Professional arsonist Jack Coyle has survived for years by staying one step ahead of his enemies. But now the mob has caught up with him and he thinks he's as good as dead. Instead, the local kingpin offers him a way out. Jack just needs to torch a rival gang's headquarters—a heavily fortified diesel refinery—and he can walk away a free man with money in his pocket. But if he doesn't take down the target by the mob's deadline, then it's all over for him...
Professional arsonist Jack Coyle has survived for years by staying one step ahead of his enemies. But now the mob has caught up with him and he thinks he's as good as dead. Instead, the local kingpin offers him a way out. Jack just needs to torch a rival gang's headquarters—a heavily fortified diesel refinery—and he can walk away a free man with money in his pocket. But if he doesn't take down the target by the mob's deadline, then it's all over for him...
The dishes in the sink disturb the man sometimes known as Mr. Skypeck as he’s checking over the kitchen. He looks at the clock to see if he has time to clean things up. He realizes that he is ahead of schedule, so he looks under the sink and finds a pair of latex gloves. He puts on the gloves and washes the dishes, scrubbing them meticulously.
Once the dishes are in the rack, he sees an assortment of plastic straws and bits of food at the bottom of the sink. Mr. Skypeck guesses that the owner of the kitchen—and thus the straws—might have sensitive teeth and use them for cold beverages. He takes a paper towel off the nearby roll and pushes all the bits of food into the drain. He then puts all of the straws into the damp, dirty towel and throws the whole package into the trash barrel. The barrel is almost full and smells of spoiled things.
He is about to pull the bag when his stomach rebels against him. Maybe it’s the smell or the terrible food he had at breakfast this morning, but either way he needs to find relief. He walks swiftly to the bathroom and sits down on the toilet. Despite the lancing pains now shooting through his intestines, the waste is bashful and does not want to leave his system. He pushes, hoping not to give himself an aneurysm and is relieved when, a few minutes later, he is able to complete the transaction.
The owner of this house has been courteous enough to leave a full roll of bathroom tissue available within arm’s reach, and Mr. Skypeck gratefully takes a wad to clean up. Performing this action while wearing the thin latex gloves is strange, but he has no choice. He looks at the wad after using it and is not surprised to see red within the brown. He is bleeding again and resolves to deal with the matter as soon as possible. In the meantime, he uses the obviously much-neglected toilet brush and cleans the bowl thoroughly.
Once he is finished, he returns to the kitchen and studies the trash barrel. He knows that he is free to leave it the way it is, but such a course of action would bother him later on.
Mr. Skypeck sighs and pulls the bag.
He walks through the house, checking to make sure he’s left nothing behind, then makes his exit with the trash bag. He puts the bag into one of the plastic barrels by the porch. He takes off the latex gloves and throws them into the barrel on top of the bag.
He walks slowly, careful not to attract attention. Someone of his particular skin color would stand out in this neighborhood, so he does his best to appear casual. His best is exceptionally good, and nobody notices him.
Still, he is not overly worried. More often than not, small-town cops are dumb. He gets into his rental car, a nondescript sedan, and starts the engine. He buckles his seat belt and checks his mirrors before putting the car into gear and driving away. He leaves behind drying dishes, a clean kitchen, and a corpse in the living room—almost an afterthought after his flurry of domestic industry.
Mr. Skypeck is several miles away from the house with the clean kitchen when he notices that he is running low on fuel. He is passing through the town’s commercial area and is confident a gas station should be close by.
Already driving just below the speed limit, he slows down further while he scans the street. He spots a service station near the eastbound ramp and pulls in. He notices that, although gas prices have been skyrocketing of late, the rates here at this station are even higher than most others would ever dare to charge—probably because of its proximity to the highway.
