====================== AHMM, Jul-Aug 2005 by Dell Magazine Authors ====================== Copyright (c)2005 Dell Magazines Dell Magazines www.dellmagazines.com Mystery/Crime --------------------------------- NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. --------------------------------- Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine July/August 2005 Vol. 50 No. 7 & 8 Dell Magazines New York Edition Copyright (C) 2005 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications All rights reserved worldwide. All stories in _Alfred Hitchcock's_ _Mystery Magazine_ are fiction. Any similarities are coincidental. _Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine_ ISSN 0002-5224 published monthly except for double-issues of January/February and July/August. -------- *CONTENTS* NOTE: Each section is preceded by a line of the pattern CH000, CH001, etc. You may use your reader's search function to locate section. CH000 *Editor's Notes:* Double Issue, Double Trouble! CH001 *The Houseboat* by James T. Shannon CH002 *The Bully* by J. M. Gregson CH003 *Pinning the Rap* by O'Neil De Noux CH004 *Crooked Lake* by Rob Kantner CH005 *The Wall* by Rhys Bowen CH006 *Tattersby and the Old Curiosity Shed* by Neil Schofield CH007 *Informing the Mole* by Arthur Porges CH008 *The Pullman Case* by John M. Floyd CH009 *Pit and the Pendulum* by John Gregory Betancourt CH010 *In the Fire* by Peter Sellers CH011 *Death at the Port* by Marianne Wilski Strong CH012 *A Jar of Bean Paste* by Martin Limon CH013 *Coughing John* by Russel D. McLean CH014 *A Long Sad Song for My Fair Lady* by DeLoris Stanton Forbes CH015 *The Mysterious Photograph* CH016 *The Story That Won* CH017 *Reel Crime* CH018 *Booked & Printed* * * * * -------- Linda Landrigan: Editor Jonas Eno-Van Fleet: Assistant Editor Willie Garcia: Technical Assistant Victoria Green: Senior Art Director Meghan Lembo Assistant Art Director Abigail Browning: Sub-Rights & Mktg Scott Lais: Contracts & Permissions Peter Kanter: Publisher & President Bruce Sherbow: VP of Sales & Mktg Sue Kendrioski: VP of Production Julia McEvoy: Print Advertising Sales -------- *Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine* Editorial Correspondence only: 475 Park Avenue South New York, NY 10016 alfredhitchcock@dellmagazines.com Subscriptions to the print edition One Year $33.97 Call toll free 1-800-220-7443 Or mail your order to Hitchcock's 6 Prowitt Street Norwalk, CT 06855-1220 -------- CH000 *Editor's Notes:* Double Issue, Double Trouble! This month's fourteen stories include not only a few by authors new to these pages, but also two that launch new series. We first welcome J. M. Gregson, a former college professor in the U.K., who draws on his days in academe for his story "The Bully." Now a full time writer, Mr. Gregson weaves his passion for golf into much of his fiction, especially his Lambert and Hook series featuring two Oxford policemen who share his love of the sport. Severn House in England has recently published Dusty Death, the ninth book in Gregson's Inspector Peach series set in the more industrial Lancashire. He has also published a Holmes pastiche, Sherlock Holmes and the Frightened Golfer (1999), as well as books on literature and golf. Canadian author Peter Sellers ("In the Fire") last appeared in AHMM in 1991. In the meantime, he has published short fiction in, among other places, our sister magazine, EQMM, winning its 2001 Readers Award, and in his collection of short stories, Whistling Past the Graveyard, published by Mosaic Press in 1999. Welcome back! We also welcome John Gregory Betancourt to the magazine. Mr. Betancourt is president and publisher of Wildside Press in Pennsylvania, which he started in 1989 with his wife and which now has more than 3,000 titles in print. Already known to readers of science fiction and fantasy, Mr. Betancourt makes his mystery debut with "Pit and the Pendulum," introducing a new sleuth, the nervous, broken, brilliant Peter "Pit" Geller. You'll find more Pit stories in these pages in the near future. Also debuting this month is "retired" Detective-Inspector Harry Tattersby in "Tattersby and the Old Curiosity Shed" by Neil Schofield. Tattersby will soon have the calm of his retirement interrupted once again in further stories here. Martin Limon's stories set in American-occupied Seoul in the seventies, featuring U.S. Army C.I.D. agents Ernie Bascom and George Suenyo, have always been popular with our readers. Sharing the same milieu, scrappy survivor Kimiko gets a series of her own in her second outing in "A Jar of Bean Paste." Her first appearance was in "A Crust of Rice' (January/February 2005). In addition to all that, we have some terrific and off-beat stories by Rhys Bowen, James T. Shannon, O'Neil De Noux, and more! So, settle in for an evening or two of your favorite authors, and favorites to be. -- Linda Landrigan -------- CH001 *The Houseboat* by James T. Shannon The houseboat was everything Jasper had promised, although since he's been in advertising for almost thirty years, it helps to take Jasper's description with a strong dose of caution. But this time he was spot-on. The houseboat had a full kitchen, fireplace in the living room, and an eight-person hot tub on the second-level sundeck. At sixty-five feet long, the boat provided more than enough staterooms for four men. The setting was perfect too. The lake in mid Maine would have been the cover shot if our firm did brochures for the state tourism bureau. Best of all, since it was early June and school was still in session, we had the huge lake pretty much to ourselves. An occasional trout broke the surface after hapless insects, and an occasional loon came gliding by looking for a hapless trout. Geese and ducks bobbed on the placid waters, and the boat's full-sized fridge was bursting with steaks, chops, micro-brewed beer, and Jasper's Belvedere vodka. It wasn't the kind of setting where you'd expect something bad to take place, but I was pretty sure that's exactly what was going to happen. You see, despite the boat and the setting, the four of us weren't exactly taking a five-day vacation. Three of us were the guests of Jasper Hobart, executive vice president of Maxim, Pauling & Charles, one of Boston's largest advertising agencies. Jasper had planned the houseboat adventure as a celebration of his latest enthusiasm, fly-fishing. We were invited along as a reward for all the overtime we had put into a campaign for a new light beer. But it wasn't really a vacation and it wasn't really a reward. We all shared the unspoken awareness that the trip was really Jasper's not-too-subtle approach to deciding who'd fill the firm's upcoming creative director's position. At least on this trip we were closer to Boston. Last year some of us had had to go golfing with Jasper at Hilton Head. Next year he'll probably take candidates on a safari in Kenya. As for the fly-fishing, it helped to understand that Jasper was enthusiastic the way a hummingbird is enthusiastic for some honeysuckle, just before it notices a particularly tender morning glory. Of course, in Jasper's case you have to be able to imagine a balding, overweight, domineering hummingbird. The three contestants for this year's mini version of Survivor were Martin Travers, Tom Akin, and me, Dave Williamson. I'm senior copywriter at Maxim Pauling. In an industry with a higher turnover rate than you'd find at a church pancake breakfast, I've been with the firm for twelve years, ever since I graduated from Tufts, and objectively, I should be at least a five-to-one handicap favorite in this particular competition. But the other two contestants have their own game plans. Martin Travers is a thin, nervous art director, and you might expect someone in that position to be way over the top. But Martin's really more a computer nerd than an artist, comfortable with cybergraphics but not especially with people, and he's a little lost when it comes to ways to impress the boss. So he works at being a suck-up, although he's really bad at it. For this trip, for instance, Martin brought along a brand-new signature handcrafted bamboo fly rod that must have cost him two weeks' salary. And if he ran true to form, he had spent at least the last month taking lessons. But this approach has built-in hazards. Last year Martin showed up for the Hilton Head expedition with a complete set of Ping golf clubs, a squeaky new leather bag, and lessons so recent you could see his lips moving in a mantra when addressing the ball as he repeated to himself whatever reminders the pro had given him. Jasper spent most of the trip needling him about that new equipment and his poor play, and Martin had to pretend it was all good-natured ribbing instead of the ass-kicking it really was. So I wasn't worried about Martin. Tom Akin, on the other hand, was a more serious threat. He had been a copywriter before he switched to accounts, where the bigger bucks were, and therefore he had some of the creative background necessary for the new job. In accounting, Tom had quickly become an account executive because he took a cutthroat approach to getting ahead. The sale was everything to Tom and to help his climb within the firm he had worked out a particularly perverse plan of attack. He made people in superior positions feel obligated to him. First, however, he set them up by discovering their weaknesses. Then he exploited them. He got his latest promotion, for instance, because he happened into a downtown Boston bar called Alexander's Feast and discovered Perry Billings, sales manager, sitting in a back booth near the pay phone sharing a martini and a kiss with a twenty-two-year-old B.U. grad student. Perry, of course, was married. And the student's name was George. Tom had nodded a raised-brow look of surprise at Perry, who immediately vaulted out of the booth to speak to him. At the phone Tom coolly explained to a perspiring Perry that he'd forgotten an important client call he had to make. Wouldn't you know it, his cell phone was dead. As in, that was why he happened to have stopped into Alexander's Feast, leaving unsaid the implication that though he knew the bar was gay, he was not. Perry didn't even dare to pretend that Tom hadn't seen what he had seen. Now he was just trying to figure out what Tom was going to do about it. The poorest kept secret at the office was that Harrison Pauling, whose name after all was etched just before the ampersand on the firm's glass doors, was notoriously anti-gay and was always trying to find ways to get rid of people he suspected of alternate lifestyles without being sued for discrimination. And Perry, the married father of three, couldn't even think of litigation, not without opening a particular closet door that Tom was sure he desperately wanted to keep closed. Perry, his voice croaking, said, "Uh, about what you just saw, Tom..." Tom replaced the pay phone receiver, especially since he had really only been dialing his own home number, put a hand on Perry's shoulder and said, "Don't worry about it. I've got no problem with people's choices." It was a subtle reminder to Perry that there was at least one firm founder who had some very firm problems with this particular option. After giving it a few seconds to sink in, Tom then added, "And I don't think a man's choices are anyone else's business. Consider my discretion a favor." All Perry could do was nod, tell Tom, "I never forget a favor," and return to his booth and his grad student. Perry repaid the favor two weeks later when he recommended Tom for his current sales position. Tom, of course, had nothing to lose. If Perry had stiffed him (Tom's choice of words as he blathered an indiscreet proud-drunk account of his scheme to me late one night a few months ago), he could always go to George, the grad student he had hired for the occasion, and have him come in to put a little decision-making pressure on Perry. I didn't know if Tom had planned anything for Jasper, and that had been bothering me in the weeks before we were to head north. That creative director position opening in a month should, by rights, be mine. I had longevity and production, had tried to get ahead the old fashioned way, by earning it. Martin I could pretty much ignore. But Tom, with his creative background and his growing reputation in sales, was something else. I didn't get the promotion after the Hilton Head trip, and if Tom vaulted over me now, it would definitely be time to go looking somewhere else. On our first day out, Jasper cut the engine and tried fly-fishing off the boat. But after a while he declared he didn't like being so far above the water. He claimed it interfered with his loops, those repeat trial castings he was making, his line stretching into larger and larger ellipses so that on the final cast the fly at the end of the line would drop lightly onto the water as if it were an insect stopping there temporarily. Martin, compensating for last year's golf fiasco, had gone too far preparing this time. He looked better at what they were both doing, but only gradually realized what Tom and I had seen right away -- if he was looking good, then Jasper, in his new addiction, was looking maybe not so good. I'll say this for Martin, though, he learned fast enough. I was on his side of the boat that first day when he got a bite. It looked like a rainbow trout as it broke the surface, but I couldn't be sure. It was sizeable, anyway, and immediately made a run away from us. Martin peeked over quickly to see if Jasper had noticed and, when he realized his boss was just concentrating on getting his line disentangled from the upper-deck fencing, Martin cut his losses by quickly cutting his line. He saw me watching him, but grinned and shrugged. * * * * On the second day, Jasper had us beach the boat early in the afternoon so he could fish from the shore, being careful to be far enough from the trees to avoid any entanglements. Martin, who set about grimly fishing next to Jasper, realized the folly of his approach but was helpless to change it. He not only had to fish, which he didn't seem to enjoy much, he also had to do it badly. His loops got less and less loopy, the ellipses little more than parabolas and the fly sometimes hitting the ground behind him, sometimes dropping at his feet. Tom and I had it a lot easier. We watched the boss and looked inept without having to fake it when he handed one of us his rod and told us to give it a try. Jasper, after two hours of making these very nice loops that looked pretty good to me but not, apparently, to any of the trout in the lake, declared it time to have a few drinks. I was already ahead of him there, but just beer and just one. This was a trip where being careful to not lose might be the only way to win. The women showed up two hours after Jasper had cracked his first bottle of Belvedere. Tom, who was on the upper deck, spotted them through some binoculars he had brought along. We took turns tracking them as they turned their canoe in toward us. Though they both wore sweaters and faded jeans that seemed right for the lake, the sweaters didn't exactly hide the shapes beneath them and the jeans were worn down in just the right spots. We were all gathered on the lower deck as they pulled up and beached their canoe alongside us. "Hi there," the one in front, with long auburn hair, called up to us. "We hate to bother you, but would you maybe have some food on board? We'd be happy to pay for it." "Don't worry about that, ladies," Jasper said. "We have food to spare. What happened, you two come all the way out here and forget to bring something to eat?" "No," she said with a warm laugh and a shake of her lovely head. "We've been on the lake for three days. We camped a few miles back yesterday and while we were hiking, something came and raided our camp." "I think it was a bear," the one in back with short, dark blond hair said. "But Sandy says it was probably just raccoons." "Well, we've got a full fridge," Jasper said. "So you gals come on board, and we'll see what grub we can rustle up for you." Gals? Grub? Rustle up? This from a man born and raised in Boston, a man who'd barely know a moose from a mockingbird? But the gals kept smiling eagerly as they beached their canoe and came scrambling up our boarding ramp. "Just the four of you?" Sandy said to Jasper, accepting a vodka tonic. "On this big boat?" "Yep, just us," Jasper said. "Doin' a little fly-fishing, you know." Sandy and her friend, who introduced herself as Mavis, looked even more impressed, though it was hard to tell if they knew what he was talking about. Maybe they were just reacting to the drinks and the promise of grub being rustled up for them. Mavis was standing next to me. She smelled pretty fresh for what must have been her third day on the lake, but I suppose they could have hooked up some kind of sun-shower. No way they'd have bathed in the lake or one of the streams feeding it. Not in early June. Not in Maine. Jasper gave them the tour, and while Mavis was generally friendly with Martin, Tom, and me, Sandy had eyes only for the captain. Both women were especially impressed by the hot tub on the top deck. "Holds eight," Jasper said, patting the edge of it as if he'd carved it from fake marble himself. "Wow! After a couple of days roughing it, that would be wonderful," Sandy said, and I noticed a definite sparkle in her eyes, which were a deep green. "It certainly is relaxing," Jasper said, although none of us had yet dipped so much as a toe into the swirling waters. "You ladies got suits with you? 'Course, they're not absolutely mandatory. We could just wait below till you were done." He meant it too, because, though I've seen Jasper prance for ladies before, I've never seen him pounce at one of them. Still, Sandy gave him a pouty, flirtatious smile and said, "We have shorts and tank tops. That should do the trick, I think, and we could all enjoy it together." "Absolutely. Here, gentlemen, how 'bout you bring their gear on board?" It wasn't a request, and the three of us hauled their backpacks, tent, and empty cooler up the boarding ramp. Jasper was just turning from the refrigerator with steaks in his hand. The two women must have gone down to the bathrooms. We waited with their gear until Jasper finally understood. "Oh, right, right. Just put them over there," he said, nodding toward a corner near the breakfast nook. "We'll, uh, have to see later if they want to stay overnight." "I vote yes on the overnight," Martin said, but realized too late that once again he'd come up with odds when the smart money was on evens. "I don't expect to see any frat-house behavior on this vessel, gentlemen," Jasper said, glaring at Martin, who of the three of us was the least likely to hang out the party flag and wrap himself in a toga sheet. I can't say the two women hadn't piqued my interest. I'd just ended a long-term relationship, and Mavis had that slim, short-haired gamine look that always distracted me. And I'm competitive enough to not mind the one-in-three odds. There was no question which of us Sandy was interested in. Jasper, though out of shape and at least twenty years older than everyone else on the boat, wore the allure of success like a subtle, expensive cologne. It was a scent that a woman like Sandy would pick up on quickly. What she didn't realize was that marital fidelity was one of Jasper's few virtues. He'd meant what he'd said about frat-house behavior. Still, I think most frat boys could only dream of a scene like the one later that night, after we'd eaten the steaks and were all sitting in the hot tub. Most were drinking vodka. Tom and I had beer. "This is so incredible," Sandy said, sighing and stretching to look out over the lake. Whenever she did that, she rose a little out of the water, her wet tank top molding to her, accentuating the positives in a way an ordinary bathing suit might not have. No one objected. "Out here in the middle of this lake, who would have thought to have such luxury?" Couldn't argue with that. There was soft music surrounding us from the half dozen top-deck speakers. There was the contrast of cool night air and warm water swirling around us. There were stars twinkling in the clear June night. There were two people too many in the hot tub. Unfortunately, in the last half hour I'd come to the reluctant conclusion that I was one of them. Mavis had gradually moved closer to Tom, laughing at everything he said, and had even playfully poked at his arm a couple of times. Tom, like me and Martin, was single, so I guess Jasper wasn't too upset by the interplay, especially since it was Mavis who initiated most of it. As for him and Sandy, Jasper still seemed a little clueless about the attention she was giving him. I'd seen him like this before, when young women in the agency tried to use sex appeal to get ahead, for instance, or when someone at a late night party might decide he was a good enough way to end the evening. He was absolutely devoted to Clara, his short, stubby wife of thirty-five years. Even earlier, while we'd been eating and Jasper asked the women if they wanted to stay onboard overnight, he'd missed the significance of Sandy's arched eyebrow and slow smile as she said, "Why, we'd love to." Then, when he suggested they stay in the large stateroom at the end of the hall and Sandy said, "Oh, is that the one near your room?" Jasper just nodded, while Martin looked away, his face a mask of disappointment because, like me, he was staying in one of the two rooms on the upper deck, not far from the hot tub. "Well, it'll be nice to know you're nearby in case that old bear that stole our food comes back," Sandy said, leaning in toward Jasper and apparently forgetting that she had told Mavis she thought it was raccoons. Jasper just nodded and said, "Nothin' to worry about, ladies," and helped himself to another baked potato. So, when it became apparent I was about as welcome as a slow leak in the hot tub, I yawned and made my excuse about being tired. Jasper nodded, said they'd try not to disturb me and he'd be moving down to the first deck soon. Martin missed the frown Sandy gave him and stayed in the tub as I wrapped myself in a towel and walked down to my room. I changed out of my wet bathing suit and put on a T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts. I hadn't bothered too much about what I wore to bed last night, but the women on board changed that. The women on board. I sat on the edge of my bed and thought about that as I stared at the narrow spiral staircase out in the hall between my room and Martin's. It led down to the hall right near the room Jasper had given the women. I could still hear their light laughter out in the hot tub, no one apparently making get-up-and-go moves yet. I thought about how embarrassing it would be to get caught down in the women's room. Couldn't really explain myself, but it could be worse if I just stayed here and let whatever was going to happen just happen. I went barefoot down the staircase and quickly into the women's room to check things out. It didn't take me too long to find what I was looking for, and I got back up to my room just as, through my open window, I heard Jasper say he felt about ready to leave the tub. The others followed him down one of the outside staircases to the living room. They may have played a DVD on the big screen TV down there, but I couldn't be sure. The boat had pretty good soundproofing and I was asleep in a few minutes. That soundproofing may be why I didn't hear the argument much later. * * * * Jasper said it began around two, but he wasn't sure. Martin in the room across the hall from mine slept through it as well. But Tom heard it all, and that was all that mattered. Jasper described the incident to me and Martin as we all made breakfast the next morning. He had the look and sound of disbelief you might find in a man who'd narrowly escaped drowning. Sandy had knocked on his stateroom door around two in the morning, claiming she thought she heard something or someone moving out on the deck. "I told her I'd wake Tom and you guys," Jasper said, his eyes narrowed with the memory. "But she said, 'No, don't bother. It was probably just my imagination. I couldn't sleep and, you know, and I ... Uh, do you mind if we just talk for a while?' "I was going to sit with her out here in the kitchen, but she came right into my damn room, closed the door behind her, and sat on the edge of my bed. She seemed to be wearing nothing but this faded Red Sox T-shirt and, let me tell you guys, it didn't hide much more than that tank top she had on in the hot tub." He explained that he had stood near the door that she'd closed behind her, and he was honestly trying to think of a way to open it without her being offended. "I was going to offer to make her some tea, Dave. I swear. Something like the chamomile Clara takes. It calms her down, helps her get to sleep, you know." "You didn't really think that was the reason she came to your room, did you?" I said, wondering if, as good an ad man as he'd been all his life, Jasper could possibly be so blind to the various pitches Sandy had been making to him. "I did. Honest, I did. I mean..." He spread his hands, palms up, as if holding his impression of himself. And despite Jasper's considerable bulk, I realized for the first time that an impression of himself as someone attractive to women seemed to carry very little weight with him. "Anyway," he continued, "all of a sudden all hell broke loose. She was yanking her T-shirt down off one shoulder and she tore it. Her face was all flushed, and she was yelling at me, 'Mr. Hobart! What are you trying to do? What kind of woman do you think I am?'" His head still shook with the memory, though