Bad Seed 
Harry Shannon

Harry Shannon has been an actor in commercials, a
singer/songwriter and a recording artist in Europe.
He received two ASCAP “Country Music” Awards
and an Emmy nomination as a lyricist. Harry also
toiled as a music publisher, a film studio executive and
a music supervisor on films such as “Basic Instinct”
and “Universal Soldier.” .His short fiction has
appeared in “Twilight Showcase,” “Crimestalker
Casebook,” and “Terror Tales” He can be contacted
via his website, www.harryshannon.com.
©Copyright 2001
Harry Shannon

“You want I should close the door? Or maybe somebody hears
us?”
O’Toole’s Saloon was deserted. I shrugged. “People live around
here know better than to listen. You go on, though, it makes you
feel better.”
Carlos Montoya was a tall, fat man. The kind whose gut rolls over
the top of his big, silver belt buckle. He was scared of me. Dark
sweat stains streaked his blue western shirt. He shrugged, trying to
pretend he didn’t give a shit either way, but you could see he was
thinking about going to prison. The food sucks in prison.
“You took a big risk, asking to see me,” I said.
“I hear you’re the best,” Carlos said. “That’s what I need.”
I kept my hands in plain site, palms down on the bar, my halfempty
bottle of beer between them. I watched his carefully. I
waited.
“What do I call you,” he said.
“Call me Joe,” I said. “That’ll do.”
He cleared his throat. Someone moved down the hall near the bar
and he went a little pale. When whoever it was left by the side exit
he started talking, and when he did it came spilling out in a rush.
“I’m an American,” Carlos said. “I own a car dealership and I
make damned good money. I’m no wetback. Maybe my family
came from Mexico, but I’m as American as you are.”
“America is a funny place,” I said. “Me, I call myself Irish even
though my father was born here.”
He nodded. “But when you’re a Mexican, it is not such a good
thing.”
“Go on, Carlos.”
“I have a daughter, Mr. Joe. She is only nineteen years old this
summer. She goes to a good college. She is beautiful, Mr. Joe. She
has black hair and big, lovely brown eyes. And her smile…” His
voice broke and he started to cry. I hate it when they cry. I studied
my fingernails until he got himself back under control.
“There are boys around her all the time, you know? One must
expect this, Mr. Joe. But two older boys, they are not normal. They
are bullies. They bother her, and follow her, and say suggestive and
offensive things to her.”
“So call the cops,” I said.
He sighed. “We did, Joe. They talked to these boys, but nothing
stopped. They are just bad seed. They come from wealthy families,
white families. One is the son of a politician. Oh, they stopped for a
week or so, but then it started up again.”
I glanced at my watch. Sometimes you have to let them talk it
out. He was losing my interest. He saw my face and it bothered
him. “Pardon me,” he said. “I know you are a busy man.”
I said: “Carlos, look. I don’t take just any case. Someone must
have told you that. What happened?”
Tears spilled out of his eyes and his face went red. “Those
animals raped her,” he said. “They made her take a pill that made
her very drunk, and they had their way with her.”
“Like I said, go to the police.”
“But we did go to the police, Mr. Joe. They had a solid alibi.”
“How’s that?”
“Some men they know lied for them, and swore that they were
across town at a big bachelor party. One with many lap dancers and
strippers. It was all planned out. They raped my little Teresa. She
saw them clearly, and she says….” His voice trailed off. His big
shoulders were shaking.
“She says what.”
“She…She says they made her take the pill, then they put on
Halloween masks to hide their faces, and they…made a movie.”
I felt my lip curl back. “They what?”
Carlos heard something in my voice and looked up. He had real
hope in his eyes. But when he saw my face he just looked scared
again.
“I said they what?”
“They made a video tape of her with them, while she was under
their control, and when they left they told her they were going
to…sell it. For the fun of it, and for extra money. That my little girl’s
face and body would be everywhere in those stinking dumps where
sick men go to….” He started sobbing again.
I finished my beer. Someone came in, a small wiry longshoreman.
He looked around, saw the place was dead and left. 
“What did you bring?” I said.
“Mr. Joe?”
“I said, what did you bring for me.”
It hit him. He fumbled in his briefcase and pulled out a bundle in
a folded manila envelope. I said: “By the way Carlos, are you a
cop?”
“Huh? No, Mr. Joe. I got your name from my good friend
Gregorio. I would never…”
I held out my hand. He gave me the fee. There was twenty large
there, in used and out of sequence Ben Franklin’s. I nodded.
“Lean closer Carlos,” I said.
He looked puzzled, but he did. I could smell his fear and the
stench of whiskey on his breath. He must have had to fortify
himself. I looked him dead in the eyes. “You never met me,” I said
quietly. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. You’ve never even
been in this place.”
“I understand.”
“Now,” I said, “whisper their names in my ear, and the name of
your daughter’s college.”
He did.
I said: “Now get the hell out of here.”
And he did.
Turns out these geniuses were hanging out every weekend at a
so-called “Gentleman’s Club” near the airport. All nude waitresses,
private dances in the back room, that kind of crap. Sometimes there
were three or four of them, but I needed to have the exact two. I
had to time things perfectly.
So two weeks and three grand later, I’m standing on the corner
holding a wrapped package in a sack. I’m smoking, weaving like
I’m drunk. I’m some out-of-town businessman who’s waiting for a
cab. It’s raining just a bit, and the air is getting thick with fog.