He sighs, parks reluctantly beside an empty pump, and gets out. He uses the stolen credit card he had acquired the day before and begins filling his tank. He likes using credit cards at the pump because no PIN or signature is required. Furthermore, using a stolen card for gas will not raise the same red flags that would instantly arise if the card were used for purchasing a flat-screen TV or a new motorcycle. He could use this card for a few days at least, as long as he keeps to modest purchases, and he should not have to worry about being noticed. And the various cashiers he will encounter will likely accept the card without a second glance and without asking for identification despite the ordinances that say they are supposed to.
Not for the first time, he marvels at the general stupidity of people.
He is content with the world for a brief moment before the attendant emerges from the small office and approaches him. He is young with long hair, Mr. Skypeck notices, and his dumb-looking face is laced with what is probably meant to be a friendly grin.
“How you doing?” the attendant asks.
“Fine,” Mr. Skypeck replies.
“Nice car. Too bad they don’t make them anymore.”
“This one still runs.”
“How is it on gas?”
“Not great,” Mr. Skypeck answers, and after a moment of consideration he adds, “but it’s not terrible, either.”
“I saw this latest gas crunch coming, you know,” the kid remarks. “I took the profits from this place and got myself a hybrid.”
Mr. Skypeck realizes that he is expected to respond in some kind of jovial manner. Resisting the temptation to stroke the compact pistol under his gray suit jacket, he stretches his mouth in what he hopes is a sincere smile. “Congratulations.”
“It’s great on gas. A lot better than yours, I’ll bet.”
“Well, I guess it’s just lucky for me that you offer such low prices,” Mr. Skypeck says with a completely straight face.
The attendant has the grace to look slightly ashamed. “Aw, come on, man. I’ve got to pay my bills, too, you know.”
Mr. Skypeck makes a dismissive gesture. “I don’t really care.”
The attendant stews over this remark while Mr. Skypeck finishes pumping and puts the rather phallic-looking device back in its cradle. He concludes that he no longer wishes to speak to this cretin who would gleefully jack up his prices in the middle of a fuel crisis. Furthermore, only an irretrievably stupid individual would brag about buying a hybrid with his dishonorable profits, then seek approval for his highway robbery from one of the very customers he is gutting. Again, Mr. Skypeck yearns for the purity of the pistol and sighs with regret that it would be far from prudent to act on his desire at this particular time and place.
“You need anything else?” the attendant asks.
Mr. Skypeck turns back to the attendant and says, “Yes, indeed. We’re going to play a game now, so I would like your attention.”
“Really—a game?” the attendant says with a dim smile. “What’s it called?”
“It’s called ‘Get the Fuck Away from Me’.”
The attendant starts to make a tough response, sees the look in the man’s eye, and apparently thinks again. He retreats back into his little store without a single glance behind him. If only Lot’s wife had possessed such fortitude, Mr. Skypeck thinks.
Mr. Skypeck drives east for several hours, eager to get away from the region where he performed his task and back to where he would be safe. His stomach grumbles but this time it is from hunger. Mr. Skypeck realizes that he has not eaten since the morning and starts to scan for roadside eateries.
He finds one soon after and turns off the interstate into the diner’s cramped parking lot. He sees a number of old pickup trucks and other four-wheel drive vehicles in the lot and shudders. He will be happy to escape what he thinks of as the Flat States now that this job is over.
He goes inside, immediately aware of how his dark skin and business suit clash dramatically with the flannel and denim that most of the other patrons are wearing. But there are few situations he has encountered in his line of work that he cannot handle, and he is quite prepared for something as simple as a meal at a redneck diner.
He sits down at the counter—making sure that he is positioned in a way that will not reveal the pistol he is carrying—and waits for the woman to get to him. It is busy and he is ready to make allowances for the possibility of slow service. Today, however, he is pleasantly surprised when she greets him less than a minute after he enters. She graces him with an economical smile and gives him a menu before hurrying off to another customer.
It is while Mr. Skypeck is deciding between a burger and an omelet—both of which will likely give him more stomach pains, but unhealthy food is one of his few vices—that the talk begins around him. It is always the same, he muses. People talk as if he were not there but did so just loudly enough to make sure he hears them.
