The Merry Pranked, Along with Tripping on Tears Is His First Serious Foray Into Novel Writing

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM DAVID RUSK

Tripping on Tears The Marquis Mark

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, other than those clearly in the public domain, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Neither this book nor any portions of it may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without the prior permission in writing of the author.

Cover design by Rhea Rusk

CONTENTS Also from David Rusk Title Page Copyright Dedication

chapter ONE chapter TWO chapter THREE chapter FOUR chapter FIVE chapter SIX chapter SEVEN chapter EIGHT chapter NINE chapter TEN chapter ELEVEN chapter TVELVE chapter THIRTEEN chapter FOURTEEN chapter FIFTEEN chapter SIXTEEN chapter SEVENTEEN chapter EIGHTEEN chapter NINETEEN chapter TWENTY chapter TWENTY-ONE chapter TWENTY-TWO

Excerpt from Tripping on Tears About the Author

To Rhea

chapter ONE

“son-OF-a-bitch. Count Chocula. I used to love this shit.” Morgan Neil looked over to Sal Lunkin, a big, intimidating oaf of a man in his mid-fifties and one of his oldest associates. Tired of waiting, Sal had begun randomly opening cardboard boxes in the grocery store’s back room. Presently he had a shit-eating grin on his face, as he proudly held up a box of Count Chocula cereal from his latest cardboard victim. Morgan was equally as bored, but unlike Sal had learned the value of patience; in his line of business, patience was required. “I was more of a Boo Berry man myself,” he said. “Fuckin’ right,” said Sal. “Now Franken Berry, he’s a pussy.” Morgan smiled; was he really having this conversation? He checked his watch; it was about three; the hour was late. What the hell was taking them so long? He knew he shouldn’t be here, waiting to do what he was about to do, but tonight was special, requiring his personal attention; Joe deserved at least that after all they’d been through. As Sal opened the box of Count Chocula and proceeded to wolf down handfuls of its contents, Morgan remained vigilant, waiting and listening. He heard Joe long before his two henchmen dragged the bloody mess that had once been one of his top lieutenants through the back room’s impact swinging doors. It was obvious that in

attempting not to keep this appointment with him, Joe had put up quite a fight; one he’d obviously, and thankfully, lost. The two henchmen, soldiers in his vast organization, whom he recognized, but didn’t quite know by name, were dragging Joe, each one of them holding on to one of his arms. “What the fuck took you so long?” asked Morgan. “We got here as soon as we could, boss. Didn’t mean to upset you.” Morgan could both sense and see the worry and fear on the two men’s faces. He loved the fact his presence could intimidate, and despite the fact they were doing him a solid tonight, they still feared him. What they didn’t know was that after witnessing tonight’s performance, a rare personal appearance by him at just such a gathering, Morgan would probably have them both killed; while they thought they were earning brownie points with the big boss, they were really becoming a couple of loose ends that at some point would need to be tied up. “He say anything?” “He ain’t sayin’ shit,” said one of the men, as they both let go of Joe, giving him a little push that sent him sprawling to the cold concrete floor, where he rolled, landing hard on his stomach. Morgan began circling his friend; he knew his actions were predatory, because they were. He was circling the kill, savoring the moment. For some men the decision to kill is difficult and comes with all sorts of moral psychological considerations. That was never the case with him; killing came naturally and the act of killing never cost him a moment’s sleep. Actually, what cost him many moments of sleep was when he failed to kill when he knew he should have. Mercy never did sit well with him. Morgan watched as Joe slowly propped himself up on his hands and knees; it was a struggle, he was no spring chicken, and by the looks of it he’d taken a bit of a beating; he struggled but he got there, and looked up at his friend, who was still slowly circling him. “C’mon Morgan,” said Joe. “This is bullshit. It’s me, Joe, man. You’re out of your mind.” With as much force as he could muster, Morgan kicked Joe in the stomach; it was enough to send him flipping over onto his back, once again hitting the cold concrete hard; the kick and the impact with the concrete helping to knock the wind out of him. He whimpered in pain, just as soon as he caught his breath. This brought a smile to Morgan’s face as he now knelt down to better address his friend/victim. “If you were someone else, Joe, I’d understand,” said Morgan. “This ain’t your first time to the party, although, I guess it’s your first time on the sad side of the party. You fucked up; you know it and you know the price.” Morgan stood up and moved to the trash compactor’s controls that dangled from a thick wire a few feet from the large metal doors of the compactor itself. Scattered around it were broken down cardboard boxes that had yet to be fed into its waiting maw. Joe watched Morgan closely, the sudden realization of his fate showing in the fear crossing his face. When Morgan’s men had picked him up and roughed him up, he pretty much knew death awaited, but he’d hoped it would be simple, like a bullet to the back of the head - simple and quick. Morgan’s sudden interest in the compactor however, held a different story; a different death; not so quick and simple, but terrifying. “These things are amazing,” said Morgan, “very practical in an establishment such as this.” “C’mon, Morgan, no,” pleaded Joe.

