Pickled Eggs -- fiction

The second in a series of Vincent the bartender stories. I've written three, and I'm working on a fourth. The first one was about a gun. The second one is about a murder.

Pickled Eggs
by Nikolaus Maack

“I'm not a bad man,” Vincent said. “But I'm not a good man either. It's when you call yourself good or bad that things get fucked up. You're good, then you're against the bad people. You're bad, then you're against the good people. But if you're just a person, nobody fucks with you.”

Frank looked at Vincent and sighed. “I just want to know if you saw anything on Saturday night.”

“Now, you're a young detective, so you probably think of yourself as good -- most of the time. Right? Cops and robbers, cowboys and indians, boys against the girls, good guys and bad guys. Like it or don't, the things we learn in the schoolyard - that stuff sticks forever. It's primal, like monkeys flinging shit, or how a squirrel protects his nuts.”

“Did you witness the shooting?” Frank asked, a little desperation creeping into his voice.

“I'm getting to that, kid,” Vincent said. “Don't rush me. All these things hang together, like a chain of fucking sausages.”

It was Sunday afternoon at Vincent's bar. Frank was perched on a barstool, notebook in hand, waiting for something worth writing down. Vincent stood behind the bar, wearing a spotless white apron, making delicate gestures in the air with his massive fists, speaking quietly in cheerful growls. They were alone at one corner of the bar. A few after-church rummies drank at distant tables, working to forget the sins they learned about that morning. An anonymous waiter took care of the drunks.

“Saturday nights are kind of crazy,” Vincent said. “You know why weekends are only two days long? One for binging, one for the hangover, and then back to work you go. You give them three days, they're on to a second binge, people are recovering at work. Productivity is shot to fuck. Makes sense.”

“The shooting,” Frank prompted.

Vincent looked disappointed for a moment, then smiled. “You're busy. You don't have time to waste listening to my little ideas. I'll try to be more... cooperative, detective. Okay. The shooting.”

Vincent poured a beer, then looked at Frank and raised an eyebrow of invitation. Frank shook his head and frowned.

“You sure?” Vincent asked. “Don't give me that shit about how you're on duty.”

Frank hesitated, then said, “Okay, sure. What the hell.”

“Not like your boss is here looking over your shoulder,” Vincent said, smiling. He gave the detective the beer he’d poured, and stood there smiling, not pouring a beer for himself. “Beer -- solves half our problems and causes the other half. So how come you’re down here anyway? They send me the new detective. Why didn’t they send Scribbles, or Mohammed?”

“Scribbles was busy and… and Mohammed was, he…” Frank stopped talking and looked at Vincent suspiciously.

“What about The Duke? Dukey too busy to come see me? Too high and mighty? I remember when he was…” Vincent stopped himself with a laugh. “Well, anyway, I probably shouldn’t talk shit about your boss. So, okay, the fucking shooting you wanted to hear about. Yeah, I saw something Saturday night. That girl... Jesus, she was so blonde. I don't mean like those stupid blonde jokes. I mean, she was blonde the same way a tiger has stripes. You only saw her after she was dead, so you don't know. Once she was dead, her hair… Like turning off a light. She got shot, and I knew she was gone, no point calling an ambulance, because her hair just went out.”

“You saw her get shot?” Frank asked, leaning forward.

“Sure. Happened right outside my place, on the corner. Maybe nine-thirty, ten at night. Sometimes, I go outside for a bit, breathe in that rotten city air. There’s this blonde, tight green dress, standing on the corner. They called her ‘Trinket’, because they say she’s that kind of a broad. Bad history with men. Got used a lot. What was her real name?”

“Karen,” Frank said. “Karen, something.” Embarrassed, he started flipping through his notebook, but Vincent waved a hand to indicate it didn’t matter.

“So Karen the Trinket is on the corner -- I think she was on her way here, maybe -- when this guy plugs her twice in the gut. Pow, pow. And the blonde hair goes dark. She falls to the ground looking like a smashed watermelon. As ugly as she was once beautiful.”

“You saw the shooter?”

“Sure.”

“What did he look like?”

Vincent smiled coyly. “He looked like Leo B. Fitzroy of twelve thirty-seven Lancaster street. Want his Social Insurance Number?”

“You know him?” Frank yelled. “You knew his name and you let me sit here and shoot the shit with you? Jesus Christ, I got to…”

“Sit down, sit down. Come on now.”

“A killer is out there and you want…”

“You won’t find him,” Vincent said flatly. “So sit down and let me finish the story.”

