Excerpt and Q&A: Barry K. Nelson (author of Evil Walks)!

Al Hartman felt a cold chill run up along his back as he got out of his car. The young black male zippered up his black jacket all the way to the top until it covered the thin white dress shirt that he was wearing. He even felt a cold breeze blowing up the legs of his black pants. It was a most unpleasant feeling. He regret not dressing in advance to deal with this cold night air. But by his estimate he would not be out here for long. He locked and shut the door of his car and stepped onto the sidewalk. He reached into his pocket and brought out the slip of paper torn from a notebook and examined the address that he had written down. The Fallen Angel Tavern. 4010 Oakdale Street. On the North Side. It has to be close, Al thought.

Al looked about at the row of dark storefronts along the street. Many of them were closed. Understandable in his mind. His wristwatch displaying the time, 11:46 P.M. Al took a few steps to the left towards a storefront with a large glowing neon sign in its window. He walked closer to get a better view. The Fallen Angel. This has to be the place. Al was relieved to have found his destination so easily. Half the job was done. Now all he had to do was go inside and conduct his business with the most unusual person who was waiting for him.

Al walked through the door and entered the dark tavern. It had a gloomy atmosphere with the strong odor of cigarette smoke in the air. At the right side of the tavern were four round tables where several patrons were sitting and engaging in conversation while drinking. He spied cigarettes in the mouths of a few persons. Smoking indoors? I thought that was illegal.

Al walked over to the bar at the left side of the room and was approached by the bartender. A burly, bald headed man wearing a black Pittsburgh Steelers jersey.

“What can I get you?” asked the bartender.

Feeling nervous, Al cleared his throat. “Nothing really. I’m here to meet someone.”

“Oh? Who?”

Al was hesitant to speak out. “I’m here to see the Sandman.”

Now it was the bartender’s turn to hesitate before speaking. “You want to see the Sandman. You have an appointment?”

“Yes.”

“Ok then. He’s in the back.”

Al proceeded to walk to the back of the bar, past two billiard tables, until he came to an open doorway. He entered a small room that was illuminated by a dim light bulb on the ceiling. Stacked six feet high against the left, right, and rear walls was a variety of different boxes containing alcoholic beverages. In the center of the room was a lone figure sitting at a wooden table. He was dressed in all black attire. His pants were tucked into his knee high boots. He had a long sleeved shirt and necktie. He held his black gloved hands down in front of a dark beer bottle on the table top. He was also wearing a long, hooded cape. The hood, along with the room’s dim light, obscured the features of his face.

Al received a cold shiver when he saw this dark figure. The thought came to his mind, Maybe this isn’t a good idea. I should back out.

The dark figure gave Al a jovial greeting. “Come in. Take a seat.”

There was another chair on the opposite side of the table. With apprehension, Al sat down.

For several seconds Al stared at the ominous dark figure sitting in front of him. Then he worked up the nerve to speak.

“So, are you the Sandman?”

“There’s nobody else here except me,” was the reply. “And I take it that you’re Al. And I also take it that you’re supposed to be here at 11:00. You‘re late.”

“I’m sorry about that. I was going to back down at first. Then I changed my mind.”

“You were going to back down? Why?”

“At first I thought that what you said on your website was a bunch of nonsense. You know. What you said you can do. Trade dreams for wishes.”

“Trade dreams and nightmares for wishes,” the Sandman corrected.

“Trade dreams and nightmares for wishes,” Al repeated.

“Occasionally I’ll offer cash,” the Sandman added.

Al nodded, pondering this information. “And you can grant any wish?”

“That’s right.”

“Ok. If I wanted you to summon a dragon. Can you do that?”

“No.”

“No? Why not? I thought you said that you can grant any wish.”

“I can, Al. But I’d refuse to do it. I can grant you any wish. But as long as it isn’t a stupid wish. Wishing for a dragon is stupid. What the hell are you going to do with a dragon, Al? Most boroughs in Alleghenny county won’t let you keep a cow in your back yard.”

“I live in an apartment,” Al humbly admitted.

“Then you’d really be screwed,” the Sandman told him. “Let’s keep it a little down to Earth.”

Trading dreams for wishes, down to Earth? Al thought. “Ok, then scratch the dragon. But you can still grant other wishes? Like dealing with my boss?”

“Like I said.”

Al hesitated before going further. “And when we make a deal. This won’t be like selling my soul or anything like that?”

The Sandman sat back in his chair. “Do I look like I need your soul, Al? If you’re putting your soul up for sale you might have to settle for an X-Box 360 game.”