Morgan just smiled. “It’s for cardboard, you see? Everyone’s going green. Need to save the environment and such. City’s a fucking cesspool and we’re worried about saving it for the kiddies. Today’s youth. Future fucking sleaze balls and crack whores, and we’re worried that in ten to twenty years they won’t be able to take a deep breath. We’re worried about that, Joe, worried about their capacity to breath. Pretty fucking thoughtful of us, wouldn’t you say?” Morgan moved over to his friend, whose eyes never left him. He knelt down. “So, I’ve got to ask you Joe, what have you got against breathing?” “Fuck you, Morgan.” Joe knew the score. Many times he’d been the one kneeling down looking at the bloodied man and taunting him. He’d never gone the compactor route, this was something new, but, nevertheless, those he’d taunted ended up just as dead. Some had gone to the great beyond with some form of dignity, accepting their fate quietly, while others had pleaded and cried for their lives, losing whatever dignity they might have had. Joe knew the score; he wasn’t going to see tomorrow, no matter what he said or how he acted. He was beaten and outnumbered and whether he liked it or not, was probably going to see the inside of that compactor. When he was in Morgan’s position, he’d shown no mercy, and didn’t expect the man who caught him to be that cold and ruthless to show him any. Still they had history together. “Shoot me, Morgan. Just get it over with. For old time’s sake.” “You’re pathetic, Joe. How many guys you seen me take down over the years that thought they could take my place? How many we put in the ground? What made you think you were smarter than anyone else, forchristsakes?” Joe just looked up at his friend. “Examples have to be made, Joe,” Morgan said, standing up, “and I got to tell you, Joe, thanks for helping me make this point; seems you still have some use to me after all.” Without saying another word, Morgan turned to Sal and nodded. Before Joe knew what was happening, Sal and the two henchmen were on him. Despite Sal’s size, he moved with a great deal of speed and grace. It took Joe a couple of seconds to register the shiny object in Sal’s hand; a meat cleaver. Before he could put up much of a struggle, Sal had brought the meat cleaver down, severing his hand from his arm at the wrist. It sliced through quickly and cleanly, seconds ahead of the pain that came with the realization of what had just happened. Joe screamed out in pain; it only served to amuse his tormentors. Blood was spurting everywhere; he looked at the stump where his hand had been and it took a couple of seconds for his mind to register that that was in fact his arm missing its hand. The fun had begun. “Get him into this thing, before he bleeds out,” ordered Morgan, who was standing by the compactor’s open doors. “He doesn’t deserve an easy death.” Joe was beaten; he didn’t even try to fight as the two henchmen and Sal picked him up, carried him to the compactor and tossed him in. It was cold and hard in the compactor, and smelled of garbage; definitely an inglorious end. The metal doors slammed shut encasing him in darkness. He was still far too much alive in his own estimation; Morgan was going to win again. “Don’t ever make the mistake of believing you’re smarter than me,” said Morgan as he reached for the compactor’s controls. Those in attendance weren’t sure if he was talking to them or just to himself. Sal had his ear up against the metal doors, listening hard. “He ain’t moving around in there, boss. You think he’s dead? I’d be kicking the shit out of these doors trying to get out if I were him.”

“He’s alive,” said Morgan. “Joe was always very practical. Wasting the energy to kick the shit out of the doors isn’t going to help him and he knows it. Pointless to even try. What he’s waiting for is this.” Morgan pushed the large green button that immediately kicked the compactor into service. The gears made a grinding noise as it started up, and a whine escaped from it as the compactors within started making their way towards one another, scraping against the metal of the unit itself. The four men stood there waiting and listening, as the compactor went about its grisly task. Finally a muffled scream was heard, bringing a smile to Morgan’s face. “Told you he wasn’t dead, although he is now,” said Morgan. Morgan turned to the two henchmen, who while happy to be there following orders, appeared a bit squeamish; they weren’t used to killing like this. Morgan couldn’t help wondering if for the first time in their brief careers, they’d finally acknowledged internally who and what they were. The fact they looked more than a little disturbed, told Morgan he’d have to arrange their deaths a little quicker than planned. Times had changed, and it wasn’t always easy to find good help, at least amongst the young generation of killers and degenerates. They suffered from consciences and a nasty habit of saying too much to the wrong people. “Normally they put safety measures in these machines,” he said to the two henchmen, breaking them out of whatever thoughts were racing through their minds. “Just ask Sal, it was a bitch to disable. A real bitch, right Sal?” Sal just nodded in agreement. “Finish up in here,” ordered Morgan. “You know what to do. I’ll be outside.” Morgan exited the back door of the grocery store onto the loading dock. It was a beautiful summer’s night, although out here, in close proximity to the dumpsters, all he could smell was garbage. He knew he’d taken a chance coming out tonight; it was important he always had deniability – an alibi, but in this case, Joe, one of his oldest friends and partners in crime, he just couldn’t let it be taken care of through the usual channels. Morgan pulled a cigar out of his jacket’s inside breast pocket and fumbled in his pockets looking for matches to light it. He owed himself a good smoke, and maybe it would help detract from the smell of the garbage. He shouldn’t have come out tonight, but what the hell; in the long run no one would really give a damn about the death of a career criminal and killer; they’d know he was responsible, but like all the other murders committed over the decades that they knew he was responsible for, they’d be hard pressed to pin it on him. He felt good; time had passed, yet he hadn’t lost his edge. Discovering Joe’s plans had proven that. As far as he was concerned, he still had it and the city was still his for however long he wanted it.

Moonlight shone through the broken glass of the warehouse’s windows, reflecting off the remnants of its shattered offerings littering the floor. At one time it had housed a thriving business; was a hub of activity and well maintained. That’d been a long time ago. Now it stood quiet and forgotten; the many years of neglect leaving it to slowly fall apart, or worse, experience vandalism at the hands of whatever wretches found their way through its doors, seeking shelter. It had experienced a lot, but tonight was different; a macabre scenario was playing out on its floor.

