Three Twisted Stories by Karin Slaughter

women. What had he been thinking, coming here? He didn’t belong in a place like this.
    Charlie picked up the pace. He held up his hand to try to keep the sun from burning his eyeballs. There were footsteps behind him. Charlie turned. He had to blink several times to clear his vision. It was another woman. She was carrying two bags in one hand.
    Christ, he was never going to get away from these broads.
    Charlie walked faster toward the car. He pulled his keys out of his pocket. He jammed them into the lock. They fell onto the ground.
    “Sir?” the woman called. “Can I give you a hand?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “You’re sure?”
    What was he, twelve? “No, thank you.”
    He waited for her to leave before he opened the car door. After a moment’s scrambling, he found some change under the Buick’s floor mats. Charlie tucked his hands into his pockets as he headed toward the road. He pulled back the door to the phone booth. He dropped a dime into the slot. He dialed his home number. He waited through six rings before Mary Jane picked up.
    “Lam residence.”
    “It’s Charlie,” he told the maid. “Is Mrs. Lam home?”
    “Nawsir, she’s usually out this time of day.”
    “Usually?” he echoed, not liking the way the word sounded. “Usually” meant a routine. “Usually” meant always. “Where does she go?”
    Mary Jane hesitated, and in that hesitation, Charlie saw his whole life flash before his eyes. Was she really out banging some guy? Could Sue do that to him? Shit, he’d done it to her, but that was different. Charlie was just letting off some steam. If Sue was fucking some other dude, it was because she felt something for him.
    “Sir?” Mary Jane said.
    Charlie was sick of being called “sir.” Every woman in his life lately was doing it. Hehad a fucking name. “Tell her I called,” he said, then, “No, tell her I’m looking for her.”
    Charlie slammed down the receiver. Then he picked it up and slammed it down again.
    And then he doubled over.
    “Shit!” he hissed. The pain in his gut was unbearable. The knifing sensation was back, but this time it cut through his intestines. His knees buckled. He fell to the floor. The glass panes on either side pressed into him because he was so fucking fat he filled the phone booth.
    Charlie tried to get his breathing under control. He was panting. His face was red hot. Sweat had glued his shirt to his back. He felt wet between his legs. Had he bled through? Charlie bent around so he could check the back of his pants. He looked like a dog chasing its tail. He put his hand back there, but he couldn’t tell if he was touching sweat or blood.
    With excruciating slowness, the pain ebbed away. He pressed himself up to standing. He opened the door a crack and let the cold air come in. There were tears in his eyes.
    What was happening to him? His guts were on fire. He felt like he’d been hit by a Mack truck. Charlie put his hand to his back. The muscles felt tight as a drum. He could almost feel them throbbing under his fingertips. Finkelmeyer had definitely got him. Maybe an elbow. Maybe a fist. Charlie couldn’t remember because it had all happened so fast. The guy must’ve punched him in the back. There was no other explanation.
    This is how you end it
.
    Charlie put his hand in his jacket pocket. The knife was still there.
    Five years, Jo had told him. Five years was how long it had taken for Finkelmeyer to go from being a successful slumlord to a bum living on the streets.
    Melvin Finkelmeyer.
    The name wasn’t the sort Charlie was used to hearing. He reached under the phone and pulled up the white pages. The chain was too short. He had to balance the book on his knee. He ran his finger down the page. There were more Finkelmeyers than he would’ve thought, but there was only one Melvin.
    Charlie put another dime in the coin slot.

Chapter Five
    “You sounded taller on the phone.” The widow Finkelmeyer was standing on her front porch with a