his recollection of her dialogue sounded a little too much like forties MGM to me. Still, if not verbatim, I was sure that had been the essence of her tirade. "I tell you guys, I was pretty damn scared there. And I was asking her what the hell she was doing while trying to get her to quiet down at the same time, and asking her to pull her shirt back on, and I don't know what all." "That when Tom showed up?" Martin said. "No, that's when Mavis did," Jasper said. "She was rapping at the door, and I opened it pretty quick, thinking everything was going to be all right, that she could help me calm her friend down. But that Mavis, she took one look at Sandy, and suddenly she's after me too. Accusing me of taking advantage of Sandy, asking me who the hell I thought I was to do that, saying things like, 'I think your wife should hear about this, Mr. Hobart!' You know, using my name and all, telling me they knew who I was back in Boston. Believe me, guys, it was a nightmare. A pure one hundred percent nightmare. And all I had done was open the door to let Sandy in because I was concerned about her." "That's when Tom showed up," I said. "Yes," he said, exhaling slowly. "Thank God. He really bailed me out of a tough spot. First thing he said was something like, 'Don't even think about pulling that scam on us, Sandy.' And she comes back with, 'What the hell are you talkin' about?' Tom, cool as a polar bear's butt, says, 'You should've known better than using your own names. It made it too easy for me to check with a friend of mine, Lieutenant Anderson. You might know him. He's on the Boston vice squad.'" Jasper was grinning, shaking his head as he said, "Turns out Tom hadn't trusted the two from the get-go. He used his cell phone to check in with this buddy of his, this guy on the force, who said Sandy and Mavis were well known in the better-heeled parts of the city, neither of them bashful about using sex to extort money from frightened businessmen." Sandy and Mavis had tried to argue back a little, but Jasper told them to just get their stuff and get the hell off the boat, or he'd report them to Tom's lieutenant buddy and have them arrested for attempted extortion. So at two o'clock in the morning the two women were expelled from paradise, their backpacks and other gear tossed on the shore, the houseboat doors locked against them. If Jasper could have found an angel with a flaming sword, I'm sure he would have posted him at the boarding ramp as well. "Let me tell you, Tom really saved my bacon," Jasper said, looking down the hall toward the bacon-saver's room. "Wow, I can't believe it," Martin said, not very well disguising his disappointment that he hadn't been the one to see through the women's deception. Especially since he realized that, although we still had three more days on the lake, the trip was essentially over. The winner had just been declared, and he was sleeping off his two A.M. victory. * * * * We'd been back a week when Sandy came into our offices early one afternoon. She was dressed like any of the other successful businesswomen in town, though one who looked good enough to get people in an ad agency to look up when she passed. She didn't look toward my opened office door as she made her way down the hall to Jasper's corner office where his secretary let her right in. I'm not sure where Martin was, maybe working on upgrading his resume. Tom was off at a leadership conference Jasper had signed him up for, clearing the path for the pending upgrade of his job description. I timed the meeting between Sandy and Jasper. Eleven minutes, twenty-two seconds, and she was back in the hall, briskly heading out, eyes as straight ahead as they'd been on her way in. I looked back toward Jasper's office. He stood at the open door, looking stunned, confused. But I could see the red of anger pushing up from his neck to his jowls, moving up his face as if he were some kind of large, balding cartoon dog and very soon there'd be steam whistling out of his big ears. I walked toward him wearing a look of perplexed concern as I frowned and nodded back down the corridor to where Sandy was now leaving. He glanced quickly toward Beth, his secretary, who had her loyal eyes fixed on her computer screen, and waved me into his office. "Wasn't that...?" I began as I closed the door behind us. "That sunuvabitch!" he hissed. "That sunuvabitch!" "Right. What'd she want now?" "No, no. Not her. Tom. Tom Akins, that sunuvabitch!" "What? Tom? What are you talking about?" "He set me up! Tom Akins set me up, Dave! Do you believe it?" I looked as confused as I could manage. "Her name isn't even Sandy," he said. "She showed me her driver's license, credit cards, passport. Her real name's Madelyn Suddard. So how the hell could Tom's friend on the police force know she was some con lady named Sandy?" "I don't follow you, Jasper." He took a few deep breaths, let them out slowly as he squished into the leather chair behind his large and empty desk. I sat in one of the chairs in front. It still held a hint of her perfume. "It was all a setup," Jasper said at last. "Tom arranged it all, paid her and her friend to wangle their way onto our boat and get to stay the night. Then accuse me of trying to put a move on her." "But why would he do that?" I said. "I mean, he's the one who saved you from getting stung." "That's just it!" he said, the red that had been receding moving inexorably back up his face. "His whole plan was to make me grateful to him for saving my butt. That way he'd become the next creative director." "That's a little bizarre, no? I mean, you think Tom'd be that devious, that ... I don't know, underhanded?" "I know he would, Dave. That woman just proved it to me. Cost me five thousand dollars to find it out too." "What?" I said, genuinely surprised. "Right. She called me this morning. Told me who she was and that she had some important information for me about someone setting me up. Said it'd cost me five thousand dollars cash to find out who did it." "So that's how she got in to see you so easily," I said. "I was wondering, when I saw her walk straight in here." "Right. She told me Tom had given her five thousand dollars to do the setup and was supposed to give her another five thousand later. But he refused to give her the second payoff, so she figured she'd get it from me and get her revenge on that double-crossing bastard at the same time." "I can't believe it." "Well, it's true anyway, Dave. And Tom's going to regret the day he ever thought he could get away with pissing on me like that." I listened to about ten more minutes of Jasper's anger and plans for revenge before I felt I'd spent enough time at this wake for Tom Akin's job at Maxim, Pauling & Charles and most likely at any other shop in town. * * * * Madelyn buzzed me in to her building and was waiting at her door as I stepped off the elevator. She had her hand out, palm up, and I slapped her five down, then turned my palm up for her response. But her hand didn't move. "Okay, okay," I said as I moved past her into her apartment, took the envelope out of my jacket pocket, and dropped it onto her palm. She smiled as she tossed it onto a coffee table. "You're not going to count it?" I said. Her smile had just a hint of the menace I knew she was capable of as she said, "You surely wouldn't want Mr. Hobart to get one more visit from me, would you?" "He told me you got five thousand more from him," I said. "I don't remember that being part of our bargain." "Sometimes I just kind of improvise," she said, "and asking for the money Tom supposedly owed me lent a little more credence to my story, don't you think?" Her voice was a low, sultry purr, but when you looked in those green eyes, you knew it was a tiger trying to pass herself off as a lost kitten. "So let me get the accounting straight. You got ten thousand from Tom -- five before and five after, though you told Hobart he didn't pay up. You got another ten from me to go tell Jasper how Tom had set him up. Then another five from Jasper. Twenty-five thousand in all. Not bad." "I like round numbers," she said. "Plus whatever your buddy Mavis got from Tom." "How do you know I didn't subcontract, take it out of my money?" "No way. Tom paid for her too," I said, turning toward the door. "Well, it was nice doing business with you." "One question before you go," she said sweetly, head tipped to one side so the auburn hair swung seductively against her cheek. "How'd you know about us?" "I guessed. I know Tom, know how he operates." "But how did you know how to find me later?" "Simple. After I left the hot tub, I went down to your stateroom and looked in your backpacks. Your driver's license had your real name and address." "Very clever, Dave," she said with that slow smile that took a long time to reach her green eyes. "You don't mind me calling you Dave, do you?" "Not at all," I said, "but I think our business is done." "Oh, of course, of course, Dave," she said, stepping aside as I left her apartment. "I have an appointment in a little while anyway." I was tempted to ask her if it was an outcall response to an ad she'd run in the back of a magazine, but then remembered the fire in those green eyes and the cool way she'd gotten money from three different Boston admen. Maybe I'd better leave well enough alone. My car was parked a half block from her apartment. In Boston, that's a little like hitting the lottery, and that may be why I just sat behind the wheel for a while. At least that's what I was telling myself. Of course, I just happened to be facing her apartment entrance and if she came out within the next ten or fifteen minutes, I might try to see where she was going. It was just a survival instinct, a feeling that somehow this wasn't done yet. And a few minutes later I was proved right. But it wasn't Madelyn coming out of the building. No, it was someone I recognized going in, a thin, very nervous figure. Martin, unfortunately, had finally figured out the way things worked. -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by James T. Shannon. -------- CH002 *The Bully* by J. M. Gregson She wondered whether he had always been a bully. Had it been there in his school days? Had he sought out younger boys and weaker spirits to intimidate and dominate? Or was it something which had developed in him with the easy opportunities of marriage? She had read that some women invited beatings, that they brought at least part of the abuse upon themselves. There was a kind of unofficial contract between the beating husband and the beaten wife. Sometimes. She wondered if it was like that between them. If Stan's bullying had found its natural outlet in her acquiescence, if they were two halves of the same problem, with her just as guilty in a different way as he was. He never hit her, of course. There was nothing physical about his domination. Sometimes she almost wished there was. He was a puny man physically, scarcely an inch more than her in height, and with legs which had always been a joke with the children, on the rare occasions when they had been unveiled on family holidays. She could have given as good as she got and more in any physical exchange. Occasionally, when things were at their worst, she fantasized in the small hours of the night about planting her fist into those thin, disdainful features, as he bestowed upon her his latest smile of contempt. But Stanley's contempt for Erica was never physical. The problem was just that she had a second-class mind. That was the phrase he always used, and the one she had almost come to accept. He would outline his theory to her at every opportunity, with illustrations to vindicate his thesis. Stanley Hatch thought in terms of theses. He was a university lecturer who dealt in such things, who was used to outlining a view and then providing the evidence to substantiate it. He taught English Literature, and most of the views he enunciated were, had he chosen to admit it, not original. Stanley rarely departed from the current acceptable view on an author, as established by the contemporary critics. He had seen the rise and fall of the reputation of D. H. Lawrence, for instance, and accommodated himself to the changing critical times. At work, he never took a chance with an original opinion. At home, things were quite different. Behind the Victorian walls of his North Oxford house, Stanley Hatch not only reigned supreme but showed a lofty disdain for the only other occupant. It was worse in small things than in large ones, Erica decided. He would throw an appropriate quotation for a situation at her. If she could not respond in kind, he treated her as if she were a cretin. If she attempted an answering quotation of her own, he told her how inapt it was or, worse still, corrected her inaccuracy. Erica Hatch was a historian herself, who had enjoyed some standing in the university until she had allowed the responsibilities of rearing four children to take her away from that work. She regretted giving up her lectureship now, but times had been different then. And Stanley, of course, had been insistent; as Erica was confined increasingly to the roles of housewife and mother, he became patronizing of her efforts and her intellect. She could correct him on almost any historical detail, and occasionally did, but her husband scarcely seemed to notice his error or acknowledge the expertise of his corrector. Second-class mind, he said, with a knowing smile -- worthy enough, but scarcely to be allowed opinions of her own. He had said it first as a joke. It had never been a very good joke, but at least a joke implied the view was not to be taken seriously. But with repetition and development over the years, the idea had become very serious indeed. It hadn't been too bad whilst the children were still at home, Erica reflected. But now, with the four of them married and making their way in other parts of the world, Stanley's problem seemed to have got worse. She had always thought of it as Stanley's problem, not hers. She was a charitable woman, Erica Hatch. Then one night he asked her to go with him to a university function, and from then on she became less charitable. She didn't want to go when Stanley first suggested it. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak, she said, with an apologetic smile. Stanley Hatch bathed her in his superior smile. "I think you'll find the accurate Biblical verse says that 'The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak,' dear. Matthew, I believe. You probably don't think that the omission is important, in something so hackneyed, but I'm sure old Matthew would like to be quoted accurately, if at all." The real reason Erica didn't want to go was something much more downmarket. She hadn't anything to wear, but she daren't submit that ancient idea to Stanley's withering scrutiny. She had long since ceased going to gatherings at the university, partly because she now felt out of touch with young academics and their aspirations, with their talk of publications and the increasingly obscure intellectual corners where original research had to be done. She was nearly sixty now, and these retreats from real life had long ago lost their fascination for her. She was reluctant to go partly because of that, but much more because she did not want to feel the edge of her husband's acerbic tongue, to see himself belittling himself in other people's eyes by the patronizing way in which he treated her. Stanley was sixty himself now, increasingly out of touch with his colleagues and the newer areas of university study. But he did not seem to see that. Or perhaps he did, thought Erica, and the way he treated her compensated for the deprivations he endured in his working life. In spite of everything, she got out the evening dress she had last worn years ago, ironed it, and wondered if she would be over-dressed. Probably, but there didn't seem to be any alternative; her more casual things were hideously out of date. At least the evening dress was high-necked and long-sleeved. She wouldn't have to expose acres of wizening skin to the pitiless gaze of younger women, whilst they made remarks about mutton dressed as lamb. She couldn't understand why Stan wanted her to go. Nowadays, he only attended such occasions himself when he could not get out of them. Yet he was suddenly insistent. He even told her she looked nice, as she stood uncertainly in front of the mirror. "We'll get a taxi if you like," he said magnanimously. "So that you'll be able to make a fool of yourself with the drinks, without worrying about the consequences." She smiled bleakly at the reflection of the two of them in the mirror. She said, "It's all right, I'll drive. I shan't want to drink much. You can take a horse to water, but you can't make it drink, you know." "Lead a horse, I think you'll find the proverb says," said Stanley Hatch automatically. "And I'm pretty sure it's that you can't make him drink. You have the sense of it all right, but one prefers to be accurate." Erica refrained from pointing out that as proverbs were handed down orally, there was no original source, and they might well come to us in slightly different forms. At least she was pleased with her hair. The modern styles were becoming, and the tint the girl had added had brightened her up without looking garish. The function was nothing like as bad as she had feared when she got there. She always enjoyed the college buildings, found that the centuries of history around her were a calming influence. She said as much to Stan after she had parked the car. He looked up at the old stone elevations appreciatively. "Henry the Eighth did some good things after all, you see. He wasn't just a man with the right idea about getting rid of unwanted wives!" She thought that was an unusual thing for him to say. The reference to the execution of Henry's wives was much broader than his usual kind of joke. "It was Henry the Sixth, actually, who set up this place," she said loftily, and swept through the ancient portals before he could make any rejoinder. Perhaps she was going to enjoy the evening after all. She did. There were more out-of-date and certainly more outlandish outfits than hers, and she even received a few compliments. She met some old friends that she had not seen for years, and was gratified by the warmth with which they greeted her. The man with the Chair in Medieval History even made noises about needing someone of her caliber in his department, and asked if she might be available for a few hours a week. She said that she might be interested, striving not to be excited by the thought that this would put her husband's nose out of joint. She had noticed Stan in conversation with a younger woman, registered how the two of them kept glancing in her direction. But she had been enjoying herself too much to take much notice. In truth, it was good to have a conversation with someone other than Stan, to have some reaction to her views beyond his skepticism. She was startled when she heard him say, "Erica, I'd like you to meet a new colleague of mine. This is Pamela Babcock." She turned to look into the slightly nervous face of a forty-year-old woman. She was tall, with swept-back dark hair and deep brown eyes. She had a prominent nose and a wide mouth with a fixed, determined smile. She wore a low-cut blouse which showed the tops of what were probably very good breasts. Erica stifled a shaft of jealousy as she noticed how smooth and creamy this woman's skin was. Stan plainly wanted his wife to approve of the woman. Erica saw how uneasy he was, and divined that he was probably smitten with her. No great harm in that, Erica thought coolly. No doubt he wouldn't have the guts to do anything about it, even if this new colleague of his was foolish enough to encourage him. She was surprised by how little she cared. At one time, when they were first married, she would have been jealous. Now she couldn't believe anyone would be interested in him, with his prissiness and his pedagogy, his insistence upon the details of life that did not matter. It was when she was driving him home that he said through the darkness, "What did you think of Pamela?" She sensed that he had keyed himself up for the question, and was amused by his unsuccessful attempt to sound casual. "Was that the woman from your department? The one you brought across to introduce to me? Pleasant enough, I suppose. A bit horsey, but she can't help that, can she?" Erica was surprised how much she was enjoying the exchange. "She's a very able woman, Pamela. Very able. An expert on Milton and Dryden." "Bit passe, that, isn't it? Students find old Milton difficult, now that most of them don't do Latin. Do the students like her?" "I don't know. I expect so." She could hear the irritation in his voice; she tried not to be too pleased by it but failed. She said casually, "Henry Martin offered me a part-time job." "I shouldn't rely on it. Everyone had had too much to drink." "This was quite early on. And Henry was on orange juice." "I'm surprised you'd even consider it. You must be thoroughly out of date by this time." She could hear the pique in his voice and it made her bold. She pulled up abruptly as a traffic light changed to amber as they approached it, enjoying seeing his body lurch forward against his safety belt beside her as he threw up his hands towards the dashboard. "I've kept up my interest, over the years. There are one or two new major biographies, but no earth-shattering research discoveries. The world of Medieval History hasn't changed a lot, not at undergraduate level." She managed to sound much more confident than she felt. Stanley Hatch was not used to this assertiveness. He said sulkily, "I thought you could have been a bit more friendly towards Pamela Babcock. She's been waiting to meet you." So that's why he wanted me to go, she thought. Get the wifely approval, let his colleagues see that she knew the woman and was friendly with her. She wondered if there was already gossip. She didn't think Stan would be bold enough to take such chances, but you never knew, when sex was involved: nothing upset judgment faster than sex. She smiled in the darkness as they eased away from the lights and she prepared to indicate the left turn that would lead them into the quiet road where their house stood. "Got a bit of a thing going with Miss Babcock, have you?" "Of course I haven't! I wish you wouldn't be so flippant, Erica. She's a first-rate mind and a nice lady, that's all." Erica turned carefully into the drive. "Only you wouldn't want me to be jealous, would you? