No Happy Endings Read online

  NO HAPPY ENDINGS

  Angel Luis Colón

  Praise for No Happy Endings…

  “This Angel from hell writes hardcore pulp fiction as sick, slick, funny, and thrilling as Willeford meets Westlake. Fantine Park is a great new bad-ass heroine.” — Thomas Pluck, author of Blade of Dishonor and Bad Boy Boogie

  “In No Happy Endings, Angel Colón milks every drop of tension as he leads his heroine, Fantine, from one sticky situation to another. Try to read with your fingers covering your eyes, hoping to shield your eyes from the nonstop action, violence, and mayhem as the reader cranks along to an inevitable, satisfying climax.” — Eryk Pruitt, author of Dirtbags and Hashtag

  “Imagine an oversexed-on-speed remake of Big Trouble in Little China as told by the Krays, or maybe a club-kid update of Jim Thompson’s The Alcoholics, and you still don’t come anywhere near the depravity, perversion, and holy mind fuck of this latest offering by Angel Colón. No Happy Endings takes the time-tested trope of retired robber on a final heist, and with more double crosses than Jesus after a three-day bender, delivers one of the most weirdly original, satisfying, and unexpected capers of the year.” — Joe Clifford, author of Junkie Love and the Jay Porter Thriller Series

  “No Happy Endings is a trip of a book. Right from the first sentence, you know you’ve entered Colón’s world of dark humor and interesting positions. This is tale of Fantine Park, a young safe cracker who gets mixed up in one bizarre New York situation — sperm bank fraud, if that’s what you call it. With Colón’s popping wry prose, No Happy Endings moves at a breakneck pace, is fabulously entertaining, and has one of the best female leads you’ll read in a long time.” — Jen Conley, author of Cannibals: Stories from the Edge of the Pine Barrens

  “Deftly mixing a delightfully twisted premise with deliciously dark humor and an authentic emotional core, No Happy Endings firmly positions Angel Luis Colón as a top voice in the new generation of crime fiction writers. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with next.” — Holly West, Anthony Award-nominated author of the Mistress of Fortune series

  “Not only does No Happy Endings deliver on the outrageous premise, Angel Colón somehow manages to make it absolutely plausible. A true page-turner packed with colorful characters, biting one-liners and some of the most repulsive murder scenes a twisted mind could conjure.” — S.W. Lauden, author of Crosswise

  “This is a heist book like no other, perfectly captured by Colón’s intense, no-frills style. Loaded with dark humor, tightly-choreographed action and a memorable protagonist in Fantine Park, No Happy Endings hits hard, with a jaw-breaking impact that won’t fade overnight.” — Alex Segura, author of Silent City and Down the Darkest Street

  Copyright © 2016 by Angel Luis Colón

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Down & Out Books

  3959 Van Dyke Rd, Ste. 265

  Lutz, FL 33558

  DownAndOutBooks.com

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by James R. Tuck

  Visit the Down & Out Books website to sign up for our monthly newsletter and we'll deliver the latest news on our upcoming titles, sale books, Down & Out authors on the net, and more!

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  No Happy Endings

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Angel Luis Colón

  Other Titles from Down & Out Books

  Preview from Worst Enemies, a Penns River Crime Novel by Dana King

  Preview from The Short List, a Bricks and Cam Job by Frank Zafiro and Eric Beetner

  Preview from Abnormal Man by Grant Jerkins

  for Jeanette, Marcelo, and Amelia

  Come with me, where chains will never bind you. All your grief at last, at last behind you.

  — Fantine, Les Misérables

  Prologue 1

  June 22nd, 2007—New York

  Arthur Darvish needed extra money so he went to the sperm bank.

  He figured it would be simple. They’d give him a cup, a good porn flick, and some time alone to pop one—or two—off in a cup. Maybe they’d spot him a little extra cash for the lie about pursuing his doctorate at Columbia University. Embellishing his credentials wouldn’t be a big deal. It wasn’t like this was a job interview. Besides, better to do something for the betterment of mankind instead of leaving all that genetic material in a sock or a napkin.