Leonard Cabot struggled with his bonds. He also struggled with his thoughts. He was desperate to figure out what was happening. Everything in front of him was a blur; a surreal blur, colors and light melting into one another, swirling all around him; and within that menagerie, from time to time he caught a glimpse of something, possibly human, moving into and out of his field of blurred vision. He hoped the movement represented something human; possibly dressed in white, or at least it was a white streak it left behind as it went about its business. It seemed female in the graceful way it moved; he also detected long dark hair that seemed to blur and streak along behind it, but then again, based on the state his mind was in, he really couldn’t be sure of anything he thought or saw. And he had no idea how this could be. He tried to move again, but couldn’t. Something was holding him in place, but what? Leonard tried hard to think; there was a good chance he knew what was restraining him, he just had to remember. Where had he been tonight? Leonard closed his eyes. He had to block out the imagery that was presently preying on his mind; overwhelming his senses and making it almost impossible to think. It wasn’t much help; swirling colors, images and shapes still haunted his imagination, threatening to break him; somehow they had worked their way into his head, determined to be seen and experienced. He knew he had to concentrate; whether it was primal instinct or his mind was picking up on something subliminally, he knew something was wrong. As he took in a visual display of sights and sounds he’d never experienced before, he could sense that something terrible lay within them. It was a work night; he knew that much - or at least he thought he knew that much. He was lonely and had been ever since his wife of twenty-one years had left him, taking their kids with her. While they really hadn’t been getting along for several years before she left, she still offered some form of companionship; he hadn’t realized this until he found himself truly on his own. What else? he thought. That’s right. He’d decided to make the most of his current situation. For the first time since his early twenties, Leonard was a free man; free to explore relationships with whomever he desired, just so long as they desired him back. Seeing as he’d made the mistake of marrying his college sweetheart, and before they’d met, had limited sexual experiences besides what he could do to himself, Leonard had decided the relationships he wanted to explore would be solely physical. He’d been a faithful husband, although if he admitted it, in his heart he’d been unfaithful, so now that he was free to explore, he wanted to know what it was like to share a bed with other women – lots of other women. Despite being rusty when it came to picking up women, he’d found a bar that seemed to cater to his needs; a place frequented by women within his age range; woman who’d also experienced marital failure and were just as lonely as he was; women who were easy to pick up, as they didn’t care whom they went home with, just so long as for one or two nights they could erase the loneliness in their lives. Sure, they were all a pathetic lot but so be it; in actual fact, they were just playing the hand life had dealt them. Sex? he thought. What was happening to him now was somehow related to sex, but how? The bar, he believed it was called Tabby’s, had been good to him; he didn’t go home or take home every woman he chatted up, but his percentage was high enough to keep him coming back. He’d discovered the joy of meaningless sex, and it suited his purposes. But she was different. That’s it, he thought through his haze. She didn’t belong there.

Leonard thought hard. He knew this was important; possibly related to his current predicament, if only he could figure out exactly what that predicament might be. She’d been different, but how? Tabby’s seemed to cater to a lot of lost souls with a lot of mileage under their belts. So, she had stood out. He thought hard. The way he figured it, she’d been about twenty-five or older; definitely not thirty. The fact she was young brought her a lot of attention. She’d also been quite attractive and sexy; there were a lot of women at Tabby’s you’d consider sexy, but unlike them, her sexiness was fresh. She didn’t have the same ‘been there, done that’ aura about herself that many of the others were trying to hide. There also seemed to be less pain hidden behind her dark eyes; and what beautiful eyes they were. Leonard had watched her as she moved to the bar, a beautiful, dark-haired beauty who exuded sex with every movement; and seemingly unaware of the fact. If he recalled correctly he had followed his usual routine of undressing her with his eyes, but had run into trouble; he couldn’t remember how smooth the body of a flawless twenty- year-old could look, nor how firm and upright her breasts might naturally sit, nor the gentle slope of her sex, augmented by the fullness of her hips; he hadn’t seen anything like that in a long time, and even as he undressed her with his eyes, he knew he wasn’t doing her any justice. What had he thought, he tried desperately to remember. Oh yeah, if only I was twenty years younger. Leonard watched as she ordered a drink and took note that he wasn’t alone in watching her; many of the men in the bar had noticed her; the women too, but with less enthusiasm; this woman brought back memories of first conquests and the first time these men had ever seen a woman naked and willing to sleep with them, but for the women at Tabby’s she was a reminder of what had once been, and how no matter how much the men around them claimed they liked a mature woman, deep down the firmness of youth still held their attention and desires. He could understand the regular women’s subtle animosity towards her; if some young guy, who had yet to develop that paunch around his mid-drift, had walked into the bar and all the ladies took notice, he’d probably be a little peeved; he didn’t need a reminder of what once was, only to face the reality of what is. Leonard watched her for a bit, lost in the nostalgia of youth, but then turned his attention away. There was no point in leering like a fool. She was obviously in the wrong place and would figure that out sooner than later. It was only after he had set his sights on an attractive forty something business woman sitting at a table by the bar’s front window, and was prepared to make his way over to her for introductions, that the younger woman approached him. He saw her coming around the end of the bar; she appeared to be heading for him, but that was impossible; his heart raced a little faster and he questioned the integrity of his blood pressure medicine, as he realized he’d been right and she was approaching him. His throat tightened, and he had to take a quick sip of his scotch, to wash away the dryness that had suddenly afflicted it; he hadn’t been this nervous in a long time. Despite having been out of the dating world for more than two decades, he’d fallen into a rhythm at Tabby’s that worked for him; he knew he was no great prize, but also knew, or at least believed, the woman he approached felt the same. They were mutually past their ‘best before’ dates, so they were on equal footing. She threw the bell curve completely out of whack. He’d expected her to ask him something frivolous, like where is there a bar with people under thirty, or something like that when she’d actually asked him, “Buy me a drink?”

