Allan Leverone - Postcards from the Apocalypse

All activity came to a stop in the kitchen as everyone stared at the briefcase. To break the shocked silence, Mama turned on the radio as Daddy slowly raised the cover of the unlocked briefcase. Inside were stacks of cash, neatly banded. It was more money than I had ever seen in one place, and probl’y more than Mama and Daddy had ever seen, too.

The silence in the kitchen was broken by the sound of a news report on the radio—a “special bulletin,” they called it:

“ To repeat,” the announcer said. “The First National Bank of Olathe, Kansas was robbed late yesterday afternoon by the notorious John Dillinger and his gang. Bank employees said Dillinger and his ruthless conspirators entered the bank just before closing time, armed with automatic weapons. Gang members held their Tommy Guns on bank staff and customers as Dillinger leapt over the counter and filled cloth sacks with cash from the teller drawers, before forcing bank president Elmer Dressler to open the bank’s vault. The outlaw and his gang then emptied the vault of cash as well before making their escape. Police gave chase but quickly lost the desperadoes as they covered their escape in a hail of gunfire.

“ Sources say as much as $30,000 in cash may have been taken, most of it untraceable. Anyone with any information regarding this blatant act of thievery is urged to contact the Olathe Police Department or the FBI at their earliest convenience. We will continue our coverage of this story as more information becomes available. We now return you to your regular programming.”

Mama’s face was ghost-white as she clicked off the radio, swatting at the on/off knob three times in a panic before finally connecting. Daddy stared at the fancy leather briefcase with his mouth hanging open. The money lay stacked in the case, crisp and fresh and emerald-green.

In early 2010 a brand-new print magazine was launched called Needle: A Magazine of Noir. The inaugural issue contained stories from heavy hitters like Dave Zeltserman and Hilary Davidson and shortly after the launch, in May of 2010, editor Steve Weddle held a noir flash fiction contest to raise awareness of his new project. The only requirement, besides that the story be no longer than 750 words, was that a needle must be featured somewhere in the story. “Family Ties” was my entry, and it tells the story of a man sent to prison whose family cuts off all contact with him as a result. All, that is, except for one family member…

I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandfather lately. He took the needle back in ’87, put to death for killing a cop during a botched bank heist. Gramps was a wheelman, one of the best they say, back in a time when banks were still legitimate targets for enterprising young men with a criminal bent.

The disastrous job took place in 1964 and went sideways almost from the beginning. It was an inside job and as you know, or maybe you don’t, that type of job is only as good as the information provided. In Gramps’s case, that information was so bad it might as well have been a set-up.

The thing that I can’t get out of my mind, and the reason I keep thinking about a guy who’s been dead nearly a quarter-century, is what he said when I asked him why he didn’t just take off, drive away, save his own ass when he saw everything going to shit inside that bank. “Because, kiddo,” he told me, “sometimes you just have to do what needs to be done.”

I was only a boy when he told me that, and I didn’t really get where he was coming from. To be honest, I didn’t understand it at all. To me, he was just a stupid old man who had fucked his life up for no good goddamned reason. He told me he had meant to fire in the air just to give his crew a fighting chance to make it to the car, but instead had tagged a blueshirt right in the chest.

Bang.

Dead.

Capital murder. Game over.

My family disowned the old man, one final kick in the teeth for a guy who had lived a hardscrabble life because he knew no other way. He managed to put my dad through Penn Law, though, before he got sent up, and the ungrateful fuck demonstrated his appreciation by turning his back on the old guy.

I didn’t turn my back, although the rest of the family had no idea of that. I was fascinated by the old bastard, and went to see him on death row every couple of months, whenever I could get the time off work to travel. Once, during a visit, he told me where I could get my hands on one of his old guns, a Colt .38 revolver. “It’s in mint condition,” he said with a wink and a smile, “hardly ever used.”

I stared at him. “What the hell am I going to do with a pistol?”

“You never know,” he said. “There might come a day when you have to do what needs to be done, too. Your father, bless his soul, never had it in him to do what needs to be done, but I have a feeling maybe that particular trait skips a generation, like male pattern baldness or something.” He ran his hand over his head and winked again.

Now I thought he was crazy as well as stupid, but damned if I didn’t find myself picking up the Colt anyway. A buddy from the old days had been holding it for him and the old man was right on target about the gun—it was oiled and lovingly maintained and impressively deadly to hold. I had no reason to own it, certainly no intention of ever using it. That was twenty-five years ago.

I stashed it in a safe-deposit box and told no one. Every couple of months I took it out, cleaned and oiled it, and replaced it, still telling no one, still with no clear idea why the hell I was bothering.

Then I found out about my wife and my best friend.

Marilyn and Bobby. The two people I was closest to in the whole world.

A four year affair, the entire thing laid out in sordid detail on the computer, courtesy of a password she didn’t know I knew. Illicit weekends in cheap motels when I thought she was working, X-rated electronic love notes passed back and forth right under my nose, romps in our bed while I was away, the whole nine clichéd fucking yards.

And they don’t know that I know.

And I’ve been thinking a lot about Gramps, and I think he might have been right; maybe he wasn’t quite the stupid old bastard I thought he was. I think maybe I will be able to do what needs to be done. I’m going to the bank this afternoon, gonna make a little trip to the safe-deposit box I rented so many years ago.

Then I guess we’ll find out.

Nobody’s perfect; we all know that. But some people just refuse to show even a minimal amount of respect for a dangerous situation. And when there’s a brutal killer roaming the streets, a level of respect way above minimal is called for. Especially when that killer is… well… different from everyone else in some important ways. “PussyKat” appeared in the online magazine House of Horror’s June, 2009 issue as well as their year-end anthology released in December, 2009 titled, appropriately enough, HOUSE OF HORROR BEST OF 2009.

The television was blaring much too loudly out in the living room as Walter Roberts dressed for work. He knew the volume was too high because he could hear it quite clearly in the bedroom, even through the closed door. Walter pictured Lorraine sitting transfixed in front of the local news as had become her habit of late, absorbing with rapt attention all the latest information on the terrifying murder spree currently ravaging the city.

“Authorities remain baffled as another victim was discovered this morning on the lower East Side.” Walter pulled on his trousers and listened to the breaking news report. He could hear every word as clearly as if he were seated on the couch next to her out in the living room. He wondered how she could stand it.