  They took him as he was queuing up a scene on the DVD they gave him, “SUPER BIKER SLUTS FROM MARS XXX.” Strong arms grabbed him. A hand with a rag on it covered his mouth and nose.

  Arthur woke up strapped into a cheap dentist’s chair, a gag in his mouth, a plastic and metal tube around his raw cock—no—this was not what he considered “easy.” He made note of the bandage on the crook of his right arm. There’d been a needle in him. They’d injected him with something that made everything feel dream-like. The edges of the world were fan-brushed into oblivion and the lights above were so very warm. There was a thick, lemony scent in the air. It was pleasant. More than pleasant. He couldn’t lie to himself, this felt pretty damn spectacular. If he were in a right state of mind, he’d be afraid. The miracle of modern chemistry kept all that anxiety at bay.

  Those thoughts and the fact he’d came too many times to count in the past three hours kept him from maintaining an erection. Surely he’d donated enough. It had to be time to go home. Those were the drugs talking. Nothing about this situation was normal and absolutely nothing about it indicated it would end, but Arthur had an easy time ignoring those instincts under the warm, warm lights. He started counting the little shards of light that appeared in his peripheral whenever he stared at the bulbs for too long.

  A male nurse appeared over him. Arthur remembered him from the front desk upstairs. Was he there the whole time? Arthur couldn’t remember.

  “We have a small problem,” the nurse said. He smiled. “Well, beyond the small problem you already have.” He had a light accent, but it didn’t garble his speech. If anything, it made the man sound more sophisticated—well traveled.

  Arthur blinked. He wanted to ask what this was all about. Wanted an explanation for this treatment. All he managed was a slur of gibberish. He saw drool fall onto his hospital gown. He couldn’t remember when he put that on—did he put that on? He shifted his hips. Felt a bump between his ass cheeks.

  The nurse lifted a clipboard. “We tend to run background checks, but I am behind on my quotas, so we decided to scoop you up either way.” He wrote something down. “I normally try to keep my stock pure, you know. I don’t really give a damn what school you went to—that does not matter.” He frowned, his eyes darkened. “You see, what does matter, Mister Darvish, is your drug history.”

  Arthur moaned. He’d maybe lied a little bit about his past. He didn’t feel like mentioning anything about the pills. It wasn’t like he was too far gone. He’d cut back the last few weeks since he couldn’t get his roommate, Tony, the amount of money he needed. That’s mostly what led to this. He figured donating blood would be too difficult.

  “Would you like to see a sample of your sperm?” The nurse dragged a cart over with a computer monitor. He turned the screen on. There was a black and white picture—at first still. “See, when you abuse drugs there are so many unforeseen consequences. One being, the effect on your reproductive organs.” The nurse moved a mouse and clicked twice. “Sperm are very easy
to damage.” The screen shifted. Now there was a collection of sperm, none moving. There were a few with two tails or two heads. The nurse sighed. “Your sperm are completely damaged—unacceptable.”

  Arthur watched the nurse walk to the vacuum and flip a switch. There was a small window of quiet, but then the machine started to howl. He felt a tug at his nethers, but no pain. He noticed his gown was hiked up above his waist.

  “I don’t like junkies, Mister Darvish.” The nurse walked to a cabinet and opened it up. Inside, rows upon rows of empty cylinders and little paper bags. The nurse placed his clipboard in a sleeve on the cabinet door. “You sully the gene pool. Ruin society as a whole.” He fished a remote from his pocket and pressed a single red button. “My clients would go insane if I gave them defective product. Hell, it makes me insane.”

