The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, volume 15

Scott Emerson Bull Mr Sly Stops for a Cup of Joe

Mr Sly and fear were old acquaintances, though when they usually met it was at Mr Sly’s invitation and on his terms. He never expected to run into fear at twelve-thirty on a Tuesday night in a Quik-stop convenience store while he chose between the Rich Colombian Blend and the De-Caf Hazel Nut coffees. But then, fear always did have a mind of its own.

A kid had ushered in fear. He did it when he yelled, “Everybody in back. This is a robbery.”

Mr Sly crushed the empty coffee cup in his hand and dropped it to the floor. Dammit, he thought. He knew he should’ve just got what he needed and skipped the coffee. If he had, perhaps he’d have avoided this, but he had to have his fix, didn’t he? Now his work at home would have to wait. He’d have to deal with this first.

“Come on, Fat Man. That means you, too.”

He turned towards the direction of the voice. The first thing he saw was the gun. The kid holding it wasn’t much, just some local Yo-boy wannabe with bleached hair and a bad attitude. The gun, however, was big as a cannon. Mr Sly hated guns. Blam blam blam and all you had left was a big ugly mess. Mr Sly preferred knives. Knives required skill and demanded intimacy. Kind of like fucking without all the post-coital chit-chat.

“As you wish,” he said. “You seem to be in charge.”

The kid pointed him towards an office in the back, where Mr Sly joined the Indian girl who ran the register and a well-dressed woman of about thirty who’d also been buying coffee. He looked for a window or a second door, but there was no other exit. Not good.

“Okay. On the floor!”

Mr Sly turned to the kid. He had to look downward, since he had a good eight inches on the boy.

“Do you want us sitting or face down?” he asked.

“Huh?”

Mr Sly looked into the boy’s bloodshot eyes. He didn’t see much sign of intelligence.

“Do you want us to sit on the floor or lie on it face down?”

“Face down,” the kid said.

The two women complied. Mr Sly remained standing.

“Why would you want us to do that?” he asked.

“Because I fucking said so, okay?”

Mr Sly shrugged. “That’s not how I would do it. I’m assuming you plan on shooting us in the back of the head.”

“Maybe,” the kid said. One of the women sobbed.

Mr Sly shook his head. “For what? Maybe a hundred bucks in the register? Where’s the fun in that?” He made a gun with his index and forefinger and aimed it at his own temple. “Don’t you want to see our faces when you pull the trigger?”

The kid’s eyes widened.

“Why the hell would I want to do that?”

“You don’t have a clue, do you?”

“Fuck you, man. On the floor! Now!”

“Okay, but I’m going to do you a favor and stay sitting up. If you shoot me, I want you to see my face.”

“Just fucking sit down.”

Mr Sly did as he was told, keeping his anger in check. At six eight, three hundred and fifty pounds, he could easily crush this punk’s head with his bare hands, but the gun equalized the situation. He lowered his bulk and sat cross-legged on the floor.

“Now don’t move. I’m gonna be right out here. I hear anyone move, you’re all dead, okay?”

Mr Sly nodded.

The kid left the room and started banging on what sounded like the register. The well-dressed woman sat up and turned to Mr Sly.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Mr Sly smiled at her. He could see she was in the first stage of fear, what he liked to call disbelief. That was when your mind still refused to come to grips with what was happening, although your body had accepted it fully. He could see that by the sweat on the woman’s brow and the red splotches on her cheeks. He wondered if she’d wet herself yet. Most of them did and Mr Sly hated that. How could you enjoy the deliciousness of dread with soggy panties?

“I must tell you that I thought you were rather rude a few minutes ago,” he said.

“What?”

Mr Sly didn’t like this woman. He didn’t like her at all.

“I thought you were rather rude when you reached in front of me to get that coffee cup. You could have been more patient.”

“Are you insane? Any minute that kid’s going to blow our brains out and you’re lecturing me on patience? Is that all you’re worried about?”

“Perhaps not the only thing.”

“Well, good. Now will you please cooperate so we’ll have a chance of getting out of this alive.”

He felt an urge to slap this woman across the mouth, but fought it off.

“Either way he’s going to shoot us,” he said. “So why do you want to deny me a little fun in the last minutes of my life?”

“My God, you’re insane.”

“As the day is long,” he said, smiling.

