller and you’re listening to Questions? on WMFK…”

“I love this guy!” Fahey brightened.

Brokowski groaned. “This show sucks, bro. What kind of a radio host mumbles like this? You can barely understand him. How’s he still on the air?”

The voice continued, “Influx in crime in the city these days. Quik-Marts getting robbed. Grocery store hold-ups. Honest people aren’t safe anymore…”

Brokowski wanted a cigarette but settled for a breath mint. “So we’re going straight to Chino and Cochise now, right bro?”

Fahey nodded vigorously. “Yeah yeah, of course. Settle down, amigo.”

Mueller droned on, “...We have an anonymous caller who claims he knows the cause of the violence. Mr. Incognito, go ahead…”

That made Fahey laugh. “What a dumb name. Must be Hispanic or something.”

Brokowski rolled his eyes. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

The caller chimed in, “For sure, P. Rick. I know exactly…”

“Hey!” Fahey quipped, jabbing a finger excitedly at the radio. “This guy sounds just like you!”

“No it doesn’t, bro,” shot back Brokowski. It totally did, but he wasn’t going to give that one to Fahey.

“...I’m telling you, they’re smuggling something. The Riaz Crime Ring is behind this. They’re pumping drugs into our city. And they’ve got help from a local crimelord!” The caller’s voice seemed to raise in volume every three words.

Mueller’s on the other hand remained low and hard to understand. “That’s a loaded charge. What evidence have you got?”

Brokowski gestured out the window. “Are you sure we’re going the right way? We just passed 6th and Orlin.”

Fahey huffed. “No faith in me, amigo. This is the fastest route.”

“...and that’s how I know. I saw it go down.”

Brokowski pulled out his phone and fired up the map app. “No faith at all, bro.”

He searched his map for a bit. It wasn’t the worst way to get to their destination, so he let it slide.

“Questions?” Mueller ended the segment with, like all others.

“Can we listen to something else?” Brokowski didn’t let the driver answer. He was already seeking out the Yacht Rock channel.

[rustworks]

The Brokowski Files - 6

Fahey was fidgeting something fierce. It made Brokowski nervous.

Finally, the detective snapped, “What is wrong with you now, bro?”

“I got to take a leak. I was trying to hold it, but no can do, amigo.”

Brokowski smacked his palm on the dashboard. “Seriously? Are you a child?”

“I need to make the quickest of stops. Look, it’s just a Burger Baron.” He swerved into the lot of a fast food joint.

Fahey was out the door before the car had fully stopped. It had probably saved him from being throttled by Brokowski.

“Dammit,” Brokowski muttered to himself. He flung himself out of the car too. Now he had to go too.

They walked into the restaurant. It smelled like fried armpit odor. Brokowski immediately loathed the way his shoes stuck to the floor with each step.

“Gentlemen.” The voice from behind was deep, smooth and unmistakable.

Fahey froze, unable to bring himself to spin around. Brokowski had no problems facing the speaker.

“Perlman. Fancy meeting you here.” The owner of the voice was tall and barrel-chested. He was holding a big chocolate shake. “Back off, Brokowski.”

“Excuse me, bro?” The detective reared back a little.

Perlman took a step closer, curling his lips into a sneer. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I do?”

“You think I’m too stupid to know what you’re up to?”

Brokowski shrugged. “I think you’re stupid, but I can’t vouch for the extent of it, bro.”

Perlman’s eyes widened with anger. “So two crap stains like you just happen to stop at all those places you’ve stopped. No coincidences.”

Fahey gulped loud enough for both to hear. “Mr. Perlman, it’s not what it looks like. We’re just taking a drive!”

“Cut the shit, princess,” Perlman hissed. “Nobody goes for drives in crappy cars like that. You’re messing where you shouldn’t be.”

“I know you peddle the drugs, bro,” Brokowski retorted. “I didn’t know you’d started taking them.”

“You’ve always got a smart answer,” spat Perlman. “This is your one warning to stay out of our business. You’re high school summer league and trying to play in the big leagues.”

