Psychosomatic Read online

  Praise for Anthony Neil Smith’s first novel, Psychosomatic

  “The darkest song I've ever read”

  – Ken Bruen, author of The Guards and London Boulevard

  “This one screams MOVIE! Preferably by David Lynch. I read this baby cover to cover; there was no putting it down. James Ellroy brutality, Elmore Leonard dialogue, Victor Gischler humor ... that's a trifecta with an undeniable payoff. Anthony Neil Smith stomps onto the scene in this volcano of a debut”

  —Charlie Stella, author of Johnny Porno and Charlie Opera

  “Anthony Neil Smith takes hardboiled, crunches it, peels back the shell, and finishes it off with a flamethrower….You were warned.”

  —Sean Dolittle, author of Safer and The Clean-up

  “Anthony Neil Smith wants to horrify you on every level. This book piles one atrocity on top of another and shows you just how dark and nasty and evil humanity can be. You think you’ve got the balls to read this novel? We’ll see, punk. We’ll just see.”

  —Victor Gischler, author of Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse and Vampire a Go-Go, and Marvel Comics writer

  PSYCHOSOMATIC

  a novel by

  Anthony Neil Smith

  First published in hardcover and paperback by PointBlank Press from 2005-2010

  Copyright 2005 Anthony Neil Smith

  Cover art by Ben Springer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  ONE

  Because Lydia didn’t have arms or legs, she shelled out three thousand bucks to a washed-up middleweight named Cap to give her ex-husband the beating of his life. Before the car wreck took her limbs, she was in control of Ronnie. She kept the house, the Lexus, and got a generous check every month. Thankfully they never had kids, so the money was hers to do with as she pleased—Caribbean trips, an interior designer, acceptance in the power circle of Gulf Coast doctors, lawyers, casino investors. Then an SUV turned her sporty coupe to scrap and Lydia to a quad amputee.

  She sat in her wheelchair near the open windows of her home a couple of blocks from the beach in Biloxi, the curtains slow-dancing in the spring breeze and brushing her face. Her rubber arms and legs were sculpted to resemble Jayne Mansfield’s, at least giving an illusion of fullness. The doctors said other prosthetics could give her back some mobility—hooks or robot fingers, a slow clunky walk. In the end she chose grace over function.

  Ronnie splurged in helping her wire the house so she could work the doors, the lights, and the phone with voice commands. The chair was state of the art with sip-and-puff control through a straw. Underneath her ex’s helpful façade was the same condescending bastard. He skipped alimony payments, dropped in unannounced at all hours, scheduled her appointments for therapy and doctors. Slipped back into controlling her life, exactly what she wanted to escape by divorcing him. She needed him again and hated every moment.

  When they’d met in the late-eighties, he was a flashy guy hiding his cocaine trade under legit investments, easy to do with casino resorts beginning to flourish along the coast. Lydia loved his easy-going “take what I want” attitude—Ronnie wanted her and she melted for him. After they were married, other women kept melting for him and he kept taking them. Maybe if he had hidden the evidence a little more, she wouldn’t have been so angry. Instead, Ronnie flaunted the affairs, dared Lydia to make a fuss and give up her new waking-dream lifestyle. So she fucked his best friend, a lawyer, who helped her bust the pre-nup wide open and get a third of everything Ronnie had his fingers in.

  Ronnie actually seemed impressed. He never showed anger towards her, but every conversation after the divorce felt strange, like he believed they were playing a game where one would win, one would lose. Some nights after the nurse put her to bed, she even wondered how “accidental” the crash was. Still, nothing compared to the night a couple of weeks ago when Ronnie appeared at her door drunk with a coed barfly. He disconnected Lydia’s chair and made her watch the make-out session that followed.

  God, she hated him for that. God, she wanted him so badly, wanted to feel his hands and lips all over her again, his dick deep inside her.

  After fucking the D-cup bitch, Ronnie zipped up, reconnected the chair, and the couple left without a word.

  He deserved every bruise this boxer could dish out. She closed her eyes, dialed the number she’d called once before, and told Cap to come pick up his money.

  “Punish the prick,” she said.