  Arthur wanted to ask, Why are you doing this? Or Can’t I just leave? but there was a sudden tension in his ass and legs. It felt like his skin was too tight. A low hum came from between his legs. He felt heat near his balls, but no pain. Whatever they’d injected him with; it was worth more than any of the Percocet and OxyContin pills he used to chew up weeks ago. He could only watch the nurse depress that button, or look down at the tube pulling desperately at his now flaccid cock. The tube leading to the container he assumed was meant to be filled with his semen was slowly turning pink, then a deep red. Christ, was he bleeding? He moaned and jerked his shoulders. Came off more like he was slow dancing. The hum grew louder and that tightness began crawling up his gut and into his chest.

  “It is an unfortunate turn of events. You could have gone anywhere else. Normally, I would give you a lethal dose of whatever I had lying around and let you sleep forever,” the nurse said, “But a waste like you does not deserve that. A lying, sterile piece of human trash. No, you deserve to die violently.” The nurse leaned in. “That feeling? It is the electrode up your ass. It is on the highest setting.” His breath smelled like cigarettes. He smiled and it looked like he’d been eating corn on the cob.

  Arthur felt a hammer cold cock him in the center of his chest. There was a sudden flutter, as if doves would burst from his mouth. He smelled ozone, a sudden jolt of pain that ran from his tailbone and into the space between his shoulder blades. His hands tightened and his toes curled. Jaw clenched so tight he thought he’d shatter his teeth. He saw the nurse hover over him again, a smile on his face. The pain continued and flared into every muscle. Arthur seized—a single, full-body cramp. The straps holding his arms down gave way and with a final jolt of consciousness, Arthur swung his arm as hard as he could, the buckle of his restraint slashing the bastard’s face—good.

  His spirit left in the breath that followed and his body went slack. The stranger left the room and called in two nurses in scrubs to deal with the mess left behind.

  Prologue 2

  November 17th, 2007—The Borgata Casino—Atlantic City

  On the night she was arrested, Fantine Park busied herself playing Blackjack and drinking watered down gin and tonics. “Hit me.” She tapped the drab green velveteen Blackjack table, directly under her hand—two jacks both black. Her attention wasn’t on the cards, though. She was busy watching the bank of TVs above the faded green card table.

  The dealer arched a brow. “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “No questions.” Fan tapped the table again. She looked from screen to screen. A boxing match, horse races, a bunch of girls dancing—nothing with the news. “You guys don’t have a local news stations, weather or something?”

  The dealer added a third card to Fan’s hand—an ace of hearts. She blinked. “Twenty-one.” The dealer then exposed her own hand, a queen, an eight of spades, and a ten of hearts. “Dealer busts.” She slid a few more chips towards Fan.

  “Great. Now, answer my question.” Fan absent-mindedly played with her new chips. Her fingers twisted and turned, one chip turned to two and then to four; then they all disappeared into her front jacket pocket. She ignored the smoke and the occasional shrill noises that came from the slot machines behind her. “Are there any TVs showing the news?” She finally tore her eyes away from the screens and looked at the dealer.

  The dealer gave her a tight smile. “Not many people are looking to get depressed here, honey.”

  Fan looked around. Tuesday night in Atlantic City’s Borgata. No crowds, just retirees and the hardliners, all looking to dump their hard-earned—or stolen—money down the toilet that led into the pockets of corporate shills. It was the dregs that night. Sucking down cigarettes and cheap bourbon as if there’d be no Wednesday. There was nobody at her table. It was low-stakes. Fifteen bucks a hand, not the kind of action anyone willing to gamble on a weeknight bothered with.

  “Yeah,” she agreed, “The news can be pretty depressing.”

  The dealer lit a cigarette and pointed her chin over Fan’s shoulder. “They have other TVs in the bar back there.”

  Fan sighed taking the hint. She’d taken the table for a few hundred and was bored either way. “Sounds good.” She scooped up the rest of her chips and walked away without saying goodbye.