“Porch monkeys coming in here—”
“Wearing my house payments with that goddamn suit—”
“Isn’t right, coming in like he’s just as good as us—”
Mr. Skypeck identifies the speakers as three patrons sitting at a table to his right—two men and one woman. He waits until the server returns and orders coffee and a burger before turning toward the three patrons making their less-than-charitable observations.
“Can I help you folks?” Mr. Skypeck asks.
The entire diner becomes silent, as it nearly always does in situations like this. Mr. Skypeck knows that the last thing he should be doing is drawing attention to himself, but some things just cannot be helped.
“You’re not from ‘round here,” the good old boy in the middle says, as if this is a crime that carries terrible consequences.
“No,” Mr. Skypeck replies.
“Bet you’re from one of them big cities back East,” the other man surmises, as if this is an equally monumental offense. He says “East” with a capital E like it is a separate sovereign nation, Mr. Skypeck thinks, and realizes that in this patron’s mind it could very well be true.
“Yes, something like that,” Mr. Skypeck says.
“What you do for work?” the woman asks, looking curious but dour—as if probing a cankerous tooth with her tongue. She must know from his clothes and manner that she will not like his answer—but perhaps that is the very reason she is asking.
Nothing like having yet another excuse to despise something you already hate.
“I’m an engineer,” Mr. Skypeck says.
He has found this profession to be an ideal response in situations like this: most people have only the vaguest idea what an engineer does and are usually too intimidated to ask.
He is correct once again. The reactions are divided between humble nods and cynical scoffs. The woman, surprisingly, does not back down.
“Bet you went to a real nice college,” she says.
Mr. Skypeck nods slightly. “It was a decent school, yes.”
“My son couldn’t get into college,” she continues. “He can’t even get himself a decent job with the way things are right now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Mr. Skypeck has seen her coming from a mile away and is actually pleased that the conversation has taken this route. He looks at her innocently, eager for what he is sure will be the next comment. She does not disappoint him.
“And we both know why a good boy like him can’t get ahead,” she says, boring holes into Mr. Skypeck’s skull with her eyes. “It’s because of that goddamn affirmative action.”
Mr. Skypeck allows himself a smile, knowing it will only infuriate the people around him. He is tempted to inform her that the more current nomenclature is DEI (for diversity, equity, and inclusion—a term that has gathered a bad name among people like his fellow diners in an astonishingly brief amount of time), but it wouldn’t really matter. It still meant the same thing.
Behind him, the plate containing his order is dropped none too gently on the counter. He ignores it for the moment, too preoccupied with the wonderful conversation he is having with these splendid folk.
“Do you know what the largest-scale affirmative action initiative to date in the history of this nation is?” Mr. Skypeck asks. When nobody responds, he continues. “It was the GI Bill, just after World War II.”
A number of people snort in disbelief, but nobody is brave enough to contradict him. He takes this as encouragement.
“That’s right,” he says. “Most of the returning soldiers were given a preferential slot for colleges, jobs, new homes—you name it. And it did wonders for an economy that was terrified about millions of boys coming home from Europe and the Pacific and not finding work. It could have meant the Great Depression all over again, and nobody wanted that. It was an innovative idea, and it helped a whole generation of young men who, even I’d admit, would probably have had few prospects otherwise. And it was a great benefit, as long as you were bright and hard-working—oh, and white.”
“Those benefits were offered to nig—I mean, black folks, too,” a trucker ventures.
“In principle, yes,” Mr. Skypeck replies, “but on a local level, those in power were systematically denying these opportunities to black soldiers that they were breaking their legs to give to their white counterparts. I won’t even get into redlining and other shameful tactics that were used over the years. Go look it up if you don’t believe me.”
“So, what’s your point?” the woman has the temerity to ask.
“I’m just saying,” Mr. Skypeck tells her, gently now that he’s had his fun, “that anything done today to give minorities a little helping hand cannot even begin to compete with the benefits given to white boys coming home from the war a few generations ago. Keep that in mind the next time you get angry at the sight of a black man who has the nerve to wear a nice suit.”