“Won’t find…”

“Let me finish the story,” Vincent said again.

Frank paused, tense, twitching, then collapsed back on to the barstool. He took a long gulp from his beer, then sputtered: “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

A phone started ringing behind the bar. Still nervous, Frank jumped at the sound. The anonymous waiter answered it and mumbled something into the receiver, then called out, “Boss.” Vincent waved the phone over.

“Yeah,” he said, looking at Frank while he talked. “Yeah, yeah, he’s still here. No, no. Yeah. Drinking a beer - that’s not going to get him in trouble, is it? Well, I didn’t exactly force the beer on him, but… Okay, maybe I twisted his arm a little. Corrupting cops, that’s me all over. Sure, he’s okay, I guess. A little short for detective, maybe. What, you ran out of tall cops to promote or something? And young. Jesus Christ, Duke, he’s barely shaving - what the fuck? Yeah, well, okay. Sure. No, no, I didn’t yet. Okay. Wanna talk to him? Okay.”

Vincent held the phone out to Frank, who reluctantly took it.

“Hello?”

“Frank, don’t drink too many beers and pay for what you drink, you hear me?”

The voice of his boss was playful - something Frank had never heard before.

“Yes sir.”

“Vincent’s a good guy,” the Duke said, “but if you start drinking beers for free, he gets his hooks into you. Watch out for that. He’ll give you an envelope. The contents are yours to keep. Next time you’ll have to share. When you’re done there, go on home. Your shift is almost over anyway.”

“Y-yes sir,” Frank stuttered.

Frank hung up the phone and the anonymous waiter took it away.

“Guess I was wrong,” Vincent said merrily. “Your boss is looking over your shoulder.”

Sitting on the bar, next to Frank’s glass of beer, was an envelope. It was as if it had appeared out of nowhere.

Frank said, “What’s, what the heck is…”

“So like I was saying,” Vincent interrupted, “the shooter was Leo B. Fitzroy of twelve thirty-seven Lancaster street. Social Insurance Number five three zero, two one… Fuck. I don’t remember. Anyway, you’re not going to find him, because I took care of it.”

“Took care of it?”

“Yeah. I took care of it. You won’t find Leo, because Leo cannot be found. By anyone.”

“What did you do?” Frank asked. “Did you… What? Did you kill him?”

“I made him disappear. Like a magician. Poof! Only with this kinda fucking trick, there’s no bringing the man back. The trick ends with the guy gone.”

Frank took a small sip of his beer, not knowing what to say. He looked at the envelope but didn’t touch it.

“Do you know why you’re here today, Frank?” Vincent asked casually. “It’s because you’re new. And you don’t know how things work yet. And your boss likes you, and Scribbles and Mohammed, they all like you. And they want you to know how things work. Okay?”

“What… Are you, ex-cop or, something? Mafia?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just me. I do my thing and I pay for what I do. Anyway, sometimes the good guys are too busy to take care of matters. Or they’re willing to overlook certain… irregularities, should they happen to fucking arise. The good guys don’t always want to know the whole story. Sometimes they’re willing to skip to the end of the book, find out who the killer is, and then put the book back up on the shelf. Get me?”

“Why kill the shooter? Revenge, or… Trinket, Karen, you looking out for her?”

Vincent smiled. “You don’t want to ask these questions. But, no. She was just some trouble-making broad. I’m surprised she wasn’t killed ages ago.”

“Then, why? Why… get rid of this guy, Leo?”

“Because Leo got blood on my sidewalk. I won’t stand for that.”

Frank stared at Vincent, dumbfounded. “Are you going to tell me why, or….”

“Look, kid, you don’t get to know. That’s how it works, okay? Rules, honour, fucking ethics - I don’t know what to tell you. When someone gets shot outside my place, I take care of it. That’s all. It’s not noble or good, and it’s not evil and revenge or any of that Hollywood shit. It just is. I watch over my neighbourhood.”

“And… Duke. And Mohammed and Scribbles… They just…” His voice trailed off. The detective looked around him, like he wasn’t sure where he was anymore. It couldn’t just be a regular, scummy bar downtown on a Sunday afternoon. There had to be something more, something bigger. Men don’t kill and get away with it. The police don’t just turn a blind eye. He glanced at the envelope again, then stared at Vincent. Who was this guy?

“Do you get it now? Cops and robbers, that’s bullshit.”

“What did you do with the body?” Frank asked.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Vincent said. “I told you. Magic. Poof, and it’s fucking gone.”