  *

  When Ronnie found out what Lydia was planning, he paid the same fighter an extra grand to take a dive. Cap was fine with that—it was how he got washed up in the first place. The sure money was in the losing. If he wanted pride, he’d catch a big fish and hang it on his wall. Pride didn’t pay the bills.

  What Lydia didn’t know was that the guy who gave her Cap’s number was a close friend, and Cap had taken dives for Ronnie before in fights at the casino in Bay St. Louis. Hell, even the divorce settlement was okayed by Ronnie before his friend made it look like fine lawyering on her behalf.

  Ronnie told him, “If she tries to fuck you, go ahead. Make sure you tape it.”

  The cocaine dealing had gone south in the mid-nineties, but Ronnie poured enough into the stock market and sold at the right time so he’d never have to work again. Not that he ever worked much anyway. He grew bored of gambling, snorting, and fucking nearly every day, no thrill to it anymore. Dealing with the aftermath of Lydia’s wreck gave him something fun to do. He saw it in her eyes. It was torture.

  Cap called Ronnie to set up the fake beating. “You want it outside, inside?”

  “Outside. I want somebody to tape it, let Lydia watch her cash fail her.”

  Ronnie then called Alan Crabtree, a guy on the fringes of the underworld who made a career of taking little jobs like this—just give him a video camera, a time and place, and a couple of twenties. Ronnie met with Alan for lunch at a Mexican joint on the beach in Biloxi. Alan arrived early, a few Coronas in him already and pulling the self-pity routine on a middle-aged blond barfly chain-smoking Turkish cigarettes by the time Ronnie showed.

  Alan was five-seven and he weighed two-seventy. When drunk, he told people, “I wanted to be a jockey. I know all about horses, love them, oh I do. The weight, though. That’s a gland thing.”

  Ronnie tapped Alan’s shoulder, stopping him mid-sentence. Alan told the barfly, “Wait here, okay?”

  She said, “I’m not going anywhere, with or without you.” Then she asked the bartender for a Rum and Coke.

  Ronnie and Alan took a corner booth. The waitress brought more Coronas, chips, salsa. Ronnie ordered fajitas. Alan wanted a chimichanga. He wore his usual XXL Polo pullover, sweat rings threatening to spread across his chest.

  “We’re going to do this at my place in the parking lot. We want it quick, sometime when there’s not a lot of people around, after they leave for work,” Ronnie said.

  “That’s a nice shirt. Is that designer?” Alan shook some jalapeno juice into the salsa.

  “Probably.” Ronnie was beach bum chic—shirt hanging out, khaki shorts, dark hair slicked back, cell phone clipped on a belt loop. “You listening to me? The camera’s in my car. One of the small ones you hold like this.”

  Ronnie picked up a coaster, held the left and right sides.

  “With the little screen on it?”

  “Yeah. Be there at nine tomorrow morning. Here’s my apartment building’s address.” He slid a napkin with ink bleeds across to Alan. “Don’t film until a couple punches have been thrown. We want it to look l
ike you just happened by.”

  “My money?”

  Ronnie pulled a folded twenty from his shirt pocket. “The other half after she gets the tape. Plus I’m buying this lunch.”

  Alan smiled, held the Corona up in a toast, and said, “Mucho gracias.”

  *

  Alan Crabtree hated kissing the asses of the well-to-do. He didn’t have much choice, especially after blowing a blackjack dealer gig at a reservation casino in north Mississippi. He had hoped the job might lead to a chance to come to Biloxi, where the pay was better and there were nicer places to waste it on food and beer. After getting eighty-sixed for maybe being a little too helpful with players to get better tips, he decided to try his luck further south anyway.

  He was fucked from the start. All the casinos along the coast knew his story already and turned him down flat. Even at one on the Back Bay, small and already worn out after one decade of business, he got to the second interview before they somehow found out. As the weeks went by, his already a hefty gut kept spreading, and the easiest work so far was these Dixie Mafia odd jobs. Fucking rednecks playing gangsters. To their faces, Alan was all respect. Behind their backs, he felt dirtier than the whores who sucked their cocks. Another couple of months of this was all he could take. He needed a real job, something legal, something he could be proud of.