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and all that." Stanley Hatch levered himself stiffly out of the car. "The correct tag is 'Nor hell a fury, like a woman scorned.' It's Congreve." In the days that followed, she saw less of Stan than usual. That was no hardship. She read a long biography of the wretched boy-king, Henry the Sixth, and a few historical articles which she collected from the Bodleian. "You're wasting your time," said Stan. "A great university doesn't employ second-class minds, even in these days of declining standards." Then, just when she thought that Stan might be right after all, the phone call came. The great man Henry Martin himself, no less. She wondered aloud to him whether she was still up to it, whether she could still mix it with the best minds in the country. "On the contrary, we'd be very lucky to have you. You'll enjoy the students and they'll enjoy you. I never thought I'd get anyone of your caliber for a part-time job, Erica." She dropped it in casually to Stan that evening. "They must be scraping the bottom of the barrel," he said. But with the words of the most eminent historian in the land still ringing in her ears, Erica scarcely heard him. Stan looked at her curiously. He was not used to seeing such animation in his wife. He said, as though announcing a punishment, "I shall be away at the weekend. At a conference in Bournemouth." She hardly registered it. But she knew university bigwigs met for conferences in great universities, not in seaside towns. The next day, she rang the Bournemouth hotel where she and Stan had stayed four years previously to check the registration. It was there all right; a double room in the name of Mr. and Mrs. S. Hatch. He couldn't even be bothered to think up a false name. She noted over the following week how preoccupied he seemed, how concerned with the new life he saw opening up for him with Pamela Babcock. He told his wife frequently what a fine mind his new love had. Erica thought from the conversation she had conducted with the woman that she was rather limited and humorless. That was probably unfair, but she wasn't too worried about fairness in this context. She knew that things were serious when, after his third mention of Pamela in one evening, she said that it was as well for him that she felt no painful prickings from Jealousy, the green-eyed monster. Stan didn't bother either to pinpoint the quotation or to correct the detail of it. He was plainly not his normal self at all. Erica rather wished she felt more concerned about the activities of the pair than she did. She was more concerned with the preparations for her own new life; she was to begin teaching in the new year. She tried to discuss the arrangements for Christmas with Stan, to raise some enthusiasm in him for the children and grandchildren who were coming to stay in the old Victorian house. "Jenny won't be able to make it, as we thought," said Erica. "She's due to deliver on the twelfth of January, and it's much too near the event for her to travel two hundred miles." "Ah!" said Stanley Hatch. Then, because he could never resist even an inappropriate quotation, he intoned, "'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is, To have a thankless child.'" He nodded a couple of times, then added unnecessarily, "King Lear." Erica sprang automatically to the defense of her daughter. "That's scarcely fair! Or even intellectually convincing. You remind me of Dickens's description of a man rather like you: 'He'd be sharper than a serpent's tooth, if he wasn't as dull as ditch water.'" Stanley stared at her. He couldn't even pinpoint that quotation, never mind correct her. It was thirty seconds before Erica added as an afterthought, "Fanny Cleaver, I believe. A somewhat obscure work, but I thought you might have known the tag. Particularly as it's so appropriate, in your case." Stanley Hatch could not remember when, if ever, he had ever heard such waspishness from his wife. He consoled himself with the thought that he wouldn't have to endure it much longer. He could not think of a pertinent quotation, so he fell back on a sneer. "I leave all the Christmas arrangements to you, my dear. It seems an appropriate activity for a second-class mind." Erica in her new-found confidence thought that he was really quite pathetic. It was three days later that she decided that he might be planning to kill her. Stan had discovered emails rather late in his life, and he was so pleased with himself that he did not trouble to take the precautions he should have, no doubt thinking such details beneath a first-class mind like his. Erica discovered the email to Pamela three hours after he had sent it. She read of the new life Stan was planning with the desirable if slightly horsey Miss Babcock, and decided she must take certain precautions. It would have shaken her husband to know that. But it would not have altered his plans. He had already decided that he could not afford divorce. The money in the family was Erica's, and he would not be able to live in the style he planned without it. The ricin he had kept locked in the top drawer of his bureau for the last three years seemed now to have been placed there by fate, not by his own hands, which were too mean to throw anything away. His friend had been an anaesthetist at the John Radcliffe hospital, who also taught in the university medical department. Being a natural experimenter, he had offered Stanley the poison to dispose of a nest of mice, and it had proved itself most effective. It was also almost undetectable in the human body, he believed. Stanley Hatch hadn't told anyone about the ricin he had retained, and his friend the anaesthetist had died last year. Stanley didn't know whether the poison deteriorated with time, but he couldn't see how he could lose out by trying it, since it was undetectable anyway. The doctor would no doubt put the death down to heart failure. Everyone would be very sympathetic to the grieving widower. After a decent interval, he would marry Pamela, who would be a source of comfort to him in his tragic loss. He wouldn't tell anyone, not even Pamela, about the real cause of Erica's death. Stanley Hatch began to enjoy the preparation and anticipation of his coup. "The justice of it pleases," he quoted happily to himself. It did not occur to him that those words were Othello's, who was making a terrible mistake about his wife at the time. It was after term was over, five days before Christmas, that he put the ricin into Erica's after-dinner port. They drank in tandem, as if some stage direction dictated that they should mirror each other's movements. He watched her closely, to see how she would react. No one knew quite what had killed Stanley Hatch. He had seemed in reasonable health, for a man of sixty. There were even rumors in the university that the old bore had an affair going with a younger woman in the English Department, but of course these were suppressed in view of his tragic death. Heart failure, it appeared: but then the medics always said that when they were baffled. Such a sad time, too, just before Christmas. But at least that meant that poor Erica Hatch had her family round her for the funeral. She conducted herself with grave dignity at the crematorium. She was a fine figure of a woman, people said sentimentally. Apparently she was about to resume the academic career she had interrupted to have a family all those years ago; you had to admire an intellect that could tackle something like that. And the work would be a consolation to her, after the sudden and tragic death of her husband. For her part, Erica kept as silent about the cause of this death as Stanley had planned to do. There was nothing very original about it, after all. It was the oldest trick in the book, switching the drinks. Only a second-class mind would have thought of it. -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by J. M. Gregson. -------- CH003 *Pinning the Rap* by O'Neil De Noux The detectives separated as they arrived at the crime scene, Jodie Kintyre moving toward the body on the left side of the narrow lane, John Raven Beau heading for the homeless man standing with two patrol officers on the right. Brioche Lane, little more than an alley running between Orange and Race Streets in the old warehouse district of New Orleans, was wide enough for one-way traffic, no sidewalk, no parking, few streetlights. It was easily blocked at either end by police cars securing the scene. Jodie and Beau had parked their unmarked Chevy next to an ambulance where two bored-looking E.M.T.'s stood. "Who the hell are you?" the homeless man called out as Beau stepped up. The man looked to be in his mid sixties, stood maybe five-five, weighing about one-fifty with rummy, bluish eyes. "Homicide." Beau opened his gray suit coat to show his gold star-and-crescent badge clipped to his belt above the left pocket of his suit pants. The man looked at the badge, then at Beau's stainless steel nine-millimeter Beretta model 92F in the black canvas holster on his right hip. It was a cool night, just before midnight of a rare low-humidity spring evening. It was as if they were in Oregon or New England, instead of the semitropics. "About damn time y'all got here," the man said, waving his arms at the patrol officers. "I had to drag these guys here!" Beau turned to the patrol officers, not recognizing either, noting that their name tags on their sky blue NOPD uniform shirts read Jones. Both. The shorter Jones pointed to the homeless man. "He found the body." "Damn right," said the man. "I tried to flag down two police cars and all they did was wave back and drive on." Beau kept his face expressionless, knowing the man spoke the truth. It was an old police trick. A citizen, who could very well be a drunk, waved at you, you just drove on. He'd done it enough times. "I had to go up to Magazine Street to drag these two away from their donuts." Taller Jones said, "We were having coffee at Starbucks." No donuts there, multigrain muffins maybe and bagels with their coffee. Towering over all three men, Beau stood six-two, weighing a lean one-eighty, with a square jaw, dark brown hair, light brown eyes under a hooded brow. His sharp nose gave him the appearance of a hawk. He was twenty-nine. The homeless man gave his age as sixty-two, and his name, Andrew Carne. As Beau jotted it on his notepad, Carne added, "And don't forget the accent on the e. Born and raised in El Paso." He poked his chin at the taller Jones. "That's in Texas. My great-great-granddaddy was Mexican American. Fought with Teddy and the Rough Riders at San Juan Hill." He pointed his chin at the shorter Jones. "That's Teddy Roosevelt!" "Tell me how you found the body," Beau said as the Joneses moved away. Carne leaned forward as he stared at Beau and said something in Spanish. Beau inched away from the smell. He couldn't identify it, but it wasn't pleasant. "In English, please." "You look Mexican!" Beau closed his eyes as he explained, "I'm half Cajun, half Lakota. The white man calls us Sioux." He opened his eyes. "Want to see my hunting knife?" "Sure." Most people didn't want to see it, but since Carne did, Beau reached under his coat to the small of his back and slipped his ten-inch black obsidian knife from its sheath. The blade was sharpened on one side only, in the way of the plains warrior, the Sioux and their cousins, the Cheyenne. "I use this to scalp uncooperative witnesses." Beau let a smile crawl cross his lips. Carne slapped his leg. "Yeah! I like you, Mister Detective. What you wanna know?" Beau slid the knife back into his sheath and repeated, "Tell me how you found the body." "I almost walked right over her," said Carne, who went on to explain he'd just had a bologna sandwich and macaroni and cheese at the Wings of the Dove Church two blocks away on Constance Street and took his usual shortcut through Brioche Lane on his way to the homeless shelter on Camp Street. "Did you see anyone else around here?" "Nope. Not a soul since I turned off Constance till I came across her." Carne nodded toward the body. A strobe light caught Beau's attention and he looked over to see his partner standing next to a crime scene photographer. Carne went on to explain that he knew she was dead right away just by looking at her and ran up to Orange Street where he encountered the first police car. The cop in the passenger seat waved and they sped off. Beau suddenly recognized the smell. Stink bug. Carne smelled just like those little brown crawlers back around Vermilion Bay. When he was seven, Beau stepped on a couple of stink bugs and tried to never do it again. "I found a second cop car up on Annunciation. This time the driver waved at me. Two cabs wouldn't stop for me either," Carne snarled. "But I foxed them all. I went looking for a donut shop and that's how I found y'all." "Have you ever seen the victim before?" Carne shook his head. "Seen anyone else along this alley any other time?" "Sure. Homeless people. Don't know their names. And some regular people walk past. Men mostly." Beau was impatient to get away from the stink and over to the body, but took his time asking for and writing descriptions of the people Carne had seen before. "Ever see any of those homeless at shelters or churches?" "All the time. We got a lotta homeless 'round here." Beau asked if he had a driver's license or any form of ID. Carne pulled out a battered Social Security card from a denim wallet and a Louisiana state ID card -- used for cashing checks, only Carne hadn't cashed any checks in four years, he said. "You have an address?" "When the weather's bad I stay at the shelter on Camp or the big one down by Lee Circle. When the weather's nice, I'm everywhere, man. Everywhere." Beau knew the shelters. He gave Carne a business card, in case the man remembered anything else or heard anything from street people later. On second thought, he took out a five and gave it to Carne, who thanked him and went to sit in the doorway of a warehouse under renovation and watched as Beau moved to his partner. As he passed the Joneses, the taller one said, "You gave him money?" "I want reports from each of you," Beau said. "By end of shift." He stopped and looked tall Jones in the eye. "You ever been hungry?" Tall Jones rolled his eyes. Beau moved away and remembered with haunting clarity the hungry times of his youth. Subsistance living was how he was raised by his Cajun daddy and Sioux mama on the bayou just off the brown water of Vermilion Bay. There were many times when a five would have come in very handy to his parents. * * * * She was in her twenties, about five-seven, around a hundred twenty pounds, with short, light brown hair, matted with blood where the skull was crushed. She lay three feet from the wall of a brick building, once a warehouse, now apartments in this newly reclaimed area. She wore a red blouse and dressy jeans. Barefoot, her blood-stained right shoe stood upright a foot away. It was a hot pink, jellied flip-flop with a high heel, what people used to call a thong before they started calling panties with no rear end by that name. "Pink shoes?" Beau said as he stepped next to his partner. "Fuchsia." Jodie Kintyre was thirty-six, stood five-seven, a slim one hundred and five pounds, with straight, yellow blond hair styled in a long pageboy and wide-set hazel eyes -- cat eyes when she narrowed them. "Jesus, she's young," Beau said. "Where's the left shoe?" "Good question." "Are those shoes comfortable?" "Very." Jodie pointed to the loose bricks next to the body, bricks from the warehouse under construction across the lane, where Carne sat. She pointed out a broken electric iron about five feet from the victim's head. Just beyond the iron were several pieces of paper, envelopes, bills maybe. Beau went down on his haunches next to the body. The skull had been crushed along her left side, no obvious bullet hole and no exit wound. With his flashlight, he looked closely at the hands and arms. No defensive wounds. She'd let her killer in close. Standing, Beau slipped his notepad into his coat and helped the crime lab tech take measurements from the body to fixed points, the edge of the building, the nearest street pole with its yellow streetlight. Jodie noted the distances. As the tech began to gather evidence, both bricks, the iron, slipping the papers into plastic pouches, Beau walked back to the E.M.T.'s to get quick statements. When the coroner's investigator rolled the body over, they found her purse beneath her, along with a bloody strip of white cotton with two buttons on it. Jodie turned her catlike eyes to Beau and they both said it. "Part of a shirt." The coroner's investigator, rubber gloves on his hands, went through the purse, passing the victim's driver's license to Beau, who held it by the edges. "Wendy Smith," he read the name aloud. "Address, 315 Brioche Lane, Apartment 3B." "She lives here," Jodie said, pointing her flashlight toward the alcove and recessed doorway. Above the door, not twenty feet away, were brass numerals 315. They also found twenty-nine dollars in cash, several credit cards, and a Cool's Copy Center employee ID card with the same face from the driver's license on it. Wendy was pretty, looked a little like Rachel Ward to Beau, but only a little like her. Nobody looked that good in real life, except Rachel Ward. Jodie and Beau moved over to the crime lab van and examined the papers, envelope, and bills in the plastic bags. All were addressed to 315 Brioche Lane, Apartment 2B, in the name of Alvin W. Berger. "Who's up for this?" Beau asked. "You or me?" Jodie pointed her pen at herself and said, "Me. I'll take outside." "I'll go inside," he said, backing away to get a good look at the building, while she continued processing the scene. The building, one of a row of warehouses lining either side of what once was a service alley, now Brioche Lane, was tall and narrow, with four floors. Buildings on either side were under renovation and 315 appeared to be the first warehouse reclaimed into apartments in the area. No elevator, so Beau went straight up, two steps at a time, to Wendy Smith's apartment, knocked on the door, and rang the doorbell. No answer, so he went back down to apartment 2B and rang the bell. He knocked four times and was stepping away when a sleepy-eyed man in striped pajamas answered. He looked to be in his mid forties, with reddish brown hair, standing five-seven, about one-fifty, with darting hazel eyes. "How long you been knocking?" the man asked. Beau opened his ID folder and said, "Police. You Alvin Berger?" "Yes, sir." Berger looked behind Beau. "I didn't hear you. I'm a heavy sleeper." "May I come in?" "Sure." Berger backed away, leaving the door open. Before stepping in, Beau took a look around at the small living room with two windows overlooking Brioche Lane, blinds closed, tan walls, over-stuffed blue sofa, a tan recliner, coffee table, entertainment center with TV, VCR, a dining room area to the right, with a small kitchen beyond. Through an open door he could see a bedroom, a bed, and a nightstand. He stepped in, immediately smelling the scented candles, one glowing on the entertainment center, two on the kitchen counter. Vanilla and cinnamon. He looked back at Berger, standing next to the recliner, an open paperback draped on the recliner's arm. "What is it, Officer?" "Have you been here all evening, sir?" "Yes." Berger's voice hesitant now. He looked behind Beau again, as if more cops would file in. "You were asleep?" "Yes," voice barely a whisper. "You leave candles lit while you're asleep?" "Uh-huh. Is that against some kinda law?" He wasn't being sarcastic, sounding more frightened. "Hear anything outside? Any noise?" "No." "You know the woman who lives above you?" "Wendy," Berger said. "Wendy Smith. She's not in any trouble, is she?" Beau watched carefully. "Something happened to her." Berger's hand went to his mouth, his eyes opened wide. "Oh no! What? What happened?" "I'm from Homicide." Berger went stiff as if the words slapped his face, then his knees buckled and he sat in the recliner. His eyes filled immediately, his lips quivering. Beau took a step toward the right, still looking around. That's how he spotted a splotch of pink under the kitchen table. His heart began to beat furiously as he took a step toward the table and saw it was a pink jellied flip-flop. He went down on his haunches. It was a left shoe and there was blood on it. "Is she?" Berger said. Beau turned to him. "She was murdered outside. Just below your window." "Oh my God!" Berger covered his face with his hands and wept. Beau stepped over and patted him down, pulling him up to finish the frisk, then sat the crying man back down. He pulled his portable radio from his back pocket and called Jodie. "Go ahead 3124," she responded. "Need you up in apartment 2B." "Ten-four." Beau went down on his haunches again and looked around the room, floor level. "What are you looking for?" Berger leaned down and spotted the shoe. Craning his neck forward, he said, "What's that?" "Don't touch it!" Beau stood as Jodie stepped into the doorway. He pointed his radio at the shoe and Jodie's eyes lit up. Beau took out his ID folder again, dug out a Miranda warning card and read Berger his rights, finishing with, "Do you understand these rights?" "Am I under arrest?" "Do you understand these rights?" "Yes." Barely a whisper. "You have any weapons in the apartment? Gun? Knife?" "Heavens no. Um, kitchen knives," Berger nodded toward the kitchen. Jodie tapped Beau on the shoulder, pulling him back to the door for a whispered conference. "I don't understand," Berger said when they moved back to him. "You are a suspect in a crime, sir," Jodie explained. "You have to go with Detective Beau to our office. This is a crime scene. You need to lock up and leave me the keys." She went around and blew out each candle. While Beau transported their suspect to the Detective Bureau, Jodie would continue the canvass of the building, calling ahead for their sergeant to get a search warrant for Berger's and Wendy's apartments. She'd already found Wendy's keys in the purse. * * * * Waiting for a fresh pot of extra strong coffee-and-chicory, Beau stared at the unofficial emblem of the NOPD Homicide Division, an Art Deco painting of a vulture perched atop a star-and-crescent detective's badge. While Alvin W. Berger stewed in terrified apprehension in one of the tiny interview rooms, Beau steeled himself for the task ahead. Much as his ancestors did in anticipation of battle, sharpening their senses, focusing their concentration, Beau transformed himself into a plains warrior, letting his happy-go-lucky Cajun side fall to the background. He didn't need to paint his face, didn't need his obsidian knife nor his Beretta, locking them in his desk drawer. He gathered the weapons he needed for this task, a fresh ballpoint pen, notepad, a waiver-of-rights form, and a blank videotape for the camera in the interview room. He also brought two mugs of coffee along. Berger sat on an uncomfortable wooden folding chair whose front legs had been shaved down a half inch, so he would have to lean back to sit straight up, keeping him on edge, uncomfortable. He sat behind a small interview table. There were no windows. The only other objects in the room, besides the light switch and harsh fluorescents, were a large tripod with a video camera atop, an electric clock behind Berger's head, which would be seen in the video, and a black telephone on the edge of the table, also seen on the videotape in case an interviewee claimed he was held incommunicado. Hell, there was phone right in front of him. The phone had to go through the desk sergeant's switchboard, but few, if any interviewees picked up the receiver. Beau entered, put the coffees on the table, and slipped the videocassette into the recorder. "I want to ask what I'm being charged with," said Berger, arms wrapped around his chest. "I have to turn this on first." Beau checked the viewfinder, then pressed the record button, making sure the player was recording before sitting and identifying himself and Berger on the videotape, then announcing the date and time and location of the interview. Then he read Berger his Miranda rights again from the waiver-of-rights form, had him initial each right before beginning. "You have a question?" Beau asked. Berger repeated his question. "You've not been charged yet. But this is a murder investigation and you are a suspect." Berger blanched and Beau asked his questions. Berger's answers were quick with no hesitation. The first questions were background. Berger was forty-five, born and raised in New Orleans, owned a candle store on Magazine Street, lived at 315 Brioche since it opened for occupants, a year ago. "What was your relationship with Wendy Smith?" Beau asked. Wendy was a neighbor and friend, but their friendship was never personal. "She likes our candles. The candle shop I own is called All You Need Is God Scented Candle Emporium. She thought it was a clever name." Beau looked up from his notes. "We're nonreligious," Berger said. "Everybody loves God and The Beatles, so I came up with the name." "You ever go on a date with Wendy?" "No. I'm a good twenty years older than her. We had coffee once at the Starbucks, but that was after she came by the emporium a couple of weeks ago." "Ever been in her apartment?" "No." "Has she been in yours?" "No." Berger looked directly at Beau, eyes still red, but without the typical evasiveness of the guilty. He was very sharp. Beau kept his questions short and Berger answered with short responses. The last time Berger saw Wendy was the day before yesterday, six P.M. In the hall. She was on her way out, wearing a red dress and looking very nice. He had no idea where she went or if she went with anyone. "Do you know anyone who would have hurt her?" "No," Berger said. "Was she robbed?" Tears in his eyes again. "She wasn't ... molested, was she?" "We don't know. Did she have a boyfriend?" It took Berger a minute to compose himself before answering, "She went out with Freddie MacDonald." Freddie lived upstairs, right above Wendy. Berger described him for Beau. "Do you know if anyone has a key to Wendy's place, besides Wendy?" "Our landlady. Lives uptown. And Freddie. He has a key to my place too." Beau narrowed his eyes. "Why Freddie?" "He was the first one in the building and is like our fixer, if something goes wrong. We've had mail problems and circuit breaker problems. Freddie's handy." Beau moved to Berger's activities that day, learning he'd awakened at his usual eight, arrived at the emporium at eight forty-five and remained there until six, went straight home and watched TV -- Friends, Seinfeld, Frasier, ER -- then went to sleep. Beau watched the man's face carefully. "How did Wendy's shoe end up under your kitchen table?" He shook his head, eyes wet again. "I have no idea." "Did you hurt Wendy?" "No, sir. No. Never!" The interview continued for another hour, but Berger stuck to his story, even when Jodie knocked on the door and came in with a torn white shirt she'd found crumpled in Berger's dirty clothes hamper. She showed Berger and the camera the plastic evidence bag with the torn bloody piece of shirt found next to the body. No tears this time. Fear and incredulity filled Berger's eyes. He was good. Jodie stepped out with the evidence after leaving Beau a note. "Do you have a new iron in your apartment?" Beau asked. "Iron? Yes. My old one broke." "What did you do with it?" "Put it in the garbage." Berger went on to explain they all used the dumpster behind their building. When asked about the envelopes and torn bills with his name on them, Berger said he'd thrown them away too. He had no idea how they came to be next to the body. * * * * Jodie was sitting at her desk, which abutted Beau's near the center of the squad room. Government issue gray metal desks. "It was one of the bricks," she explained. "We found hair and blood. Nothing on the iron except two latent prints." No way to lift fingerprints from a dusty brick. "He cop yet?" "Nope. And I don't think he's gonna." Jodie picked up her mug and headed for the coffee pot. Beau followed, flipping through his notes. "You know anything about TV shows?" "What?" "Friends. Steinfield. Frasier, and something called ER. Those real shows?" Jodie shook her head. "You got a TV on your houseboat. I've seen it. You ever turn it on?" "Yeah." Beau grabbed one of the extra mugs. "I watch movies. The news sometimes, but I don't have time for TV shows." "Well, it's Seinfeld, and those shows come on Thursday nights, like tonight." "All right. By the way, when you canvassed, was a Freddie MacDonald in his apartment, right above the victim's?" "No." They went back to their desks with their mugs and Jodie told him about the searches of the apartments. The shirt was the only evidence secured. "So your turn