They could hear the kid returning, so the woman lay back down on the floor. When the kid came in, he looked agitated.

“There’s only seventy-five dollars in the cash drawer. Where’s the rest of the money?”

“Told you so,” Mr Sly said.

“Shut up.” The kid motioned with his gun to the Indian girl. “Get up and open the safe.”

“I’m not sure I can open it,” the girl said, rising to her feet. Tears dampened her delicate brown face. Now Mr Sly liked her. He loved the diamond stud in her nose and the way her small breasts pushed against her Quik Stop T-shirt. She displayed an intoxicating blend of terror and submission. In the end, these were the ones that really fought back or at least took some dignity in suffering.

“Just relax and give it a try,” Mr Sly said.

“Did I ask you for any help?” the kid said.

“No, you did not. I apologize. I hate it when someone interferes with my work, too.”

“Man, you’re fucked in the head.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

They left the room. Mr Sly could hear them talking, but couldn’t make out the words. The woman sat up again.

“You want us to get killed, don’t you?”

“Not particularly. I’m just trying to feel him out.”

“And your opinion is?”

“I’d say one of us is going to die.”

“Oh, terrific. And this doesn’t bother you?”

“Not really. Not when I figure you’re the one that’s going to take a bullet.”

The woman’s mouth dropped open.

“Excuse me?”

Mr Sly leaned closer and whispered.

“The way I see it, our best shot is for you to make a move on him. He’ll have to react to you, most likely by blowing your head off, but at least I’d be able to subdue him.”

“You’re insane.”

“Perhaps, but it’s a good plan.”

“It sucks. I end up getting killed.”

“I didn’t say it was perfect.”

“Well, why do I have to be the brave one? Why don’t you make a move on him?”

“Because if he shoots me, you’ll never be able to take him down. Then you get shot and most likely so does the girl. If I get a hold of him, I’ll twist the little bastard’s head off. Then at least the girl and I make it.”

“It still sucks.”

“Look, lady. If you have a better idea, I’m waiting to hear it.”

The gun appeared at the door, followed in by the kid.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Plotting your death,” Mr Sly said.

“Man, I am this fucking close to shooting you. And you.” He pointed the gun at the woman. “Back on the floor.”

“No.” The woman straightened her back “If he sits up, then I sit up, too.”

The room exploded with a hail of smoke and coffee grounds. The kid had blasted a four-inch hole in a can of Colombian mix on the shelf above their heads. Mr Sly’s ears rang from the noise. He suppressed a smile when he saw the woman face down on the floor again.

The kid had the gun pointed at Mr Sly.

“Next one’s gonna be lower. You get my drift?”

“Loud and clear.”

The kid left the room. Mr Sly could smell piss.

“Fear should be our friend,” he told the woman.

“Dear God, we’re going to die,” she said.

Yes, they were, Mr Sly thought, unless he thought of something soon. He closed his eyes and thought of his walnut chest at home, the one he kept his knives in. He wished he had one now, but he never took them out of the house, because of the risk they presented if he was caught with one. After tonight, he might have to rethink that policy, if he got the chance.

“Fear brings clarity,” he said. “It fires the brain. I don’t mind admitting that I’m scared, but I’m trying to enjoy this experience and learn from it. I don’t often get this perspective.”

The woman looked up at him, her face a series of red splotches on a pale white canvas.

“I don’t want to know what you do in your spare time, do I?”

Mr Sly smiled. As he did, they heard the gun go off out in the store.

“I guess she couldn’t get the safe open,” he said.

The woman put her face in her hands and wept.

The kid rushed back into the room. His gun seemed bigger now, as if reacting to some exhilaration it got from firing its shiny missiles. The kid looked wired. Either the drug he’d taken had finally peaked or he finally understood what this was all about.

“All right. Wallets. Jewelry. Anything you got. Dump it on the floor.”

The woman sat up and dumped out her purse. Mr Sly eyed the contents: a wallet, eyeliner, lipstick. A container of Mace landed near his foot. He looked at the woman, catching her eye, then looked back at the Mace.

“Not all that shit. Just the money and credit cards.” The kid aimed the gun at Mr Sly. “You, too. Get your wallet out now.”

Mr Sly studied the gun, figuring the bullet’s probable trajectory and the distance between himself and the kid. He reached towards his left back pocket where he kept his wallet. Then he stopped.

