Negative Returns
This short story in the horror genre was published in the sixth issue of Thin Ice. Story copyright 1990,
William D. Cissna.


Ralph Tucker sat behind the wire-mesh caging, staring and waiting for the first customer. It had been three
hours since he first arrived. Weekdays might be slow but not Saturdays. He couldn't understand it. He cast
his eyes around the shelves and long tables that stretched along the two sides of the narrow building,
covered with the jetsam and flotsam of the poor souls who traded personal possessions for personal
gratification.
Ralph worked the night shift at Park 'n Pawn, one of an endless stream of concrete-block buildings that
flowed along the north side of Highway 24. The road, with north-to-south Highway 17, formed a nearly
perfect cross, splitting the town of Jacksonville. Low, lean, straight roads, they came from wooded, scruffy
countryside to sudden civilization. Below town, they skirted the immense Camp Lejeune, home to thousands
of Marines. Ralph, a relative newcomer after ten years, still wondered which came first: the town or the
camp. It seemed the sole reason for the town's existence was the camp, not the other way around.
He thought about it during those boring slots from 6 to 8 and 11 to 12, until he could lock up at two, grab a
beer at one of the late-night scuzzy bars across from the main gate, then cruise east past Tarawa Terrace
and Midway Park to his rusting trailer back in the scruff.
Most of the businesses around Park 'n Pawn lived on, thrived on, sucked the blood of young boys who put in
their hard training and, in some cases, the rest of their service careers, in the mysterious wastelands across
the road. A lot of cynical bastards like Ralph scrapped for space with a good adjacency where they could offer
booze, tattoos, girlie shows, rental televisions, cars, tires, body work, dress blues or services of a more
questionable nature. Where there was money to be had, there was money to be taken.
Ralph and his ilk shared a town that welcomed drivers with signs for the Junior Women's Club and the
Rotary, that pumped out Bible-Belt dogma over radio station WJIK (Where Jesus Is King). The town
continually tried to better itself, advertising the bird sanctuary, its enlightened community and government
policies. Generally, it failed miserably, like most other camp towns.
On most occasions, Ralph thought with perverse pride, the sleazeballs won out. Not that there weren't guys
like Sammy, who worked the 10-to-6 slot. Sammy always had WJIK on the radio when Ralph came in. He
treated his customers just like they were real people, instead of slime. It was enough to make Ralph want to
puke.
Of course, Sammy's customers were a little different. They came in during daylight; they weren't as
desperate and demanding as Ralph's people. The dark brought out the worst in people. He had the ones
who'd decided a few more drinks before maneuvers were more important than a wrist watch, the next poker
hand would bring fame and fortune. How important was the guitar the guy's father had saved for months to
buy? They rarely repurchased but often came back with something else under their arms or on their fingers
to sell for one more shot. A shot that mostly misfired.
Ralph Tucker couldn't care less. He listed to rock 'n roll to make the hours pass and wore a meaningless
grin when the boys came in and sold out. He beamed inside each time they did. He made ridiculously low
offers for items of worth and almost always bought the item at the initial quotation. A few contentious types
("little shits," he'd call them, after they'd left) might bargain upwards, but never as high as that pussy
Sammy would pay right off the bat.
His biggest pleasure, though, came on those rare occasions when some schmuck tried to buy an item back
when he was flush. Ralph called it "royal screwing time." Thanks to a prodigious memory for the assorted
garbage he took in, combined with a quick eye and a fast pen hand, he could revise a price tag faster than a
linebacker could run the fifty. Some of them would buy anything; others would shake their heads and leave;
yet others would barrage him with a selection of cusswords that could only be learned on a military base. In
any case, he'd nearly die laughing when they finally departed.
"You shoulda seen this dumb sumbitch tonight," he'd tell one of his barfly companions on the way home.
"Thought his eyes would pop right outta his head when I showed 'im the price." And he'd laugh all over
again.
Opportunities to laugh had been few and far between lately, though. The government's new militarism had
drained hundreds of soldiers from the barracks and married quarters to send them across the oceans of the
world. The ones left behind suffered under new, restrictive schedules that severely limited their free time.
The bottom line, as Ralph's fat pig-of-a-boss liked to call it, was a drastic reduction in business. Bad news for
all concerned. A regular economic depression. A major pain in the ass.
The institutional black and white clock on the opposite wall crawled past 9:30. Finally, the injured metal
door, the building's only entrance, swung open, tinkling the stupid little bell suspended above it. The bell
just didn't fit his macho image of the deadly serious approach he brought to the business of pawning. He had
not yet, however, dredged up the guts to complain.
When the figure stepped through the doorway with one hand wrapped around a radio and lugging a portable
television with another, he cursed again. What the hell's this world coming to, anyway, he thought. What's a
broad doing coming in here at this hour of night? Shouldn't she be home doing her hair or something?