The bar closes and out comes the older one, call him Terry. He’s
average size, but a wrestler with good shoulders; maybe in his late
twenties. He probably plans on going to college forever, then
retiring on his inheritance. Then the other one, call him Ken. He’s a
big bastard, probably six-one and nearly my size, going maybe twotwenty
and change. He’s got three names and a rap sheet long as
my dick. They got some friends with them, as usual, but the friends
wander off in another car.
It’s show time. I put down my package to strike a match. I blow
it out and then strike another.
Across the street a pretty young woman comes walking briskly,
holding a purse close to her chest. She walks like a born victim;
head bowed forward and eyes fixed on the pavement. She’s dark
haired and cute, somewhat slender. These punks Terry and Ken,
they spot her right off. Ken looks over at me, but I’m kind of 
staggering, juggling my package, like I’m starting to wander uptown.
I’m moving away from the action. He figures I’m out of it.
The girl makes them right off, and looks caught. If she goes
backwards, she moves out of the lit area and loses ground. She
goes forward, she has to face two assholes stripping her with their
eyes. They move towards her, clearly enjoying the fact that she
looks afraid. Me, I’m still strolling away. I start singing “When Irish
Eyes Are Smiling” under my breath.
The girl makes the worst possible choice. She darts down the
alley, like she’s hoping to get over to the next street. She’s moving
at a dead run to avoid the two young men. They break out laughing
and follow her. They come to this joint all the time, see, so they
know that alley is a dead end. Behind them, the bouncer locks up
the club and disappears into the parking lot to go home.
Maybe fifty seconds later this young girl is on her butt, inching
away from the marks. She’s backing into a pile of empty cardboard
boxes, waving her umbrella at them like it’s some kind of weapon.
They’re laughing, and the one called Ken is getting ready to drop
his pants. The rain has picked up a bit by now, which is a good
thing, and I hear this low rumble of thunder. When it stops, I’m
there in the alley only a few yards behind them.
“That’s good enough,” I say.
They whirl around, jaws down. The large one starts to laugh
again. Here is this one drunk guy, holding a sack. He’s big but not
huge, and there’s two of them to take me out. The smaller one,
Terry, opens an old switch blade.
“Get the fuck out of here, Pops,” he says.
Behind him Tiffany hops to her feet like an athlete, which she is.
She has a 38. in her little fist. She says: “Hey Joe, you want I should
cover them?”
“No,” I say. “You can go now.”
She slides on down the wall, the gun up and ready. Those two
pricks and frozen, now, because they can’t figure out what’s going
on. Tiffany tucks the revolver back into her purse and walks off into
the rain without bothering to look back. She’s a real pro.
Terry tightens his grip on the knife, a little too much. He comes at
me low and fast. I drop my package and spin. I let him take a slice
out of my coat and then I take the knife away, knee him in the
balls and drop him. The big bastard, Ken, looks impressed. But he’s
my size, and he’s younger and maybe he still thinks I’ve been
drinking.
The football players always charge you, going for the tackle. They
want you on your back so they can whack away at your face. I
waited for it, and it came. I stepped to one side and ran him into
the trash cans. It gave him a nasty scalp wound, and his face ran
red. Someone a block over caught the racket. I heard motorcycle 
engines revving up.
Terry was still doubled up and he’d started to puke. Ken was
getting set to come at me again, but decided to run for it instead. I
let him get by me but he stopped when he saw the biker gang in
the mouth of the alley.
The warlord was one big, bad-ass, tattooed, nose-ringed
motherfucker. He got off his Harley, hit the kick stand and strolled
up to Ken. Without a word he took a huge fist wrapped in chain
and put that boy on his back.
I grabbed Terry by the back of the neck and dragged him. I
smeared his face through the vomit and took him up to the mouth
of the alley. I laid him down next to his friend. They were both
whimpering and sobbing. I hunted around until I found the package
I’d dropped.
“Mister what did we ever do to you?” Terry said.
“Shut the fuck up,” the warlord said. His name was Zeke. He
rattled the chain on his fist, and the bigger man twitched like a
beaten hound.
I got down on one knee and made them both look at me.
“Here it is,” I said. “You pissed off the wrong people.”
“Please, mister,” Terry said. “I’m just a kid.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “You’re a bad seed,”
“Say what?”
“I’m going to ask you something one time, and you’d better tell
me the truth. You don’t, you die tonight. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now exactly what happened to those video tapes? The ones you
made with all the young women you drugged?”
They seemed confused. Terry said: “Nothing. They’re just in my
apartment. We were going to get a bunch of them together and
then….” He thought better of finishing that sentence. He must have
seen something in my eyes.
“That’s all, then?” I said. “The six tapes in that box in the closet,
over behind the fish tank?”
“Yes,” Ken said, nodding. “We didn’t make any copies yet.” It
suddenly hit him that I knew where they lived and I had already
been in their apartment. He looked about to shit himself.
I glanced up at Zeke, the warlord. I nodded. He and several of
his buddies have done some serious time. Men in prison make do
with what they have. I tossed him the sack from the electronics
store, and all but ten large of my stash. Zeke tore open the package
and laughed when he saw the contents and the masks.
“Have fun,” I said, walking away. I moved as fast as I could. I
didn’t want to be there when the screaming started. Over my
shoulder: “And Zeke?”
“Yeah, Joe. What?”
“You be sure and shoot a good movie.”