Switched Blade

The mark’s penetrating screams faded to a muted whine as he lay slumped over the basement’s damp floor, a discarded heap of whimpering flesh littering its grimy surface. Not yet a corpse, the loan shark’s fingers twitched, telegraphing an SOS against the concrete’s rough-textured surface as his life’s blood puddled around him.

Some guys keep score; others develop numerical dyslexia when they reach double digits. Nick had lost count of those he’d seen whacked. But beyond tonight, he’d run a tally. No longer the extra piece of muscle tagging along to ratchet up the fear factor, Nick’s first dispatch had elevated his status. He’d finally made one’s bones and would now receive the respect he craved.

Nick had never been in debt to anyone, least of all a Shylock, but he supposed he owed Saul, the mark’s name, a two-bit shyster who’d skimmed the boss’s share of the vig. He’d opened Nick’s account, but not without the help of a sleazeball associate. A punk, who had long planned to pull the rug from under his partner’s feet and ratted him out. Nobody likes a snitch, and where Saul had been il primo corso, Nick’s gut told him, one day soon, his, and the rat fink partner’s paths would cross, and he’d find himself il secondo on some future menu.

The knife was the boss’s idea; one conceived out of pure malice. “Carve him up real good,” Gino had angrily ordered. “I want you to fucking hurt this son of a bitch.”

Judgement dispensed from on high and meant as a visceral warning to others. But if Nick were honest, he’d disliked the manner of Saul’s demise. It wasn’t the close contact that rattled him, or the haunting look fleeing the victim’s eyes as the blade cut deep, slicing an undigested steak dinner. No, it was the cloying, stale odour of Saul’s greasy breath—almost enough to spoil the late-night feed awaiting him on his return to base. A familiar feast cooked up by Gino’s Nonna, of meatballs and sausage, with pasta and her legendary Sunday sauce.

They’d overstayed their welcome, but the adrenaline rush, Nick later compared to a religious experience, had seen him prolong the encounter. Was this how it felt to be a god? The thought had crossed his mind, but not of the so-called caring god who saw his mother puke shit as cancer devoured her soul and frog-marched her to an early grave. Nick had no room for ambiguity. His deity feasted on tortured souls, drooled over fresh sacrifices, and jerked off on the power it had to grant life or death.

“Come on, kid. You did well for a first-timer. Let’s split,” Frankie barked from the shadows. He was there along with Vincenzo, his right-hand man. Insurance in the event of Nick screwing up.

“Yeh. Just give me a minute to tidy up.”

Nick knelt on one knee by what remained of Saul and retrieved the blade from his guts. He stood up, took a handkerchief and a Zippo from his jacket pocket, and wiped the knife clean of prints before tossing it to the floor. It wasn’t a keeper, not even as a trophy. He’d planned on using his father’s switchblade but chose instead a pitted utility knife he’d discovered while rummaging through a drawer of the table Frankie and Vincenzo had pinned Saul against while he operated. The type you could buy at any five and dime. Cheap Chinese crap that had the country fucked.

Nick flicked open the lighter, sparked it up, and set the handkerchief alight. He lingered, waiting until he felt the warmth of the flame’s tongue against his fingertips before letting the glowing embers fall to the floor. Pulling a .38 from the shoulder holster, hugging his left-hand side, he took aim at Saul’s head and fired a single shot. The mark’s attempts at messaging ceased the moment a third, bloodshot eye opened on his brow.

Strange, but turning to leave, Nick thought he sensed a chill in the air, a subtle shift in temperature that left the basement feeling a few degrees cooler. Was it just his imagination, or had a piece of him died when he took someone else’s life? Not wanting to journey down that avenue, he took a last glance over his shoulder and decided he’d chalk it up to the void left by one less beating heart.

BIO: Steven Lemprière’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Suddenly and without warning, Punk Noir Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Drabble, Friday Flash Fiction, 50-Word Stories, 50 Give or Take, Six Sentences, and The Hoolet’s Nook. He undertook a creative writing course while a long-term patient at an Irish psychiatric hospital, and shortly after his discharge, was short-listed for the New Writers Prize at the Cúirt International Festival of Literature. He divides his time between the West Coast of Ireland and South-West France.