Ezekiel James Boston lives in Las Vegas, my new hometown. He has sold stories all over the place. This powerful original story might be one of the strangest twists on the old ghost of Christmas trope I have seen.
What makes Ezekiel perfect to write Pulphouse stories is that he has no fear to write about subjects that others in this new world would run screaming from. His skill and his courage are why I hope to have many more Ezekiel James Boston stories in these pages.
You can find a lot more of his work at a website with the subtitle: Fiction That Doesn’t Hide. https://ezekieljamesboston.com/new/
* * *
When otherwise sane people first start hearing voices when no one is around, they don’t know what to do. Only crazy people hear voices and they—they think—are sane. From there, there’s really only two things to do: medicate to make the voice go quiet or argue against doing what the voices want.
Me? When I heard Nikita Mikhailov’s voice for the first time? I instantly started chatting her up. Her Russian accent was too damn sexy not to.
Please don’t put me into that category of men.
While I have my foibles, I’m not a degenerate. Everyone has an accent that triggers their interest and, as it turns out, Russian is mine.
Yes, it’s a weird accent for a black man to like, but it’s no weirder than hearing voices. But, I know I don’t hear voices because I’ve seen her thin, yet full, lips.
They’re here now, in the passenger seat of this black Ford F150 that I stole. And they’re smiling with me because of what I’m about to do.
* * *
Emily Kolowski’s heater had gone out in her 2008 Toyota Corolla at the end of last winter. Not having enough money to get it fixed, she had bundled up knowing that she’d be able to get it fixed before this winter.
She had been wrong.
Reno winter nights had a real bite to them. Luckily Emily’s recent ex-boyfriend had left his heavy New York Yankees parka in her car the night he dumped her. She had texted him to get back together, but he never responded. She’d texted him to give his stuff back. He didn’t reply. She’d texted him goodbye and got a reply that the number she sent the message to doesn’t accept text messages. That’s when she washed his smell from the parka.
Before Emily had left the room she was renting in Silver Creek, she’d checked the road conditions. There were warning of black ice.
Coming east down the I-80 exit toward North Sierra Street, Emily set her tall mug of apple cider in the cup holder. While she loved the way it filled her car with its aromatic goodness, on the way to work, the mug was mainly to push warmth through her knitted gloves.
Both hands on the wheel, she slowed and watched for that telltale sheen on the road.
A thumping push moved the back left of her car. It shimmied sideways.
In a turning drift, Emily seized the wheel to correct.
Nothing. The damn car kept drifting.
The intersection was coming.
She slammed on her breaks.
And kept sliding.
Right. Out. Into. The intersection.
Emily screamed as a southbound semi—laying on its horn—whooshed by.
Something heavy whacked her car.
Her head smacked the window as she spun faster.
Her world became a swirling top of night with streaking headlights, traffic lights, and streetlight.
The scare and her screaming came to an end when her car ran up over the curb to the entrance eastbound entrance onto the I-80 across Center Street.
Throat sore, her breath came out in frantic cloudy puffs.
She was alive. Her head hurt. Her body was tender. But she was alive. She had a death grip on the steering wheel and had to think to get her fingers to open.
Her airbag hadn’t deployed.
Emily tried her door. It opened.
Rubbing the side of her head, she undid her seatbelt and got out.
A white minivan had pulled over and the semi that could’ve flatlined her was braking further down the road.
At the Sierra Street exit from the freeway, a black pickup truck was at a full stop. That was probably the guy who’d hit her.
A man yelled from the white minivan. “Are you all right?”
Still huffing, Emily gave half a nod before she grabbed her neck. She must’ve wrenched it during the spin. No, probably when her head bounced off the window.
Fighting the urge to check her car, Emily got back in and leaned across to the glove box to get her insurance and registration.
Getting back out, she saw the black truck was gone. Not gone. It was zooming north past Walgreens. The jerk was leaving.
She turned to yell-ask the minivan man if he got the truck’s license plates, but the guy was around the passenger side inspecting his van.
Emily went to the back left of her poor little Corolla. There was black paint streaked on her rear quarter panel.
At least there was proof.
What was she doing? Emily wanted to bop her head, but was in no condition for that. She hopped back in her car, grabbed her phone, and called the cops.