now?" Beau said. Jodie took two fresh coffees into the interview room where Berger waited. Beau started up a fresh pot of coffee just as his phone rang. It was the desk sergeant out front. A man named Freddie MacDonald was there to see them. As tall as Beau but a more solid two hundred and fifty pounds, Freddie MacDonald was twenty-eight, had dark brown hair, and wore a dark green jogging suit and black running shoes. "I heard y'all wanted to talk to me," he said, an angry scowl on his face. "From who?" MacDonald looked confused. "Who told you that?" Standing eye to eye with Beau, MacDonald said, "Somebody left a note on my door." "Do you know what happened on Brioche Lane?" "No." Beau watched the man's dark brown eyes as he told him about Wendy. No shock. No tears. Just anger filled those eyes. "Al did it. Al Berger. He lives in apartment 2B." Beau pointed to the chair next to his desk and sat behind his desk with his notepad and pen. "How do you know Berger did it?" "He's always staring at her. Following her to work. Gave her the creeps." "When was the last time you saw Wendy?" He'd seen her that afternoon when she left for work. She worked one to nine P.M. He described her clothing perfectly. "She was upset, saying that Berger tried to push his way into her apartment when she wasn't dressed. I went and banged on his door and told him I'd snap his neck in two if he didn't leave her alone." "What did he say?" MacDonald grimaced. "Nothing. He just shook." "So what did you do tonight?" "What?" "It's a simple question." Beau kept his eyes expressionless, lowering his hooded brow slightly. MacDonald leaned back and said, "Went to a movie." "Where? What'd you see?" He blinked and ran it off quickly. "Nine o'clock show. Coliseum Theatre. Plays old movies. Saw Young Frankenstein." He dug into the top pocket of his jogging jacket and produced a ticket stub. Beau had him dig out his driver's license from a canvas wallet in the front pocket of his jogging pants. "Go alone to the movie?" "Huh? Oh yeah. I was alone." "You ever go out with Wendy?" MacDonald sat up straighter, obviously prepared for this question, and confirmed they'd been dating for six months, spent the night at each other's place occasionally but weren't exclusive. He went out with other women, but she didn't seem to want to go out with other men. "She could have, of course," he volunteered, jutting out his chin. Beau studied the man's body language as the interview continued. The man was used to using his size, intimidating when he needed to be. He was a no-nonsense kind of guy, even telling Beau that as the interview continued. Freddie MacDonald was the first to move into the apartments. Originally from Covington, across Lake Pontchartrain, he was a veterinarian's assistant at the Feline Hospice on Jackson Avenue. "What's the difference between a hospice and a hospital?" Beau asked. "Couple letters in the spelling. I hope you find enough on Berger to give him the death penalty." He volunteered to help. "We'll take it from here." They didn't need an amateur Sherlock conducting his own investigation along Brioche Lane. After Freddie left, Jodie came out and she and Beau conferred. "We sure have enough evidence," said Jodie. "But he's nowhere near copping." "Yeah." He almost said there was too much evidence, but how silly would that sound. There was never too much evidence. They went with the evidence. At four A.M., they booked Alvin W. Berger for the murder of Wendy Smith. * * * * Beau and Jodie met outside 315 Brioche Lane the next morning after she'd attended Wendy's autopsy and he'd been to Cool's Copy Center. Wendy died from a single blow to the side of her head, so hard pieces of brick and brick dust were embedded in the tissue. There was no evidence of sexual attack. She died between nine P.M. and eleven P.M. "People at Cool's are pretty upset. Part-time worker, sixteen-year-old girl, walked part of the way home with Wendy, saw nothing, said Wendy didn't seem upset about anything." They recanvassed the building but came up with nothing new. They went over Wendy's apartment again. It was neat and smelled of lemon cleaner. She liked classical music, read romance novels, wore short skirts, and owned about forty pairs of shoes. It always saddened Beau, going through the home of the dead. But he and Jodie were all Wendy had left now. They were her avenging angels. They were there for a purpose, not just going through her things. There was no diary or even any letters, but on her answering machine were three messages from Freddie MacDonald asking her to call him. The last one, Freddie sounded hurt, "Why don't you call me?" "Wish this was one of those machines that logged the date and time," Jodie said as she pocketed the tape. "You notice we have a Wendy, a MacDonald, and a Berger," Beau said, and he could see it hadn't occurred to Jodie by her raised eyebrows. "That ain't all. Know what brioche means in French?" Jodie's eyes narrowed into cat eyes again. "It means bun, as in hamburger bun." "You're creeping me out, here." "Actually, it means any bun, but it means bun, and the homeless man's name is Carne, Spanish for..." "Meat," she cut in. "Wake me whenever you're ready. I don't like nightmares." Beau felt goose bumps on his arms. The landlady dropped by as they were locking up the place and gave them the name and address of Wendy's parents in Lake Charles. "How long has the lock been broken on the main door downstairs?" Jodie asked. "About a month." In the hall, as Jodie put her initials on the cassette tape, marking it for evidence, Beau remembered something. "Did the note you left for MacDonald say to call or come in?" "What note?" "You didn't pin a note on MacDonald's door?" "No." Jodie gave him that senior-partner look. "Why would we ever do anything like that?" She's right, Beau thought. We always take them unawares. "Could one of the uniforms have left him a note?" He could see it was a dumb question soon as he asked it. "Only you, me, and the crime lab tech went into the building last night." They went around back, Beau taking off his coat, passing it to Jodie before climbing into the dumpster. It was nearly empty, just two paper bags and a plastic one. None was Berger's. They caught the landlady, who said the dumpster was emptied late yesterday. * * * * "I have a bad feeling about this guy," Beau said on their way to the Feline Hospice, where they discovered MacDonald had taken the day off. The vet in charge knew nothing of MacDonald's private life, said he was a good worker, liked animals. On their way to the movie theater, Beau felt his warrior blood rising and used the time to focus, to calm himself. A Sioux revealed no emotion, kept his face expressionless, unlike the white eyes. "You're in that zone again," Jodie said as they climbed out of the car. "Lead on, paleface." Beau broke his deadpan expression with a wink. The Coliseum was a forties-era theater at the corner of Camp and Thalia Streets, facing the corner with a lighted marquee above, posters on the walls, and an old-fashioned ticket booth, which was unoccupied that morning. In a glass case marked NOW SHOWING was a Young Frankenstein poster of a haunted castle superimposed by Gene Wilder's screaming face, with bulging eyes and a stethoscope dangling from his ears. "Good flick," Jodie said on their way in. They found the manager inside, a portly man, balding with a combover, left to right. There was an eight o'clock showing. "You want your money back?" asked the manager. "No. Why?" Jodie. "Projector broke an hour into the eight o'clock showing last night. Tried to give all the money back but some just walked off. Thought you came back for a refund. I was gonna give you a ticket to tonight's performance." Beau described MacDonald. The manager didn't remember him. They thanked him and stepped away, Jodie leading them around to the side of the building where she stopped and looked up at the roof. After a few seconds, Beau was about to ask what was up when she said, "Handled a suicide here couple years back." Beau recognized the look on her face, sad and determined. It was the look acquired working Homicide, when you mix with death every day, when you have to go through a victim's personal things, when you link with someone you never met until they were gone. "This city has too many ghosts," Jodie said, leading the way back to the car. At Starbucks, Jodie ordered a cafe au lait. Beau took his black. "You thinking what I'm thinking?" Jodie nodded slowly. "There was no note on MacDonald's door. How'd he know about the murder?" Beau said. "I think he came in to make sure we were onto Berger." "We have to make sure no neighbor told him." "He lied about the note," Beau argued. "He doesn't produce it, I'm gonna show him my knife." Jodie smiled, lifting her cup to her lips. "And another thing." Beau flipped back through his notes. "He said exactly this, 'I hope you find enough on Berger to give him the death penalty,' as in enough evidence. And he told me they'd dated six months, though he went out with other women, but she didn't want to go out with other men. That message he left sounded like he was whining, 'Why don't you call me?'" Jodie looked at one of the windows. "MacDonald has a key to Wendy's and Berger's apartments. He was mad she didn't call him back and didn't stay for the movie. Bought a ticket for an alibi, but didn't hang around for the flick. Said he was there until nine P.M. Berger was sleeping when I rousted him. How many killers go right to sleep after a murder?" "We have to go with the facts only. Follow the evidence." "I know." Beau picked up his cup. "But the timeline fits. She was last seen about nine fifteen walking up Brioche. Coroner says she was killed between nine and eleven. Carne found her at about eleven fifteen. Berger went to sleep at ten." They both took a sip of coffee. Beau had to ask, "Ever work a case where someone actually framed someone else?" "Nope. Seen it in the movies and on TV dozens of times but never in real life." Jodie could see it in his eyes and said, "Don't say it." "There's always a first time." "I told you not to say it!" But there was a gleam in Jodie's eyes. * * * * Beau dropped Jodie off at the Criminal Courts Building for a preliminary hearing on a double murder case -- man shot his wife and her boss, who were having an affair. He arrived back at Brioche Lane at two thirty P.M. and knocked on every door of Wendy's building, but couldn't find a neighbor who'd told MacDonald about the case. Patience was one of the virtues taught to Beau by his Cajun father, fishing in their pirogue on Vermilion Bay and hunting swamp rabbit, squirrel, nutria, coons, and the occasional razorback. Freddie MacDonald wasn't home, so Beau parked the unmarked Chevy on Orange Street, where he could see the length of Brioche Lane and waited, letting his mind roam back to his childhood. He could see his daddy's smiling face, ever-present cigarette dangling from his mouth, saw snapshots of that unpainted shack his great-granddaddy built, a Cajun daubed house, its walls filled with swamp mud which kept the place almost cool in summer and warm in winter, the outside stairs leading from the front porch up to the attic where Beau slept. They lived off the land and the bay and the bayous and the swamp, eating well when the hunting and fishing were good, not eating much during the lean times. Beau's clothes came from the Goodwill stores in Abbeville and New Iberia. He remembered the excitement going in with his mama to get new clothes. He didn't know they were poor until he went to school and the kids told him, many times. He was a swamp rat. Catholic Relief paid for his education. Even when he beat out everyone to be the starring quarterback at Holy Ghost High School, making all-state, winning a football scholarship to L.S.U., even then he still had trouble getting a date to the senior prom. Girls didn't want to go with someone whose family didn't even have a car, someone who lived in a shack. He hoped Wendy Smith had had a good senior prom. He hoped there had been some joy in her short life. He dug the whetstone out of his briefcase and sharpened his knife, one side only, and waited. At five P.M., a marked unit dropped Jodie off with fresh coffees. She spent the next half hour complaining about the long preliminary hearing. Damn lawyers. When it got dark, they spotted shadows moving along Brioche Lane, got out to find several homeless men easing into the warehouses under construction. Beau led the way, flashlight in his left hand. He smelled Andrew Carne before he found the man, sitting with another homeless man in the warehouse right across from Wendy's apartment house. "Hey. Hey!" Carne called out. "This is the cop I was telling you about. The Sioux guy." He noticed Jodie for the first time and said, "And that's the fine blonde I was telling y'all about." Carne's friend was too intoxicated to do anything but blink at them. "Glad y'all came back," Carne said. "I got somethin' for y'all." He stood and led the way through the warehouse to a rear stairwell and up to the second floor. He waited for their flashlights before leading them through the warehouse back to the front where a homeless woman sat in the corner near a vacant, eyelike window. "This here's Tammy Grimes of the Tallahassee Grimeses. She saw the whole thing." Tammy stood and folded her arms across her chest. She was about five feet tall, maybe a hundred pounds, with short salt-and-pepper hair and a well-weathered face, deep-set eyes. Beau introduced himself and Jodie. Tammy's eyes were red rimmed and she shook as she stood. "There's nothing to be afraid of," Jodie said. "I saw," Tammy said, leaning against the wall. "Sittin' up in that windowsill last night." Her lips quivered. "Saw the girl. Saw the man hit her." She seemed to prefer talking to Jodie, so Beau eased toward the window and kept a lookout for MacDonald, listening to Tammy's story as Jodie wrote it down. Tammy spoke in short sentences, blinking wildly, shaking as she spoke. Jodie had to ask some questions three times to get an answer. Tammy had spotted Wendy coming up the lane, saw those hot pink shoes. He must have been waiting for her because the big man stepped from the shadows in front of her. They talked quietly at first, then louder. Tammy couldn't hear what was said, but the man became angrier. Eventually, the girl moved around him and continued walking. He kept up and they stopped again just across the lane. She could see Wendy's face. The man had his back to Tammy. The argument picked up again and Wendy bowed her head as if crying. The man suddenly picked up a brick and slammed it against the girl's head and she collapsed immediately and didn't move. The man ran into the building but came right back with some things and dropped them next to where he'd dropped the brick. Could have been papers. Then he picked up her shoe and went into the building, but he looked around first and Tammy thought he might have seen her. "What did he look like?" Jodie asked. He was big and wore dark clothes and white tennis shoes. Tammy couldn't see his face at that distance. "I was gonna leave town, but Andrew talked me into stayin'." "Did you see us last night?" Jodie asked. "No. I took off soon as the man went in the building." Carne moved next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. "I asked her today at The Wings of the Dove, knowin' she likes this place, and she tol' me." They moved downstairs and waited just inside the warehouse, in the dark, the detectives watching out for MacDonald, a shaky Tammy right there to say if it was him. At eight o'clock, Jodie asked Beau if he'd eaten today. "Nope." It was her turn to get supper so she went out the back of the warehouse, around the block to their car and returned with food for four. Burgers. "Jesus, not Wendy's or McDonald's," Beau said. She'd gone to Bud's Broiler, New Orleans's own hamburger chain, and even brought chili-cheese fries with their soft drinks. "Hope Barq's is all right," Jodie said, passing out the drinks. It was "the root beer with bite" and nobody complained. MacDonald came home just before midnight and Tammy let out a gasp. She couldn't be sure, but she was pretty sure that was him. Beau gave them each a ten with his business card. Tammy had already promised to continue staying at the Y.W.C.A., at least for the time being. "We're not supposed to pay witnesses," Jodie whispered. "I'm not paying them. I'm giving money to the homeless." They went down to the doorway and waited until the light went on in MacDonald's apartment before crossing the lane. Jodie looked back. "What was that smell?" "Stink bug." "I mean the man, he reeked." "I know. Just like the aroma of the wild Cajun stink bug." Beau gave her a straight face. "You are so bizarre sometimes." Beau knocked loudly on MacDonald's apartment door. "Who is it?" "Police," Jodie said. MacDonald opened the door with a ready smile, only it looked plastered on. "May we come in?" Jodie said. "Sure." He opened the door wider, with only a slight hesitation, closing it behind them. It was the same layout as Berger's, only more cluttered. The detectives moved to separate areas of the living room, glancing around as MacDonald stepped to his sofa and offered them seats. Jodie sat in the love seat, across from the sofa. Beau remained standing. Jodie took out her credentials and introduced herself, then asked MacDonald where he'd been. "Walking. I went for a long walk. Kinda upset about Wendy." Jodie stared at him until he started up again. "I spent the day walking up Magazine, looking in antique shops and bookstores. Ate at Bud's Broiler. You can check." Bud's Broiler? Beau couldn't even look at Jodie. He spied a pile of dirty dishes stacked next to the kitchen sink, an empty pizza carton on the table, and something in the kitchen sink. He inched that way. Whatever it was, it was soaking in suds. "Antique stores don't stay open until midnight," Jodie said. "I've been up and down the streets. Just too upset to stay indoors." MacDonald noticed Beau near the kitchen area and stood up. "Would you like some coffee or something?" Beau stopped his inching and said, "No. We went by the Coliseum today. Didn't remember Young Frankenstein was that funny. 'Put ze candle back.'" MacDonald nodded. "Frau Blucher and the horses." It was Jodie this time. "Yeah." "The ending," Beau said. "What the monster gave Gene Wilder in the end. Always gets the big laugh." "Always," MacDonald said, sitting back down nervously. "Did it get a big laugh last night?" Beau was being so damn obvious. "Yep," MacDonald said. Beau pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and sat as he said, "Last night, when you came to our office, you remember the first thing you told me?" "Not exactly." MacDonald looked at Jodie. "I was pretty upset." "You said, 'Y'all left a note on my door.'" "Yeah?" "Where's the note?" MacDonald stood up, looked around and said, "I must have thrown it away. Is it important?" Beau stood and pointed to the trash can in the kitchen. "You threw it away here?" "Uh, no. At your office, I think." Jodie took out her radio and called the Bureau for the desk sergeant. It took a minute for him to get back to her. Trash cans were being emptied as they spoke. She told him to hold all the trash from Homicide in a big bag for her. MacDonald was paying close attention to her, so Beau stepped to the sink and saw a pair of white tennis shoes soaking in grayish, soapy water. He leaned close and sniffed. No smell of bleach, thankfully. "Something wrong?" MacDonald called out. "What's with the tennis shoes?" "I'm washing them. I stepped in dog mess." So he put them in the kitchen sink? Nice and sanitary. Beau moved back into the living room and asked, "What did the note say, exactly?" "Uh, it said your neighbor's been killed and come to police headquarters." He wasn't looking at Beau when he said it. He was looking at the door. Beau moved in front of him and asked him to stand up. When he did, Beau patted him down, telling him, "Don't try anything. It'd be foolish if you did." "But you arrested Berger. You found evidence, didn't you?" Beau cuffed MacDonald and led him out. On their way out, Beau pointed to the warehouse across the lane. "See the vacant windows? Someone was sitting up there last night when Wendy came home. Saw the whole thing." MacDonald started breathing heavily. * * * * It was time to stare at the Art Deco vulture again while MacDonald stewed in the interview room and Jodie typed out the search warrant to secure the tennis shoes. They'd already gone through the trash from the office. No note. Beau waited until Jodie left for the judge to go in with his blank videotape, notepad and pen, waiver-of-rights form, and two cups of coffee. Soon as the preliminaries were finished, the reading of rights and getting MacDonald's background information, Beau went over the part about the movie again, pinning MacDonald's story on tape before telling him what the manager said. "You didn't stay, did you?" MacDonald's face reddened. "We can go over it again and again, but you lied about the movie. What else did you lie about?" "I don't..." Beau pointed to the camera. "Don't you see, the more you lie the more the jury isn't going to believe anything you say. There was blood on your tennis shoes, wasn't there?" MacDonald looked at his hands clasped atop the small interview table. "You know we can find the most minuscule particles of blood on those shoes or in the water. You've heard of DNA fingerprinting. We find Wendy's blood on your shoes and you know what that means." MacDonald started breathing heavily again. Beau softened his voice. "You know what that means, don't you, Freddie?" MacDonald nodded slowly. Beau moved his chair to the side of the table to close the distance. "I'm telling you the truth, Freddie. We have a witness who saw it all from that warehouse window." MacDonald put his elbows up on the table and covered his face with his hands. "You didn't plan it to happen, did you?" Beau asked the question three times before MacDonald let out a high-pitched gasp. "It just happened, didn't it?" MacDonald nodded and then sat up straight, staring into Beau's eyes for a pulse-thundering minute before he said, "It was ... an accident ... really." Sometimes it came that easily. * * * * It was four A.M. when they walked MacDonald into central lockup. Beau handed the booking officer the paperwork while Jodie called over the duty Assistant District Attorney to explain they needed to talk about Alvin W. Berger. First time in her career she'd arrested the wrong man for murder and she needed to see the D.A. and duty judge first thing in the morning. On their way out a half hour later, Jodie told Beau, "Good work on the confession. Nothing like a confession to get the D.A. salivating." Beau remembered another line from Young Frankenstein, something about the nonsensical ravings of a lunatic mind. MacDonald was no lunatic, but his confession, dripping with concern for what happened to Wendy and how it was an accident, was nonsensical. He never admitted putting the shoe in Berger's apartment, never admitted planting the shirt, looked very foolish on the tape when Beau asked how he knew about "evidence" against Berger. Beau remembered the question he put to Jodie earlier at Starbucks, asking if she'd ever worked a case where someone framed someone, pinning the rap on someone else and how she'd seen it in the movies and on TV dozens of times but never in real life. They stepped out into a typical warm spring night. The humidity would be back by morning. "This is cool," Beau said. "Won't be after the sun comes up." "No, I mean cool. Just like the movies, killer pinning the rap on someone else and we figured it out." Jodie laughed and it sounded nice, echoing off the concrete walls of the parish prison. -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by O'Neil De Noux. -------- CH004 *Crooked Lake* by Rob Kantner It started out as an average morning at the White Rose New Ethyl station. Outside, Main Street traffic was lighter these days, the down-city people having closed up their cottages and gone home for the season. Inside, at the oblong chrome table by the big dirty window behind the service counter, Nooch Nord, fresh from his first fishing trip of the day, sat across from me, semi silent in white-haired, squinty-eyed benevolence, dressed in his usual bib overalls and ball cap, smoking a Lucky. Hervie McGriff was there too, rotund and jolly in his greasy twill, drinking his own evil coffee in between trips outside to pump gas. To my right slouched Chas Herbst, sleek, tanned, with the racehorse good looks and reckless all-seeing eye of the Navy fighter pilot he had been -- like us, in no hurry to start his day's work. As for yours truly, I drank coffee and smoked cigarettes and listened to the chatter, hoping for a quiet day. With the summer people gone there should be fewer speeders, less noise complaints, hardly any drunk drivers, and hopefully no fist fights at the Pink Palace. So I wished. I needed an easy day, because my bum leg was giving me more hell than usual this morning. Burning down cigarettes, sucking down coffee, against the backdrop of "Baby Love" from the eight-transistor radio on Hervie's counter, we were talking, of course, about the war. Hervie vigorously pressed his case for dropping "the big one" and turning the bad guys' land into a parking lot. Chas, more book-learned and considerably to the left of us (which figured, him being a squid), was openly questioning the credentials of our president -- especially some loose-cannon Texan -- taking us to war when, unlike the four of us, he himself had never seen combat. Nooch, whose long Marine