Sinful Seven Read online

  Sinful Seven

  An Anthology

  Short stories by these best-selling crime novelists

  Lawrence Kelter

  Cheryl Bradshaw

  Rick Murcer

  Tim Ellis

  Dan Ames

  Rebecca Stroud

  Gary Ponzo

  Ebook Edition published by Murcer Press; LLC

  Listen my hatchling, for now you shall hear

  Of the only seven slayers a dragon must fear.

  First beware Pride, lest belief in one’s might

  Has you discount the foeman who is braving your sight.

  Never Envy other dragons their wealth, power, or home

  For dark plots and plans will bring death to your own.

  Your Wrath shouldn’t win, when spears strike your scale

  Anger kills cunning, which you will need to prevail.

  A dragon must rest, but Sloth you should dread

  Else long years of napping let assassins to your bed.

  “Greed is good,” or so foolish dragons will say

  Until piles of treasure bring killing thieves where they lay.

  Hungry is your body, and at times you must feed

  But Gluttony makes fat dragons, who can’t fly at their need.

  A hot Lust for glory, gems, gold, or mates

  Leads reckless young drakes to the blackest of fates.

  So take heed of this wisdom, precious hatchling of mine,

  And the long years of dragonhood are sure to be thine.”

  ― E.E. Knight, Dragon Champion

  The Other Me

  A Tale of Envy

  By

  Lawrence Kelter

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Murcer Press, LLC

  Interior book design by

  Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  The Other Me © 2016 Lawrence Kelter. All rights reserved

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Lance Dale was in a great hurry and didn’t want to take the long trip back to his hotel room on the top floor of the Manhattan skyscraper. He customarily used the handicapped stall on those infrequent occasions when he was in dire need of a public restroom. It gave him room to spread out, and he liked the fact that the stall door wasn’t right up against his face. It was less frequently used, or so he assumed—so psychologically speaking the chances of catching something seemed lower.

  He covered the seat with a paper seat cover and multiple layers of toilet tissue but it did little to allay his neurotic fears because he’d heard that antibiotics effective against heinous forms of bacteria were falling by the wayside faster than flash-in-the-pan pop stars.

  He was mature, accomplished, and now officially a Thrill Master, one of but a dozen or so highly-regarded authors with the tenure, pedigree, and popularity to have earned the coveted title. Thousands of fans had come to New York City to adore him and have him sign copies of the books they’d purchased. He was happy and full of scotch, a condition he found himself in more often than not, despite the fact that adulation and alcohol in combination had contributed in large degree to his three failed marriages.

  Fifty-three years old with almost as many best-selling novels in his catalogue—many of them were good, some great, and yes, a few clunkers but who didn’t have one or two of those. Regardless, they all debuted at number one on the New York Times Bestseller List. His most recent was his best effort in many years. It was entitled, The Sum of All Tears, a play on words and a plot filched from the Tom Clancy blockbuster with an initial print run of 650,000. It had fewer pages than his previous efforts but paid him the same glorious seven-figure advance that his previous, thicker books had earned him, an eye-opening concept he heartily embraced.

  Most assumed that he was wealthy but with taxes, agent’s fees, an office with staff, a public relations manager, appearances, travel, and his three carnivorous ex-wives to support . . . He was now churning out two full books a year. Even so, the remunerations he received were barely enough to keep the three flesh-eating divorce attorneys at bay. His last national book tour had put him behind schedule on his next book and he could already feel the jaws of jurist prudence nipping at his fleshy white bottom.

  He buckled his belt over his burgeoning gut and emerged from the stall. He washed his hands thoroughly and rinsed his mouth with tap water, all the while chuckling over the anecdotes he’d stolen from other authors over the years and peddled to the fans as his own. Taught in writing classes, we all have three lives, the public, the private, and the secret. His first two were a sham, false faces he wore like a veneer before his friends, family, and fans.

  But his secret life, well now, that was really something, as was the woman waiting for him in her room. He’d met her at the signing table, a raven-haired beauty with a glorious southern drawl, who’d brought four of his books with her for him to sign. She was an intoxicating beauty, who bested even the most magnificent femme fatales who’d graced the pages of his books.

  He’d greeted her with a modest smile, but in truth was more enthralled with her allure than she with his celebrity. He’d said, “Thanks for stopping by,” pretending not to be smitten with her model-quality good looks.

  She fawned over him like the star-struck fan she seemed to be. “Thank God you’re still here,” she cooed. “The line was so long and I know you have an interview to give in a few minutes.”

  “I’m here because you’re here.” He’d been down that path many times and had proffered his stock line dozens of times. It never lost its effectiveness and he never tired of seeing how well it worked on his fans.

