Challenge Accepted

Where music meets crime

Hello again.

Today’s newsletter is about challenges and accepting them even when ultimately it doesn’t work out. God that sounds dramatic! I’ll get to that soon.

This is actually about writing outside your typical genre

Earlier this year I came across a call for crime short story anthology, but the catch was—it needed to somehow pay tribute to the music of Warren Zevon. A few caveats were also issued; they really didn’t need a story based on “Werewolves of London” or even more so, a crime story called “Lawyers, Guns and Money”. The other appealing part was that the proceeds would go to charity (which is cool)

Being a big fan of Zevon’s music, this was an exciting challenge. I wracked my brain to first find a song, then try and fit the story. I did not even have an angle for a crime story. Those of you who are regulars around here would probably notice that I mostly write horror. While writing crime fiction is not something I haven’t done before, I am not what you would call an active “practitioner”. I love reading crime novels, particularly the works of Dennis Lehane, Don Winslow and S.A. Cosby. Put a crime movie on like Heat or Killing Them Softly and I am a VERY happy camper.

I knew what I wanted to do had to be very “American-centric” (or at least my slightly movie/tv defined view of it) with some dashes of noir and some classic American cars.

I had also finely settled on a Zevon song. “Night Time In The Switching Yard” which is a very funky little number that features almost a repeated lyric that varies.

Night time in the switching yard

Night time in the switching yard

Get it out on the main line
Listen to the rhythm of the train go by
Get it out on the main line

Watch the video here
Nighttime In The Switching Yard

So, I had a setting and an idea; Two small-time hoods wait in a busy moonlit New York railyard to split $14,000 stolen from the Zambino mob—a heist that cost the life of the boss's nephew. Instead of their middleman arriving, ruthless mob capo Bobby Zambino arrives seeking bloody retribution. A panicked gunfight erupts under the deafening roar of the passing trains.

So off I went and wrote something in a flurry on a very hot January night. I was/am proud of it, probably has some clichés, but what the hell! I got to research cool American cars and music of the time, picture and try to capture a dirty train switchyard, and I do like a good train!!

Anyway, long story short, it was not accepted for the anthology, so I thought, why not just put it up here for free (and potentially expose myself as a not very good crime fiction writer!!)

Here is “Last Whistle in the Switchyard” I hope you enjoy it.

The steel-on-steel grind of the Number 14 North crawled through the railyard so loud it rattled the fillings in the back teeth of Rico De Luca, who was sweating as he stood watching guard.
Acid reflux burned at his throat, he shouldn't have had that chicken-fried steak, smothered in gravy. His wife May had been at him for months to lose the gut, and right now, the gut was winning.
At his feet, Michael Santino was trying to jimmy open the lockbox with a crowbar.
Rico surveyed the moonlit railyard, cats danced in silhouette around heaving tankers with ease as his stomach churned and a light film of sweat touched his collar line. 
“Hey Mikey, you wanna hurry up? I gotta take a shit real bad, man.” Rico sounded desperate.
“No you don’t man, just calm down! You got the jitters cousin - that’s all.”
Mikey struck the lock again and it finally gave out with a loud clang.
The Number 6 South-East rattled through the yard.
Mikey looked up at Rico beaming, “Well, there it is cousin.”
There it was. The takings of three high-stakes poker games the Zambino family ran out of the back of Mort Cole’s laundrette. They’d planned it for weeks, but the plan had required a hard pivot when Little Timmy Z showed up. Timmy was the best getaway driver this side of the river, but he hadn't seen them coming in the dark.
Rico looked at the dented fender of their Chevy parked nearby, the chrome mangled from when Mikey had forced Timmy’s Ford off the road. He could still hear the screech of tires and those two sharp pops of the .38 that had ended Timmy's career.
Now Timmy Z was stiffening with two bullet holes in the back of his head in the back of their dented Chevy.
Mikey stood looking proud of himself — sweaty, but proud, “That’s fourteen thousand dollars right there cousin,”
“You think they’ll miss it?” Rico often said the thoughts in his head out loud.
“Ummm, yeah, they fucking will.” Mikey looked back towards the car, the beaming headlights giving him a haunted look, “All we gotta do now is wait for Big Dave - then he’ll give us our cut and we can be on our way.”
“When is Big Dave due?”
“Any minute now cousin. Any minute now.”
Rico’s gut spun again and the Number 22 rolled through the yard from behind the parked grain cars, blaring its horn and sending Rico jumping out of his skin.
Mikey tidied up his coat and adjusted his tie, even took a moment to lick and slick his hair back, all the while an open case of fourteen large casually sat at his feet.
“Why did Big Dave wanna meet here?” Rico’s voice was almost childlike now but Mikey put that down to pure fear and he decided not to rile his cousin up even more.
“Ain't no one here but you, me, the stiff in the trunk and those cats. Perfect place for a pickup.”
“What’s Big Dave driving these days?” Rico was just chatting now, to distract from his imminent explosion.
“Sixty two Bel Air Bubble Top… a beautiful machine, brand new off the lot just three weeks ago cousin.” He smacked his fingers against his lips.
Rico pulled a crushed pack of Luckies from his pocket. His fingers fumbled with the matches, the sulfur flare momentarily blinding him against the moonlight. He took a drag, but the smoke only fought with the acid in his throat.
"You think Dave’s gonna have the nerve to ask for a finder's fee?" Rico asked, pacing a tight circle around the cash box. Mikey paced too, hopped up on the adrenaline of the night, his eyes darting toward the dark mouth of the warehouse. 
"I mean, we did the heavy lifting. We took the risk. Timmy Z... that was a professional necessity. Dave oughtta respect that."
Rico blew a thin stream of smoke toward the tracks. "I don't think guys like Big Dave care about 'necessity’ too much, Mikey.” 
They care about things getting done to their liking. The money is all he’s gonna care about. Timmy wasn’t part of the deal, Mikey. We went and changed the math."
"The math changed itself!" Mikey snapped, stopping his pacing. He smoothed his lapels again, still obsessed with the image of the high-roller he wanted to be. 
"The world’s changing, Rico. Those old men - they’re getting soft. They think they can just rule from their offices and nobody’s gonna notice. We noticed. We’re the new breed Rico." 
A distant clank of metal on metal echoed through the yard. Rico jumped, dropping his cigarette into a puddle. He watched the cigarette hiss and die, a puff of steam issued up from the ground. He himself felt like that cigarette—small, burning out, and surrounded by filth.
"I just want to go home, Mikey. I just want to sit in my chair and listen to the Yankee game and forget I ever heard the name Zambino."
"Go home? After this? No fucking way Rico!" Mikey laughed, a jagged, sharp sound which made Rico’s gut do yet another somersault. "After tonight, you won’t be going back to that tiny wood-paneled box in Queens. We’re moving up. Maybe Vegas. I hear the air is dry there. Good for your sinuses." he laughed a strange rattling, unconvincing laugh.