Frank put away his notebook, then finished his beer with one long swig. He put the glass down on the bar, next to the envelope, with extreme care.

“How do I know that?” he asked quietly. “Let’s say this guy, Leo, is the shooter. You say he’s gone. That you took care of it. But how do I know you’re telling the truth? You know my boss, you know my fellow detectives, and they’re willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. But, how am I supposed to know that you’re being straight with me?”

Vincent smiled broadly. “Okay, fine. You need some fucking closure, I’ll give it to you. A little story. Behind the bar there are two jars. See them?” He pointed behind him with his thumb without turning around.

“The one on your left contains pickled eggs,” Vincent continued. “The one on your right, it looks like it contains pickled eggs, but look a little closer. It’s kind of cloudy in there, but you’ll be able to make it out. Don’t the eggs look a little different? Wrinkled, maybe. And a few of them kind of look hairy. And see that jagged line on some of them? Almost like they have a scar, where they were cut off. Get me? I leave that jar there so people know what happens when you cross the line. So, okay, maybe that doesn’t prove Leo is dead. But it does prove that wherever he is, you can be sure he’s not very fucking happy.”

Frank looked without looking too hard. He didn’t want to look too hard. “Bullshit,” he said, but his voice sounded unsure.

Vincent shrugged and smiled. The two men looked at each other for a long time. Vincent’s fat face was utterly expressionless. After a while, almost as if by accident, Frank looked away and picked up the envelope. It felt thick, heavy.

“Why did Leo kill Trinket anyway?” he asked, almost dreamily.

“Because it was Saturday night,” Vincent said.

Frank nodded, having barely heard the answer. He put the envelope in his jacket pocket, then took out his wallet and put a five dollar bill on the bar. “For the beer,” he said. Then he stood up and walked away.

Once the detective was gone, Vincent turned around, and looked at the jar on the right. After a moment, he opened it, and took out a round, wet, object.

“Jesus, the look on that poor kid’s face,” he muttered to himself. “For a second there, even I thought I was telling the truth.”

He ate the egg.

The Dutiful Son -- fiction

I've been writing fiction too, you know. On the sly. And three times I've come back to this bar, where Vincent works. I figure I should post them, instead of sitting on them. So here's the first one. I'll post the other two in the next few days. Feedback would be appreciated. Offers of money would be even more appreciated.


The Dutiful Son
By Nikolaus Maack

"Y'ever been to prison, kid?"

"No, man. No."

Everything in the bar glistened like it was coated in oil. Even the few people there had a sheen to them -- part sweat, part air-conditioning.

"You think you could handle prison, kid? If you had to?"

The kid was named Pootey. He dressed like he was daring someone to call him stupid. Backwards baseball cap, white t-shirt, baggie jeans hanging half off his ass to show his boxer shorts, a silver chain around his neck with a miniature hand-grenade pendant.

"I don't know, Victor. I figure, I don't have a lot going for me out here. It's rough. I don't really see how things would be any different inside, you know? It's rough all over."

Victor showed his teeth in a tight, narrow grin. "You'd be dead or giving blowjobs in five minutes. You don't know a fucking thing. That's okay. We all start off knowing sweet fuck all. We all came out of our mothers' cunts like that. It's part of the divine plan."

"You believe in God?" Pootey asked.

"Sometimes," Victor said. "When it's raining, and I've got nothing else to do."

"Okay," Pootey said, not getting it.

Victor was one of those guys that looks like he's a million years old, and is never going to die. Big, fat, but solid, with hands like sledgehammers. He wasn't dressed up. Jeans and a black t-shirt, with his gray hair cut short. No jewellery. Dirty sneakers. His face was all smooth folds, with two dead black eyes in the middle, a small slit for a mouth.

"So what do you want the gun for?" Victor asked.

"Protection," Pootey said.

"Protection. From what?"

"Y'know. The street," Pootey said.

"You want to spend five hundred dollars of your money to protect yourself from the street."

"That's right," Pootey said.

"Bullshit. Really, it's none of my fucking business. I could just give the gun to you, take your money. But I'm old, and I don't understand kids like you. What the fuck makes kids like you the way you are?"

"I don't know. What way am I?"

"You're like those new drinks they've got -- premixed drinks, in bottles. I get people coming into my bar, they don't want us to make them a drink. They want to buy pre-made shit, in fucking bottles. Some guy came in yesterday, he wants a Long Island Iced Tea, but he mentions some fucking brand name, says he wants that. In a fucking bottle. I tell him we make a fine Long Island Iced Tea ourselves. No, he says he wants the fucking brand name, and he walks out. What the fuck is that, Pootey? Do you understand that shit?"