She laughed a little as he just looked at her. She had a smile that would have had him signing over the mortgage if he hadn’t all ready lost the house to his ex-wife. He figured he must have looked like a deer caught in headlights. “A girl gets thirsty,” she said. God, she was beautiful. Leonard had forgotten the business woman by the front window, although deep down he knew they were better suited for one another. He’d heard about ‘leagues.’ His teenage daughter had brought them up while talking on the phone with her girlfriends. “He’s not in your league,” or “You’re out of his league,” stuff like that. Like any good parent, he stressed there was no such thing as leagues; he’d been full of shit, although he hadn’t realized it at the time. Being in a long term relationship, comfortable in your togetherness, and the predictability of your love making, made you forget a lot of things. Staring at this beautiful, young woman in front of him, he knew ‘leagues’ existed and knew he wasn’t in hers. The woman was looking at him; she was waiting for him to do something. “What’s your poison?” he asked. He knew it sounded kind of cheesy, but it was the best he could do. He had no idea why she was talking to him; why she was paying attention to him at all. He just wasn’t prepared for this; he bought her a drink. That’s it, he thought, as he continued to try and move. He’d spent most of the night talking with her - small talk, nothing important. All he could remember was thinking, why in the world is this woman talking to me? He recalled scanning the faces of other men in the bar and seeing and sensing their jealousy. It made him feel good. So what had happened? She’d asked him to come to her place. That’s right. She’d invited him home, and he’d almost blown it. He couldn’t believe what was happening and had mentioned to her that he didn’t pay for sex; wasn’t interested in paying for sex. He figured she had to be a prostitute, why else would she be hitting on him and wanting to take him home? At first she looked hurt, but then smiled. She knew why he’d said it. She assured him she wasn’t a pro and was just looking for a good time. He’d believed it. After that it got foggy. She’d given him something – a pill. He hadn’t wanted to take it, but was afraid he’d look pathetic and old if he didn’t. What had they said in his day, a “square?” He couldn’t believe this young, beautiful woman wanted to sleep with him, and he hadn’t wanted to ruin that by not playing along. He wanted her, and he was sure she knew it; he was also sure she knew that gave her the upper hand; he’d come this far and now he wanted to see what he had imagined when he’d undressed her with his eyes; see just how far off he had been. He swallowed the pill in her car, which had been parked, strangely, several blocks from the bar. She drove off, and that was the last he remembered; now his mind was a psychedelic mess; the effort it had taken to remember all that had left him in a sweat; he had no idea what was going on. All he knew was he’d fallen down the rabbit hole and was in a surreal world that his mind couldn’t comprehend. Where was he? What the hell was going on? Leonard opened his eyes and once again embraced the flow of colors, shapes and swirls that played out in front of him. It must be the pill, he thought. It had to wear off eventually. The somewhat human blur came back into his line of corrupted vision; streaks of white and black moving towards him, and stretching out as if leaving a trail behind it.

“Who? Wha...?” he started to say, when suddenly a piercing pain struck the palm of his hand; the one that up till now he could feel, but at the same time couldn’t move. Aside from his scream, all he could hear was the sound of a little girl’s giggle.

The floor was sticky. She’d never liked that, even though it was part of the process; there was no way not to get dirty. It all washed off anyway. She giggled.

chapter TWO

leslie MARSHALL exited the Lakeview Examiner’s building, his laptop bag comfortably by his side, and started making his way down McMurtry Street. It was a beautiful night, the temperature caught somewhere between the end of summer and not yet the full advance of fall and winter; on nights like this he enjoyed walking the few blocks from work to his condo, taking in the ambience of the city. He considered change, as it was on his mind this evening. Now, in his mid-thirties his perspective of the city that at one time had offered the promise of excitement and discovery when he was younger, was gone, replaced by a sense of comfortable predictability and quiet; the city was always alive, but its sounds, which annoyed others from the suburbs for instance, seemed to soothe him; he found the quiet within the chaos. Unlike the majority of his friends, he hadn’t relocated to those dreaded suburbs; possibly because unlike them, he had yet to marry, trading in today’s reality for the pre-requisite white picket fence, mini-van and two point five kids. It seemed to him that once you were married and reproducing the city had no more use for you and spit you out to the land of strip plazas and mini-malls. His greatest fear, one that kept him up at nights, was the thought of suburbia. Leslie was enjoying the night and his walk, but an underlying tension was causing some mental distress; he knew he was in for it and he half dreaded the moment; at the same time, he also looked forward to getting it over with. Either way, if what he suspected was awaiting him, the night was going to turn ugly when he got home.