Rico didn't answer. He loved his little house in Queens, he loved sitting on his porch watching May hang out the sheets, her shadow dancing on them, which always made him smile. Now he looked at the black sky, realizing that the stars were invisible behind the soot and the smog of the city. He felt the weight of the switchyard and the night pressing in on him—unseen eyes in the dark watching him.
Then, the silence of the yard was punctured. Not by a train, but by the rhythmic, expensive purr of a finely tuned engine. A pair of twin white hot lamps rounded the corner of the brick warehouse that ran next to the switchyard. The lights reflected off the polished chrome of a wide, aggressive grille.
“There he is,” Mikey hissed, snapping the lid of the cash case shut with his foot. He stood up straighter, smoothing his jacket and his hair - again. 
"Told ya. The Bubble Top. Look at that paint job, Rico. That’s 'Autumn Gold.' You can’t buy that kind of class."
The Chevy rolled toward them slowly, the gravel crunching under the whitewall tires like the crunching of tiny bones. It kept rolling until the bumper was mere inches from their knees, the heat from the radiator washing over Rico’s legs.
The engine didn't die. It just purred—a low, rhythmic thrum that made Rico’s acid reflux flare.
"Hey, Big Dave! You're late, ya big lug!" Mikey called out, squinting at the shape in the driver's seat, obscured by the high beams in their eyes.
The driver’s side door creaked open. A cloud of expensive cigar smoke drifted out into the cold night air, followed by a polished Italian loafer. But it wasn't Big Dave who stepped out. Dave, like his namesake, was a refrigerator of a man; this man was lean, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit that cost more than Rico and Mikey made in a year.
Bobby Zambino stood up, leaning his elbow on the roof of Dave’s car. He didn't look at the money. He looked at the dented Chevy parked nearby, where Little Timmy Z, his now dead nephew, was stuffed in the trunk.
"Nice car," Bobby said, his voice as smooth as the Bel Air’s upholstery. " Turns out Big Dave didn't need it anymore." His eyes flashed wicked in the dark.
Rico felt his knees go weak. The Number 14 North was gone, and in the sudden silence of the railyard, the only thing he could hear was his own heart hammering against the inside of his ribs.
Bobby Zambino took a long pull from his cigar, the end glowing bright orange against the darkness of the yard. He looked at the dented Chevy, then back at Mikey.
"You boys look like you’ve had a busy night," Bobby said. He sounded almost bored, like the cat that finally caught the mouse, but didn’t know what it wanted to do next.
A finger now pointed at them, "Mikey, right? And his cousin Rico. I remember you two from the social club. You’re the fat one who likes his chicken-fried steak."
Rico’s stomach did a somersault. The fact that Bobby Zambino knew his dinner order was more terrifying than a pulled trigger.
"Mr. Zambino," Mikey stuttered, his bravado evaporating like steam. "We... We were just waiting on Big Dave. We got the collection. It’s all here. Every cent."
Bobby stepped away from the Bel Air, his silk tie shimmering under the yard lights. He walked toward them, his shoes clicking on the gravel. He didn't look at the money; he just stared straight at them. Rico looked at the blood smeared on Mikey’s cuff and felt his throat tighten.
"Turns out Big Dave is a talker," Bobby said softly. "Once we found him and pulled his string, he couldn't stop talking. Like a fucking stuffed toy.  He told me all about your 'score.' 
His eyes went back to the dented Chevy, “Looks like you guys were on the offense as well. I know full well my nephew was moving that collection for me — you want to tell me where he is..? He took another long puff on his cigar, “Cos… we can’t find him."
"It was an accident, Bobby—Mr. Zambino," Mikey blurted out. "The car, it skidded, and the gun just—"
Bobby flicked his ash onto the lid of the cash box. "Open the trunk."
Mikey stood as still as a statue - as did Rico, “I said.. open the trunk, Michael. I want to see what’s left of my nephew.” Bobby’s voice hadn't risen an octave, but the air around him felt heavy, like the static before a lightning strike.
Mikey’s hands were shaking so hard the keys clattered against the Chevy’s bumper. Rico stood frozen, his hand instinctively drifting toward the waistband of his trousers, feeling the cold grip of the snub-nosed .38 he’d tucked there. His heart wasn't just hammering; it was trying to kick its way out of his ribs.
The trunk popped with a hollow thud. Somewhere in the distance a cat scrambled through a trash can, sending it tumbling.
Bobby leaned over, his face illuminated by the red of the trunk light. He stared at Timmy Z’s slumped body for a long beat. The smell of copper and exhaust filled the air. Bobby sighed—a sound of genuine disappointment—and pulled a white silk handkerchief from his pocket to wipe a speck of road dust from his shoe.
That was the signal.
From the shadows of the rusted grain cars, two figures stepped into the light. They weren't wearing sharp suits like Bobby; they wore heavy overcoats and flat caps, the uniform of the Zambino "clean-up" crew. One held a pump-action shotgun, the other a long-barreled Colt.
"Bobby, wait!" Mikey screamed, dropping to his knees. "We can make it right! We'll give it all back, plus—"
"You can't 'plus' a life, Mikey," Bobby said, turning his back to them and walking toward his Bel Air. "That’s bad math."
Rico saw the guy with the shotgun level the barrel. The acid in his stomach finally won. With a roar that was half-vomit and half-terror, Rico pulled his .38.
Crack!