* * *
Given the service I provide for humanity, I pretty much have to stay in rent by the week joints. I’ve been in some real shitholes.
And when I say shitholes, I mean stained and ripped carpet, peeling wallpaper, rust on the remaining bolts holding the toilet down, missing baseboard with exposed glue on the walls showing that there should’ve been baseboards. And not just one fault. Usually a mix. Real if-you-could-do-better-you-wouldn’t-be-here places.
However, I’ve been in Reno for nearly two months now. And I gotta say, the Siegel Suites are really nice. They have six of ’em throughout the city and not a one of them has any of the typical issues. Plus, a continental breakfast worth getting up for.
Sure, most big cities have alternatives to roach motels, but tourist cities try to make your stay nice and don’t require credit checks.
This studio apartment has a full kitchen with plates, cups, utensils and, get this, a stove. Which meant tonight was lasagna night. They also have a non-bolted-down three-foot-by-three-foot table that I relocated next to the comfy queen bed. And real HVAC units that kicked out the heat and held the temperature steady. None of that wall-unit shit.
I had one of my old moving blankets as a tablecloth for the eventual mess. Sat on the edge of my bed, I had my second square of lasagna and fourth Beck’s on the corner of the table. I used the rest of the space to lay out the three rows of five car-key molds.
As though sitting in a chair across the table from me, Nikita’s lips appeared at conversation height. In the light of the room, they were a disappointingly translucent gray. Obviously, the mouth of a ghost and not a person. I normally keep the lights dim to make the mouth more real, but my work—well, this part of the prep for my real work—needed light.
“Pomoshchnik,” she said, “Za vork you did last veek vas great.”
I lifted my Beck’s to her praise. “Thanks.” And took a swig. “So, both the Carsons and the Kolowskis are going to spend their holidays together?”
“Za Carsons, yes. Za Koulovskis, no.”
“What?” I stood up from the bed. “Well, that’s not good.” Thinking about how I could get her to say Kolowskis again, I went to the kitchen for the dense plastic that I had on low to keep it liquidy.
Her lips floated behind me at their usual height. I think, in life, she was around five-six. Maybe five-seven.
I asked, “What went wrong?”
“Nothing.” Nikita said, “When za truck driver saw her husband and kids in ze van, she canceled her haul and vent back home.”
Carefully, I lifted the pot and walked it over to table. “No, not them. I mean with the other family.”
“Ze Koulovskis?”
Jackpot! “Yeah.” Since she was still trailing me, I grinned. “Them.” Aiming the pour over the first set of molds, I tilted just enough to make a steady stream.
Nikita said, “Vell, Emiuly vas shaken after ze accident, but rung ze poulice instead of her parents.”
That brought a frustrated growl to my throat as I moved the stream of plastic to the next mold. To make money tight for her, not only had I gotten her fired from her second job, I had also sent her boyfriend those photoshopped fakes. But she refused to call home for help.
Nikita said that once we get Emily and her parents back in contact, that their strained relationship would repair itself. But Emily, like her parents, was too proud to make the first call.
I stopped pouring.
Nikita asked, “Vut?”
“Nothing.” I sighed. Even though I had only done a few molds, I took the rest of the pot of plastic back to the stove. “It’s just that I’m, apparently, going to have to do something a little more drastic.”
Nakita asked, “And change cities?”
“Yeah.” I nodded as I started to pack up. “And change cities.”
Whenever I took a more direct involvement, I always skipped town. Since I had held down the valet job for a while and had so many keys ready and key fobs cloned, I didn’t want to leave.
But it’s best to be prudent. Everyone is town is going to be looking for me after what I do next.
* * *
Sprinting from the bus to keep from being late for work, Emily squeezed in the front door of the toasty Fiv’n Diner right as the second hand ticked to 9:00 p.m.
Breathing heavy, she moved toward the back and appraised the business level.
It was super sleepy. Even for a Tuesday night. Only four of the thirty tables had customers and from the heavy smell of sausage and eggs, everyone had opted for breakfast tonight.
Of course, midweek mainstay, heavyset and curly-haired Victor was in the left corner booth in what used to be the smoking section with his Dell laptop. His jaw was always working on one brand of nicotine gum or another, even as he drank coffee: black.