  When Alan got home after meeting with Ronnie, a Jeep was waiting on the curb with two guys leaning against it. He pulled his almost brand-new Monte Carlo into the driveway, stopped short of the garage, and got out. The two guys, Terry and Lancaster, stumbled up to meet him. They looked like frat boys, only a little older, with Ray Bans and form fitting caps, bills curved just right. They smelled like too much sweet cologne, wore two-day stubble on their faces.

  Terry and Lancaster had given Alan a great deal on the Monte Carlo and wanted the last payment, which was a month late. They sold cars that they stole from the side of Interstate 10, spending most days riding the stretch between Biloxi and Mobile looking for breakdowns on the shoulders. Sometimes people abandoned nice ones, like Toyotas or Ford trucks or even an Infiniti, while going for help. Now that more people carried cell phones, finding nicer rides became tougher, the drivers calling and waiting at the car. Most breakdowns were blown tires, dead batteries, or no gas. Terry and Lancaster carried spare tires, new batteries, and some gas cans, fixed the easy ones and sold them to people who didn’t mind paying cash for hot cars.

  Alan got them to split his bill to three due dates. The price for not keeping up was serious tire iron lacerations, jumper cables clipped to your ass, a shot to the nuts with an aluminum bat, or repossession.

  “Guys, tomorrow. Promise.” He held out his free hand, pleading.

  “Look at this, you’ve got enough for a new video camera. What, you got a date tonight? Need to document the moment?”

  “This ain’t mine.”

  “The car’s not yet, either.” Lancaster leaned in close, sniffed. “Smells like you’ve had a few too many beers. What are you doing driving our car lit up?”

  Alan shook his head, hugged the camera to his chest. “It’s a job I’ve got for tomorrow. Go tape a special event for a few minutes, and they’ll give me forty bucks. I can give you forty bucks.”

  “You owe us six hundred,” Terry said.

  “I was going to talk him up afterwards. See, he needs the tape so bad, he’ll pay whatever I ask.”

  Lancaster and Terry passed a smile between them. Terry said, “That’s quite a jump there.”

  “Doesn’t sound economically sound.”

  “Think he’ll succeed?”

  “Not a vampire’s chance at daybreak.”

  No neighbors out, no gun handy—Alan’s only one was a .22 rifle in the closet. He hadn’t bought ammo in three years. Sweat rolled down his face. He was about to get the crap beat out of him.

  Lancaster said, “Tell you what. I feel, um, I guess it’s compassion. I say he’s playing straight with us. Let’s give him a day.”

  Terry crossed his arms, rolled his tongue around the inside of his lips. He said, “I don’t know. He still needs a warning.”

  “Agreed.”

  Lancaster grabbed Alan’s wrist and batted the camcorder into the grass. Alan whined, watched it fall. With both of the fat man’s arms pinned, Lancaster pushed him to the driveway, face down. He grabbed Alan’s hair and grated his cheek back and forth against the concrete. The pain burned white hot, ratcheting up with each yank across the pavement. Alan closed his eyes and screamed.

  They eased off after a minute, started towards the Jeep. Terry shouted, “Tomorrow night, all six hundred. No excuses. Or we’ll take the car.”

  Alan opened his eyes, pushed himself up. There was a red smear on the concrete. He was dripping. He smacked a palm onto his cheek, which made the burning worse, then watched the Jeep roll away before running inside to the bathroom and washing his face. He poured some peroxide on it—mistake!—patting it cool until the bleeding stopped, smudged some ointment on. He stared into the mirror, tears in his eyes, wondering how much worse he would feel tomorrow night when the money was due but not there. Then he remembered the camera.

  He found it in the grass. The viewscreen was cracked and the black plastic case was scuffed. Alan thought Ronnie would deduct the damage from his pay. He might even owe Ronnie for repairs.

  *

  Alan sat in his car across from the Sea Crest Apartments the next morning eating a second egg and sausage biscuit while waiting for the scuffle. The night before, he tested the camera in his backyard, taped some birds, and it worked fine. He wore amber shades, baggy khakis, a T-shirt, and a blue plastic visor. There was also a piece of gauze taped to his cheek. The windows were rolled down, sea breeze smelling fishy fresh.