With a long, annoyed sigh, he pushed himself up out of the padded chair to his full six feet two inches. He
glued on his most obsequious smile, nodded his head ever so slightly in the woman's direction and tried to
wipe some of the grate from his voice. "Something I can do for you, ma'am?"
The woman placed the items on the wide wood counter on the other side of the mesh and looked hopefully
into Ralph's eyes. "I hope so, sir."
Ooh-wee, Ralph thought. Nice manners. And not too bad otherwise, either. Short but slim. Dark hair,
longish. Nicely stacked. Bright eyes, red lips. Not too much makeup. His brain kicked into overtime. "Well,
well, uhhh ..." Shit, he was babbling. "Um ... what do you have there?"
"Well, things are a bit tight. I don't know what happened, but my husband's pay check got screwed up by the
government. It's three weeks late already and I can't wait any longer. I've got to buy food and stuff for the
house. I was gettin' desperate, but I remembered Doug told me before he left for Beirut that I could bring
some things down here if it ever got real bad. Well, it's real bad. He said I oughta see Sammy. Are you
Sammy?"
Jeez, a real motormouth. Gave him the chance to calm down, though. "Sure, that's me; I'm Sammy," he lied
happily. "I'm sure I can help you out. Let me take a look at your stuff."
He moved to his right, to quickly unlatch the small door between him and the rest of the store. She waited
expectantly. Relieved that she hadn't disappeared on him, he stepped forward and started his pretend
inspection of the television. Then he moved on to the radio, giving it a slightly more than cursory glance,
just enough to convince her he'd given it professional consideration.
In truth, he'd evaluated both items for total value and bid before he'd even left the chair. He prided himself
on his knowledge of models, current selling prices and condition. Although he never gave out the
information, he found his mental calculation of customers' original purchase prices rarely varied more than
five dollars from the figure they would invariably mention, heatedly, when he made his bids.
He had quickly pegged the television as a color portable of recent vintage, selling downtown for about $250.
The radio was also a popular design, available for about $35. For Ralph, an easy evaluation, even at a
distance.
He perfunctorily plugged each of them into the convenient sockets stuck on a two by four by the gate, for
just that purpose. They worked perfectly, which was all that Fatso really cared about.
"Miss, these seem to be in pretty good shape. I think I can make you an offer."
"Oh, that's wonderful, Sammy. It would be a great help."
"Always willing to help a pretty lady," he smirked. "I'm sure my boss wouldn't mind, under your special
circumstances, if I was to offer you fifty bucks for the two of them."
She looked up at him, stunned. "Is that all?" she squeaked.
"Well, ma'am, I'm sorry, but ..."
"We just bought the teevee, and the radio's not that old."
"You know, you've got to take depreciation into consideration. After all, we're not in business to lose money
here."
"I'm sure you're not, but ... well, I just thought ... I thought they might be worth more than that." She
looked right on the edge of busting out crying.
"You know, though, ma'am, I can think of a way I might be able to go, say, thirty bucks more for, um, special
consideration on your part."
She fixed on him with bright eyes. "Special consideration?"
He started to feel a touch of moisture under his arms, but he pushed on anyway. "Well, yeah, you know.
You're a pretty lady and all that ..." He left it hanging.
"Just exactly what do you have in mind, Sammy?"
He shot a quick look at the front door, then allowed himself a lewd smile as he ran his fingers through
greasy hair in what passed, for him, as duding up for a chick. "Honey, I think you know exactly what I mean.
You and me could get together for a little while, you know, how some fun and all. I'll add a few bucks to the
tab, and the boss'll never know the difference."
It took her a minute. "Do you mean ... do you think I'd ever ... with a foul thing like you?" she spluttered.
She raised a hand as if to strike him, then thought better of it. When she spoke again, her voice had changed
from flustered to ice. "My Doug told me you were a nice person, Sammy. He apparently was wrong. Give me
the damn fifty and I'll get out of here."
Ralph shrugged his shoulders, looked at the ceiling and retreated behind the mesh. Accustomed to rejection,
he grabbed a form and shoved it under the opening. "Here, fill this out. You may want to come back and get
this junk some day."
She looked at him briefly, as if he were some form of slug. "My husband is overseas trying to protect this
country, and look at the kind of ... pervert he's trying to keep free. Jesus, what a waste."
"I ain't no pervert, lady. Just tryin' to do some business. Sorry you took it the wrong way," he said, not
meaning it. He counted out the fifty and pushed it in her direction. She picked it up as if she wanted to wash
it first.
"It has been a distinct displeasure doing business with you," she said, turning and stalking out.
He fingered the form she'd left on the counter the way some women fingered jewels. She talked real tough
now, but he knew where she lived. They'd been known to come back anyway, when things got bad enough
that thirty bucks sounded like big money. He could afford to wait.