"Naw, I don't get it," Pootey said. "I don't drink."

Victor blinked. He looked at the drink sitting next to Pootey's elbow, on the table. Beer in a glass, untouched. Victor waved the bartender over.

"Take the beer, give him a Coke or something," Victor said, then to Pootey, "You should have said something."

"I didn't want to show disrespect."

"Then tell me what you want the fucking gun for."

Pootey didn't say anything. The bartender came back with the Coke, dropped it off, went away. Victor and Pootey sat there in a long silence.

"My father," Pootey finally said. "He's been hitting my mother. Real bad. He gets drunk, and he beats her."

"You going to kill him?"

Pootey paused, winced slightly. "I think so."

"You're buying a gun to kill somebody, you can't be fucking half-way on the thing, kid. It's an all or none deal."

Pootey's muscles tensed up all over, and his face went dark. "Yeah, I'm going to kill him."

Victor leaned back in his chair. "I believe you. Then what? Flee to Mexico?"

"I don't care. I can't let it happen again. She's my mother."

"She can't leave him? She too scared, got no family? Ashamed?"

"She won't leave him," Pootey said. "I try to tell her, but she won't listen. Says she can't go, and... She doesn't want to leave the apartment, and... She's... old."

"It happens," Victor said thoughtfully. "So you're gonna plug your old man, go to jail, break your mother's heart?"

"He'll fucking kill her, next time!"

"All right, all right," Victor said. "I'm just jerking you off a little. Don't cum in my face."

Victor folded his hands together and twiddled his thumbs for a moment, considering Pootey with a solid stare. Then he waved the bartender over again. "What's your dad like to drink?" Victor asked Pootey.

"Rye."

"Give the kid a bottle of rye," Victor said to the bartender.

The man nodded, went away.

"I told you," Pootey said, uncertain, "I don't drink."

"I remember," Victor said cheerfully.

The bartender came back, put the bottle on the table, and left.

"You give this gift to your father," Victor said, leaning forward. "And you give this gift to your mother." Under the table, he passed a gun over to Pootey. The boy quickly pocketed it. "When your dad gets sloshed and starts a fight, she'll have a little something in her corner. Tell her to wait til he's close. No fucking William Tell shit. What with her bruises, neighbours knowing everything, cops won't give a fuck about some dead asshole. Battered spouse syndrome or some shit -- saw it on CNN. Means a wife can shoot a husband if the husband's a fucking prick. Pretty sweet deal, really."

"I could shoot him, and she could say she did it," Pootey suggested.

"No, kid, she has to do it. Because you do it, after, she'll crack, and she'll NARC on your ass. That's just what marriage does to a person. Even as your pop is beating on her, some fucked up piece of her remembers the guy that convinced her to say 'I do'. That's how it goes."

"The cops will want to know where the gun came from."

"She got it from you. You were concerned. And if they ask you where you got it, you mention the Pretty Penny Pawn Shop. Got that?"

“Pretty Penny Pawn Shop,” Pootie said.

“Right. Down on Nelson street. The place is run by fucking retards. Cops'll buy it."

"What if she doesn't shoot? What if she can't do it?"

"Then you've done your part. You tried. You can't do more than that. Get it? You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make the fucker water ski."

Pootey reached in his pocket, "Your money..."

"Keep it," Victor said. "My father wanted me to be some fucking criminal lawyer. Instead, I became a criminal bartender. But I still like to do a little pro fucking bono now and then." Victor got up out of his chair. "I guess I'm old, and I don't understand a fucking thing, but if I can help out, why the fuck not."

"You're not so old," Pootey said.

"Stop sucking my fucking dick," Victor said pleasantly. "Now finish your Coke, and get the fuck out of my bar."

Victor went into the back office. He just sat for a bit, then started looking at the books for the past week. The numbers were small. If he kept up his pro fucking bono much longer he'd be bust. Still, it made some part of his guts go all warm, so what the hell. Better than drugs.

A few minutes later, the bartender came in. "That kid, he left five hundred bucks on the table."

"What are you telling me for?" Victor asked.

"It's yours, ain't it?"

"Not mine," Victor said.

"But, then, why'd he leave it?"

"I guess he left it for you. He must be one of them big fucking tippers. Appreciates your good service. They're a dying breed, Jack. Count yourself fucking lucky."