A couple of booths over, bird-chested Matt, the server she was supposed to relieve five minutes ago, was delivering two shakes to two excited young girls with their father. A girthy flannel-wearing Latino trucker sat at the kitchen bar and a black guy in an old brown leather coat was in the other corner booth on his phone.
Moving past the trucker, who reeked of cigarette smoke and flatulence, Emily slid into the back to clock in at the time clock register.
Droopy-eyed Darla, the haggard and bitter shift supervisor, was there. Waiting. Hunched over the register. Not moving out of the way.
Darla said, “When I was your age, I would’ve been fired if I was late as many times are you are.”
While Darla could wear either a Fiv’n Diner polo or dress it up a bit with a long-sleeve shirt and tie, she never did. She wore the same short-sleeve button up as the servers. Sadly, when Emily had once asked, Darla had said that it kept her close to her roots.
Darla said, “Of course, I needed my job ta feed my kids since Jack left me high and dry.”
Jesus, she was in a mood.
Emily had found it best not to engage Darla when she was like this. She hung up her purse, shrugged off the parka, and hung it over her purse. Because Darla would wail if she tried to clock in disheveled, Emily took five seconds to straighten her shirt and pocketed half-apron.
Set, Emily pulled out her employee card bungeed to her far right pocket to swipe in.
Darla remained hunched and unmoving.
Emily said, “Um, Darla, I need to swipe in.”
Darla said, “You were s’posed ta do that six minutes ago.” While she was in the way, she wasn’t blocking the card swipe.
Totally ready to have her hand knocked away, Emily eased her card forward.
Darla just stared at her, disgusted.
Emily swiped her card. So close, Emily thought about giving Darla a peck on the cheek to sweeten her disposition, but the old cat only tolerated that on her rare good days.
The digital clock ticked over to 9:01 as Emily put her employee card away in her right apron pocket. Technically, not late.
Matt came into the back. “Hey, Em.”
Emily gave his shoulder a pat. “Heya, Matt.” She liked him because he was nice and never tried to make her feel bad for being late even though he always had some place to be.
Matt gave a rundown. “Vic is working on his closing scene and doesn’t want to be bothered.”
Emily said, “Just keep his cup full.”
“Right.” Matt nodded. “The guy with the girls is Kurt, the girls are Wendy and Abby. Abby’s the younger one. The guy at the bar—”
Darla cut in. “Captain shart-pants.”
Emily bit her lip to keep from saying anything stupid.
Matt smiled his not-now smile, and continued, “Is Miguel. He’s hauling appliances. He hasn’t said for who.”
Darla added, “He also has a double-load in his pants.”
Emily kept her focus on Matt. “The last guy?”
Matt pulled his employee card. “He just got here.”
Darla moved out of Matt’s way.
Matt swiped and said, “He’s still looking the menu over.” He handed over three bill folders. “While they’re live in the system, I’ve rung them up.”
“Great.” Emily took them, put them in her center pocket, and then put her hand on Matt’s back to give him a slight push toward the back door. “Their tips will be in your locker.”
Going with it, Matt hustled to the back door. Over his shoulder he said, “Thanks, Em. G’night, Darla. G’night, Frank!” And was gone.
Always late to reply, Frank, the cook, said, “Night, Matt.”
Peeping into the kitchen, Emily gave Frank a smile. “Don’t think he heard you.”
Standing in front of the empty grill, Frank shrugged.
Darla took a hold of Emily’s elbow while pointing at the back door. “Now that’s a good employee.”
Frowning, Emily yanked her arm away. She took a deep breath, picked up a full carafe of coffee, and put on a casual smile. She then went out into the front.
Since Miguel was closest, Emily approached him first. He may have smelled, but he had a kind face.
Emily pointed at his coffee cup. “Want a top off?”
“Please.” Miguel added, “And my check.”
“Well.” Emily topped off his coffee. “Here’s this.” Knowing Matt, she took out the bottom billfold and opened it to see two breakfast burritos and a coffee. She closed it and set it in front of Miguel. “And here’s that. Thanks for dropping in. Hope you visit us next time you come through Reno.”