Fahey suddenly looked as if he no longer needed to go to the restroom. “I swear, amigo! You know I don’t do business in your turf! Ever!t”

Perlman faked like he was going to move towards Fahey. Brokowski swore he heard a noise out of his companion’s trousers. “I ain’t your amigo, slap nuts. And you know I’m not talking about your low-level business.”

Brokowski pulled out his smokes and drew one. “Fag?”

Fahey quipped, “Amigo! You can’t call people that anymore!”

Frowning, Brokowski shook the pack of cigarettes. Perlman took one and stuffed it in his mouth. “Don’t try to charm me, gumshoe. Go back to finding lost dogs and jilted lovers.”

The big man stormed out, sipping his shake between puffs of smoke.

Brokowski gestured to Fahey. “You might want to clean up before we get back in the Charger, bro.”

[rustworks]

The Brokowski Files - 5

“Father Ruled sure was a great guy!” Fahey quipped, not realizing he’d gone through a red light.

Brokowski pumped the imaginary passenger brake. “I don’t know, bro. I think he’s a fraud.”

Fahey reached back and grabbed a bag of Funyuns. He ripped it open. “What the hell, amigo?”

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s a bag of white powder in here! They’re so lazy now that they don’t put the seasoning on themselves anymore?” He threw the bag to the backseat, swerving in the process.

Brokowski was busy staring at his phone. Sad Eyes was calling. He let it go to voicemail. “Bro, can we get to your warehouse now?”

Fahey grinned. “Okedokey, artichokey.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

Suddenly red-blue lights were flashing from behind.

“Are you kidding me?” Brokowski exclaimed.

Fahey let out a shriek and pulled over. The two waited for what felt like an eternity. Brokowski scowled at his companion. “What happened, bro? You have to get rid of something to make room for religion? That something being your ability to drive?”

“Shit!” gasped Fahey, clutching the wheel. “We’re so screwed.”

The officer arrived, tapping the window. Fahey fumbled to open it.

“Hi, sir! Is there a problem, sir?” Fahey was sweating like a man in wool underpants.

“You were driving a bit erratic back there,” the cop said evenly. He had the name Menchie embroidered on his uniform. “Sweet Charger, by the way. ‘19?”

“No way, sir. ‘17!”

“No way.”

“Way…sir!”

Brokowski rubbed his temple. “Bro, I don’t think anybody would lie about the age of a Charger. Can we get on with this?”

Officer Menchie glowered at Brokowski. “Watch your tone, mister.”

“You got a Charger too, sir?” Fahey quipped, his voice high.

“I wish,” admitted Menchie. “Look, I can’t ignore that driving. Can I…” He stopped and peered into the back of the car.

“Want some Funyuns, sir?” offered Fahey helpfully.

Menchie gestured to the back. “Give me that open bag there.” Fahey hastily did so.

“Do you have any idea what’s in here?” the officer said sharply after peering inside.

Fahey laughed. “Lazy ass manufacturing left the spice bag in there instead of putting it on, sir!”

Menchie stepped away, talking into his radio.

Brokowski tapped his fingers on his knees. “Bro, we’re never getting to your warehouse, are we?”

Officer Menchie returned. “Do you mind if I take the rest of those Funyuns?”

Fahey frowned, but quickly recovered. “Help yourself, sir! If you don’t mind applying your own seasoning!”

“Drive safer,” the cop said after collecting the bags. He flashed a smile. “You have to take care of this beauty after all.”

“You don’t have to ‘mench-in-it’ again, sir!” Fahey responded. He started giggling at himself.

There was an awkward pause before the officer left.

“Why does everyone want my Funyuns, amigo?” Fahey mused.

“Why do you kiss every cops’ ass?” Brokowski shot back.

Neither question answered, Brokowski shrugged. “Alright, bro, get your precious Charger moving. Chino and Cochise…and nowhere else!”

[rustworks]

The Brokowski Files - 4

Brokowski blinked. The Charger had stopped. “So we need to stop at the laundromat now? You crap your pants, bro?”

Fahey shook his head quickly. “No! Next door.”

“The sex shop?”

“The other next door, amigo!”

“A church? Why the hell there?”