  Cap pulled into the lot and got out of his car, looking like a Dragnet leftover in slacks and a tight Polo shirt, hair greased, leaning on the trunk. He glanced at his watch. Alan hoped it would be a convincing fight. Nothing worse than taking a con to the sucker and the sucker seeing right through it like plastic wrap. Who would she blame then? The man with the tape, that’s who.

  Alan watched Ronnie slink to his Mercedes—oh so cool—then saw Cap, gave a thumbs up. Cap started towards him, and when he was in front of the guy, stood for a minute talking, Alan not hearing the words. Ronnie pounded his chest lightly, and Cap shoved him. Ronnie wailed away, landed some good slaps, a big shove. Hard to believe little Ronnie could get the Cap off balance like that. Cap balled his fists and landed a punch in Ronnie’s gut. That’s when Alan lifted the camera and turned it on. Cap worked the kidneys. Ronnie kicked Cap’s shins. Cap was looking for a head shot, like he forgot this was a game and took it seriously.

  The low battery light blinked on. Alan groaned and shook his head. He forgot to recharge it last night, plus the jolt might have damaged it. He didn’t know how much longer the thing would film. Cap finally got a tag on Ronnie’s face. Ronnie yelped. Nobody was around, but Alan thought he saw a few curtain peepers in the apartments. Ronnie rammed Cap, shoved him back towards the stairs, secluded where Alan couldn’t see.

  Alan jumped out of his car and followed, straight arming the camera like cops did guns on TV. He thought something didn’t look right—Ronnie making Cap angry instead of telling him it was time to drop, like Ronnie wanted his ass kicked after all.

  He caught sight of them when he reached the Mercedes, Cap and Ronnie standing a few feet apart by the stairs. Ronnie reached under his shirt, pulled a pistol from his waistband. Alan prepped to run, gunfire the ultimate attention grabber, but he waited, trusting that Ronnie had planned it all to the tee. There wasn’t a more immediate way for to extort six hundred bucks, so Alan stuck with it, zoomed in.

  Cap swooped in lightning-fast and slapped the gun away, then did a brutal karate chop to Ronnie’s throat. Looked like army training, that heavy special forces shit. Ronnie grabbed his throat, wheezed. He doubled over and fell to the ground. Alan ran to them, covered his hand with his sh
irttail, and picked up the pistol.

  “I think it’s a fake. A pellet gun.”

  “What?”

  “No clip.” Alan shook Ronnie’s shoulder. “He’ll be okay?”

  “No, he’s dead.”

  Alan leaned close, didn’t touch, listened for breathing. It wasn’t there. “How do you know he’s dead?”

  Cap sighed, shook his fingers. “I’ve only tried that move on two other people, and both died. That’s what you do when someone points a gun at you. The training took over. Sorry.”

  “We’ve got to get him out of here. Like, way out of here.” Alan felt Ronnie’s pockets for keys, pulled them out. “Let’s get him to the car, you drive down the street, let me move mine.”

  They draped Ronnie’s arms over their shoulders and carried him between them, then sat him in the Mercedes’ passenger seat, strapped him in. His head lolled back and his mouth was wide open. Cap drove Ronnie’s car, followed Alan to the mall. Alan parked and got in Ronnie’s backseat.

  “So, how do we get rid of him?” Cap asked.

  “Take him out of state? Dump him in a river? Chop him up?”

  “I’m not doing that. It ain’t like I stabbed him or something. Look at him, clean that way. He’ll have a bruise, that’s about all.”

  Alan sat back, thought about the situation a few minutes. His six hundred was gone for sure. He looked out the window at his Monte Carlo—a great machine. He kept up the maintenance, washed it, kept the inside clean. It was the best car Alan ever owned, for an unreal price, about to slip away from him, and his good health along with it. Then he got an idea.

  “Cap, I’m taking my car. You follow me. I think this’ll work.”

  *

  Later that afternoon, Alan rang Lydia’s doorbell. After a moment, the lock clicked and the door swung open, nobody behind it. Only a dimly lit hall until a wheelchair rolled out of a side room carrying a petite woman, blond hair bundled on top, plastic framed glasses. Wearing a headset mike, she puffed on a big plastic straw that trailed into the back of her chair, where it connected to a small box above the motor.