Al was insulted by that assessment. “Excuse me?”

The Sandman held up his hands. “No offense. Just saying. Have you looked in the mirror at yourself lately? Your drug problems, abusive to your girlfriend. Sorry. Ex-girlfriend. Stealing money from the accounting firm you work for. And now you’re so self righteous that you want revenge on your boss for not giving you the promotion that you think you deserve. You were so ticked off at the guy that you were surfing the web to try and find a hitman to take care of him. That’s when you found me. Am I right?”

Al was stunned at these details that the Sandman revealed. “How the hell do you know all this? I mean…I.”

“I like to get background information on all my clients,” the Sandman confessed.

“Well. My issue with drugs. It’s not exactly a problem.”

“It’s a hobby. I get it. We’re wasting time, Al. And I’ve got other clients. We need to step it up. So, tell me about your dreams.”

My dreams, Al thought. He had to dig within his memory to recall the most recent dream that he had. “A dream. I had this one a few nights ago. I saw myself laying in bed and then all these bugs came crawling out of my pillow. I wanted to jump up, but I couldn’t move. Then they started to crawl all over me. Spiders, centipedes, roaches. Then I woke up. what do you think?”

The Sandman crossed his arms over his chest. “Honestly? I think that if your dream were a TV show then the only entertaining part would be the commercials. But it’s good enough for me to take care of your boss.”

“George Wilson,” Al growled. “That high and mighty ungrateful tin god jackass. He can go rot in hell. And I’m gonna send him there. And I‘d like to go to hell with him just so that I can watch him suffer. The idiot had the nerve to pass me over for a promotion to manager of accounts and give it to this skinny little four eyed witch, Darcy. I‘m ten times smarter than Darcy and I‘ve been there longer. But do I deserve the promotion? Oh no. As hard as I work? Oh no.”

The Sandman leaned forward to the table and propped his head up against his right arm. He placed his left hand down and began to drum his gloved fingers down on the table top.

“Excuse me. Am I boring you?” asked an indignant Al.

“No. Not at all,” the Sandman returned. “I actually enjoy sitting here listening to whiners all night.”

“Whoa. Hold on. I’m not a whiner,” replied Al. Insulted by the remark.

The Sandman sat back and laughed. “I wouldn’t exactly call that cheerleading. That’s serious talk after working for the man for so many years. I understand that your ten year anniversary with the company is coming up.”

Al held that notion in high contempt. “Yeah. I busted my ass for that company. Working under that pig, Wilson. And all I’m supposed to get for it is a lousy lunch and a gold watch.”

“Don’t forget the gift card,” the Sandman added. “A hell of a lot more than what I get.”

“Never mind that,” Al snapped. “This is my chance to get back at Wilson for passing me up and not promoting me.”

“And for giving you a second chance after you failed your drug test.”

Al ignored the Sandman’s jab. “This is my chance to get even with him. Let’s make it look like an accident. That will be fun. Yeah. Make it a car crash.”

“A car crash. You got it. You want balloons too?”

Al nodded and laughed. He was feeling more enthusiastic about making this deal with the Sandman. “Alright. We got a deal. George Wilson gets his ass trashed in a car wreck. I only wish I could be there to see it.”

“Ok then. It’s done,” the Sandman told Al.

“Done? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“What about my dream? Did you get it?”

“Do you remember it?”

Al searched his mind for the dream, but the memory was not there. “It’s gone. I don’t remember it.”

“Then I’ve got it.”

“I don’t have to sign anything?” asked Al.

“If it will make you happy then talk to the bartender on your way out. Maybe you can autograph a napkin before you leave.”

This guy has a rotten sense of humor, was Al’s assessment.

“Are we done?” asked the Sandman. “I’ve got two more people to talk to after you.”

Al cracked a smile. “No. We’re done. That’s it. But I‘ve got just a couple of questions. Do you get a lot of people coming to you for help?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“People like me?”

“Yeah. They’re all bad.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Clock’s ticking. I’ll see you around.”

See me around? I doubt that, Al told himself. He rose up from the chair and left the room. Al walked out of the tavern and got back into his car to drive home. He still could not believe that he drove all the way here from his apartment in West Mifflin to make a deal with a shadowy figure who claimed to be able to trade his dreams for a wish. It was like making a wish when you blow out the candles on a birthday cake. The only difference here is that Al’s wish was to kill his boss to gain revenge. It was a fanciful indulgence. But the question that he would take with him into the night would be, will it really happen?