Three Twisted Stories by Karin Slaughter

showroom floor.
    Deacon was standing by the chicken. The Braves hat was back on its head.
    Charlie rolled his eyes as he walked out the door.

Chapter Eight
    Charlie drove through downtown Atlanta. The city had changed so much since the first time he’d stepped foot on the streets. All the roads were paved. There were streetlights. Tall buildings reached up to the sky. As Charlie drove, all the memories came flooding back: the first time he’d ever ridden up in an elevator was in that building; the first time he’d ever had sex with a woman was in that basement; the first time he’d ever sold anything was in that back alley.
    Who would’ve thought that twenty years later, he’d be driving a convertible down the streets with money in his pocket and credit cards in his wallet that had Charlie’s actual name on them?
    He wiped his eyes. He was crying again. This was getting ridiculous. He reached down between his legs to make sure his cock was still plugged in.
    Did it make a difference? Charlie didn’t know. He had to think something was keeping him from turning into an all-out woman. Or maybe it just took time. He was already crying at the drop of a hat. He was talking to Darla like he was her girlfriend instead of her boss. And he was letting Deacon get to him when his worthless brother should be the last thing on his mind.
    Why hadn’t Charlie just beaten the shit out of him? That’s what he used to do. It was a Lam family tradition. The only way to shut up any of them was with a fist.
    Charlie turned on the radio.
    “Crap,” he whispered. Karen Carpenter. How many times could they play that chick? More importantly, how much more money did the Beatles need? They’d be living off their royalties forever.
    Charlie punched the AM button. The Braves game. Tomorrow night was the night. Hank Aaron was on the precipice of making history. Salmeri was right about one thing. It wasn’t just about baseball. It was about the world changing.
    “Yeah, this is George from Techwood,” a caller said.
    Techwood. That was over by Colored Town. Charlie knew what the man was going to say before the words came out of his mouth.
    “I think it’s wonderful news that a brother’s gonna make this historic home run. Gives my kids hope that there’s something more in the future.”
    Charlie rested his finger on the dial, but he didn’t turn off the radio.
    The DJ said, “Caller number two from Ansley Park, what do you have to say?”
    Ansley Park. That was a toss-up. The caller would be white, but there were a handful of liberals over there. Charlie could’ve pretty much painted a map of the city blocking out who was happy for Aaron and who wanted to kill him. His own neighborhood was firmly in the kill zone, but what did he care? Live and let live.
    “Yes,” the white caller said. “I’ve long been a baseball fan. I remember as a child when my father took me to Spiller Field.…”
    Charlie smiled. One of the first baseball games Charlie had ever seen was at Spiller Field. The Atlanta Crackers used to play there. He was eighteen years old and had just found a job that would put a roof over his head. He’d sat in the nosebleed section and eaten so many bags of boiled peanuts that he’d made himself sick.
    “Jesus!” He jerked the wheel hard, barely avoiding a head-on collision with a homeless man. Charlie slammed on the brakes. He looked in his rearview mirror, checked his side mirror.
    There was no homeless man.
    Charlie got out of the car. He stood in the middle of the street. This was the same place he’d first seen Finkelmeyer. The black skid marks were still burned into the asphalt where Charlie had hit the brakes. The man’s shopping cart was still overturned on the sidewalk. Charlie walked toward it. The cart had been picked clean. All that was left was a piece of white cardboard stuck to the bottom of the wire rack. The edges were curled, like it had been rained on, then dried out, many times over.
    Charlie used