Fahey was already out of the car. Brokowski flew after him. “Can we just focus, bro? I need that KB.”

“I told you,” shot back Fahey, rubbing his hands on his jeans nervously. “I almost died and I need some God!”

“Oh, you’re religious now? You never said shit about that before.”

Fahey glanced at the sign outside the church before heading in. Since he didn’t have the car keys, Brokowski had to follow.

It was empty, which wasn’t a surprise this time of day. Brokowski immediately got uncomfortable, as if a lightning bolt was poised to strike.

A voice startled them both. “Can I help you?”

Fahey froze. “Father Gregg Ruled?”

A short middle-aged man in a tan suit stepped out from the shadows. He had a half-eaten donut in his hands. “Gregg Riaz. And I’m not a priest.”

“Wow, that’s a really nice perfume!” Fahey gasped, sniffing at the minister. Brokowski, on the other hand, wanted to throw up from a stench that seemed a combination of flowers and toilet cleaner.

“Sorry to bother you, padre,” Brokowski said. “My friend here got the yips after witnessing a hold-up at the Quik-Mart”

“I saw my life flash before my eyes, Father Ruled!” Fahey got woozy so he slid into the nearest pew.

The minister frowned. He adjusted something on his belt before taking a bite of the donut. “It’s just Gregg Riaz. Tell me about what you saw.”

Fahey threw up his hands. “I saw a light, then Mrs. Fahey! I almost died because of Funyuns.”

Brokowski frowned. “The robber wasn’t after your Funyuns, bro. She was just after Yankee greenbacks.”

“He,” corrected Fahey. “Father Ruled, I haven’t been to church in years. Am I going to hell?”

Riaz smiled patiently. “Of course not. There is no hell. Just focus on being a good person and you’ll one day be with…” He paused, squinting and becoming lost in thought. “With…oh, what was his name?”

Brokowski’s eyes went wide. “Uh…you mean God?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Riaz said, smiling appreciatively. “I made up an expression once that is all you need to follow - love your fellow man as you would yourself.”

“Didn’t Jesus say that, padre?” Brokowski fidgeted, glancing at his watch.

“Jesus? Santos? From the laundromat? Of course not!” Riaz laughed as if the question had been completely stupid.

“Holy hell,” breathed Brokowski. “Look, it wasn’t a near death experience, bros. Plus Detective Mauer’s on it now.”

“Detective Mauer?” Riaz breathed, eyes wide. He quickly smiled. “I’m glad things are better.”

As Riaz finished the donut, Brokowski gestured to his belt. “Say, isn’t that a blood glucose monitor?”

Riaz slowly stood up. “Say, do you still have the Funyuns?”

Fahey laughed. “No way, Father Ruled! Get your own!”

[rustworks]

The Brokowski Files - 3

It was snowing bits of drop-ceiling in the Quik-Mart, from where the robber had fired a shot. “First off, I’m not a woman, Einstein.”

“Sorry, bro.” Brokowski frowned, shrugging.

“Now, hand over the flap jacks before I shoot you!” The robber aimed the gun at the guy behind the counter to emphasize the point.

The clerk, an old man with a bushy mustache, fumbled with the register. He looked ready to shit his pants. Fahey crept away from the counter, very slowly.

“Hurry!”

The clerk hurried, alright. With surprising speed, he grabbed a sampler bottle of Fireball and whipped it at the robber. It was a perfect shot to the forehead. The robber staggered for a moment. Brokowski stepped aside so the masked man could properly collapse to the floor.

“Nice shot, bro!” Brokowski gasped to the clerk, before kicking the gun far away from its former wielder.

“Did you pay for those, bro?” The PI gestured to Fahey’s Funyuns. The dealer nodded slowly, his face all pale.

The two left the Quik-Mart just as two squad cars pulled up. From one of them emerged a suave-looking fellow in a battered leather coat.

“Wow, are you a sight for sore eyes, Detective Mauer!” Fahey exclaimed. Brokowski wanted to gag. “We nearly died in there! But the gunman’s down and neutralized, as you big professionals call it.”