  Fan took her time getting to the main bar down the hall. She gazed at the lights above her and took in the smells—cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and sadness. The only thing that would help is seeing the news—seeing if what she’d done earlier that night had finally broken into the cycle. They were building the place up, adding more spaces for people to shop or drink the night away—if they weren’t in the mood to piss their pennies away at the tables or slots. Outside of the casino, the city itself was an irrational beast—all junkies, grime, and danger. Nobody in their right mind came to Atlantic City to see the sky, no, neon and noise could all be enjoyed in a plush, carpeted bubble.

  She took a single step into the bar and her wish came true. Big as life on the first screen: Police Investigate Robbery at Empire City Casino in Yonkers. Fan smiled despite herself. She started working there when it was still Yonkers Raceway, but when the expansion started she paid attention. Three goddamn years of paying attention, but it was all worth it. She listened to the news anchor discuss the money taken, about how signs pointed to a team effort and the head detectives were closing in on suspects as they reported.

  Sure, she thought to herself. There was no team and not a dime was physically moved. She’d moved a few funds by wire transfer. Used logins she managed to finagle from coworkers and dummies she created over time as she gained admin access to the right programs. Fan sidled up to the bar and nodded to the tender. “Maker’s, neat.”

  The bartender slid a tumbler to her and she slid him a twenty spot. They nodded without a word and he went back to talking to an over-fifty cougar with visible collagen injection points and a worrying amount of sunspots on her cleavage.

  Fan lifted her glass up and smiled. “To you, Ma. Thanks.” She took a long sip of the bourbon and relished the slow, sweet burn. She sighed. “Rest in peace.”

  Fan wondered what was next. She wasn’t so dumb as to go off on a shopping spree—she saw enough movies to know better. Still, she couldn’t get up and disappear forever. Her father was burying her mother. She was needed. For what, she couldn’t say, but she knew it was the truth. There’d be no way she could live with herself if she abandoned the man who could never abandon her or her mother—no matter how much their antics gave him all the excuses to run off screaming. Fan took a breath. An hour at a time. She raised a hand to catch the attention of her bartender who was busy on the phone. The tender raised a hand back and spoke into the phone with a sour look on his face, then hung up. Fan mouthed, “refill” to him and settled onto a barstool.

  “You seem a little, um, not broken to be sitting here on a Tuesday night.” The bartender smirked while he poured her drink.

  “Hey,” Fan said, taking a sip from her glass, “we all gotta start somewhere, right?” She noticed the liver-spotted cougar was conspicuously absent from the bar. The only person left was an older gentleman nearing the far side of sleeping hi
s last.

  “Suppose so.” The bartender reached a hand out. “Bobby.”

  “Fan.” She didn’t offer her hand back.

  “Fan? That short for anything?”

  “Fantine.” She drained the rest of her glass and tapped the rim. “My mom was big into ‘Les Miserables,’ though, I lucked out in being a girl. Don’t think I’d enjoy life as a Javert or worse, Courfeyrac.”

  The bartender stared at her—clearly not a fan of French literature or Broadway shows. “Huh, well, it’s an interesting name...”

  “For a Korean girl?”

  “Nah, just in general.” The tender shrugged.

  Fan fought the urge to dismiss him, but talking to someone was better than getting wrapped up in her thoughts. She felt a little bad jumping down his throat. The guy was working for tips and the clientele didn’t seem charitable, or present. “Yeah, well, my ma, rest her soul, liked weird mixes. Got a kick out of French name with a Korean last name.”

  Bobby nodded. “What, so it’s like Fantine Chang or Lee?”

  Fan rolled her eyes. This crap again. “Chang is Chinese, man. Get your Asians straight. Park, my last name is Park.”

  “Fantine Park?”

  “That’s right.” She drained the last of her bourbon and then nearly dropped the glass as a storm of officers poured in; guns and voices raised.

  Fan stared at the bartender as she choked on the liquor. The news was bullshit. The bartender was a bullshitter too. She raised her hands and let the officer nearest her bring her to her feet. The casino had ground to a halt. Every gambler and low life watched her and the only regret Fan had right there was that she felt lower than the people she resented.