Corps career had begun as a rifleman in Nicaragua, interjected an occasional syllable. They'd just about straightened it all out when Hervie, ever watchful of his gas pumps, nudged me. "Here come old Big-Time," he murmured. I turned to see Bill Leavitt saunter through the never-closed White Rose door in shorts and madras shirt and sockless brown loafers, preceded by a cologne cloud that was perceptible even in the smoky stink of the filling station office. "Morning, fools," he boomed, the usual big salesman smile on his angular face as he strode over to us, collaring a chair as he came. We nodded, smiled, edged chairs around to make room for him. Bill sat, changing, as always, the atmosphere in the filling station. He could not help being the odd man out. Nooch was my uncle by marriage. Chas's grandpa and mine were some kind of shirttail second cousins with at least one "removed" in there somewhere. Hervie and I had served in the same unit till I got shot up and sent back. And Chas's baby sister and Nooch's daughter were sisters-in-law. In the complex network of our tiny community, a cluster of bright lines, ordinary lines, dotted lines, and rumors, Bill "Big-Time" Leavitt didn't fit. Not anywhere. And I had plenty of reason to dislike him. He'd been married ten years to Maura Coltson, and the thought of them together made my heart hurt like my leg. But I had no animosity toward him, not a drop of it -- not then, not even later. I swear it. "They put me on second shift again," Bill said, rubbing a big hand across his flattop. "Vaughan's?" Nooch grunted. "That's a bitch," Hervie said, making his odd slantways grin. The driveway hoses binged and he trotted out to top off Missus Drake's Fairlane. "Still running grinders and polishers?" Chas asked. "Sparkin'," Nooch intoned. "Beats hell out of working the drop-hammers," Bill said, sounding mighty blue-collar for a guy who, down-city, had owned a used car dealership and advertised on the TV as "Automo Bill." He lit a Benson & Hedges -- where he bought those I couldn't tell; no one sold them around here -- as some Bobby Vinton song came on the radio. "I'm still on piecework, though. What a drag." "Impecunious," Nooch observed. Hervie bustled back over and sat. "Still buying that forty, Bill?" He looked at me. "Bill buying your forty?" "Well," I said mildly, "I don't have the land contract back yet." "Paperwork," Nooch grunted. "Now that you mention it," Bill said, "Maura and me were reading it over just last night. I'm sending it to my lawyer down-city." "Shyster," Nooch remarked. "And maybe you can tell me," Bill said to Chas, "what's going on with the well out at our place. Maura said she had to call you again." "Pressure switch is probably going," Chas said easily. "I'll take care of it." "Reminds me," I said at Chas, who was staring with appreciation out the window at a pair of lovely young things floating by. "I was clearing some brush out at the forty over the weekend. And guess what I found. An old hand-dug water well." "Really?" Chas said, looking at me. "Makes sense; somebody farmed that, I always thought." "Years ago, I b'lieve," I agreed. "Kunkemoeller," Nooch informed us. "Burned down, dint it?" Hervie asked. "Wasn't he the uncle of that girl, you know, lives over by Seiler's?" "Nope, that's a Henning you're thinking of. The younger one." "Anyway," I said, "it's gotta be thirty, forty feet deep. Wood cover on it, half rotted out." "You don't want that," Hervie said, serving up another helping from his ever-ready inventory of indignation. "No way do I want it," Bill broke in. "You gotta fill it up," he told me. "I'm adding it to the contract." That was Big-Time Bill, always negotiating for advantage. "What do we do?" I asked Chas. "That's no good," Hervie said, in his argued-with tone. "I'll bring out a load of clean fill," Chas told me, "plug it up with my backhoe." "Okay, whenever," I told him. "Make it quick," Bill said. "We want to close on this deal and start building. I promised Maura a log home." Only if you knew us, and knew us well, would you spot the slight grins, the almost imperceptible eye rolls, that passed among us. "It'll work out," I said. "What about the stake survey?" Bill asked importantly. "Metes," Nooch said. "Be done this week." "Bounds," Nooch added. Bill rose, stubbing out his cigarette in the miniature truck tire ashtray with a hand that twinkled gold. "Okay, boys, you stay out of trouble, hear?" And he paraded out of the station, his shiny brown loafers scraping on the dirty vinyl floor. As his cologne cloud dissipated, we sat around the table for a long moment in almost identical positions: smoldering cigarette in one hand, coffee mug in the other, eyes studiously averted. "Chapel of Love" came on the radio. Linda Felice skipped in for a Hershey's, left a nickel on Hervie's counter, skipped back out to her bike. Then Nooch said, "Pauper." "Damn straight he don't got the dough," Hervie argued. "I don't know why you let him waste your time," Chas told me, not unkindly. "Maura," Nooch conceded. "Yeah," Hervie said, "you're nice to him 'cuz of Maura." "Which is also hard to figure," Chas said, "considering how she -- " "I'm a peace officer," I cut in. "I'm nice to everybody." * * * * In our part of the world, a town constable's duties are only vaguely defined. For example, no one ever said I had to make rounds. But I usually did, morning and night. If nothing else, walking Main Street loosened up my leg, which generally knotted tight and painful, sitting there with my friends at the White Rose. So after leaving them I walked east on Main Street past the chiropractor's and the post office and the First (and, truth be told, only) Church. Then crossed Main and walked by Dellow's Hardware, the phone company office, the bank, diner, and the Pink Palace, where Beezer's red pickup sat out front already, waiting for LeRoy to open up. All that while, I exchanged greetings with passersby on foot and in vehicles. All that while I focused my attention on the buildings and the vehicles and the people, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. And all that while, I studiously avoided looking down at the end of Main Street where Duke's IGA stood. But when I finally did look that way, I saw, angle-parked by the newspaper boxes, the baby blue year-old Imperial Crown convertible, top down, white leather seats gleaming in the sun. I felt my throat knot, my mouth dry up. It seemed like a summons. Pushing through the double glass doors of the grocery, I greeted Missy and Deb at the registers and walked around to the right, checking the aisles. Down the last one, by the cereals and the syrups, stood Maura Coltson. Maura Coltson Temblor Leavitt, to account for both her marriages. She was tall and blond, quite tan that year from the hours and hours she spent on their pontoon boat. Her posture was restless and impatient as she stared at the boxed offerings, one thoughtful thumb between her perfect teeth. Her light hair was a medium bouffant, big and poofed out. She wore a white, sleeveless, belted overblouse and snug tan walking shorts and sandals with thongs that snaked up her brown ankles. She'd just turned forty, but still looked nineteen to me. Always had, always will. Though she made no sign, she knew I was there. Part of me just wanted to stand still and watch her. But the girls up front might have noticed. So I walked up the aisle, which was empty except for the two of us. I wanted to greet her, but I could not trust my voice to be reliably neutral. She did not look at me as I approached. But as I passed her, she murmured, Tomorrow. * * * * Which came all too soon, all too soon. I wakened earlier than usual, my leg afire. Time, I thought, for my yearly trip to the VA hospital down-city. They'd X-ray me, chide and lecture, inform me there was nothing they could do, and prescribe pain pills that I refused to take. But bad though the pain was, I was feeling content that morning. Because tomorrow had become today, the latest wait was ending, and I would, if only briefly, be with Maura again. Which I was, of course, though not the way I had planned. The phone rang as I laced up my shiny black boondockers. On the static-filled rural party line Bill Leavitt sounded garbled, panicked -- something about his pickup, and an accident, an accident he kept saying. Out at their place, a patch of scrub land hard by Telegraph Hill, I saw no sign of his truck by their house trailer. To the left was their pole barn, green steel and tin roof gleaming in the morning sun. In front of it, where the two-track from the road ended, I saw a county patrol car, one of the new black Chrysler Enforcers. Around on the side I glimpsed men in silhouette, one of them maybe Bill. But it was the sight of the pole barn that grabbed my attention. The front wall was punched through with a huge gaping hole, just to the left of the overhead door. Something had crashed through there. Something vehicle sized. Parking my Lark wagon by the sheriff's car, I hoofed up the hill toward the barn. The deputy, it turned out, was Brian Haven, resplendent in his summer khakis, and when he saw me he came trotting around the side and down the scrubby gravel to me. His young hero face looked pale behind his spectacles. "You know these people, right?" The alarm I was starting to feel was a sick, smoldering thing. "Sure I know 'em, Brian. What the hell happened?" "Come take a look." I walked with him, working hard to keep up. By the front of the pole barn I could now see a pair of vehicle safety ramps and a case of Wolf's Head motor oil and some tools. Through the gaping hole in the pole barn I saw -- daylight. Whatever had crashed in, had gone all the way through and out the other side. "Where's Bill?" I asked Brian. "The husband? I made him sit down," Brian said, puffing as we climbed the hill. "Over by his pickup. I told him not to move. I think we should arrest him. But that's your call -- " "I need to know what happened!" "Ambulance is on the way, but it's..." He gave me a stricken look. "I'm afraid she's dead." We rounded the corner. Down the hill, nearly to the meadow, stood Bill's green F1 pickup. Up by us, a dozen feet from the blasted-through wall of the barn, I saw Maura. She lay face down on the hardpan ground. She wore white sneakers and tan slacks and tan top. I noticed these things, kind of in abstract. Because what shouted at me was the tangled inert way she lay on the dirty uncaring clay, as if rudely flung there. The odd angle of her head and neck and the deep bloody stains on her back and neck. And more blood clotting her thick blond hair. Worst thing was the absolute utter lack of movement. Maura Coltson was always in motion, ever energized, a go-go-go girl. Now here she lay. I see her still. I made some kind of sound, and turned away. Brian took my elbow. "He said he was -- " "I want to hear it from him." I marched down the grassy slope, my leg for once pain free -- in fact, I felt numb all over, insensate, a robot-man going through the motions, while the brain and the heart hid out. Bill Leavitt sat on a cinder block in the meadow, not far from his pickup. I don't remember what he wore. His knees were drawn up, his flattopped head was in his hands, and he looked, for once, very small. I came around in front of him and went down on one knee to face him. "Bill." He removed his trembling hands from his angular face. He looked much older, his eyes dark and far away. "It was an accident," he breathed. "Tell me." "Needed to change oil," he said, tone shaky. "Putting the truck up on the ramps. Maura came out to help me. She was standing in front, directing me ... and then..." His voice broke. "The truck, it just ... took off. Gas pedal went to the floor, and the truck hit Maura and bam crashed into the barn. I mashed the brakes, I stood on the brakes, but we kept on going bam through the back wall, bounced down the hill, I'm swerving, fighting the wheel, damn near rolled it, not seeing Maura anymore ... I got it out of gear..." With the back of his hand he brushed at his eyes, forcing control. "It took just a second, just an instant. I almost fell out of the truck, the driver-side door latch is no good ... saw Maura back there on the ground. And I knew, I knew she was dead." He met my eyes for the first time. "An accident. Something in the truck went bad wrong. Had to be." I made him tell the story again, and he told it pretty much the same way. "You just sit here," I told him, "till we see what's what." And Brian, the deputy, and I stepped away. By then the ambulance had arrived. One sight of Maura and their urgency abated. "I think he's lying," Brian said, gum snapping. "I think he run her down. Truck defect my Auntie Agatha's ass." "I don't know," I said. "I had a Fordor, that same year even, but with the flathead. What happened was a motor mount had went? But I didn't know it. I just touched the gas pedal and down she went to the floor, clamped down hard, and the car leapt ahead, in first gear, I had the three on the tree. This was out at Artillery Park and thank God nobody was in the way -- I got her stopped before anything bad happened." Brian nodded thoughtfully under the brim of his Mountie hat. "Bad motor mount, huh." "Could be something like that. All I'm saying is could be. I'll have Hervie tow the pickup in, check it out. He'll be able to tell." Just then the coroner showed up. Wheezing, sweating under his necktie, and utterly efficient, he briskly pronounced Maura, and then talked things over with Brian and me. In those days, the constable, being the local man, had a lot of say-so. Brian wasn't crazy about it, but he agreed to leave Bill be at least until the inquest. * * * * The next couple of days blurred by. We buried Maura by her mom and dad out at Salt River. The turnout was pretty good -- most of the town, of course, and a smattering of folks from nearby, all headed up by Bill Leavitt, who cried audibly throughout the service and the burial. Maura's first husband was a no-show, but their daughter Holly Temblor came up. Bad as I wanted to, I could not bring myself to approach her. She looked so much like her mother, it gave my heart a cruel and needless extra wrench. She stood rigid and distant, all by herself, exchanged only the briefest greetings when forced, and was trotting back to her Plymouth Sport Fury before the clods started to drop on the coffin top. The guys did what guys do. Sat with me in shifts, forced me to eat, flipped channels on the TV in search of diversion, poured boilermakers down me in the smoky protective confines of the Pink Palace, and in the case of Nooch Nord, took me out fishing the second day. No words were needed; they all understood. Since the day I turned twenty, when mail call brought Maura's letter telling me about her and Temblor, I'd been doing one kind of waiting. Now I had to adjust to a new kind of waiting, and that was awfully hard. Because in those earliest days of being left behind, simply living from one minute to the next seemed like an awful lot of trouble. On the morning of the inquest, my phone roused me groggily from an alcohol induced coma. Five something, the bedside clock said. "H'lo," I grunted, easing my aching leg to a more comfortable position. "Hi," came a small female voice. "It's Holly. Holly Temblor." "Uh-huh," I managed, thinking, what? "Sorry I woke you up," she rushed on. "But I've been awake all night. I had to talk to you." "Okay." I snapped on the bedside lamp, nearly knocking it over with my numb fingers. "Okay, yeah." The long distance line had a strong hiss in it, and the faraway murmur of somebody else's conversation somewhere, making Holly hard to hear. "I, uh, I was given a letter, that my mother wrote. To be opened in case of her death." And then I knew. After a long pause she asked, in a strained tone, "She told you, right?" "No." "But you suspected." "Maybe." A lot of math had been done, by a lot of people. And the answer always came back: could be, probably not, let it be. "So what are you going to do, Holly?" "I don't know. It's so messed up. I have a dad. He's a good dad, even though Mother dumped him. She dumped you too. All her life, it was always like, whatever she had that was really good, she threw away. She said," Holly rushed on, "in the note, she said leaving you was the worst mistake she ever made." That was something she'd never even hinted at in our later, very infrequent encounters -- though perhaps the encounters themselves were her way of saying it. "Your mom was always restless," I said. "I know." Holly was quietly crying. "So come on up," I said. "Let's get to know each other. What do you say." "I can't just drop everything!" she cried. "I'm not like Mother. I set my course and I stick to it." "Good for you." "So, sorry. I live down-city, I have my own home, my classes, my car, my job, my dog.... And I already have a dad." "I can wait," I said. * * * * When I came downstairs to open the constable office, Hervie McGriff was leaning against the wall by the door. Mid morning or thereabouts, Bill Leavitt showed up at the White Rose for the first time since the accident. He didn't march in like usual, he kind of sidled through the open door, looking tentative and thinner in a white shirt and navy shorts and sockless brown loafers. The eight-transistor, playing "Pretty Woman," didn't know to fall silent, but the fellows did. Only I spoke up: "Hey Bill, grab a chair, smoking lamp's lit." His angular face flashed a look of gratitude, and he seated himself between me and Chas. An awkward silence followed, broken by Nooch: "Smoke?" "Sure, thanks," Bill said, and took a Lucky from him. "What about the land contract?" he asked me, lighting up. "The what?" "I put it in your mailbox yesterday." "So," Hervie said, "you're still buying his forty?" "Hell yeah," Bill said grimly. "Moving the trailer out there, soon as I can. Too many memories at -- at the other place." We all just kind of sat there digesting that for a bit. I said, "Well then, we should take a ride out there. Stake survey just got done." "That'd be good," Bill said. "Just so we're over to Americus by one thirty." "Believe me," I said, standing awkwardly, "I won't forget. Let's saddle up." With a glance at the guys, who kind of looked at me back, we left. As I drove us along the winding road by the wooded shoreline, Bill's babble was nervous and disjointed, covering a range of topics, none of them Maura. I just drove, grunting an assent here and there, staring out the windshield. Ten miles past the village limit sign ("Crooked Lake: The Sweetest Little Town Anywhere Around"), we swung off the tarvy onto the reddish rutted two-track that threaded us through the tall white pines of the Cabinet Hills. I thought about the first time Maura left me, and the morning after her letter came. Two decades stood in between, but today felt the same in a way. Then, we'd gotten pinned down first thing in the morning by a pillbox near Falaise. With guys dropping all around me -- those Krauts could really shoot -- I satcheled some grenades and extra clips for my BAR and liberated a.45 automatic from our lieutenant who no longer had need of it, and went racing out of the copse straight at the grim, slit-windowed concrete fortress. Five minutes later, eleven Jerries were dead, the pillbox was secured, and I was on my way to the aid station gushing blood from the hamburger that had been my leg. They'd called me a hero, and pinned a Silver Star on me. None of that would happen after today. But the feeling was the same. Nothing to lose. We stepped out of the car into the bright morning sunshine, in the middle of my forty, the grassy clearing spreading out for a hundred yards to ranks of oaks and pines, rustling and raucous with the songs of crows and jays. Signs of desultory progress were everywhere: fresh tree stumps, cut-up logs, mounds of earth, Chas's yellow Oliver 1850 backhoe-loader with its Talbert trailer standing nearby. There were, of course, no signs of the stake survey. It had not in fact been done yet. That was just a ruse to get Bill to come out here with me. Walking around the front of my Lark, Bill took a deep breath, and I knew what was coming. "Glad we got a chance," he managed, "to talk things out in private. Man to man." "Sure, Bill." Bill babbled on: "Y'know, you've always been decent to me, ever since I moved up here. The other guys, they're all right, but ... they snicker at me. They treat me like a down-city dufus. They still act like -- like I'm a newcomer. I've been up here ten years! Ten whole years!" "I know." I remembered the day Maura returned to town with her brand-new down-city second husband, back when each apparently thought the other had a lot of money. "What's the deal?" Bill whined. "You're not a native unless your grandfather was born here?" "Pretty much." "Well," Bill continued, "I know you and Maura had a thing when you were kids. I know you gotta be hurting. So I wanted you to hear this from me, direct." He stared down at the ground. "I didn't tell the whole truth. About what happened to us the other day." "Let's walk some, huh?" I suggested. "Leg's stiff from the ride out." We strode side by side at an easy tolerable pace through the tall grasses around the perimeter of the football field-sized clearing. When Bill did not continue, I prompted, "And?" "There was nothing wrong with the truck," Bill said softly. "I know. Hervie told me. He's testifying to that, later." "But," Bill cut in, "you have to understand why it happened." "Talk." "She was stepping out on me. With Chas Herbst." I glanced at him, looked back at the ground, turned a corner by a big mound of fieldstones. "I've known something was up," Bill said. "It was eating at me. I figured it out, from Chas working on our well so much. Conveniently when I'm not around. Little things keep going wrong with it, so he keeps coming out. He was due out that day. My plan was to pretend to leave, hide in the pole barn, sneak into the house, and catch them." "Okay." "But before that," Bill said, "I needed to change the oil on the pickup. Maura came out to help me get the truck onto the ramps. Just like I said before. I was behind the wheel with the engine running, and she was in front.... She'd been bratty all morning, just bitchy, impossible, and I started smoldering, man. It's eating at me like acid. I'm thinking, she's always this way just before she sees Chas. And I don't know, man, I just lost it. Punched the accelerator. And held it to the floor." We were walking along the north side now. Another pile of fieldstones sat to our left. In the distance, to the right a little, was Chas's backhoe. I was getting warm in my clothes, from the sun and the exertion probably. I slowed us up a little, calculating distances, timing, moves. "Just lost it, huh?" "It was like, for that one instant, I just completely flipped out," he said earnestly. "That's justifiable, isn't it? Considering what she was up to. Coroner's got to rule it that way." Oh, so now he wanted me to take up for him. "There's one flaw in your story," I said. "What?" "Chas has a rule. He sees lots of girls. But he never goes with married women." "Really." "Yessir." We'd come to a scraped place in the vast clearing, with a pile of brush I was planning to burn. Bending awkwardly, I picked up a heavy piece of pipe that had been placed there -- two-inch ID, maybe three feet long -- and, winding up and stepping forward, swung at Bill's head with it. My aim was off and he tripped a bit and the pipe hit him without much force across his arm and shoulder. Crying out, he fell to the ground and rolled over on his back. I moved at him swiftly, utterly intent and focused, only remotely aware of his cries, and swung the pipe down toward his head. He dodged, so I missed, but I got lucky -- the path of his frantic lunge took him right where I wanted him to be, at a swath of tall grass. Hurtling forward, he did not see the wood well lid until he was on it. And under his weight, with a grinding crunch, it caved in. He was on his knees, his back to me, and I clearly saw the recently resoled bottoms of his loafers as the lid crunched through. With a single sharp shriek, Bill plunged downward. His hands caught the mortared stone rim of the well and he dangled for an instant, struggled, panting, then slipped free. Thirty feet is a long way to fall, and an hour seemed to pass before I heard him hit. Could be the fall killed him, probably it didn't. I was already on my way to the backhoe. "Your theory was right," I heard myself say. "It was the man you had wrong." Heating the coils, I fired up the Perkins diesel, rolled over to the mound of rocky fill, scooped up a heaping bucket, and rumbled the Oliver to the well mouth. Even if Bill had been shouting, I could not have heard him over the roar of the engine. Moving levers, I raised the boom, angled it over, and then tipped the bucket and plunged the first load of fill nice and clean down into the well. It took maybe a dozen more to fill it the rest of the way. I rolled the backhoe back and forth over the fresh earth to tamp it down, and then added a mound of topsoil on top, to allow for settling. Hervie and Chas ferried Bill's Galaxie 500 over to Garrett and left it in the parking lot of the regional airport, where it was found two weeks later. Nooch packed a bunch of Bill's clothes and stuff in a suitcase he found in the trailer, added some old cast-iron window weights from the scrap pile behind Dellow's, and sunk it in the sixty-foot center of the lake on his evening fishing trip. The inquest was put off for Bill's failure to show. Brian Haven asked questions around town, finally issued wanted-for-questioning bulletins, and Bill's name stayed on the wire for a while, I