Mauer motioned to three officers, who rushed into the store. The detective smiled cooly. “You boys help with that?”

Brokowski shrugged. Fahey nodded. “Anything to keep the peace, sir!”

“We better get going, bro.” Brokowski pointed up. “It’s starting to rain.”

“Play misty for me,” Mauer quipped, winking. Fahey laughed way too hard.

“It’s crazy,” the detective added as the two headed to the Charger. “There’s been a big increase in Quik-Mart robberies the past two weeks. Something’s up.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Brokowski said impatiently, adding a smile to not come across as such a dick.

“You boys be careful out there, you hear me?” Mauer gave them a finger gun, which Fahey gave back with three times the theatrics.

“We sure will, sir. We’re just heading to do some business. Legitimate business. Mundane stuff.”

They were back in the Charger and on the road.

“Jesus Christ, bro? Why do you suck up to that guy so much?”

“I don’t know! I get all nervous around him. He’s the real police after all.” Fahey tossed the Funyun bags into the backseat.

Brokowski scowled. “Why didn’t you just invite him along to get the KB? ‘Mundane stuff.’ Holy hell, bro.”

Fahey was quiet as he drove. He looked like he was going to puke.

“Now what?”

“I don’t know, amigo,” Fahey muttered. “I’m kind of shook from that. I mean, we almost died! What would I have told Mrs. Fahey?”

“First off, nothing, because you’d have been dead, bro. Second, aren’t you going to eat your damn Funyuns?”

“No way, amigo,” Fahey quipped. “I’m too upset. We need to stop somewhere quick.”

[rustworks]

The Brokowski Files - 2

Fahey’s Dodge Charger was probably really nice when he bought it. But years of discarding Cheeto bags and soda cans had turned it into a moving shit hole. Brokowski was unfortunately unable to levitate, so he had to actually sit in a passenger seat that felt moist. He hoped to God it was Pepsi.

“Boz texted me, amigo. KB good to go. Best stuff he’s gotten. You’ll love it!”

“It ain’t for me, bro. I don’t touch the stuff,” Brokowski quickly corrected. “But I’ll be sure to pass that along to JoJo and Sad Eyes.”

“Do that. Fahey’s their one-stop shop whenever they need it!”

“We’re doing the third-person thing now? A minute ago, you didn’t even want to do business with me.”

“I just got spooked. You’re like cop adjacent.” Fahey had one hand on the wheel and one in his crotch. Brokowski made a note to never shake the dealer’s hand again.

They passed The Jolly Monk, Brokowski’s favorite sandwich joints. Instead of making him nostalgic, it set off alarms. “Where are we going, bro?”

“Got to make a quick stop, amigo.”

“The hell you are. I don’t have time for one of your stops.”

“Real quick, amigo.” Fahey pulled the Charger into a Quik-Mart. Before Brokowski could protest further, Fahey was out the door and inside.

Brokowski fidgeted. The car smelled like hummus and feet. He flung the door open and got out, eager for fresh air.

What the hell was taking so long? “Jesus Christ, bro,” he muttered and stormed into the convenience store.

The minute he set foot inside, a gun was pointed at his head.

“Whoah!” he cried, hands up.

Somebody in a black hoodie and matching face mask was wielding the piece. Judging from size and the exposed facial features, Brokowski pegged the robber to be female.

Fahey was standing by the counter, one hand up and the other clutching three bags of Funyuns.

“You serious, bro? I’m in a hurry and you stop for goddamn Funyuns?”

“Amigo, I can’t do my work when I’m all hangry!”

Brokowski rolled his eyes. “Holy hell. Funyuns! Are you…”

The woman started shaking her weapon like it was a wagging finger. “Um, hello? This is a robbery?”

“Yeah, I’ll get to you in a bit,” Brokowski dismissed her. “Can’t anything be simple with you, Fahey? Bro!”

“Enough!” the masked woman yelled. “I don’t need your drama. I want all the cat tails you’ve got in the register, then I’m out of here.”

Brokowski kept his hands up but took a step closer. “Hold up a second!”

“Bad choice of words, amigo.” All parties ignored Fahey.