“I only have twelve dollars. I really only needed a cup of coffee and some maxi pads.”

The kid’s grip tightened on the gun.

“Maxi pads?”

“Let’s just say I’m entertaining tonight and she’s in no position to pick them up herself.”

“Just give me your wallet.”

Mr Sly looked back at the gun. He wondered if he’d survive taking a bullet in the gut. Given all his fat, he probably stood a pretty good chance of making it, but doing time in a hospital wasn’t something he could afford, nor could he afford a few days of questioning by the police. That was all he’d need, some bright cop putting two and two together.

“I can’t get it out,” he said.

“What?”

Mr Sly switched hands and reached towards his right rear pocket.

“It’s the problem with being fat,” he said. “My pants are too tight. I’ll have to stand up if you want me to take out my wallet.”

The kid took a step back. Mr Sly could see him sizing up the situation. The kid didn’t seem to like it, but luckily greed was still foremost in his mind.

“All right, but get up real slow.”

Mr Sly laughed. He had no choice but to get up slow. His leg muscles strained as they lifted his weight from the floor. He felt like an old grizzly bear raring up for one final attack. He only hoped he looked that way, too.

“That feels much better,” he said, stretching up to full height. “My legs were going to sleep.”

The kid looked up at Mr Sly, who now dwarfed him. Some of the kid’s cockiness seemed to drain away, but that didn’t stop him from sticking his hand out for the wallet.

“You have no sense of fun, do you?” Mr Sly reached for his right rear pocket. “A man should love his work no matter what line he chooses. Don’t you think?”

The kid cocked the trigger.

“Just give me your wallet.”

“As you requested.”

Mr Sly stopped time. He could do this when he wanted to, just like a quarterback when he gets into the zone or a racing driver when he pushes his car towards two hundred-plus miles per hour. Everything slows down when you’re in total control. He watched as his arm came from behind his back. Watched the look of horror on the kid’s face, then the split second of consternation when he saw that the big man’s weapon was a comb, a simple plastic comb. He watched as it tore into the kid’s cheek.

The gun went off, but the bullet missed. The kid slumped back against the door and screamed when he saw a generous portion of his skin hanging from the broken plastic teeth of the comb. The woman picked up the Mace and sprayed it in the kid’s face. Ouch, that had to hurt on an open wound. The gun fell to the floor and Mr Sly kicked it away. Then he delivered a finishing blow to the kid’s head, letting him drop like the proverbial sack of potatoes.

“Only good thing my drunken daddy ever taught me,” Mr Sly said, shaking the flesh loose from the comb. “A plastic comb can come in handy if you ever find yourself in a bar fight without a weapon.”

“Charming,” the woman said. She pointed the Mace at Mr Sly. “Now I think it’s time for you to leave.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Just let me tie him up first.”

The woman kept the Mace pointed at Mr Sly as he bound the kid’s feet and hands together with packing tape.

“We should check on the girl,” he said. “See if she’s dead.”

“You first.”

They walked into the store with Mr Sly leading. They found the girl behind the counter, a purplish welt rising on her forehead. There was a bullet hole in the safe.

“He really was an amateur, wasn’t he?” Mr Sly said, as he turned to face the woman. “I’m glad she’s okay, aren’t you?”

Before the woman could answer, Mr Sly had grabbed the Mace from her.

“Sorry, but I don’t like people pointing things at me.”

The woman shrunk back against the counter. Mr Sly read the concern on her face and laughed.

“You didn’t believe all that stuff I said back there, did you?”

“Well.”

“You needn’t worry.” He picked up some maxi pads and threw them into a plastic Quik Stop bag. “Think I’ll skip the coffee. I’m keyed up enough already, aren’t you?”

The woman stared at him.

Mr Sly went to leave, but when he reached the front door and looked out at the empty street, he turned around.

“Mind if I take something with me?”

“By all means,” the woman said.

He went back into the storage room and came out with the kid thrown over his shoulder. “And just in case you get a sudden bout of sympathy for our attacker here.” Mr Sly held up the woman’s driver’s license.

“I can’t imagine that happening,” she said.

He walked with the boy over his shoulder towards the door.

“Wait,” the woman called. “I suppose I should say thank you.”

He turned and smiled. “No need,” he said. “Most fun I’ve had in years.”

Then Mr Sly went out the door and disappeared into the night.