It didn’t take long before he was at front of his building; one of the more exclusive residences in the city; a reminder he had done well in life. “Evening, Mr. Marshall,” said Maxwell, the doorman as he opened the front doors upon his approach. “Evening, Max.” “Working late again?” “Not really, just avoiding life.” “As you know sir, you can run, but you can’t hide.” Leslie’s stomach tightened; signs of apprehension. Maxwell knew his modus operandi well; they’d been together for quite some time; sadly, one of his longest and most successful personal relationships. He made his way through the door. “’Night Max,” he said, not waiting for a response; luckily the elevator was waiting for him. Of course, he thought, any other night and I’d be waiting. Leslie had been avoiding life for quite some time, but the problem with avoiding, was it was impossible to sustain. As Maxwell had so eloquently put it, “You can run, but you can’t hide.” He hated clichés, especially when they were right. Leslie hesitated outside his front door. The time for avoidance was over. He could all ready sense her presence. He opened the door to darkness; maybe he had been wrong. He flipped on the light switch to the familiar sight of his tastefully decorated three bedroom apartment, plus den. He’d spent a lot of time pulling the place together; it was his sanctuary. It was masculine, but not overtly; there were touches here and there that often surprised many of his dates; well maybe not necessarily touches, but an attention to detail and order. He didn’t know what they expected to find in a man’s apartment, but always seemed pleasantly surprised when they saw how he lived - elegantly. It was home; it felt good, except for one little flaw – his latest lover, Donna Hudson, who had been sitting in the dark waiting for him, pissed off. Sooner or later he always drove them to the brink of their sanity. “This is a pleasant surprise,” he said. His voice was even and calm; the dance had begun. “Where were you? You knew tonight was important to me.” “Sorry, working late.” Donna let out a derisive laugh. “Working late? What, an emergency in the entertainment section?” Leslie dropped his keys in the antique Chinese porcelain bowl, with an armorial crest he hadn’t bothered researching, that he kept by the door. It seemed frivolous that he was using it as such, but also rebellious in its own way; a little fuck you to the world of antiques and those who took them too seriously. He took a second to put down his laptop bag. The whole time he could feel her anger cutting into him, her stare intense and demanding. “So, how is everyone?” he asked. That should do it, he thought. “Fuck you, Leslie,” said Donna, standing up. “I’m tired of your bullshit. Tired of it all.” He just looked at her, saying nothing. This was what he expected; what he had, in his own indifferent way, orchestrated. He knew his part well; it wasn’t to contribute, but to take what was rightfully being dished out. The only problem with that, as in the past, the less he said only seemed to make her angrier. “That’s it. It’s over,” she said, as she made her way to the front door. Leslie just watched her. He’d expected more, but then again, he knew Donna; she was a class act; she was emotional but wouldn’t get as emotional as some of the women he’d known in the past.

She hesitated at the door, her hand on the doorknob. He remained quiet, waiting. Donna turned to face him. “I’d say have a nice life, but with you, that just isn’t possible, is it?” she said. “I guess what I really want to say is...” Leslie continued watching her, silently. He didn’t want to interfere. This would be a cathartic moment for her, and he figured he at least owed her that. “...damn you. Just go to hell, Leslie.” Donna opened the door and left, surprisingly not slamming it behind her; she was a class act. Leslie made his way over to the mid-century English Cocktail Trolley he’d purchased with the help of another lover, although at the moment her name escaped him, and poured himself a Macallan Highland Scotch Single Malt, neat; to his mind, comfort food. He knew he should chase after Donna and apologize; she’d paid her dues, spending more than a year with him – his longest relationship with a woman in a long time – but he wouldn’t. He took a sip of his scotch. Donna was smart and patient. She’d been the first woman in a long time who actually called him on his shit. All those little games he played – couldn’t help playing – she saw through it all; and, for a little while that had been good for him. But what is it they say about an addict? They often had to hit rock bottom before they’re truly ready to change their ways. Some probably hit rock bottom and rode their demons straight to hell, he figured, never making any excuses for their flaws. If Donna, who had made an effort couldn’t get through to him, chances are he’d unknowingly bought a one way ticket to the cellar. He’d made a conscious decision to be late tonight. She’d been right; there was very rarely any breaking news in the world of entertainment. It was a pretty straight forward gig. Donna had planned a dinner with some important people in her life, co-workers he believed, and had made him promise he’d attend. She’d also given him more than ample notice just to make sure he didn’t make any plans or could come up with any excuses. Even as he sat in his office working on his latest novel, he knew exactly what he was doing – knew he was letting her down, yet again. The funny thing was - or was it the saddest thing - he didn’t care. Things had been getting a little too serious for comfort. After a year of being a committed couple, Donna shouldn’t have expected less. What she didn’t know was she was asking too much of him. He had hit his threshold. So he had skipped the dinner aware there’d be fallout and it’d be the straw that broke the camel’s back. He’d seen it before with other women, and had actually known then when it was coming. Donna had been different. It’d taken several straws to break her back, but he had finally achieved that goal. Some of us just aren’t cut out for relationships, he thought as he sipped his scotch. In truth, he didn’t want to be the way he was; he just couldn’t help it. His demons ran deep and had been with him for quite some time. Another long lasting relationship, he thought. Leslie made his way to the study. It, like the rest of the house, was tastefully decorated; anyone roaming the halls of his condo would determine he was a man of culture and taste, which he believed he was. He discovered a long time ago that he enjoyed a certain lifestyle and had worked hard to ensure he could afford to live that lifestyle. It hadn’t always been easy, based on his childhood, but he had risen through the ranks and through sheer determination found himself in a place where he no longer had to worry about a pay check. His work at the newspaper was something he enjoyed, and would do for as long as he still enjoyed it. It also gave him access to information he required from time to time – his hidden passion or was it his hidden hatred. He’d been accumulating the file for years and hadn’t the slightest idea what he wanted to do with it; it was an obsession; he just didn’t know if that obsession was going to lead him anywhere.