“What the hell are cat tails?” the detective asked, his face scrunched up.

“Cat tails! Fish eyes! Fern leaves…”

Fahey nearly dropped his Funyuns, so he squeezed them tighter. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Go easy on her, bro,” Brokowski said, more softly. “I think she’s disabled.”

The robber pointed her gun at the ceiling and fired. Everybody froze.

[rustworks]

The Brokowski Files - 1

Brokowski flicked ash on the wet ground. He wanted it to make a sizzling sound for dramatic effect, but it didn’t happen. “Look, bro, you know why I’m here. Can we just make this easy for once?”

Fahey was fidgeting. A lot. Either he had to take a shit or he was really keen on getting the hell away. “You’re like a cop, amigo! Why you always trying to get your hands on the KB anyway?”

“I’m not a cop, period. I’m a private investigator, bro. Quit stalling.”

Fahey looked at his phone. Another stalling technique, because he didn’t even bother to turn on the screen. 

Now Brokowski was fidgeting. “Clock’s ticking, bro. Neither of us have time for this shit. Do you have the KB or not?”

“I do,” Fahey spit out hastily. “Just not with me. It’s in a safe place.”

“Where?” Brokowski tossed his whole grit into a puddle, then regretted it. There was at least another drag or two left. At least he got the sizzle this time.

“In a safe place, amigo!” Fahey was sweating more than usual, the kind of sweat you get when you order extra spicy ramen. 

There were sirens a block away. They were probably en route to someplace else, but Brokowski couldn’t be sure. “Bro! Stop dawdling. You have five seconds until I go to Perlman. He won’t dick me around like this.”

“Perlman?” roared Fahey. In a hot second, his agitation changed to outright anger. “He’s a dirty snake! You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, I’d dare.” Brokowski lit another smoke. He resisted the urge to blow a smoke ring in Fahey’s stupid face. Hell, he did it anyway.

Fahey coughed. “Fine. You know that abandoned warehouse at the corner of Chino and Cochise?”

“Let me guess -- it ain’t abandoned, bro?”

“No sir-ree. That’s my crib, amigo.”

“Bro, I’m not your amigo.”

Fahey looked wounded. “Anyway, meet me there in an hour and I’ll set you up. We got some fine ass fatty that just came in. Boz just got it in from R-Town.”

“Amazing how agreeable you are now,” commented Brokowski. “But no dice. I’m not meeting you there. We’ll go together.”

The sirens were getting closer. Fahey was rubbing his hands together vigorously, and not from the cold. “You don’t trust me, amigo?”

“No. Not you, not Boz, not any of your shady lot.”

They could see the reflection of red and blue lights in a window. “Fine! Let’s go.”

Brokowski doused his cigarette and pocketed it. He hated dealing with Fahey. This had taken too long. There were real cases to be solved. And the real money that came with them. He hated being the errand boy for JoJo and Sad Eyes. 

But they needed their fixes, and there was no talking either of them out of it. Brokowski couldn’t go home empty-handed, not unless he wanted a double earful and a night on the fold-out couch. No, he was going to get this damn KB…or die trying.

[rustworks]

Operation: Mephisto!

“Quiet down. I think we’re close.”

Jack held out his hand to emphasize his point. Jude stopped in his tracks.

Sunlight was rapidly fading, leaving them surrounded by shadows and rustling leaves. The forest was getting thicker. They dared not light a lantern though.

“We’ll never find him in this darkness,” breathed Jude. “We might have to wait until sunrise.”

“No!” Jack hissed, perhaps louder than he’d intended. He composed himself and went on, “We’ve followed him this far. We give him the night and we lose him again.”

“Jack, we’re stumbling in the dark. You’re good, but you can’t track in these conditions.”

Jack Genghis pulled his coat tighter. Damn, it was getting cold in this mountain autumn air. He rubbed his dusty brow, etched with lines.

He was good, but Jude was right. He hated when the younger folk were right.

Sensing the hesitation, Jude pressed, “He won’t go far. The dark don’t pick favorites.”