Portrait Gallery Protest

I paint portraits. James Moore, the MP representing cultural matters in Canada, recently announced the death of the national portrait gallery project. What is an artist to do under such circumstances?

* * *

James Moore, PC MP
Minister of Canadian Heritage
and Official Languages
House of Commons
Ottawa, ON, K1A 0A6

Dear Mr. Moore,

Please accept the enclosed gift. It's a portrait of you. It is my hope that you will be able to find a place to hang it. Say, in a portrait gallery?

Bringing a portrait gallery to life appears to be extremely complex. Here's my understanding of what has happened, so far. Please correct me if I'm wrong.

1. The Liberal government chose a building for the portrait gallery, right across from Parliament Hill. Work commenced. Roughly $20 million was spent.

2. The Conservatives came to power. They stopped construction.

3. A plan was hatched to move the gallery to Calgary, where Prime Minister Harper has many friends. The government was caught trying to pull this switcheroo. They decided this looked bad.

4. A sketchy bidding process was created. It wasn't exactly transparent - for example, the names of the people on this bidding board were kept secret.

5. When Calgary's bid wasn't ready in time, the deadline was quietly extended.

6. Several solid bids were put forward. For example, Edmonton put forward two bids where the private sector would pay all the bills.

7. All the same, the bidding process was suddenly axed, the bids declared unsuitable, and the project was indefinitely shelved. The announcement of the cancellation was made late on a Friday afternoon to minimize the flack. The excuse given - "economic uncertainty".

8. A few days later, the Conservative government announced an infrastructure spending program to shore up the economy and create jobs. Couldn't the construction of the portrait gallery play a part in such a scheme? Apparently not.

To those of us outside the process, this looks corrupt, incompetent, and bizarre. What is going on? What are you politicians doing? Is there any way to bring you all to your senses? Can I help in some way?

I would really like to see the creation of a portrait gallery. It is my hope this project is not shelved indefinitely. And my craziest dream is that any future work on it isn't quite so Machiavellian.

Please let me know why this process is so convoluted.

Please keep me posted on any future developments.

Please bring the portrait gallery to life.

Sincerely,

Nikolaus Maack

* * *


click photo for a MUCH larger photo.

* * *

If you're an artist, follow my example. Paint a portrait of James Moore and mail it to him, along with a letter suggesting the minister of culture might actually want to support culture. There are plenty of photos of Mr. Moore to work from.

Two Ottawa Strangers Update

Looks like Sarah Graydon was in my neighbourhood.


Photo taken Tuesday November 11th.

Update to this previous post.

Two Ottawa Strangers on Facebook

Me: We saw graffiti by the Ottawa river that read "Sarah Graydon is a whore". Then we looked you up on Facebook. The end.

* * *

Sarah: There's more then one Sarah Graydon in Ottawa you fucking dick.

* * *

Me: Yes.

* * *

Sarah: So why did you send me this message? Where was this?

* * *

Me: It was under a parkway bridge, down near the river, where I walk my dogs. It was painted on a wall.

I was walking my dogs with my wife and we saw the graffiti. And I said, jokingly, "I wonder who Sarah Graydon is? Maybe I should look her up in the phone book."

She laughed and said, "Look her up on Facebook."

So I punched in "Sarah Graydon" and your profile was obviously in Ottawa. So I sent you a message.

It struck me as vaguely funny. And your response ("fucking dick") made my wife and I laugh. So now everyone is happy.

Well, except maybe you. And maybe some other Sarah Graydon.

* * *

Sarah: Thank you for ruining my evening. I'm glad it has amused you.

* * *

Me: This sort of thing shouldn't ruin your evening. It's entirely random. Assuming it's not you.

* * *

Sarah: I know Graffiti aritists in Ottawa and someone probably decided it would be funny to put that up or they were pissed or drunk. Can you give me a better location so we can go over it? Is this a big piece?

* * *

Me: It's just a marker scrawl. Nothing big. No "artist" did this. I'll send you a picture of it. I just walked by it with my dogs and snapped two photos.


Before.


After.

As for the location... Hmm.

Here's a map.

There's a bike path that goes under the bridge there.

Credit where it's due: my wife Michelle put the map thing together for me.

* * *

Sarah: Thank you!

How Satan Works

I've uploaded a higher quality version of my little "How Satan Works" film. You'll need Quicktime. The sound quality is a lot better than the compressed YouTube version I posted a while back.

Someone remind me to get off my ass and work on the other movie thing I have stuck in my head.