The small-caliber shot went well wide, shattering the driver’s side window of the pristine Bel Air in a spray of glass.
Bobby stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at the jagged glass on the pavement—and his calm mask finally shattered. "Kill them," he hissed. "Kill them now."
The roar of the 12-gauge swallowed Rico’s scream.
The first blast caught Mikey square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him against the side of the dented Chevy. He slid down the door panel, leaving a dark, bloodied smear against the white paint. The fourteen thousand dollars—the "large" that was supposed to buy them a new life—spilled out of the case in his hands; he had tried to grab it in the chaos. The wind catching the bills and tossing them into the dirt like autumn leaves as life left his eyes and he slumped to his left, as blood seeped from his ruined chest into the gravel.
Rico scrambled backward, his loafers slipping on the greasy gravel. He fired his .38 again, the muzzle flash illuminating the terror on his face. 
Click. 
The cheap gun had jammed on the next shot.
"Please," Rico wheezed, the acid reflux finally rising into his mouth, which was now filled with spit and bile. "Bobby, please, I got a wife..."
Bobby Zambino didn't even turn around. He was still staring at the shattered window of his Bel Air, his gloved hand tracing the jagged glass. "This was a nice car Rico. Why did you have to go and ruin it?”
The second gunman, the one with the long-barreled Colt, stepped forward from the darkness. He moved with the practiced rhythm of a man punching a clock. He leveled the pistol at Rico’s forehead.
A white sheet moved past the gun, like the curtain at the movie theatre that Rico loved, behind the sheet stood May, a light wind moved her dark hair and her sea green eyes shone in the morning sun.
The sheet moved away again, just as the Number 44 Express thundered through the center track, a blur of steel and screaming whistles that shook the very earth. The noise was deafening, a wall of sound that shielded the world from what was happening in the shadows.
Under the cover of the train’s roar, two muffled pops flashed in the dark.
Rico felt a sudden, cold bloom of emptiness that radiated out from the center of his forehead. In that moment he fell for what felt like forever, he thumped back first against the hood of the Chevy, then slipped off the side, right next to Mikey. The two cousins sat side-by-side one last time, their shoulders touching, their blood mingling in the gravel and oil below.
Bobby finally turned back from the car, as if he had not wanted to watch the grand production he had just directed. He looked at the two dead men, then at the money fluttering away into the puddles of the yard. He didn't signal his men to pick it up. To a Zambino, that money was now "filthy"—tainted and shamed.
"Burn the car," Bobby said to his goons, his voice barely audible over the receding ghost-wail of the train. He looked at the bodies again, one last time, "Leave them for the cats."
He climbed into the driver's side of the ruined Bel Air, shifted into reverse, and pulled out of the yard, the heavy tires again crunching over the gravel and now also the discarded dreams of two men who thought they could one day be kings.
The Number 77 South ambled through the yard, its whistle whining as it moved through like a beast with a broken leg.