Music seemed to soothe his soul. He moved to the player and popped in a favorite Diana Ross and the Supremes anthology CD. He quickly programmed it to start at track 13, and then shuffle after that. Nothing but heartaches, Ooh, nothing but heartaches, He brings nothing but heartaches... The Supremes were preaching to the choir, he thought as he allowed their sound, the sound that always reminded him of his youth and his Dad, wash over him, relieving some of the tension from his body. His Dad had been a fan; he could remember his Dad standing him between two speakers in their family room and putting on The Supremes I Hear a Symphony; telling him to close his eyes and let the beauty of the music engulf and overwhelm him. His Dad believed anything Motown had the power to wash away one’s troubles; he’d never forgotten that, and now used the Detroit Sound to help relax him; it not only brought a certain energy to his being, but an element of nostalgia; the music brought with it all the good memories.

Leslie made his way to the desk, taking just a brief moment to scan one of the bookshelves featuring his Detective Brannigan mystery series. He was presently working on the seventh volume featuring the adventures of his flawed Chicago Detective; a popular series of books that had rewarded him financially. It’d been the second book that had truly taken off, hitting the best seller lists, and since then there’d been no looking back. And Leslie loved it. He’d learned early in life that if you’re not smart life controls you and can take you places you don’t want to go. He could remember the feelings of helplessness; it still cut him to the core. How he’d gotten where he was today, based on all he’d seen, he had no idea. What he did know was that when he sat down at his word processor and began typing, he was the one in control. He was God. His characters did what he told them to do and he held the power of life or death over all of them. Sure, sometimes the story took a weird turn and they led him down an unexpected path, thinking they were in charge, but for the most part they were his playthings, owing their very existence to him and him alone. He had no idea why the series had become so popular. His detective, Brannigan, was flawed and even at times unlikeable. Much like him, he couldn’t deal with relationships and was constantly losing the good women who came into his life; he drank a little too much and even flirted with drug use. He was bright, but not Sherlock Holmes smart; and while he was a tough guy, he didn’t always win in all his confrontations. He was human. Maybe that was the appeal? Brannigan was also haunted by his own nemesis, a street thug who had risen to the rank of crime boss; a character he created named Anastasia, after Albert Anastasia, the Lord High Executioner for the Mob in its glory days. No matter what Anastasia did, Brannigan couldn’t bring him to justice; no one in his books could. Of late he’d been toying with the idea of making his protagonist simply kill Anastasia; sure, he’d be making him a killer, but maybe that’s what was required. He’d been patient long enough; maybe it was time to take justice into his own hands. Possibly it was the only way to resolve some problems. Leslie leaned back in his chair and contemplated that thought again. Is it really Brannigan I’m thinking about? he wondered. Sometimes the lines between fiction and reality blurred. Was this one of those times? “Hey Jude,” said Leslie, as his five-year-old, snow white cat and companion, Jude, jumped on his desk. Leslie picked her up and began patting her. It was their routine. She’d allow

17 him to pat her for about a minute before she’d have enough and then retire to the corner of his desk and snuggle in as he turned his attention to writing. He hit the space bar on his laptop and the computer screen came to life. It was open on a word document, the cursor blinking at the end of the last word he had written, taunting him. Did he have anything more to offer the world of literature, or was he played out? Leslie watched it blinking. The Supremes and Love Child seemed to be keeping the stress at a manageable level. He’d faced this taunt many times in the past. In many of those cases he’d succeeded, but not tonight. His mind was elsewhere, as it always was when relationship failure reared its ugly head. He knew why he was a failure at it; he was aware of his demons, yet despite that knowledge, he couldn’t let go; had never been able to. There’d be no writing tonight; the cursor would stay still. His mind just couldn’t take any more fiction. Instead, he clicked onto a JPEG file and waited for his computer screen to fill with the image of his primary demon. He took a sip from his scotch and stared intently at the man on the screen; it had been so long ago, but it had been a wound that had never healed. He leaned back in his chair, listening to the sounds of his past and allowing his mind to embrace the memories that were in fact his longest relationship and his downfall where personal growth was concerned.

chapter THREE

the SUN rose over the city, offering the promise of yet another day. The denizens of the night - the troublemakers who brought about fear, trouble, and sometimes death - had retired to their lairs to await their time, for they knew night always came back around. Daytime, although promising hope, hid enough horrors of its own, but also served as a filter for the night, cleaning up the ugliness that night embraced and wrought. Detective Ray Michaels pulled up at Grant’s Grocery, one store in a relatively small chain of independent grocery stores that fought for their market share in Lakeview’s hustling metropolis. He was met with the usual scene, any number of curious onlookers trying to see past the police tape and officers acting as guards, for a glimpse at the mayhem that had brought those in an official capacity here this morning. Some had probably been heading for Grant’s, maybe to pick up something for lunch on the way to work, had run short on half-and-half for their morning coffee, or had just figured out morning was a good time to shop if they didn’t like crowds. Others were probably the curious who were simply passing by on their way to work and just couldn’t resist standing around gawking, like the police were going to eventually fill them in on what had happened, or tear down the yellow tape and give them a guided tour of the crime scene, complete with commentary and speculation. Ray had never understood the appeal of standing outside the yellow tape and staring at nothing; he figured that in some small way, it must make certain