He filed the card with care and moved the stuff to the shelves. Settled back in the chair, he wrote up the
purchase so that Fatso would stay happy, and grinned. Not a bad night's work. The next four hours went
slowly. Three customers came and went, bearing garbage he bought for a total of $34.50. No one bought a
thing. Boring.
Just after one-thirty, the big man came in. Ralph took one look and figured, drunk. The man's fatigues were
dusty and torn; a nasty gash disfigured his forehead. Another drunken fighter. He hoped it didn't mean
trouble.
The man walked directly to the gate. No weaving. Maybe not a drunk. Who could judge?
"Hi, buddy. What can I do for you?" Ralph offered.
"Hi, Ralph," the man said in a low, growling voice.
"Do I know you?"
"You told her you were Sammy, dincha?"
"What?" Suddenly, the inside of the building didn't seem light enough.
"My little woman. She was in here tonight, and you lied to her about being Sammy."
"Ah, well." Ralph put on his ingratiating smile and chuckled nervously. "I guess I did fib a little."
"You shithead."
Breath came a little harder. "Now, wait a minute ..."
"I also hear you cheated her."
The smile turned into a frown. "Is that what she told you? That ain't exactly the way it was."
"Bullshit. Next you're going to tell me you didn't come on to her, right?"
"Aw, no way, buddy. It may be boring here, but I didn't come on to no broads. I'd lose my damn job, for
Chrissakes!"
The man's eyes narrowed to slits. "You're gonna lose a lot more than your job, you scumbag."
"Buddy, I don't like your attitude."
"I'm not your buddy and never will be, Ralph. But I'm willing to offer a compromise. Like either you give me
what the stuff's worth, or I take it home. Take your choice."
"What if I don't choose either?"
"I'd rather not discuss the third option."
"Well, I look at it this way. I made your wife an offer, which she accepted. I gave her the money; she gave me
the stuff. What can I say? I'm not in the position to change the deal without checking with my boss. Sorry."
"Not as sorry as you're gonna be. Why don't you just call your boss so we can clear this up?"
"No way. Not at this hour of the morning. Now, if you can't wait 'til Monday ..."
"Nope. Can't hang around that long. I guess you're saying no to options one and two, then."
"Yessir. Ain't got no choice."
"Oh, I think you do. But that's okay. I'll just settle it my way."
"Lissen," Ralph said. "I thought your wife told me you was overseas."
"I was," the man said. "I came back for a while."
Something very strange about this guy, Ralph thought. Something about his clothing. Then it struck him:
the man came in so quietly because he was wearing house slippers. Very odd.
Then the man reached behind him and offered Ralph the snout of a military-issued rifle. Semi-automatic,
recent issue, very deadly, Ralph thought professionally.
"I guess I can only deal with your type in one way," the man said.
Ralph backed slowly away from the mesh. "Hey, buddy, you know I didn't mean ..." His back rammed the
concrete wall.
"Ralph, Ralph, Ralph. Forget it. You tried to lay my wife, then you ripped her off. You won't come clean and
besides, there's a point where forgiving stops. The negotiations are over."
For a brief moment, Ralph Tucker considered it most unfortunate that a rifle muzzle could fit between the
openings in the wire mesh. Then, with an unbelievably loud sound that resonated through the small
building before dying away in throbbing echoes, a blast of gunfire sealed Ralph's fate.
Inhumanly long fingers snaked under the gate and plucked bills from the cash box. They grabbed a
red-splattered envelope, then retreated.
Silence settled over the small shop, no longer disturbed by the activities of the living.
***

The news, spotty and incomplete as it was, came to the residents of Jacksonville in many ways: in confused
statements of dismay from pulpits, across the airwaves in homes and bars, mouth-to-mouth among the old
men in the parks. The violent terrorist attack on the Marine base in Beirut had murdered American boys,
many of them residents of or assigned to the Camp. While most of Jacksonville had slept, a truck loaded
with ammunition and explosives had been driven onto the base in Lebanon like a kamikaze, killing over 200
soldiers. At eight-thirty in the morning, Beirut time -- one-thirty a.m. in North Carolina -- the dreams of
many had been shattered.
A terrible pall of sadness, regret and anger settled over the little town as everyone awaited the long list of
the dead.
In the same newspaper that listed the names of her husband and his friends, she found the short item, low
on page five, concerning the gruesome shooting death of one Ralph Tucker, clerk at the Park 'n Pawn.
It hadn't taken much to figure out Tucker's deception, his posing as Sammy -- and, amid so much death and
suffering, she had been hard pressed to feel sympathy at his passing.
She also assumed that the real Sammy had left the bloodstained Park 'n Pawn envelope, stuffed with money,
inside her screen door sometime early that tragic Sunday morning.
***
Horror shorts -
by Bill Cissna
To return to the
main fiction
page, click here.