Miguel opened the billfold to toss in a twenty and a ten. “I will. This is a nice place.”
Emily left the billfold. She didn’t want to seem like a vulture. She then headed over to Kurt and the girls. Kurt had scraped the girls remaining foot onto his plate and was working on it. The girls were happily busy with their shakes.
Chewing, Kurt waved off the coffee.
Emily went to Victor, filled his cup, and went across the restaurant to the guy in the corner.
Still looking at his phone, the guy had stopped talking as she approached.
Leading with the carafe aimed at his cup. Emily said, “Hi, welcome. I’m Emily and I’ll be your server today.”
When he looked at her, Emily felt danger, and almost backed away. There was nothing overtly off about him, but he felt like a coming storm.
Emily finished the pour. “Know what you’re having?”
He smiled a winning smile, but it didn’t touch his dead eyes. Nothing probably could. “What’s good.” No inflection. No intonation. Voice deep and flat, the way he spoke made the question sound like a sentence. Like he was just going through the pretense of having a conversation while not caring if the other person replied or said anything at all.
Jesus, this guy wasn’t all there.
Emily said, “Our cook makes an amazing breakfast burrito.” She summoned enough composure to point to the burrito section of the menu. “The Southwest Surprise is always in demand.”
“Yeah.” He picked up the menu without breaking his psycho eye contact. “That’ll do.”
Emily accepted the menu and double-timed it to the back.
Darla had hunched back over the rear register again.
Emily put the order in to Frank and went to Darla. “Darla, could you serve the guy in the corner for me?”
Darla gazed deadened. “Honey, you gotta serve everyone. I’ll step in if you get six tops.”
Emily agreed with the normal procedure, “Yes, I know. But, something’s off about the guy and you’re way more experienced in these kinds of situation.”
Dramatically, Darla put the back of her hand to her forehead. “Oh, I’m so young and pretty. I can show up late and dump my work on other people. You know because—” Still in the dramatic pose, she cut her eyes to Emily. “I’m so young and pretty.”
Incredulous, Emily pressed her lips together.
Darla pointed at Emily’s mouth. “You look like Kermit the Frog like that.” Darla lowered her arm to properly hunch over the register, again. “Show him that face. He’ll leave you alone.”
Emily got closer and lowered her voice. “It’s not like that…”
Darla’s eyes took on empathetic concern. She nodded. “Sure. I’ll do it.”
Emily wanted to hug her. “Thank you.”
Darla put her hand up. “I know, you promise not to be late anymore. And that’ll last a week.”
Emily smiled. “At least two weeks, I double-promise.”
A small smile worked on Darla’s lips as she rolled her eyes.
While she wasn’t Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, Emily felt like she really dodged a bullet from that creepy Agent Smith customer. Even better, when she topped off Victor’s coffee he was on a break. He’d asked her if she wanted to be a part of his next forty-eight-hour film project.
A master at keeping a conversation going, Emily latched onto the real distraction so it’d make sense why another server would take creepo his food.
After Darla was out with his plate, Emily excused herself from Victor to check on Kurt and the girls. They were ready to go so Emily dropped off their billfold, collected Gabriel’s, and—per procedure—processed the check on the front register.
All the while, she kept an awareness of the guy in the corner. He wasn’t staring, leering, or even glancing her direction. Which felt worse. It’d be different if he were off into his phone or reading a newspaper, but he wasn’t. His gaze went no higher than the seat back across from him and on more than one occasion, she had caught him talking to himself.
However, aside from exuding a general menace, he wasn’t doing anything but eating.
Emily processed Kurt’s card. After signing, he bundled up his girls and left. It was getting close to ten and Victor would soon be packing it in for the night.
It wasn’t entirely unusual for there to only be one or two customers this late. Victor was usually the last—if not the only—customer until a little after eleven when the swing-shift casino dealers would start to roll in.
While Frank was a big guy, the guy in the corner was also sort of big. And to Emily, big and crazy would beat plain big every day of the week. Plus, Frank was so blasé about what went down in the diner that he probably wouldn’t do anything unless the guy went into the kitchen.
Emily went and sat with Victor.
He was still full of conversation about what role he wanted her to play and how this film would be a prequel character study into the parents of his postapocalyptic hero.