people feel like they’re part of something. Of course, he’d never truly know, because his entire career had allowed him to duck under that yellow tape and take in the scene – and many scenes that he wished he’d been kept from witnessing. “Detective,” said one of the uniformed patrol officers standing guard by the grocery store’s front doors, as Ray pushed his way through the gathered crowd and proceeded to duck under the tape. He’d been in homicide longer than he could remember; one of the benefits was that he very rarely had to flash his credentials; he was well known, and as far as he knew, well liked by his fellow officers. “Stanton,” he said, recognizing the patrolman from his precinct house. He entered the grocery store. Standing by the door and front windows were about eight employees and the store’s manager, all talking to one another, no doubt speculating as to what they had found this morning; a few were curiously taking in the activity of the police officers moving around their establishment; for the first time in their lives they were on the other side of the yellow tape. “Morning, Detective,” said Ernie Tolbin, his division’s newest detective, and as such, youngest. Every time Ray looked at Ernie, he felt old and jaded. Ernie, new to the Detective’s shield, had an aura of hope about him; he had yet to be beaten down by one grisly scene of murder and humankind’s depravity after another, and probably still felt, in some way, that the world and humankind could be saved from itself. Ray envied him that innocence and naivety. He knew it was an illusion, and the kid was eventually going to discover the truth, but he still envied his being at that point where he could still believe. He also knew at some point, Ernie would turn, and he’d either settle into comfortable jadedness, or he’d eventually end up eating the end of his service revolver – that was the true test that waited. “Morning,” said Ray. “This way,” Ernie motioned for him to follow and began heading towards the back of the grocery store. “Shit, if I knew today’s crime scene was here, I would have brought the wife’s list with me. Kill two birds with one stone, as they say,” said Ray. Ernie, who had yet to warm to Ray’s off beat sense of humor in the squad room, just looked back at him with a puzzled look on his face. As far as he knew, Ray wasn’t married, although he’d heard rumors of at least two divorces. “You have a ‘to do’ list, Ernie?” asked Ray. “Not married yet.” “Smart move.” Ernie led Ray into the back room, where police officers from the division’s crime scene unit were hard at work, along with Detective Bryan Stork, Ray’s partner of five years. “You’re late,” said Bryan as he noticed his partner coming through the swinging doors. “What can I say, takes me longer to get ready in the morning,” Ray said with a smile. “All of this beauty doesn’t come together on its own. Takes time, partner.” Bryan just chuckled. “If you call that beauty, I’ve got to question your powers of observation, Detective.” “I take it the victim’s still dead? Didn’t pop to life waiting for me? So, what we got?” “Body in the trash compactor,” said Bryan. “Trash compactor?” “I kid you not. C’mon, take a look,” said Bryan leading Ray over to the open metal doors of the store’s cardboard trash compactor.

Ray turned to Ernie. “You see this kid?” Ernie nodded his head, Yes. Ray could see Ernie was shook up by the scene, keeping his distance from the open doors of the trash compactor; he was sure if he had been just a little earlier and had witnessed Ernie’s first look into the contraption, he’d probably have been able to see the light in the young Detective’s eyes turn just a little bit darker. He still sensed hope in the kid and admired his fortitude, but was sure it wouldn’t take too many scenes like this one to turn the tide; at least the kid was going to go down swinging. Ray took a moment to look at the remains of the body in the trash compactor. What had once been human was now a bloodied, almost indecipherable mess. If it wasn’t for all the blood and crushed bones visible in the mess, from this angle at least, it would have been hard to determine that the thing lying in there had once been human. Ray had seen a lot in his career, and could also honestly, and unfortunately, point out this wasn’t the most disturbing. “Damn, that’s a body?” he said quietly. “Yeah, that’s a body,” said Bryan. “Human mulch. M.E. on her way?” “Running late, just like you. Should I put two and two together?” “You’ll always get three, partner,” said Ray. “Anyone unaccounted for who works here? Didn’t show up for work this morning? Or is this some sort of accident? In which case why in the hell are we here?” “According to the store’s manager, everyone is accounted for,” said Ernie. “Those who weren’t scheduled for work today, he’s contacted by phone. Everyone’s alive and well.” “So where does that leave us? Figure somebody went to all the trouble to break in here and throw someone into the compactor? Seems like a lot of work. Easier ways to take someone out or dispose of a body. Jesus, this is going to be a headache to identify. What the hell’s left in there to go by?” “Way I figure it Ray, we got ourselves a suicide,” said Bryan with a smile. “How you figure that?” “Check this out.” Bryan moved to the trash compactor’s controls, still dangling innocently several feet away. He turned them around for Ray to see. Duct taped to them was a severed hand, cut off at the wrist; one finger raised and resting on the large green ‘start’ button of the controller. “Our culprit,” said Bryan. “Figure it belongs to the body in the compactor.” Ray laughed. “Case closed then boys, looks like suicide.”

Detectives Ray and Bryan headed back to the station house shortly after the Medical Examiner arrived at the crime scene. There was no reason for them to stick around; she had work to do and for the time being no one who worked at the grocery store was saying anything of value. Ray was sure the shock of finding a dead man in their trash compactor had rattled them; they’d need some time to calm down before he and Bryan could make any sense out of what they might be able to offer to the investigation. Based on the hand on the trash compactor controls, Ray was sure it wouldn’t be long before they knew who their victim was; and was pretty sure he might all ready have an idea as to who was responsible. The hand on the controls was a message. The means of the death itself, he didn’t doubt was also a message; and only one man delivered such messages in his town – Morgan Neil.