“Well damn,” admitted Jack, spitting a wad of chew onto the leaves near his boot. “I still think we’re gonna lose him, but this is…”

He froze. Jude opened his mouth but then he saw it too.

Just at the fuzzy edges of their evaporating line of sight…a pinprick of light. A campfire?

Jack motioned for Jude to follow, and they advanced. Slowly, each step careful not to snap a branch or crunch a leaf.

They crept closer, barely able to make out bushes and trees in their way. The light grew with each footfall.

It was a fire. And a big one.

As they drew nearer, they made out shapes in front of the conflagration.

More than one too.

“Shoot. He’s got company?” Jude whispered.

Jack reached reassuringly to make sure his revolver was ready at his belt. It was. Lionheart  always would be.

They took several more steps.

There were multiple figures. Five of them, darting in front of the fire then disappearing back into black.

Jack touched his partner’s shoulder, then motioned to the ground. The two dropped onto their bellies, and crawled onward.

They were able to hear voices, muffled at first. Then they became clearer.

“Oh Great One!” multiple voices could be heard saying, over and over.

Jack got to where he felt they were close enough. The two stopped and hugged the ground tightly.

There were indeed five. Two burly and unfamiliar. One skinny and tall. The fourth’s back was to them. This one wasn’t moving about like the others. It was like he was entranced by the flames.

The fifth was their quarry. “Gentleman” Gene Turk.

Wanted for ten crimes, most recently the murder of shopkeeper Wendell Murtock of Oakdale. To some, he was the ablest gunman in the Territory.

Those “some” had never met ol’ Jack Genghis.

“It’s him,” gasped Jude, stating the obvious. Jack merely nodded to himself. His revolver Lionheart was now out and hovering at the ready.

He thought for a hot second of plugging Turk with lead right there, and taking his chances with the rest of the four. There was a time he’d have done it. But damned rules this time around.

“Oh Great One!” they repeated. What was that all about?

Jack regarded the rest of Turk’s party. The pudgy ones were bouncing around, the skinny one doing some sort of strange dance. Were they drunk? Whisky never had made Jack want to act like that.

The one Jack kept returning his focus to was the tall one facing the fire. He was broad-shouldered and at least six feet tall. He was wearing some sort of robes.

“What do you make of that one?” murmured Jude, reading his partner’s thoughts.

Jack didn’t answer, hoping his more loquacious sidekick would get the hint.

The robed one at last spoke, his voice deep. “Oh Great One. We, your humble servants, have assembled and await your message.”

Jude started speaking again but this time Jack smacked him lightly. He knew what his young friend was going to say. That voice…it was more than deep. It was strange. Echoey. Not natural.

The figure suddenly turned around and threw back his hood.

Both Jack and Jude froze, both of them nearly crying out in surprise.

The man had a bald head and a sharp, neatly-groomed goatee. But neither of those details was interesting. What was, was his unmistakably blue skin and glowing red eyes.

The man spoke again. “Oh Great One. I feel your presence. I, your humble servant Mephistopheles, await your message.”

The other men stopped their movements and formed a line beside the robed one. They stared, entranced.

“The Great One has spoken to me,” he suddenly announced, just as the campfire flared up to double its intensity. The men all gasped, which was convenient because it masked Jude’s accidental yelp.

The one who called himself Mephistopheles raised his hands high in the air and from them shot two narrow bolts of fire. The flames he produced sailed into nearby trees, setting them ablaze.

Jack hissed, just loud enough to reach his partner over the growing tumult, “We gotta get out of here.”

“No argument here,” breathed Jude, looking shades paler than normal.

Their brains would have time to process what they’d just seen later. Now, the unmistakable drive was to get as far away from this unholy scene as possible.

“What about Turk?” Jude put in, but there was no conviction in his words.

Even amidst the arcane unknowns just displayed, Jack wanted to laugh. Turk had been his contract for six months now, developing from a job to an obsession. But suddenly it didn’t matter.

“My friends,” Mephistopheles suddenly bellowed in his booming voice. As he did, his eyes flared brighter, redder. “We are not alone. Find the intruders.”

That was enough. Jack breathed, “If we get split up, waypoint seven.”