hear. But they never found him, because they did not know where to look. And before the snow flew that year, as the rough-in of my new log home was being completed, Chas drilled me a brand new modern water well. * * * * Where the old one was, grows now a black Italian poplar. It's done quite well in these forty years. I look at it every day from my hospital bed on the big screened porch, the place where I think about wars and friends and great-grandchildren, where the home health aide gives me sponge baths, where I count down the days leading to my liberation from this latest endless wait to be with Maura, and where our daughter Holly is about to come out to read to me and give me lunch. -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by Rob Kantner. -------- CH005 *The Wall* by Rhys Bowen "No man has entered these walls for more than a quarter century." The mother superior's face, surrounded by its starched white wimple, was ageless and expressionless and appeared to have been chiseled from white marble. "Not even a priest. Not even a doctor," she added. Her clear blue eyes seemed innocent enough as they looked directly at the young man, but he had the uncanny feeling that she was reading his thoughts. He had, in fact, just been thinking that priests and doctors must surely have been admitted to the convent in a quarter century. "The priest comes only to our chapel, which is, of course, outside the walls. And on the rare occasions when a doctor has been needed, our sick sisters are carried to the parlor, which is also on the other side. Thus we have remained apart and inviolate, in accordance with our foundress's command. We are, as you probably know, one of the stricter orders." "I don't know very much," the young man said. "Only what I've heard in the village." "And what do they say in the village?" "That nobody who goes to the convent ever returns." He grinned. "That is true enough." The reverend mother nodded slightly. "Not one sister who has made her vows here has ever chosen to leave us. Not one in a hundred and fifty-five years. An admirable record, wouldn't you say?" She obviously didn't expect an answer, but went on. "We pride ourselves on our self-sufficiency. We grow almost all of our own food. We spin our own wool and weave our own cloth. We make our own medicines. Only once in a while do we come upon a task that cannot be performed by one of our sisters. You have been summoned for such a task, Monsieur Clement. Sister Perpetua is as good a handywoman as you will find, but she has no experience with bricks and mortar." "What exactly is it that you wanted doing, Reverend Mother?" Jacques Clement asked, fiddling with the cap that he clutched in his hands. There wasn't much that made him nervous, but the reverend mother's steely gaze fixed on his face was pretty unnerving. "Come with me," she said. "I will show you." She held open a grillwork door for him to pass through. It clanged shut behind them. Then she set off at a great pace down a flagstoned cloister, the flapping of her sandals echoing back from the stone walls. "We have an unused chapel in the wing that once housed our infirmary. That whole wing is now in disrepair, and we lack the funds to renovate it. Actually, it is no longer needed, since our numbers are not what they were. But recently one of our sisters was struck by falling masonry as she attempted to sweep the chapel floor. I can't risk that happening again and have decided the only solution is to have it bricked up. I understand that you know how to work with bricks." She turned back to address him. "I've done a bit of masonry, yes. But I'm really only a handyman. If you want anything fancy -- " "Nothing fancy will be required and we have no money to pay for a master mason. You come highly recommended from the village, and I'm sure you'll prove quite satisfactory. Your father was a jack-of-all-trades before you, I understand. Did he teach you well?" She glanced up again. The young man smiled grimly. "Hardly a chance for that. He walked out on us when I was a little kid. Got fed up with village life and wanted excitement, I expect. It is pretty quiet in these parts, and my father had been a sailor and sailed around the world when he was young." "Really?" The reverend mother sniffed. "I understand that sailors are known to be unreliable. So you have now taken over the reins of the business, have you?" "My dad left most of his old tools behind, and there was no other handyman -- and I seemed to have inherited the knack." "Have you also inherited the knack for wandering off?" Reverend Mother was gazing at him again, making him wish he had never accepted this job. "I'm not intending to stay in Saint Cyr all of my life, if that's what you mean. And I wouldn't mind seeing a bit of the world." "Would you be deserting those who rely on your support, the way your father did?" He smiled. "I'm still fancy free, Reverend Mother. No woman has managed to tie me down yet." "And your poor mother? Do you still support her." "She died a couple of years ago. Caught pneumonia. She never was very strong." The nun shot him another sharp glance, then opened a door at the end of the cloister. "This way, please. And before we enter, I must warn you that you are not to speak to the sisters, or even look at them if they pass you in the corridors. We have chosen to shut ourselves away from men, and the sight of you may put temptation into the hearts of our younger sisters." She set off at a great pace again. Up a flight of steps and along a narrow hallway. A mere slit of window to his left, like an arrow slot in a castle battlement, revealed the landscape below, the neat patchwork of fields stretching down to the St. Lawrence River and blue hills rising beyond it in the distance. A string of barges was making its way upstream. He could make out smoke rising from chimneys in Saint Cyr. "Nice view you've got here," he said, more to break the oppressive silence than anything else. "This is the only window within our walls with any kind of view on the outside world," she said. "Our sisters come here to shut themselves off from the world, not to be reminded of it. Enough idle chatter. Hurry up." He wondered what the rush was to brick up a disused chapel, then decided that she wanted him out of the hallways before he encountered another nun. There was complete silence in the building. All doors that he passed were closed. More steps, more hallways. At last Reverend Mother stopped and indicated to her left. "In here." There was no light in the chapel, and its vaulted roof was lost in gloom. It smelled damp and musty. Ferns had sprouted through cracks in the masonry. "This part of the building actually goes into the hillside, which made it a very unfortunate setting for an infirmary, as you can imagine. It was only after several sisters were lost to complications of influenza that the infirmary was removed to the front of the building where the healthful breezes blow up from the river." Jacques Clement thought of autumn squalls and Arctic gales and decided that the new infirmary situation might be as bad as the last, but he didn't say this to the reverend mother. "You'll want me to get supplies," he said. "Take measurements today and then order bricks and mortar." "Everything you need is already here," she said, "except for tools you no doubt have with you. You came in a vehicle -- " "My pickup truck is outside. My tools are in it." "Excellent. Couldn't be better." For the first time she expressed a nod of approval and Jacques felt pleasure flush through him like a student who has finally won over a strict teacher. "You will drive your truck in through the gates and park in the building on your right, which was once our cowshed when we possessed our own dairy herd. In it you will find the bricks and sacks of mortar as well as a wheelbarrow to transport them. You will go straight across the courtyard and in through the green door at the back. That way you have no need to disturb the daily routine of any of our sisters." She waited for him to nod in assent. "Do you think you will be able to finish in one day?" Jacques Clement inspected the archway. "I doubt it," he said. "It will be heavy work transporting all those bricks across to start with." "In which case you will stay overnight. I'll have a room prepared for you in this wing and your food will be brought to you." "I'd rather go home, if you don't mind. It's only half an hour's drive." "And I'd rather that you didn't disturb the rhythm of our tranquility by driving your truck in and out of our enclosure. You will be quite comfortable. We do not put our guests through the rigors of our own chosen lifestyle." He opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it and gave a submissive bow. High in the tower a bell tolled. The reverend mother looked up. "The second office of the day. I will escort you back to the gate where you will find your truck. Come." She spoke the word as one would to a dog and he trotted obediently at her heels. Along unseen hallways he heard the slap and swish of sandals and robes as nuns made their way to the chapel. It felt like being in a community of ghosts. He found the gate, the courtyard, and the cowshed as directed. The shed contained rusting farm machinery and old trucks, half hidden under tarpaulins. Why hadn't they sold them when they were no longer used, he wondered. Surely convents always needed money? Then he loaded bricks into the barrow and had no more energy for thought. Bricks in the barrow, out across the courtyard, in through the green door, and down the deserted hall. He repeated the process over and over until he was clammy with sweat and starving hungry. He wished he'd been smart enough to bring his lunch with him, but he hadn't expected to have to start work immediately. Did nuns eat at lunchtime? And more to the point, would they remember him? As if on cue, he heard the light tap of feet coming down the hall and looked up to see a young girl in a short black habit and veil coming toward him. She was bearing a tray on which there was a large bowl of soup, a hunk of dark bread, as well as cheese, tomatoes, and green onions. Beside it was a pitcher of water and a glass. "Your lunch, monsieur." The young girl's eyes were cast down as she held out the tray. "Where would you like me to put it?" He scrambled to his feet. "Here, I'll take it." Their hands brushed as he took the tray from her and he saw her blush. Then he realized with surprise that he recognized her. "It's Marie, isn't it? You live on a farm out Saint Denis way?" "Used to live." She glanced up just long enough to make eye contact and gave him a gentle half smile. "I live here now." "Of course. Silly of me. But we met before. I came out to work on your grandfather's barn, and there was some kind of church festival going on. And you were serving some kind of food..." "Donuts," she said, smiling more broadly now. "You ate several, I remember." He held out his hand. "I'm Jacques. Jacques Clement." "We're not allowed to shake hands, monsieur." "I'm sorry. Obviously not, if merely looking at a man can drive you to temptation. And if they want you to avoid temptation at all costs, how come they choose the prettiest and youngest nun to bring me my meal? Is this some kind of test?" She laughed then. "Oh no, monsieur. I was sent with your tray because I work in the kitchen and because I am merely a postulant. I haven't yet made my vows." So that explained the less severe habit. "How long before you do that?" "When the novice mistress thinks I'm ready." She made a face. "I have too much spirit and stubbornness, I'm afraid. Taking orders from everybody doesn't come easily to me." "Me neither," he said. "That's why I've always been my own boss." "You're lucky to have skills that enable you to be free like that." She looked down at her hands. "I would otherwise have ended up as a wife, taking orders from my husband." "Not all men boss their wives around." "All the men I know do." "Is that why you came here, to escape from being bossed around by men?" "I did not come here to escape, monsieur," she said frostily. "Please leave your empty tray at the end of the hall. I'll be back to collect it when I have time." Then she walked away. He wanted to call after her, but restrained himself. It was none of his business if she wanted to shut herself away in this place. Perhaps she really had received a calling from God; who was he to dispute with the Almighty? But he couldn't help feeling it was a waste of those large dark eyes. He finished the food and got back to work. But he had scarcely begun when he looked up to see a shadow falling over him. "I forgot to mention one small matter," Mother Superior said, making him believe that she had been eavesdropping on his conversation with Marie. "I would like you to leave a small opening in the base of your wall." "How small?" "Big enough to crawl through, just in case we ever needed to access the chapel again. You can do that, can't you? I mean the wall will stand with a small hole at its base?" "No problem," he said. "Your lunch was satisfactory?" "Excellent, thank you." "We do not believe in starving the body. A healthy body is essential for hard work and everyone in this convent is expected to work hard. I began as dairymaid, milking the cows each day at five o'clock in the morning. In wintertime my hands were covered with chilblains. I came here as a pampered daughter. I can tell you it was something of a shock, but I survived." "How long have you been here, Reverend Mother?" he asked. "Thirty-five years. I entered as a very young woman." "But you're not from around here, are you? Your accent sounds superior to us French Canadians, as if you came from France." "I did indeed come from France. From the port city of Bordeaux." "What made you come over here?" "This convent." "You chose this particular convent out of all the nunneries in the world? Why?" "Because I wanted to get away from France and because it suited my needs. I have never regretted my decision to come here." He found himself wondering if every nun actually was running away from something rather than running to the convent. Again, as if she could read his thoughts, she said sharply, "No, I was not running away. There was nothing unpleasant about my life at home, but nothing worth staying for either. But I mustn't keep you from your work, since you are charging us by the hour." Then she was gone, with a rustle of skirts and slap of sandals. Jacques worked on. Daylight failed and he could find no electricity in the hallway. When it became too dark to see he stood at the end of the hall, wondering what to do next. He could hardly go and find them without incurring the mother superior's wrath. Again, as if on cue, he heard the tap-tapping of light feet coming toward him and Marie appeared with another tray. "I couldn't find the light," he said. "There is none in this part of the building. They used to use candles. We still have candles in our cells, but there's electric light in the main rooms of the new wing. You'll have to put up with a candle tonight, I'm afraid. It's down here." She led him back along the hallway and pushed open a door on her right. She put down the tray on the table by the door and swiftly lit a candle for him. "Enjoy your dinner, monsieur," she said. The candlelight made her face look hollow. "You wouldn't like to stay and keep me company?" he asked. "It's really dark and lonely in here." "I am expected back in the kitchen to serve my sisters, monsieur." She gave a little bow. "If I were you, I'd go to sleep right after you've eaten, so that you can be up at first light and get your job finished. If you put your tray outside your door, one of us will collect it." She turned to go. "Marie." He grabbed at her wrist. She gave a little gasp, went to struggle free, then stared down at his big red, workman's hand around her small white one. "Don't do it," he whispered. "Don't shut yourself away from life. There's a wonderful world out there. You should be dancing and letting some fellow kiss you in the moonlight. God must have made us to live our lives, not bury ourselves prematurely." "And where would I find this fellow who would take me dancing and kiss me in the moonlight?" she asked, looking up with a little smile on her lips. "I wouldn't mind volunteering for the job myself." He smiled back. "Mother warned us of temptation. Perhaps you were right -- that is why she assigned this duty to me after all. My big test. I must go. I'll be missed. I'll have to answer to the novice mistress and to Mother." He looked around the bleak little room. "I wish I could understand the appeal of this place. I mean, what is there in it for you? Locked away with a bunch of dried-out old women? Your reverend mother came halfway around the world to be here -- there must be something." The smile this time was slightly wicked. "They say that Mother came here after she was betrayed by a young man in France. It may be just gossip, but Mother is certainly distrustful of all men." "She may have reason," Jacques said, and his gaze held hers. "We sometimes get carried away by a pretty face or a neat little figure." She jerked her hand away from him. "I really must..." She turned and ran. Jacques heard her light feet echoing back along the cloister. Then he sat on the hard wooden chair and ate the meal -- a thick vegetable soup, more coarse bread, some stewed fruit, and a cookie. A glass of milk accompanied it this time. He drank it, longing for beer, then put the tray outside the door. He hesitated as he did so, staring down the long dark hallway and wondering if she would be back for it and would tap on his door if he forgot to put the tray outside. "You'll burn in hell for trying to seduce a nun," he told himself firmly, then reminded himself that she wasn't a nun yet. There was still time. He had flirted with her that time at her grandfather's farm, but hadn't shown enough interest to make a second date with her or even to drive out that way again. It must be the old saying about forbidden fruit tasting sweeter. Now that she was in that nun's uniform, he couldn't wait to rip it off her. At last he fell into uneasy sleep and woke to the crowing of a rooster and the first gray streaks of light in the eastern sky. He washed at the sink down the hall and was busy at work when the breakfast tray arrived. "Your breakfast, monsieur." He looked into the round, expressionless face of a round, middle-aged nun. "Where's Marie?" "Marie?" "The girl who brought my meals yesterday." "I don't know, sir. I was instructed by Mother to bring your breakfast and one always obeys Mother's orders. Bon appetit, monsieur." He sat, resting his back against the new wall, to eat the bowl of oatmeal, the boiled egg, and toast, then went back to work. The wall would be finished by lunchtime if he worked hard. It took him longer than he anticipated setting the final bricks into the curve of the archway and a lunch tray was brought by the same round-faced sister. He went straight back to work and finished by mid afternoon. Mother Superior arrived, again as if on cue, as he was gathering together his tools and loading the leftover bricks into the wheelbarrow. "Leave that, monsieur. One of our sisters can attend to the clearing up." "But the bricks are heavy. Wouldn't you like me to wheel them back to the cowshed for you?" "Our sisters are used to hard labor, monsieur. Just leave everything as it is. You have done splendidly. A good solid wall. Come along now." She waved him along the hall with her hand, like someone directing a flock of ducks. He picked up his tool bag and fell into step beside her. "I was wondering what happened to the young girl who brought my food yesterday," he said. "I used to know her before she came here. I hope she didn't get into trouble for chatting with me. She was the soul of virtue, by the way." "To your regret, monsieur?" To his annoyance he blushed. "It seemed a shame for someone as young and pretty as that to shut herself away before she had a chance to experience life outside." "And what should she have experienced, monsieur? Should she have waited to discover heartbreak and betrayal? Should she discover that all men are, as you put it, fancy free?" "Not all men, Mother." "No? Did you not tell me yourself that you plan to see the world? If Marie were available to you, would you be prepared to give up that dream?" "She's not available, is she?" "I hope she sets her sights higher than a mere laborer such as yourself, monsieur." "What do you mean?" "I mean that Marie left the convent this morning. She came to me and told me that she no longer felt she had the temperament to become a sister here. She is gone, monsieur." "Gone? Home? Back to Saint Denis?" "That I can't tell you." His heart soared momentarily. He'd find her and ... Then he paused. Did he really want her? At least it would be fun to find out. They crossed the courtyard and reached the pickup truck in the cowshed. "I will make sure that the gate is open for you, monsieur, and take my leave of you here. You will be sending me your bill?" "Yes, Mother." "Goodbye then, Monsieur Clement." "Goodbye, ma Mere." She was gone. He threw his bag into the back of his pickup truck. He was out of here, back to normal life. He'd find Marie easily enough. Why did Mother Superior think he wouldn't? Then the nagging uneasiness exploded in his head. Mother Superior had told him that nobody had left the order in one hundred and fifty years. Why had she let Marie go so easily? And why had she decided to brick up that old chapel now? And why had she insisted that he leave the extra bricks there? There was only one answer, one that sent his heart thumping. Marie was to be bricked up behind that wall. Maybe she was lying drugged at this moment. Maybe she was already dead. Either way, she would just disappear. And nobody would ever question her disappearance. Well, not if he could help it. He ran back across the courtyard. The green door was now locked. He started to run around the courtyard, trying one door after another. At last he found a window open and climbed through it, squeezing his hefty body through with difficulty. He had no idea where he was, but he sprinted down the hallway, his feet echoing alarmingly from the stone walls and slate floor. Another hallway, then another. He encountered no one and at last thought he recognized the room where he had spent the night. Just down the hall and around the corner and -- The wall was there. The pile of bricks beside it untouched. He stood staring at it, his heart thumping and the cold sweat of panic trickling down his face. What should he do next? Think, Clement, think! He pounded one fist into the other. He couldn't actually go and accuse the mother superior. She'd never let him search the convent. And if he drove down to the village and alerted the police, they'd probably laugh at him. There was only one thing to do -- he'd lie in wait and catch her in the act, or them in the act. It would take more than one of them to carry Marie all this way and shove her through the small opening. He looked around for somewhere to hide. The doors on either side were locked. He stood there undecided, trying to make his brain think logically. Then he stiffened. It was the slightest of sounds, a mere whispering rustle, but it echoed within the vaulted walls of the chapel. She was in there already. And she wasn't dead yet. In a flash he was down on his stomach, attempting to squeeze his muscular body through the little opening. He wriggled through, his elbows scraping on the stone floor and stood uncertainly on the other side. It was very dark. That small square of light from the opening was rapidly swallowed in gloom so that the back of the chapel melted into blackness. His hand touched the wall for reassurance and then he began to move along the left-hand wall, his hand tracing the pillars and recesses for niches. It was cold and clammy to the touch. "Marie?" he dared to whisper. "Marie? Are you in here?" As his eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness he tried to see if anyone was on the floor. He came upon an altar rail, but the black lump beyond it proved to be only an ancient kneeler. It was impossible. He should go back for a flashlight... Then he heard the noise again -- the slightest swish of moving fabric. As he turned to it, he was hit from behind and blackness overcame him. He came to gradually, like a diver surfacing from deep water. His head throbbed and he felt sick. It took him a while to remember where he was, before the cold reality of the stone beneath his cheek brought him to his knees. He must get out of here ... that was when he saw that the square of light from the little hole had shrunk. Before the opening had been almost two feet square. Now it was barely visible. His first reaction was that he had lain there for a long while and night was falling. Then he made his way to the hint of daylight, crawling on his hands and knees, and his hand encountered solid cold brick where the opening had been. Solid except for a couple of bricks at the top. He tried to catch his breath as he pushed against this new wall of brick. He couldn't have been in there that long. The mortar would still be wet and he was strong enough to... "There is little point in trying to do that, monsieur." The voice on the other side was Mother Superior's. "We made the provision of buying some quick-drying mortar. It should have set nicely by now." He put his face to the opening and peered out. All he could see was the black fabric of her habit. "What in God's name are you doing?" he demanded. "Are you mad? What have I ever done to you?" "You lived, Monsieur Clement," the cold voice said. "You