  His PR assistant was diligent and had taken the time to hand out Sticky Notes upon which each fan had written down the manner in which they wanted their book signed. Hers read: Jennifer-306. He looked up at her, curious about the sci-fi-ish name. “306?”

  Her hand glided across the table, palm down, and when she lifted it, the swipe card to her room was left behind. “Three-O-six,” she whispered with a nod toward the card key.

  He signed her four books rapidly, his pulse jumping so high that he misspelled his own name on the first title page. It wasn’t until he had signed all four and handed them back, that he slid the swipe card unobtrusively off the table into his pocket.

  Her face was in his mind as he walked from the public restroom to the elevator, but more so, her hourglass figure in the clingy black dress and the adventure her offer hinted at. He wondered what she’d be wearing when she greeted him. Would she still be in the dress? A peignoi
r? Nude? The possibilities aroused him as the high-speed elevator made the short trip to the third floor. He’d had a lot to drink in the lobby bar, rubbing elbows with like-kind writers, who’d thoroughly stroked his massive ego—authors who were envious of his accomplishments and were hoping that their chance to be Thrill Master would not be far off.

  He was still riding a pleasant buzz as he stepped from the elevator and walked the length of the corridor. He had already decided he’d order champagne to keep his pleasant alcohol-induced numbness going. Her room was at the end of the hallway, the very last one next to the supply closet. He remembered her as well-put-together but the low floor level and less-than-great room location prompted him to think that she was not a person of wealth. She’ll be grateful, he mused. Well, what the hell, he chuckled. Anything for a fan. She’d also conceded that she had done a bit of writing herself, which meant that she was looking for a leg up.

  So was he.

  Two actually.

  Rapping lightly on the door, he waited for it to open. He heard the click of a light switch and then the door slowly opened. She was standing behind it, invisible in the darkness. She must be embarrassed to be seen letting me in. Maybe she’s married, he thought, unable to remember if she’d worn an engagement ring or a wedding band to the book signing. No woman wants to be labeled a slut.

  The lure of the darkness intrigued him and beckoned him forward. In his mind he began to sow the seeds of a brand new thriller. He’d call it, The Fan, a cleverly veiled reproduction of Fatal Attraction, something he’d cobble together from the iconic film. If all went to plan, he’d be able to pen it quickly and get back on track with his writing schedule. It doesn’t get better than this, he thought, tawdry sex and inspiration all in the same breath. What could be better? The darkened chasm widened before him. As he stepped across the portal the chorus from “Iris” played softly in his mind. It was his naughty song, the one that turned him into someone else.

  And I don't want the world to see me.

  'Cause I don't think that they'd understand.

  When everything's made to be broken,

  I just want you to know who I am.

  Chapter Two

  Lax Digler pointed at the man standing directly in front of him. “I want the Sicilian.”

  Ralph Colombo looked down into the display case and shrugged. “You want a Sicilian? Are you ordering lunch or carrying out a hit?”

  Digler had a loud, booming voice, a voice that reminded you of a sledgehammer striking rocks. “It’ll turn into a hit unless you get busy warming up that pizza for me. I’m starving. Throw in half a dozen garlic knots and a sausage stromboli too.” He walked over to the refrigerator case and pulled out a two-liter bottle of Pepsi, which he used to cool his neck.

  “A little warm, Digler?”

  “Been outside today?” he grunted. “It’s hotter than the inside of your pizza oven.”

  “Ever consider losing the leather jacket?”

  “My duster? Hell no,” he said vehemently objecting. It’s part of my je ne sais quoi.”

  “Your what?”

  “My je ne sais quoi, you rube. It’s what makes me, me.”

  “How about if what makes you, you, makes you dead from heat stroke?”

  He unscrewed the top from the huge soda bottle and chugged down a third. “That’s what they got air-conditioning for.” He took a seat at one of the tables and continued to imbibe. “Great idea, huh? Add a little sugar and syrup to a penny’s worth of water and you turn a simple drink into a multibillion dollar industry.”

  “You don’t have to add sugar. Bottled water is just as expensive.”

  “That’s because people are stupid. They think spring water is better than tap water but the only difference is that tap water is contaminated with rat shit and spring water is contaminated with bear shit—six of one half a dozen of another.”

  “Ah come on, Lax, you don’t really believe that do you?”

  “Don’t matter what I believe. I’m a police detective. That’s proof in itself that I’m a moron.”

  Chapter Three

  With his belly full, Digler got into his car and drove toward his apartment in Alphabet City. He was still on his meal break but had an open item on his agenda he needed to take care of. He stopped outside the local schoolyard and studied the B-ball game going on. He was looking for one kid in particular and got out of the car when he spotted the young thug stealing a pass on the basketball court.