Ray knew exactly how this case was going to go down. Nobody at the grocery store was going to know anything about the break in; but, then again, based on their investigation, there didn’t appear to be a break in. No signs of forcible entry of any kind, which only meant that someone had left one of the back doors to the store open for the killers to enter. Everyone would deny it, but when they dug deep and hard enough, they’d probably come up with one of the store managers or employees dealing with either a drug or gambling problem. One of them was in over their heads with the wrong people and had finally been asked a favor in return for forgiving their debt or at least creating a sizeable dent in it; or maybe just to save their own life. They’d eventually break and confess to being asked to leave the back door open and may even give up who had asked them for the favor. Chances are, however, they knew whom the ultimate favor was for and wouldn’t offer up any solid information; it was one thing to clear a debt, but another to use that trade off to stamp your own death certificate. Actually, Ray wouldn’t be too surprised that within a week or two, one of the employees of Grant’s Grocery would turn up dead; maybe hit by a car, pushed in front of a subway train; something simple and convenient like that, which would allow them to write off the death as an accident. Building a case against Morgan was next to impossible. At one time he’d been a street thug, but had risen through the ranks and learned how to protect and insulate himself. He might not have been anything more than a muscle bound and murderous psychopath when he started out, but he had grown into his profession and become wiser with old age, which only served to make him that much deadlier - and a little more bullet proof. The police had to play by the rules but he didn’t; because of that the odds always seemed to be in his favor. For instance, Ray was sure that although the body had been tossed into the trash compactor at Morgan’s request, Morgan would have an air-tight alibi and probably wasn’t within ten or twenty miles of the murder scene. He’d never risk putting himself there; not with the network of killers he had cultivated over the decades. No, building a case against Morgan was next to impossible, but they would attempt to do so once again; that was the job. It didn’t take them long to discover their body was that of Joe Weldon, one of Morgan’s oldest buddies and a high-ranking member in his crime organization. Word was all ready out on the streets regarding Joe’s death. As Ray had suspected, this murder was a warning; Morgan wanted the word spread that he was firmly in charge of his organization, and not afraid to clean house no matter whom was suspected of betraying him. And that was the word on the street; Joe had been trying to oust Morgan and take over his empire. He’d paid the price; which also meant he and Bryan would be showing up at a number of other gangland-style slayings over the next couple of weeks. Joe wouldn’t have been trying to take out Morgan alone. He obviously would have enlisted some turncoats to help him - unwittingly having turned to one individual who had squealed to Morgan. Joe would be the first to go, but there’d be more cleaning house on Morgan’s agenda. They'd seen and experienced it before. It was funny just how predictable organized crime figures could be in the way they conducted business. The thought of a rash of murders didn’t trouble Ray as much as it should have. The way he figured it, it would only be a bunch of gangsters and low-lives killing one another, which in a way helped them clean house and save the courts and prisons from over-crowding; and, with each murder Morgan ordered, there was always the possibility of a screw-up. Morgan had been leading a charmed life up till now, but sooner or later he’d take it one step too far and somehow provide them with the evidence they needed to finally put him away for life. If a few low-lives had to die to make that happen, that was a price he was now willing to pay.

It was shortly after it had been reported back to him from the streets that Joe was the owner of the severed hand that the M.E. came back with the same conclusion, having run fingerprints. They had their victim and they knew exactly where to look for their suspects. He and Bryan would hit the streets and do the leg work required to find out who was in the back of the grocery store that night and would do their best to convince those individuals, when finally caught, to give up Morgan; they’d do the same old song and dance, hoping this time they’d get where they wanted to be, but deep down Ray knew they’d probably be facing failure. Morgan was smart; and in this case he hadn’t been afraid to advertise the murder; use it to his ends. It clearly demonstrated one thing, he was not afraid of the police or their investigation. He wasn’t worried and that was what made him so dangerous.

EXCERPT

Tripping on Tears By David Rusk

AVAILABLE NOW

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CHAPTER One

BASED On another’s perception of honor, for the first time in my life, I knew what it was to hate. And not just any hate, but the kind that resides deep down in your soul; a dormant beast that many will never awaken, while many others will have the misfortune of embracing. The hate fueled me. Although I knew I should let it go, somehow, surprisingly, it gave me new purpose – defined the new me. That, however, was not really a good thing. I was pretty sure the hate I’d embraced, the darkness within my soul - was going to be the end of me. And why not? Wasn’t that how it should be? I really had nothing to live for anymore. My life was going to end in darkness, my soul surrounded by hate. If there was any consolation, I guess, it was that before I knew hate, I’d known true love.

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About the Author

An entertainment journalist for over twenty years, David Rusk learned the art of storytelling having written approximately 30 screenplays within the indie film marketplace, having optioned one, Deadly Focus to a Hollywood-based production company and having directed another, Annual Getaway as an independently shot feature film. Returning to his first love, books, The Merry Pranked, along with Tripping on Tears is his first serious foray into novel writing. David Rusk resides in Ontario, Canada with his artist wife, Rhea and is working on his third novel, The Marquis Mark, a modern-day tale incorporating the writings and philosophy of the infamous Marquis de Sade. He can be reached at [email protected].

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