lived and my child died." "What are you talking about? What child?" "The child of your father, monsieur. Your father -- the sailor who wooed me when his ship docked in Bordeaux, who swore that he loved me. And I, innocent girl that I was, believed him. He sailed away before I discovered that I was with child. I did not wish to bring disgrace to my family, so I followed him to Canada, sure that he would do the right thing and marry me when he discovered the truth. Instead, I found that he already had a wife and a baby son of his own. You, monsieur. He denied ever knowing me. The shock was so great that I miscarried. After that I swore to have nothing more to do with men. I came to this place, but the desire for revenge gnawed at me." "Christians are supposed to forgive their enemies." "I know. I kept telling myself that, but it wouldn't go away. It was a blackness in my heart that never subsided. And then fate brought me my revenge on a platter. Some years later we needed some work done to our leaking roof and the handyman summoned was your father. Imagine what I felt when I saw him getting out of his truck. I served his dinner that night. He didn't even recognize me. I put rat poison in his coffee, and afterward I put him in one of the stone coffins in our crypt. His truck is now rusting with our farm equipment in the cowshed. Where your truck also rests, monsieur." "But am I to be punished for the sins of my father?" he demanded. "I did you no wrong." "As I said, you lived. You have had a chance to enjoy life, and I saw from my conversations with you, and from observing you with Marie, that you would turn out no better than your father was. You would woo some poor girl, then desert her as I was deserted. Better that such men be removed from the face of the earth before they can do their damage." "No," he shouted. "You've got it wrong. I'm a decent guy. Don't do this. I beg you, don't do it! Let me out. I promise I'll go away from here and say nothing about all this if you only let me out. I promise. For God's sake! You of all people..." The sound became muffled as the last brick was put into place. -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by Rhys Bowen. -------- CH006 *Tattersby and the Old Curiosity Shed* by Neil Schofield I've been musing a lot recently. On Destiny, funnily enough. Destiny, Fate, Fortune, whatever you like to call it. My old dad couldn't be doing with it. As far as he was concerned, Destiny was a wild-eyed lunatic who lurked round corners waiting to play daft tricks on honest folk. "Harry," he said to me more than once, because he wasn't bothered about repeating something if he thought it was worth it, "Harry lad, all Destiny does is play silly buggers." And he was right. Take me. When I was sixteen or thereabouts, to look at me, which not a lot of people did because I wasn't much to look at, you'd have said I was meant to be a philosopher-greengrocer like my dad, and to be the Son in Tattersby & Son, Fine Fruit and Veg. But no. As it turned out, I was meant for a life in the police force, to rise to the giddy heights of detective-inspector in a nondescript northern town. (Never mind which one. I'm not going to make a name up, they never sound right, and I'm not giving the real one, because I still have to live here.) But all that's reckoning without the silly-bugger factor. Because what I was really and truly destined for, apparently, was the giddy depths of ex-detective-inspector. The day all this business started was a Wednesday. I don't know why I mention that except we were talking about my old dad. He didn't have much time for Wednesdays either, I don't know why. He must have had his reasons. What happened on this Wednesday was that the doorbell rang. That doesn't sound very extraordinary, but it had been a long time since anyone had pushed that bell. When I opened up all I found was Eggy Edgworth, small-time burglar, sneak-thief, and copper's nark of this parish who didn't look much like Destiny. He didn't look much like anything. If you had to put a name to it, he resembled something you might find in a schoolboy's pocket, soft and squashy and covered in fluff. Eggy Edgworth grew up in a neighborhood and a family where the instinct to steal was absorbed with your mother's milk. Unhappily for Eggy, something went wrong in the genetic mix, so he turned out the wrong shape for the robber's trade, too fat, too short, and not quite vicious enough. This meant that at the age of thirty or so his career had already hit a number of setbacks, and he had to supplement his meager thieving revenue by informing on his peers. Curiously, on top of this Play-Doh body was perched the face of a ten-year-old choirboy, which had stood him in good stead before more than one magistrate. "How do, Mr. T.," he said. "Get in here," I said. "I don't want the whole road to see a convicted criminal on my doorstep chewing the fat." "Reformed convicted criminal, Mr. T.," he said as I dragged him in, "going straight now. Well, straightish." I closed the door. "What is it, Eggy?" I said. "I've got things to do." Lies. "Well, it's been a while," he said, "and I was wondering how you were. You're still big, aren't you. Although, I think I liked you better with the mustache. Gave you a bit of authority, like." I looked at myself in the hall mirror. I've got a good face, though I say it as shouldn't, nice and square with a straight nose and honest blue eyes. And a full head of hair, which not everyone round here can say at forty-four. "I think I've got all the authority I need, thank you very much," I said. "Ey," Eggy said, looking round him, "they're nice, these houses inside, aren't they? I've never been in one of these. Spacious, in't it? Pleasant volumes of light and air." "Don't get used to it," I told him. "Come on," and we went down the hall and into the sitting room. "Oh now," he said, his little face all lighted up, and his little protruding baby blue eyes all dancing. "Oh now, this is nice, in't it? I like this, me. Minimalist. Stripped down. No frills. No -- well, no comfort, really." I said nothing to that. I wasn't going to explain why there was nothing in the sitting room except one armchair, a television, sound system, and a wall of books. I'd known Eggy for a long time, but he didn't warrant that level of confidence. It was going to be one of those mornings, was it? Well if it was, I needed a cuppa. "Eggy, what do you want?" I said. "Only a lot of us were really cut up when you got the push." "I retired, Eggy. Try to remember that." "Right," he said, "when you were retired. 'Cos you was always fair with us. Bad tempered but fair. Fairly bad tempered." I went into the kitchen. I put the kettle on. It didn't take long to boil. He called out, "Lot of books you got, Mr. T. You read some of them?" "All of them," I called back, "and leave them alone." Back in the sitting room, I gave him his tea. He'd pulled down a copy of The Maltese Falcon. "Interested in wildlife and that, are you?" "Put that back. And keep your fingers off. Now the rules are," I said to him, "I drink my tea sitting down and you drink standing up, and you tell me why you're round here." "Right," he said, "just the one chair you've got is it? But then, seeing as there's just you, I suppose it works out exactly right." He looked at me and hurried on. "Only, I've got a bit of a mystery on me hands. Extremely mysterious, as it happens. Someone's been stealing my tools. Or trying to, at any rate." "Right," I said. "Stop right there. What tools?" "The tools in me shed on me allotment." "You've got an allotment?" This was new. The thought of Eggy Edgworth as a horny-handed son of the soil, spading the loam, bringing up tomatoes and leeks, was a new one. "Since me uncle died," he said. "What it was, the allotment was me uncle's. Ernie Jones. Well, Ernie Jones, deceased, as he is now." "Hang on," I said. "Ernie Jones. Not the Ernie Jones." His little face creased up in what in a normal face might be described as pleasure. On him it looked as if his skull was slowly imploding. "You knew Uncle Ernie, then?" he asked. "Not as such," I said. "I've never had the pleasure of nicking him personally, but I've heard of him. Everybody's heard of him. Our most unsuccessful cat burglar. It was him that came off the sixth floor of the Building Society and walked away without a scratch. Wasn't that him?" "Don't remember," he said sulkily. "Yes, you do," I said. "Indiarubber Jones they called him after that. Dear me. So that was your Uncle Ernie, was it? What a small and interesting world we live in." "Anyway, we had a very nice funeral last Friday," Eggy said. "Most moving." "Glad to hear it," I said, "now, get on with it." "Right," he said. "Anyway, after he died, me Auntie Winnie asked me if I'd take his allotment on. I wasn't sure at first, but she went on at me, said she'd like his allotment to remain in friendly hands, as a sort of memorial to him. So I said yes. She sorted everything out with the association and that was it." I was impressed. Eggy's Auntie Winnie must be a force to be reckoned with. Allotments associations don't mess about. "I put a new shed up just this Monday. Me uncle's was a disgrace, falling down nearly, didn't even have a floor. So I ordered a new one last week, Norwegian spruce, the biz. Laid down a load of aggregate, put down some foundation beams, and it went up a treat." "And that's where the above-mentioned tools are," I said, to show I was keeping up. "Right. And when I went round this morning to get on with me weeding and stuff, I unlocked the shed and there were the tools all over the place. Someone had been in there, trying to steal them." "So why didn't they?" "I dunno. Must have been interrupted, heard someone in the lane, I dunno. So they did a runner." "Taking the time to lock up after them." "That's it," he said. "There're three great padlocks on that door, and I've got the only keys." I said, "A Locked Shed Mystery. How rustic." "I thought you might be interested. You've had the training and everything. And seeing as how you might have a bit of time on your hands." "Have you had an ask-around the allotments?" I said. "Anybody else missing stuff?" "I haven't commenced any real inquiries," he said. "I thought I'd come and have a word first. Can you give us a hand?" "I'd like to, Eggy," I said. "No, let me put that another way. I wouldn't like to." "For old times' sake," he had the nerve to say. "Go on, Mr. Tattersby, it's only ten minutes away, you could have a quick look, tell me what you think. I've left everything as it was. For the forensics and that." For the forensics and that. God preserve us. * * * * So we went up to Eggy's allotment. Why, I still can't explain. Slice it where you will, it was a bit of a come-down to be helping a convicted criminal with his inquiries. But Eggy was the first person to walk into my house since Pauline had walked out four months before, and perhaps that needed celebrating. And it was a nice day for for a walk. Blue, blue sky with a northeasterly breeze. Nippy, but nice. We walked, since the DS is still in the garage and likely to be there for some time to come. The Citroen DS is the world's most comfortable car, but it has a hydraulic system as complicated as the French political system, to the point where you imagine that the one was modeled on the other. To get a part replaced takes a lot of patience and a second mortgage. So it's sitting in my garage and I'm on foot. Which is no bad thing on a bright morning. We walked up the lane bordered on one side by the allotments in question and on the other by a rise covered in thick brambles and alders and such. On the other side of that rise was the new council housing estate, where once there had been a great sloping pasture where sheep might safely graze. But no more. Ichabod, Ichabod, the glory has departed. "I used to come up there when I was a kid," I told Eggy, seeking merely to pass the time, "to try and catch rabbits. It was a regular Rabbit City over there." Eggy gave this the respect it deserved and we walked on in an atmosphere of companiable introspection. Then we were at his allotment. Eggy opened a rickety gate, and beckoned me in. The allotment was an allotment, there's nothing much else you could say about it. Thirty yards long by ten yards wide. Ten poles (or rods or perches if you like). Hard by the entrance was a shed, gleaming with newness, and beyond, in serried ranks, were the furrows containing cabbages, leeks, potatoes, turnips, and what have you. Eggy fished out a bunch of keys. I had a quick look before he started faffing, but there didn't appear to be any untoward scratches. They weren't much cop, his locks. "I could open these with a piece of damp string," I said. "It would take me a while, but I could." "Look," he said, ignoring this, "they even wheeled up a cart to take me tools away. You can see the tracks." He was right. I could see the tracks. There were two sets of them and they led right up to the very door. "Cheeky articles," Eggy said. "Funny sort of cart, though," I said. "You don't see many carts that leave tracks like that." "Point is," said Eggy, now on his third padlock, "they planned it like a military operation." He flung open the door. I don't know what I expected, but the inside of a shed was what there was inside, with a bench and a couple of chairs. It still smelled of new wood, and the floor planks creaked a little under our feet. Eggy hadn't, as another more conscientious shedbuilder might have done, laid a concrete foundation. He'd simply laid an aggregate bedding then spiked the foundation beams on that, laid his floor, and proceeded upwards. Not really the right way to go about building a shed. Not if you want it to last, that is. He was right about one thing, though -- it was a real bazaar in there. There were tools everywhere, lying higgledy-piggledy in piles on the floor. There were one or two still hanging in their places on the walls. "See what I mean?" said Eggy. "Look at that. See, there's no window. So they picked the locks, started sorting the tools out, and then scarpered." "But they had the time to lock up after them. Presumably using the same piece of damp string." "It's a real mystery, in't it?" "Well, no actually," I said. "At the mo, it's just a curiosity. The real mystery is what these crowbars are doing here. What particular gardening task needs crowbars? I thought you said you were going straight?" "I am!" He was very indignant at this; his little face got all creased and red. "Me uncle were a lorry driver -- " "When he wasn't falling off office buildings," I reminded him. "Don't speak ill of the dead, Mr. Tattersby. Me Uncle Ernie was much liked by all. A lot of these tools were his. I just hung 'em up. It's always the same with you lot." He was really nettled now. "Give a dog a bad name. It were the same pigging story down Priestley Road nick at the weekend." "What were you doing down at Priestley Road?" I asked. This was a slight deviation from the business in hand, but interesting. "That Crabtree pulled me in at five o'clock Sunday morning, kept me there all day and all night. When I should have been putting me shed up." "And what did D.S. Crabtree want with you?" "I dunno. Something about a post office job. It was all a load of bollocks. But he turned over the flat, went round and bothered me mum and everything." "Sadly, it often is a load of bollocks," I said. "Come on, I've seen enough." While Eggy was locking up, I had a look at the geography. I always like to have a look at the geography when I'm on a crime scene, if you could call this a crime scene. There's always a reason for something happening in a particular place as opposed to any other. On one side we had the lane. On the other side there were the allotments and then the gardens belonging to those old Victorian houses in Emersley Road. There was an old Victorian householder looking over his wall at us. I nudged Eggy and indicated the watcher. Eggy strolled off down the thirty yards or so to the end of the allotment. The little man watched us come without moving. "Now then, Mr. Mosscrop," Eggy said. The little man nodded. "Now, Cyril," he said, "how you doing? Sorry to hear about your Uncle Ernie. He was all right, was your uncle." I must have known once upon a time that Eggy's real name was Cyril, but I'd forgotten it, or more probably suppressed it. "Thank you, Mr. Mosscrop," Eggy said. "This is my friend, Mr. Tattersby." The small man nodded amiably at me as well. "How do," he said. "He's having a look at my shed," said Eggy. "Someone's been mucking about in there." "Oh aye? That'll likely be kids, will that." "You haven't heard anything going on, have you?" "Oh there's always something going on," he said. "That lane's known for it. And there was a right to-do last Sunday night. Shouting and scuffling and carrying on. Some of us came out to have a look, but it was too dark to make anything out. They quietened down, anyway." "What time was that?" I asked. The question habit dies hard. "Midnight near enough." But that, it turned out, was the sum total of Mr. Mosscrop's knowledge. After some traditional exchanges on the weather, followed by expressions of mutual esteem, we left him. "What d'you think?" Eggy said. "Well, it's hardly the Great Train Robbery, is it?" "No, but something's going on. Somebody's after me tools." I sighed. "I'll ask around, but it's hardly worth it. It's probably kids. Although..." "What?" "Has it occurred to you, Eggy, that you might have bought a haunted shed?" "I what?" "Oh, it's rare, I'll give you that. But it could be a mischievous spirit that doesn't like tools. Or you." "Oh. Well, thanks a bunch for that," he said. "I didn't have enough worries." I left Eggy to plow his lonely furrow. Not that I believed in the existence of an evil shed-dwelling, tool-throwing spirit, but it pays to keep people on their toes. I walked back home and bought some fish and chips on the way. While I was eating my frugal repast straight out of the paper on my knees, the phone rang. Sod's Law, Subsection One: When Thou Hast A Mouthful Of Haddock, Then Shall Some Bugger Decide To Call Thee. Linda, my daughter and personal Steering Committee, said, without preamble, "Can you please turn that music down? I can hardly hear myself think." Linda is very keen on thinking, because her husband, Gordon, is an industrial psychologist, if you please. They live over in Manchester. Well, somebody has to, I suppose. I turned the music down. I was playing an old record of my father's, Peter Dawson singing Songs of the Fleet. I used to love those songs when I was a kid. They made me think of blue water and battlesmoke and buried treasure. Still do, funny enough. "Why is it so echo-ey?" she said. "It's echo-ey because I'm in an empty echo-ey room, thanks to your mother." "Oh, I see," she said, "you're listening to your manky old records and reading your old crime novels." "There's nothing wrong with crime novels. You can learn a lot from crime novels." "Yes, you can. I bet Phillip Spade or Sam Marlowe didn't lounge about feeling sorry for themselves. They got out and solved stuff." "First," I said, "it's the other way round; secondly, I'm not feeling sorry for myself; and thirdly, I'm not doing a lot of lounging just at the moment because your mother took the sofa." "You are feeling sorry for yourself. You've shaved your mustache off for a start. I can tell from your voice." How does she do that? "You always shave it off when you're being a martyr. And now you're blaming it all on Mum." "No I'm not. It was my fault for telling her to take whatever she wanted, which turned out to be pretty much everything except the wallpaper which she'd never really fancied. How is the old bat anyway?" "I've warned you about this, Dad," she said. "I'm not getting into a three-way slanging match with you and Mum. She's all right, as it happens. She and Auntie Maureen have found a house they like, and they're moving in, in a month, I think." "That Maureen," I said, "is certifiably loopy. Can you imagine what that household's going to be like?" "I don't bother imagining," she said, "and neither should you. You've got too much time on your hands, that's your problem. You've never been an easy man, Dad. And then when you got chucked out of the police -- " "Retired." "All right then, when you retired, you were bloody impossible. After twenty-three years of you never being there, wandering in at all hours, suddenly she had you on her hands twenty-four seven. She realized she didn't like you enough to put up with you lurking round the house, looking out the windows, obsessing on about Tommy Backhouse and the great conspiracy." "So it was all paranoid delusions was it, is that what you're saying?" "Dad, face it, you've always been paranoid." "Nothing wrong with paranoia," I said. "'The man who is not paranoid is a man who is not in possession of all the facts.' Gore Vidal." "Stuff Gore Vidal," she said. "He doesn't live up your way, unless something's going on I haven't heard about. You should get out and do something. Go and buy some furniture." "Linda," I said, "after the vast personal loan I had to take out to buy your mother's share of the house off her, and after the whack she gets out of my pension, I don't have any money to go throwing around on furniture. Anyway, I've got a chair." That much was true. I also had a bed and a kettle. More than that no man needs. I told her so. "Pure self pity, is that. Well, it's got to stop. It's seven months since you got -- since you left the police, and it's four months since Mum left, and that's enough. You've got to get off your bum and take charge again." Here it came. My regular dose of psychotherapy. "All your life you've been in charge of things. And suddenly people were doing things to you, chucking you out of the police force, divorcing you. You've got to get back on top, take charge again, of something. Anything. No matter how piddling and inconsequential it is." "As a matter of fact," I said, "somebody did ask me to to look into something like that only this morning. Very piddling and extremely inconsequential." "Well, do it. Get out and do it. And Dad -- " "What is it," I sighed, reflecting that you can be an ex-copper, an ex-husband, but never an ex-father. "I love you, even if you are a grumpy, paranoid ex-copper." Yes. Well, maybe being an ex-father wouldn't be all that wonderful anyway. I love my daughter dearly, but like all women, she has a knack of bringing up exactly the subject you didn't want brought up. I'd been trying, unsuccessfully, not to think about Tommy Backhouse for seven months. I'd just about got it cracked and there you are. With one careless remark, Linda sent me hurtling back a year and a half. To a time when there was more furniture in this room. A sofa, for example. * * * * Tommy is sitting on the sofa, looking into the fire, looking very relaxed and expansive. I'm fixing us a drink. Scotch for me, brandy and soda for him. Expensive tastes, our Tommy has, and always had. He's a big man, large face, plenty of teeth that have never felt the dentist's drill. He's wearing a suit that couldn't have been built outside of London and shoes to match. He grins at me when I give him his glass. "Pauline not in tonight, then?" he says. "Come on, Tommy," I say. "Tonight's her origami class. But you knew that already, or you wouldn't be here." "Don't be so bloody sensitive, Harry," he says. The way he says bloody is still a little weird. He has the same accent as most of us, but from time to time there's just a little hiccup, a tiny mispronunciation or an odd emphasis that tells you he's not from round here. "Cheers," he says and lifts his glass to me. "Here's to you, Harry. To your continued success." "You talking about me?" I say. "Seriously, Harry, you've done very well." "D.I. at the age of forty-four is hardly meteoric, Tommy." "And you know why, Harry. You're a founder member of the awkward squad. You just won't fit in. You never were a joiner. I can remember you in the playground at Skeffington Road." I can remember him too, and I can remember refusing to be in his gang. That cost me a beating-up. "The eternal rebel, Harry. And the pity of it is it doesn't have to be like that. You don't have to stay a D.I. for the rest of your days." "All it needs is a little helping hand, is it?" "A little help goes a long way. Remember me? A little snot-nosed refugee who could hardly speak English, and now look." "I am," I say, "one of the most important men in town, perhaps the most important, what do I know? Big comfortable house, nice wife, nice big plant-hire company, nice comfy seat on the council, and lots of nice powerful friends." "All right, I have a lot of friends -- what's wrong with that? You could be one of them." "I like to choose my friends, Tommy." "Don't be so bloody minded, Harry. Yes, I've got a long arm, and there could be a helping hand at the end of it." "I sense an 'if' there, Tommy. If what?" He's silent for a moment, staring into the fire and shaking his head slightly. "Why are you asking questions, Harry? Why do I keep hearing that people have been taken aside and quietly interrogated?" "In case you hadn't noticed, Tommy, I'm a police officer. I have the right to ask questions. It's what I do." "Not about me, Harry. You don't ask questions. Not about me, you don't." He's perfectly serious. I'm getting angry now, but keeping it under control. "Listen to me, Tommy. I've got no time for people who feed from the public trough and then decide it isn't enough. If I hear about someone in the Town Planning Department who hasn't got two pennies to rub together but who's taking very expensive holidays, I think people have a right to know who paid and