“Waypoint seven,” confirmed Jude. And with that, they rose to crouches and ran as hard and fast as they possibly could. Unforgiving branches slapped their faces, drawing blood, but they didn’t dare stop. They didn’t even waste the energy to look back.

Both men would reach waypoint seven, a lagoon a few miles west of Belfort Town. They were both confident they hadn’t been followed. It would be several minutes before either could find the words to utter.

The contract to capture Gene Turk didn’t matter anymore.

Jack Genghis wasn’t a religious man, but what they had seen had shook him to his core. He was going to get answers…or die trying.

[rustworks]

321

“321.”

I looked up from an article I’d only been pretending to read. “Excuse me?” The weird surfer-looking guy staring back didn’t repeat himself. He just smiled, collected his sextuple latte and sauntered off. Whatever. Tossing down the magazine, I rubbed my eyes and let out a long sigh. What the hell was I even doing here? Fool’s errand. Who actually chooses to be in Astoria? The boss would be fretting by now. “Who’s going make my PowerPoint?” Fuck off. Whatever came next, at least I wasn’t under his thumb for a few more days. Maybe longer. Three days in Seattle and everything had changed. Whatever I went back to, whenever I went back to it, things would be different. They had to be. I fidgeted at the Post-It note in my pocket, perfect save one raindrop. Somehow, even this new hope had gotten fucked up. Day two in Astoria and I was no closer to the answer. She was probably at her office now, slogging through her own PowerPoints. 2019 and all I had was a bit of a number and a first name. Not enough to Google. Marin. It’s not that common a name, is it? Still, no luck. Surfer dude was loitering outside, across the street. Shit else to do. I was both annoyed and envious. My phone buzzed again. Ignoring the sinking in my stomach, I peeked. 321-555-1178. I had removed the Boss Man’s name from my phone, as if that would remove it from my brain. I still remembered his number. Of course not the one I wanted above all others. It went to voicemail to join the other six messages. I looked back up at surfer guy. That was weird. My boss’s area code? The Post-It was burning a hole in my pocket. I clutched it, heartbeat rising. Surfer was looking my way. I mirrored back the same fool smile.

[rustworks]

2018 Resolutions

Trying to keep my resolutions realistic, since so many fail. I’m going to leverage lunch times to write and/or read as much as possible.

My wife got me this and I’m excited to do a little prompt writing with good, old-fashioned pencil-to-paper.

I’ll share the ones I feel worth sharing.

#creative writing #story prompt #creativity

[rustworks]

Reflections of an Echo

The View from the Middle Series Prompts from observing people through neighboring windows...

Where have they gone?

The one who gnawed at stubby fingers, fretting over a spreadsheet that in a day’s time would forever be lost to history.

The one who gazed longingly across a disheveled workstation at a furrowed visage more interested in meeting invites.

The one who peered furtively about whilst tabbing between an intricate process flow and the Facebook page of a woman who in time would notice him.

The one who laughed too eagerly, craving just one bit of attention from those who hung around together like betrothed mourning doves.

Today, it was just gray screens that match the sky. Silent halls and lonely desks. Stoic motion sensors waiting like sentinels to spring to life.

But no one was coming. Not today.

Just the shadows now. Enveloping. Encroaching.

I looked around me. More emptiness. Chairs twisted this way and that. Crimson exit signs the only things showing any effort.

I’ve never left. I realize that now.

Just me beside a portal forever ensnaring me. Others’ lives had ebbed and flowed, surging like waves on the beach.

Mine was still. Utterly still.  

Just a shadow of myself. An echo. Maybe someone would leave flowers for me, all violet and white.

But they’ve all faded to nothing too.

There’s no nemesis to blame. Not even the shadows.

This was my doing.

Where have I gone?

#prose #fiction #story prompt

[rustworks]

Autumn

Prompt requirements: I used a few Rory’s Story Cubes plus some random conversation I’d heard to craft this short tale.

Albert chewed at his eyeglasses, watching her.

Small miracle she hadn’t noticed his ogling. He feigned interest in his newspaper.