To her surprise, Emily found herself completely engrossed. She hadn’t seen any of Victor’s films because she didn’t like zombie flicks or postapocalyptic stuff, and that was his mainstay. However, when he broke down what he was trying to say about society through the characters and the story—
Victor stopped mid-sentence and pointed to the register.
Before Emily could stop herself, she looked.
The guy from the corner was standing there and had just looked from the back to her.
Shit.
Emily said, “I’ll be right back, Victor.” She whispered, “Please don’t leave.”
A confused expression passed over Victor’s face.
Emily didn’t explain. She got up, went to the register, and swiped it open. It was 10:50. Part of her hoped he would make a grab for the money in the till. She’d hop out of the way and let him have at it.
He didn’t.
Taking his check, Emily asked, “How was your meal?”
Nodding, he sniffed and took out a perfectly crisp twenty.
She took it and started making change.
He leaned in and asked, “When’s the last time you talked to your parents.” Again, the lack of inflection made it sound like he was speaking a sentence.
Before she could count his change, but not before she shuddered, he turned and left the diner.
Emily watched him go.
He went out and sat at the bus stop. He faced forward. Never looking around or even looking up the street to see if the bus was coming.
He stayed that way.
Feeling something bad was going to happen to her, Emily thought about calling her parents down in Las Vegas. Not to say anything about this guy, but just to say a few words. To let them know that even though they had turned their backs on her for dropping out of college, she still loved them. And maybe, if they wouldn’t mind, she’d come home for Christmas.
Soon the dealers rolled in and both she and Darla were too busy to think about anything other than the wave of customers.
As usual, on the tail end of the night dealers, housekeepers, and cage employees from the casino came through. Then security. And soon, the early morning crowd.
Emily thought about her parents on her last break, but decided not to call.
Maybe when she was safe in her bedroom.
* * *
My alarm went off at five thirty. Nikita’s lips were floating above me when I open my eyes. In the dim lighting, her lips were almost as real as mine.
“Pomoshchnik,” she said, “Emiuly has not rung her parents.”
I sighed.
As much as I try, I can never understand people who have family and don’t want to be with them. I’d trade an arm to have any of my family back. It might be weird explaining how I lost one of my arms, but I’d hug the shit out of them with my remaining one and not complain in the least.
“Right.” I sat up. Everything was already loaded in my Chevy van parked around the corner from where she lived. I got up and looked out my window. The stolen blue Kia Optima was still in the parking lot backed in the spot closest to the property wall. It was electric. It’d roll quiet.
There were no signs of cops anywhere.
Nikita lips were next to me. She asked, “Vell?”
I looked at them and then to where her eyes would be if they were there. “Well, she’s left me no other choice. Now I’ll do what I have to.”
“Good.”
* * *
Things had gotten so busy that Emily didn’t give the creepy guy another thought until she was out on the cold bus stop at 6:00 a.m. It was still dark out. Exhausted, she had sat down and was dully looking forward when he popped to the front of her mind.
She looked around and kept looking around. He was nowhere in sight.
Which made sense since he had left almost seven hours ago. However, she couldn’t shirk the feeling that he was out there somewhere. Watching.
Too early for steady traffic, groups of cars whizzed by in spurts. Their exhaust fading almost as soon as they passed. There was enough of a gap that she felt she could be scooped up and no one would ever know until they saw her on the news.
If they hadn’t started the renovation on the Chevron across the street, there might be people getting gas. But as it was now, the pumps were closed, and they had wood up to protect the glass during construction. Which had the downside of making the attendants out of sight.
Surreptitiously, Emily moved her canister of pepper gel from her purse to her large front parka pocket. She thumbed off the safety.
It had been ingrained in her that if she were attacked, she was going down fighting. Her mother said to kick, bite, and scratch. Her father, who had served two tours and had worked private security over there had said, time and time again, that it was better to be dead in public than tortured and killed in private.
Humming Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Emily tried to shake off fatalistic thoughts. She remained astute, but she didn’t need to torment herself with morbid worries.
Bopping to the tune in her head, she yelped with joy when the dense hum from a trundling bus engine lit the air.