  It was a tired old park with chains for basketball nets and faded park benches etched with insults, boasts, and commitments of love everlasting. The markings on the basketball court were almost indiscernible amidst the spray-painted graffiti designs that obscured the key and sidelines.

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea before Moses as the giant lumbered toward his subject.

  “You a cop?”

  Digler reached down and made a basketball disappear in his mammoth hand. He held it up alongside JJ’s head. “I show you a badge?” he replied.

  “No.”

  The giant had drawn a crowd of onlookers. Doo-rag clad kids wearing their jeans at mid ass crack stood about gawking, draining the chatter from the normally tumultuous ghetto schoolyard. The resident meth dealer was so in awe of the behemoth that he passed up a sale and hurried over just to see what was going on.

  “Then why am I talking to you if you’re not a cop?” JJ asked.

  “Would you be more chatty if I showed you my badge? Because I can pull one out of my ass if you like.” He leaned in closer. “The thing is, JJ, nature abhors a vacuum. So if I pull a badge out of my ass, I’d have to shove your head up there to replace it. You know, just to keep Mother Nature happy.” He squeezed the basketball until his knuckles turned white—it popped like a bubble pack blister.

  A troubling murmur rose amongst the crowd, “Damn,.” one of them shouted and pointed to where JJ had wet his pants.

  Digler glanced at the wet patch with distain, “Now that’s a little sad, JJ. You probably won’t be doing any trash talking for a while.”

  JJ’s lower lip began to quiver. The normally confident youth looked to be on the verge of tears.

  “Easy, kitten.” Digler put his large paw on the boy’s shoulder and walked him out of earshot. “Now before you go shitting yourself, do you want to return the money and meds you took from old lady Stanton’s apartment or are we going to do this the hard way?”

  A highly polished black Infiniti sedan screeched to a halt. Lamar Washington was out of the car before it had completely stopped. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded with his hands broadcast out at his sides, gangsta style.

  JJ’s eyes brightened and he callously shrugged Digler’s hand off of his shoulder. He announced defiantly, “I ain’t giving back nothin’, chump.”

  “Oh really? Your soaking wet underpants say differently.”

  “What you doing with my man?” Washington demanded. He was almost as tall as Digler but only half as wide, except for the immense mane of cornrows that made his head appear as large as a lion’s.

  In his calf-length black leather duster, Digler was as intimidating as Hell Boy. All that was missing were the sawed off horns. “This? This is your man?” Digler asked in his loud gravelly voice. “The one who peed his pants?”

  Washington glanced at the telling stain and wrinkled his nose with disgust. “Yeah . . . him,” he confirmed apprehensively. “You a cop?”

  “The cop question again. Ha! Another guy who wants to see where I keep my badge.”

  The attendant witnesses snickered but were quickly silenced by Washington’s intimidating stare. “The hell? What’s so goddamn funny?” he asked.

  “He’s gonna stick your head up his ass,” one of the neighborhood kids snickered.

  “Is that right?” Washington asked turning his large white eyes on Digler. “You think you’re tough enough to back that shit up?”

  Digler smirked. “Oh really? You want to go? I hope you have a valid w
ill.”

  “A valid what?”

  “A valid will,” he repeated. “As in last will and testament, so you can leave your hair products and illegal handguns to your rightful heirs. I’ll bet you a week’s meth sales you don’t last ten-seconds.”

  “Is that right?” Washington huffed.

  Digler came chest to chest with Washington, his anvil-sized fist clenched and ready at his side, ready to spring forward with the might of a medieval boulder-throwing catapult. “I’m willing to bleed over it to find out. You?”

  “What he done, anyway?” Washington asked, seeking a less confrontational solution.

  “Your little second story man here was just about to fork over the cash and painkillers he nabbed from old lady Stanton’s apartment yesterday. The poor old thing has excruciating back pain and your dumb ass accomplice here took every last one she had.”

  “How you know he took it?”

  Digler tugged down the waistband of JJ’s tartan plaid boxers exposing a large birthmark the shape of Australia. “Because Shit For Brains over here lives in the apartment above hers and the old girl saw his Perth, Sidney, and Melbourne going out her kitchen window onto the fire escape last night.”

  Washington furrowed his brow. “Perth, Sidney, and what?”

  “The land down under, Einstein . . . Australia.”

  “Look, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about but my man JJ didn’t steal nothing from nobody. So why don’t you and your High Plains Drifter getup, get up and go?” He snickered. “What’s with the lame-ass coat anyway?”

  Digler sneered. “It keeps faggots like you from staring at my firm little behind.”

  The mood grew tense as the onlookers waited to see how Washington would react to the slam.

  “Motherfucker!” Washington blurted as he reached for the piece he had crammed in the back of his pants.