The diner is so quiet that, when the waitress keys the register a moment later, a dozen people jump a foot into the air. Mr. Skypeck turns back to the counter and begins to eat his burger—which is very nicely cooked, to his amazement—slowly, relishing every bite. The silence around him fills volumes.
Finishing his coffee and wiping his face with a paper napkin, Mr. Skypeck stands up and leaves a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. Most of the patrons haven’t moved, and more than a few appear to have lost their appetites.
Mr. Skypeck buttons his suit jacket and walks toward the door. Unable to resist one last parting shot, he turns just before the exit and locks eyes with the woman at the table.
“Just for the record,” Mr. Skypeck says, “I worked my way up on my own to get where I am today.” He then trades his usual cultured speaking tone for a low and guttural caricature from yesteryear. “I never got nothing from nobody.”
With that, he strides out the door and into the waning afternoon. To both his relief and slight disappointment, nobody chooses to follow him outside for a more physical resolution to the recent debate.
It’s just as well, as he’s attracted quite enough attention as it is. Yes, this has been a satisfying job, he thinks—in every way that matters.
He eventually turns north and heads back to Chicago. He contacts one of Mr. Silke’s minions and reports that his task is complete. As usual, his contact has already received independent confirmation through the local press and police that the target has been eliminated, so there will be no delay in scheduling Mr. Skypeck’s payment.
As is also customary, Mr. Skypeck receives his next assignment. It seems that a senior underboss up in Massachusetts wants to hire him for what he promises to be “a very rewarding experience.” His flight to Logan Airport has already been booked.
A rewarding experience. Mr. Skypeck has heard that before; sometimes it has been true, and sometimes it hasn’t. But still, he is curious about what it might entail this time. He will certainly ask for a better car to use while he’s there.
Boston, Mr. Skypeck marvels. Wait until those micks get a load of me.
Like people in other professions, when gangsters need a challenging task done well, they turn to the experts. Such is the premise that develops in the first chapters of Diesel and Ash by Bill Carter. The characters will hold readers’ attention from the start. Mr. Coyle, flaws and all, is an arsonist of considerable renown. He wanders the moral wilderness of the criminal underworld as one familiar with the landscape, if not always highly successful in navigating it. Coyle is a criminal, not someone readers would want to befriend in real life, yet not an emotionless monster. Coyle aspires to do what seems to him to be the right thing and even reverse or atone for past misdeeds.
Meanwhile, Coyle’s rival, Skypeck, an assassin who loves his work, has, despite his completely absent conscience, a curious sense of propriety. Skypeck takes offense at the high price of gasoline and the gas station owner’s lack of concern about the problem; when Skypeck encounters blatant racism, he delivers an articulate critique of historical inequities imposed on Black people.
To manage his latest arson assignment and rivalry with Skypeck, Coyle finds himself in a reluctant partnership with his chain-smoking ex-girlfriend, Leah. She helps him recruit a fourth player, Truett Sharpe, an accountant who is treated with contempt by the crime bosses. Sharpe seems initially more naïve than is entirely plausible for an intelligent adult. He comes across as too ready to join their team, despite his intense awareness of Leah’s feminine charms. His motives are made clear enough, but additional inner reflection on his part, weighing the options and questioning his own motives before agreeing to work with Leah and Coyle, would be in order.
Point of view is used effectively to shift the reader’s sympathies. Coyle’s first-person narration helps to build sympathy for him, while third-person narration of other characters and their actions keeps the reader at a comfortable emotional distance. Carter also uses questions the reader will want to see answered as an effective tool to propel the plot forward.
Readers who dare to explore the dangerous elements of the human psyche with writers as different as Elmore Leonard or Patricia Highsmith should look into Diesel and Ash. As with some of Leonard’s various gangsters or Highsmith’s Mr. Ripley, readers will understand why these characters make their mistakes. In certain instances, readers will even wish them well.