Searching for the bus and looking for the man, Emily got to her feet and kept her hands in her parka pockets.
The bus came into sight up the street. It stopped the usual two times at stops almost no one ever got on or off at. Then, it was finally to her.
Emily greeted the driver, got on, and sat up front. There wasn’t anyone else on the bus yet, but there would be by the time she got to her transfer point.
Her next bus was pulling up as she got off the first one. As though the guy was right on her heels, Emily ran full-out for the connection and made it. As she rode, she watched as the sky lightened, promising to be a bright cloudless morning.
With the night fading, her mind and heart began to settle.
However, when she got off her stop, alone, the worry came back. The walk to the condo complex where she rented a room was, at points, solitary with the backs of houses on one side of the road and a huge empty lot on the other.
She crossed the street to walk on the sidewalk facing the sparse and infrequent traffic.
The condo complex was in sight. She was safe—
A silent blue Optima jumped the curb in front of her.
Trembling, she was looking the crazy guy from the diner in the eyes as he opened the door.
Screaming, she pulled her pepper gel and shot.
Bellowing he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into him so her hand with the can was over his shoulder.
Emily rammed her knee at his groin.
He twisted his hips and knocked the attack away.
She dropped the canister and dug her hands into the back of his head.
His eyes went wide for a moment before he shut them and slammed his forehead into her face.
Her legs gave. Some of the pepper gel from his face smeared onto her. God it burned!
She bit into his leg.
His other foot covered in a black boot kicked her head away from him and her consciousness away from her.
* * *
I resist the desperate urge to wipe where the pepper gel hit on the right side of my face. My left eye is searing and has clamped shut. Snot is running out of my burning nose like a mother fucker.
But she’s out.
Composed, Nikita commands, “Do it.”
I take the wrench out from my jacket. I aim and bring it down hard once. Twice.
My other eye is watering and trying to close.
Thinking that I can get out of the pepper spray cloud, I stumble back. Then I remember it’s a fucking gel. There’ll be no easy reprieve.
I get back in the Kia and zoom away. I can barely see out of my good eye. Nikita speaks directions, reminding me in my agonized state as to where I parked my van.
She says no one is following us, but she’s been wrong before.
Still, I get to my van and work to drive calmly onto the highway while my face is on fire.
After five minutes, I pull off to the side of the road and go into the back of my van. I pull out the wide plastic bowl that I keep under the back seat along with the gallon of one part Dawn dish soap to three parts water.
Blindly, growling, I pour into the bowl and hold my breath as I dip my face in.
This is going to be a process, but I’ve done it before. The pain will eventually subside enough for me to rub my face, but, for now, I curse Emily’s stupid stubbornness and take small comfort in knowing that I fucking got her, too.
* * *
Emily Kolowski’s world had been a haze. She vaguely remembered hearing sirens and trying to fight off something being put over her face. There were other moments in the cloud where she distinctly heard her mother and father’s voices, but they were in Las Vegas. She was pretty sure that she even heard her brothers taking turns reading The Year We Fell Down to her, but her brothers lived in Frisco and Ogden.
Her face hurt.
Her head hurt.
Her hands hurt.
Numerous times, she tried to get up to fight, but she was restrained.
She was in a hospital, and restrained.
Her family was around her. It had taken a couple of salient moments for her to understand that she’d been assaulted. Well, she knew that, but to get the full understanding that whoever did it had purposefully done serious damage to her hands. There were multiple broken bones in each.
She was still in Reno. She was in stable condition and awaiting surgery to repair her hands and fractured orbital bone.
Emily went unconscious again, but she did so knowing that she was safe and that her family was around her.
* * *
It’d taken me almost half an hour and the full gallon to get that gel to stop burning. Probably could’ve done it faster if I didn’t have to put a little distance between me and Emily.
While Nikita normally tells me if my efforts worked, she doesn’t have to this time. We both know that everyone reaches out for help when both of their hands are broken. And that’s the kind of burden only a spouse or family would undertake. But, if Emily didn’t call on her parents, she doesn’t deserve them.
As for me? Well, Nikita wants to see the ocean again and I need to get birthday flowers on my mother’s grave before Christmas night.
So, I’m on the road again. Looking to do more good for mankind.