Imagine that, another fire downtown. He flipped the page over. If he was going to pretend reading the news, at least a positive story was a better backdrop.

Her copper hair, only now giving in to silver, reminded him of brisk weather to come. It’d been years since he’d spent falls at the cottage. If he closed his eyes tight and inhaled, he could smell the damp leaves.

For just a second, he was there, dozing off in his rowboat. She was calling out to him from shore, laughingly scolding him for his torpor.

She’d stopped for coffee. Two packets of sugar, splash of cream, as always.

He wondered her name. She looked like an Autumn.

Today, she wore no wedding ring. Trouble in paradise?

Snorting softly, he dismissed any thought of a beauty like her going for an old man like him. She had to be in her fifties, tops.

Albert chewed at his lip, something nagging at him. Some treasure locked away, that recoiled further the more he reached for it.

He wanted so bad to talk to her, but knew he shouldn’t. But why not?

Greg would be along soon.

She was chatting with a friend now, that long-lipped smile making his heart skip.

“Hey, Pops - I thought I’d left you down by Starbucks,” came Greg’s ever-tentative voice.

Albert shifted abruptly, facing a different direction. He nodded at a massive crane constructing the city’s next big monstrosity.

She was looking their way now, waving at Greg, who fidgeted uncomfortably, hesitated, then returned it.

Her eyes now met Albert’s, for just a moment. He realized he was holding his breath.

Cheeks reddened, she spun and disappeared in the crowd.

“You know her?” Albert gasped impressively.

It was some time before Greg answered. Albert didn’t know why, but he couldn’t look up. He instead stared at some ants, toiling away in some Sisyphean battle against the landscapers. They’d lose, and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it.

“You know you’re supposed to stop bothering mom. We talked about this. Let’s go.”

#creative writing #fiction #prose #story cube prompt

[rustworks]

The Show Must Go On

Prompt requirements: Using Rory’s Story Cubes, incorporated the below 4 dice symbols into a short tale.

Rick shifted about, a fruitless quest to make unforgiving bleachers tolerable.

His daughter squealed for the hundredth time at the latest spectacle, as if she’d spotted a damn UFO or something. No, just a ridiculous clown failing a sobriety test on a unicycle.

He tried to remember a time when carnivals interested him. Was there a time?

Everyone else seemed way too excited. Gaping mouths. Wide eyes. Like big dumb statues transfixed on the menagerie of oddities the Silver Key Circus had rolled out.

The ringmaster was a mountain of a man, all moustache and jowls. His booming voice made the speakers crackle in protest.

Rick’s thoughts drifted anywhere else.

Hell of a baseball game last night. Maybe his daughter would someday fancy more interesting things like sports.

The ringmaster droned out a distorted word association of gibberish. Everyone remained motionless. Rick stiffened, looked about.

Literally nobody was moving.

A man in front of him was halfway in the act of throwing popcorn into his open mouth.

A dragonfly hung in the air, wings in mid-flap.

Even his daughter was frozen in her latest outburst.

The ringmaster had stopped rambling, instead staring up at Rick, finger outstretched. All of the performers had stopped as well, eyes needling him.

Rick cried out, but it joined all the cheers, the claps, the smiles, the drinking, the eating. Unfinished.

#prose #creative writing #story cube prompt #fiction

[rustworks]

Unheeded

Prompt requirements: Using Rory’s Story Cubes, incorporated the below 4 dice symbols into a 125-word tale.

Stop.

You were warned. Don't you remember?

Can you remember?

The man at the airport. The exchange. Does it ring a bell?

You aren’t supposed to be here. He’d warned you about leaving Cuzco.

“No good will come of it if you go to the Pantanal.”

But you didn’t continue on because of obstinance, did you? I know you that much.

Maybe neither of us were listening that night. The buzzing in your ears. The lapses. Now it’s starting to make sense.

Yet, here we are. And not alone. They’re almost upon us.

Well there’s not point turning back. We must press on, you and I.

What lies beyond in that hot, insufferable soup, I do not know. But it sure beats what’s behind us.

#creative writing #prose #fiction #story cube prompt