what particular favor he was paying for. And when I hear about a member of the Public Works Committee whose own company has just gone into liquidation, and yet who's now driving a new Jag, I think someone's got the right to ask who's in the back seat of the Jag. The answer in both cases is Tommy Backhouse." "This is just gossip and hearsay, Harry, and you know it. Where's the proof of all this?" "Oh," I say, "you can get proof of anything if you want it enough. All it needs is for one of your little friends to put his hands up and the rest will go down like a row of dominoes." "All this is academic, Harry," he says. "No one would ever believe you. Not after everything I've done for this town. The shopping center, the business park, the bypass, all the projects I've forced through despite that bunch of deadheads in Town Hall. It's results that count. And the people of this town can see the results of what I do for them." "It's what they don't see that interests me," I say. "Like construction company A moving their equipment onto a site before the contract's even been awarded. And when the contract is dished out, guess who's got it? Why, Company A. And guess who's the chairman of the committee that examined the sealed bids? Surprise, surprise, it's Councillor Tommy Backhouse. And what people also don't see is the large present that Councillor Backhouse got for his pains." "That's the way things get done, Harry," he says. "Why don't you grow up and come into the real world?" "This is my world, Tommy. And I don't want people in it who take bribes. People who think they're above it all. And that's you, Tommy. You always thought you were special." "Bloody right, I'm special." He isn't shouting, but he doesn't have to. "I'm one of the people who make this town work, by the way. I get things done around here. You think things would get done if it was up to that crowd of old women? Damn right I'm special. At least compared to anyone else you can name in this godforsaken dump. And you don't go asking questions about me, Harry." "Or what?" I say. * * * * Bloody silly question really, because he showed me or what. It took him a year or so, but he showed me. I'd been replaying that little scene in my head for six, seven months, wondering what I could have done that would have stopped everything. And now thanks to Linda, I was going over it again. And Linda was right. It had to stop. And perhaps this thing of Eggy's, stupid as it was, would take my mind off, get me out of the house. So all right. Piddling and inconsequential it was to be. My dad always said if you were after the monumentally trivial, go to the barber's. There's nothing like the tonsorial earhole for picking up useful info. Better than a barman sometimes. So I finished off the last few cold chips, put on my coat, and went to see Walter Webster. Known as Worldwide Webster on account of the quality of his information gathering. "Well, well, look what the cat's dragged in," Walt said. "You're just in time. Tea's brewed. Pour us a cup." "Now then, Walt," I said. I took off my overcoat -- it's always too hot in a barber's shop, ever noticed that? Walt went on clipping as I poured said tea. When the Swamp Creature in the chair had paid his quid and lurched out, Walt sat down heavily next to me and took a deep swig of his tea. "By, that's good," he said. "I don't know what it is about those Attercliffes, but they make my mouth go dry. Makes you despair of humanity." "Well," I said, "if they will go fishing around in the shallow end of the gene pool, that's likely what they're going to pull out." We considered this in silence for a moment. "What you after then, Harry? It's not a haircut, that I do know. And I see you've got rid of that mustache again." "It was taking up too much room," I said. "I've got better things to do with my upper lip." "Comes and goes as it pleases, that mustache. Treats your face like a hotel, you ask me." I settled down into my investigative mode. "What I really wanted was to ask if you've heard anything about kids nicking tools or anyone buying them." "Tools? Well, there's always them willing to buy nicked anything, you know that. But tools? No, can't say I've heard anything. Tools is a bit small time for round here. Though there was that thing at George Holroyd's garage." "What thing?" "Someone had it away with his breakdown truck. That had tools in it, trolley jacks, God knows what else. Though they did find it next day down on the estate." "Breakdown trucks? No, that's not really what I'm after." "I did hear about something that has gone missing," he said, eying me mischievously. I waited. So did Walt. I waited a bit more. But Walt has the metabolic rate of a digesting cobra when he's being naughty. "All right," I said, "go on then. What's the network got to say?" "Well," he said, "according to Corinne -- " He saw my eyes glaze. "Corinne's my niece who does contract cleaning work at the Town Hall." "Right," I said. "And what what's gone missing according to Corinne?" "An old friend of ours, what we've known since Skeffington Road Mixed Infants," he said. "Bloody who, Walt?" Walt can really drive you mad when he sets his mind to it. "Only Councillor Tommy Backhouse." He watched my face. "I thought that'd tickle you." "I am duly tickled. When you say 'gone missing,'" I said, "what does that mean exactly?" "Just that. Gone missing. Done a runner, some say. Them that's talking anyway. He hasn't been in his office for five days. Nobody knows nuffink. Last seen at the obsequies of Ernest Jones, deceased." This was interesting. "He was at Ernie Jones's leaving do, was he?" "Well, seeing as he was part of the family. Did you know Ernie?" "Only by reputation. But it turns out I know one of his relatives. And Tommy was related as well, was he?" "Not legally," Walt said. "When his mum died back in the sixties, it was Winnie Jones who sort of adopted him, 'cos his father couldn't cope. Gave him his tea, washed his clothes for him. He was round there all the time. Him and Ernie was really close." Tommy Backhouse. Fancy that. And he'd gone missing. Well, that was good news for a lot of people, I would have thought. I said so. Walt grinned. "Not for hizzoner the mayor it isn't, nor for all them that was in tight with Tommy. They're keeping it quiet but there's a lot of nervy people round Town Hall. The words that come to mind are 'headless' and 'chickens.' They've been ringing round the hospitals just in case, 'cos he's already had a couple of heart attacks, did you know that?" "Yes," I said. "And I all but gave him another one, once upon a time." "Corinne says it has all the hallmarks of a real scandal." "Well," I said, "that's all very interesting, my old Walt." "Interesting is all I ever hope to be, Harry," he said. "But it doesn't help me with my tool problem," I said. "I'm off." And I was. Down Emersley Road, thinking all the way. It's a nice road, Emersley Road. It runs from the center of town all the way, well, to Emersley -- where else? -- and from there you can see right across the town to the other side of the valley where the posh folks live in the big houses that were built with the money from the mills when there were mills and money to be made from them. And far beyond are the tan and purple moors in the blue distance. Clouds were drifting across the sun and every time they did, shadows would move slowly across the moors and make the tan and purple go even darker. Like dark thoughts drifting across your mind. Thanks, Walt. * * * * Skeffington Road Mixed Infants School; 1968, it would have been. And I can remember the day Tommy Backhouse arrived. Nine years old, and a real Mixed Infant, sharp eyed and big for his age, whose parents had made it out of Czechoslovakia just in time before the crackdown. I can't remember what his name was then, but it wasn't Tommy and it wasn't Backhouse. That came after his parents naturalized. You might say he ran away from one reign of terror to set up his own. He might not have had much idea of English, but he had a very good idea about what he wanted, and that was to run the playground at Skeffington Road. He had to fight a lot of types bigger than him, and take a lot of lumps to get there, but he did. And when we all grew up, went to grammar school or secondary modern, and found our way into our more or less dead-end jobs, we suddenly turned round and found to our amazement that we'd changed, but Tommy hadn't. He was still there with his dazzling smile and his sharp eyes. Only now the whole town was his playground. He had an unerring instinct for finding his way into things and taking over. Almost overnight it seemed, he had his own plant-hire company. Nobody ever found out how he'd managed that. And he was equally suddenly on the town council. He was little Tommy Backhouse all grown up and ready to play with the big boys. He was on all the committees -- all the ones that counted, anyway. He was a joiner, was Tommy. In everywhere. Tennis, golf, Masons, anywhere he could meet people who might be useful to him. He had a gift for knowing who to cultivate and who to ignore, who to pal up with and who to bully. Some of the people he palled up with weren't the sort of people you'd invite home. Like Charlie Marsden. When Tommy decided that he needed someone to run the plant-hire business because of the crushing burden of his civic functions, he took on Charlie as his partner. Not the sort you'd want to meet late at night up a dark alley. Or in an underground carpark. But I did. Because six months after that night when he'd given me that first gentle warning in my sitting room, he gives me the second. And this time, he has Charlie with him. Charlie who looks like the result of a terrible blunder at Biotech. I am vaguely unlocking the car -- vaguely, because I've had a few drinks with Frank Middlemass in the Sheep and Three Magnets, so I'm not one hundred percent -- when I hear the footsteps behind me. "Hello, Harry," he says. I turn round and there's Tommy, big and shiny as usual, and next to him is the Mud-Man, six foot three with long, tangled, greasy black hair and a long, greasy black leather coat. Two stretches for GBH, one for armed robbery, and more to come, if I'm any judge. "Oh, it's you," I say. Sharp as a knife, I am. I frighten myself sometimes. "Bit jumpy are we?" Tommy says. "Sorry if I startled you. You know Charlie, do you? My partner." "Yes, I know Charlie," I say. Tommy is circling round me, looking at the DS. He pokes at a tire delicately with the toe of his gleaming shoe. "Nice car, Harry," he says. "Class. Old, but class." "It does me," I say. "We don't all need BMs. Business good in the plant-hire business, is it then? Lots of work from all those blokes who seem to be getting all those public works contracts these days. You've got it down to a fine art, haven't you, Tommy? You hand out the contracts to your mates for a nice back-hander, then you get the plant-hire work on top. Talk about two bites at the cherry." The scotch is talking and I can't shut it up. "There you go again," he says. "I'm afraid it's yellow card time, Harry. I've done my best with you, but you just don't listen. Still poking around in what doesn't concern you." "I've told you," I say, "I'll poke around in whatever I like." "Problem is -- " Charlie Marsden suddenly says. "Ah, it speaks," I say. "Problem is," he says again, "Tommy's too good hearted." He's smiling, or what amounts to it because that large, ugly face isn't made for smiling. Those teeth are made for biting. "I've spotted that," I say. "He's noted for it." He nods. "Everyone keeps telling him, but he can't stop it. That's the way he is. But there are other people involved. Like me. And I'm not good hearted." Tommy says, "Charlie's far too hard on himself, by the way. But what he is trying to tell you in his stumbling boyish way, Harry, is that you really have to stop. And if you don't you'll have to be stopped." I say, "You wouldn't be threatening me, by any chance, Tommy? I mean, you wouldn't be that daft, would you?" "It's not a question of threats, Harry." He's smoothing down his jacket now, just finished a really successful meeting. "I'm just telling you it'll be out of my hands soon, that's all. You think you know things about me. Well, we can all keep files on people. So, be sensible." "Be sensible," says Charlie, "or be run over." And then they're walking away, and I can stop working out how quickly, if it comes to it, I can to get to the jack-handle I always keep on the floor of the car, which was the only thing I could have used. And I can stop sweating too. But I don't for quite a while. * * * * Six months later I was an ex-copper. And seven months after that, I was here, investigating the non-theft of some tools from a shed owned by a small-time tea-leaf. Well, as my dad always said, if you're having dark thoughts, take some alcohol and have a bit of a think. I was, so I walked all the way into town, partly to combat haddock and chips deep fried in pure cholesterol, but also to have a drink at the Sheep and Three Magnets. It was mid afternoon, so the place was full. There was a small desultory fight going on in one corner, quite properly being ignored by everybody. Clive the barman said, "Mr. Tattersby. Long time no drinkies. Your usual, will it be?" "Yes, please, Clive, a scotch, of the large persuasion." I had a look round. The Sheep is a large, grim place, and it's a grimy place, with a high ceiling, nicotine stained beyond redemption. It has a bare wooden floor and some cursory tables and chairs and a couple of wooden booths over there in the gloom. This is a place for drinking, and that's all. And it's not a place to bring your mother, unless your mother happens to be a six-foot fifteen-stone copper, or a wrongdoer. Or both, which happens more than you might think. Clive said at my elbow, "Here's yours, Mr. Tattersby." And another voice behind me said, "That's on me, Clive." "Inspector Middlemass is paying, Mr. Tattersby." I said, "So I noticed, Clive, and it's not before time." I turned and there was Frank, grinning at me. He raised his glass at me, and I picked up mine. "I looks towards yer -- " I said. " -- and I catches yer eye," Frank finished. We took a restorative sip and a moment to weigh each other up. Frank's as big as me, and he's got a sharp, wolfish face and olivey skin. We were in the same intake when we joined in 1979, got transferred to C.I.D. on the same day, and we've been friends since infant school. We've done some stuff together, Frank and me, seen some things. He said, "How's it going, Harry? I see you've shaved off the mustache again." I said, "Blackfly got into it. I had to cut it right back." He nodded. "I heard about Pauline and all that." "She's setting up house with her sister." "Maureen?" he said, rolling his eyes. People who have met my wife's sister tend to roll their eyes a lot when her name comes up. "It's been a while, Harry. How come you haven't been round? If I was at all sensitive I'd think you'd forgotten that we've known each other a long time." "All right," I said, "before you start going on about your Hornby and your Barlow long ago, tell me something. You heard anything about people interested in knocked-off tools?" "Tools? No, it's more your DVDs and portable phones and computers these days. Why tools? You got some gone missing?" "No, they haven't gone missing. And there's the mystery." "You going private on us, then? Down these mean streets and all that?" "No," I said, "just doing a favor for a friend." "Here. Speaking of friends," he said, leaning closer to me, "there's a friend of ours that has gone missing." "I heard about that," I said. "So it's common knowledge, is it?" "No one's been in touch officially," he said, "but we've had a quiet headsup. Very quiet." "They're sitting on it then." "For the moment. Oh, it's strange, but then we're used to strange with Mr. Backhouse, aren't we? He'll turn up," said Frank. "At least Charlie Marsden's hoping to hell he will. You haven't heard about the break-in at his plant-hire yard? No? You'll love this, Harry. He had four JCBs nicked. Three months ago." "Four JCBs?" "Count 'em. Earthmovers. Brand-new. Just been delivered and still in the wrapping paper. Somebody very cute rolled up with a couple of low loaders, doped the dogs, got round the alarms, and had it away with them, cool as you like. Nobody saw a thing. Including two security guards who checked the gates at two in the morning. If you can believe them." "So what do you reckon?" I asked. Frank was right. This was lovely stuff. Prime Backhouse. "Well, between you and me and this empty glass -- " I signalled to Clive. " -- thank you, Harry, very civil -- I think it's your classic insurance con. Look, he'd just bought them, massive credit, insured them up to here. What do you think?" I thought that earthmovers aren't something you sell off a stall in the market. "Come on," said Frank, "he'd sold them on before they were even delivered. Look where we are, Harry. Right on the motorway. Take your pick, Hull, Liverpool. I reckon six hours after they were nicked they were in the hold of some East European rustbucket. By now, I'd lay odds they're digging the foundations of a shopping center in Spotz or Klutz or one of those Scrabble places." I thought about it. "He'd get a nice price for them, and in cash. And he's got the contacts." "Lots of family still over there," Frank said. "The East European chapter of his Supporters' Club. And it's wide open over there, so I hear. Worse than Russia." "And now he's gone walkabout." Frank smiled. "Tell you what really warms the cockles of my little heart. I hear the insurance people are being really difficult. They've smelled something and they're not daft. So Tommy and Charlie are still dickering over the insurance money, still paying for the JCBs, presumably out of their ill-gotten gains. On top of that they've had a couple of big contracts cancelled, and that's just in the last few weeks." "So things aren't too rosy at Backhouse and Marsden." "What's even nicer is that Charlie Marsden's sweating cobs. He's in debt up to his eyeballs." "Well, he's a big spender, Charlie. Likes his cards and the gee-gees." "Not just that. When Charlie bought into the company, he bought in with borrowed cash. He owes mucho dinero to some very heavy people, and I hear they're making heavy noises." This was all music to my ears. "But why would he do it, Frank?" "'Cos he's bent, Harry, always was and always will be. You know that. You had a whole bloody file on him." "And look where it got me." "That's because you went it alone. You should have got it made official. I'd have backed you." "He's got too many friends, Frank, and that's always been the trouble." Frank stared gloomily into his glass. Back then, when I forgot how long Tommy Backhouse's arm really was and how many friends he had, and when things started really going wrong for me, Frank was the one, and I mean the one, who backed me up. When my witnesses didn't turn up in court, or when the paperwork went missing, or when it turned out that information received wasn't quite as kosher as I'd been led to believe, or when thirty grams of coke vanished into thin air from a locked evidence cupboard. When all of those things were happening and the brass and the CPS were on my back, Frank was the one who talked up for me. And when I did the final silly thing, Frank was the one who called in all his markers and by a mixture of persuasion and blackmail and threats helped to get me the deal I got. "You ever have those days when the same names keep cropping up again and again?" I said. "All the time," Frank said. "It's called synchronicity." "Synchron City," I said. "That's a good name for this place." Because I had just seen, across in the public bar, a face I knew. I nudged Frank and nodded in the direction of the public. "Talk of the devil," he said. "Charlie Marsden with a face like a pan of lard." "I think I'll go over and poke a bit of fun," I said. "Have the other half before you do," Frank said. "You'll need something in your stomach." I pushed my way through the throng in the public to where Charlie Marsden was leaning against the bar with a pint in front of him. He didn't seem crowded. People usually gave Charlie a bit of space. I said, "Hello, Charlie." Charlie looked at me in the mirror behind the bar. Then he turned. "The hell you want?" "Just passing through. Thought I'd say hello." "Well keep on passing, Tattersby. I got better things to do than chew the fat with washed-up ex-coppers." Dear oh dear, this would never do. "It's Mr. Tattersby to you, Charlie, and it always will be. You're not looking too chipper these days." "What the hell's it got to do with you?" "I see your gift for crackling dialogue hasn't deserted you. Although your partner seemingly has. We look in vain around the public bar, but Backhouse is there none." "He goes where he likes. I'm not his bloody nursemaid." "I heard that business isn't too good at the mo." He turned back to the bar and picked up his glass. "I don't give a monkey's what you've heard. Now piss off." "Tell what I did hear today, Charlie," I said. "All right, what?" "The sound of lots and lots of chickens coming home to roost." Not brilliant, but it would do. And with that, I left him. You take your little pleasures where you can find them, and there's no pleasure sharper than having the last word with a bad man. I gave Frank a wave across the bar and went home on the bus. I noticed that they'd pulled down yet another Victorian stone building and yet another concrete block had gone up in its place. This creeping concrete alopecia started with the demolition of the Wool Exchange when there stopped being enough wool to exchange. Then the Albert Arcade went, with its wrought-iron balconies and mosaic floors. They found that nobody objected and now nothing was safe. Anyone wondering why there was so much concrete had to remember, among other things, that Tommy Backhouse's father-in-law owned a cement works and not a Portland stone quarry. That evening, while I was assembling a mixed grill to add another fur coat to my artery linings, and drinking a stiff scotch just to make sure, I reflected that in the past twelve hours, I had seen more people than I'd seen in the past month. You can get out of touch very quickly if you don't watch out. You can miss things. This stuff about Tommy Backhouse's JCBs, for instance. Flogging stuff you've bought on credit is a risky old business. You've got to need cash a lot to do that. Interesting. I turned my mixed grill onto a plate, congratulating myself for having eaten my fish and chips out of the paper and avoiding some washing up. It's called Home Economics. Afterwards, it appeared I could watch any one of six reality TV programs. Or alternatively, and just as good, I could stab myself in the eyes with a kitchen knife. I settled for rereading The Long Goodbye. I do like a detective who wears a hat. * * * * The next morning, I was shaving when the doorbell rang. Sod's Law, Subsection Two: When Thou Shalt Have A Faceful Of Shaving Foam, Then Shall The Doorbell Ring. I debated letting them ring and get fed up and go away, but then I relented. It was Eggy, with a) the look of one who knows a fearful fiend doth close behind him tread, and b) a small brown paper bag. I said, "This is becoming a habit, Eggy. What's in the bag?" "Some cake," he said. "Do you like cake?" "You think you're going to be here long enough to have a snack, do you?" I said. "Well, you're optimistic, I'll give you that." "Something very serious has occurred," he said. "Perhaps we could have a cuppa while I tell you. I need the sugar." "This is not a canteen," I reminded him. "Come on, out with it. What's happened?" "Somebody's only tried to kill me, that's all." "Explain. Being as brief as possible." "It was up at the shed. I went up there last night to keep a really good eye on it. From the inside. Catch them at it sort of thing. I must have dozed off around midnight. And then something woke me up. A sort of sloshing, like someone splashing water." "Some cheeky bugger taking a leak against the shed." "No," he said. "There was this really awful smell of petrol. I got bloody scared, I can tell you. I made a bit of a racket getting up, and by the time I got out, he'd legged it away up the lane. I could hear him running." "Just one of them?" "I think so. But he'd left his jerrican. He'd given the walls and the roof a right soaking. I'd have been a goner if that lot had gone up. A human torch." "Interesting," I said. "I think we ought to go up and have another look at this shed of yours. It does seem to be attracting a lot of attention." "Well, can we have a cuppa before we go? I've had a nasty shock, you know." I sighed. "What kind of cake is that?" I asked. * * * * Tell you what though, Norwegian spruce is sturdy stuff. Eggy was exhausted by the time he'd pulled up three of the floorboards. But as I told him: if he'd used the screws provided with the hut, instead of simply toshing it together with four-inch nails, we wouldn't have had half the trouble. He was standing in the six-inch-deep hole he had made in the earth under the hut. He said, "What's this 'we' business? Far as I can see, it's me doing the grafting while you sit around." "It's called supervisory overlooking," I told him. "Besides, it's your shed, and there's only one spade. Anyway, you're through the aggregate now, it's soil from now on." "Just look at this place," he said, lifting out another spadeful. "It's worse than my uncle's." With the door closed, there was nowhere to put the pebbles and earth except on the remaining floor. "Speaking of which," I said, "or of whom. You never told me that Tommy Backhouse was your cousin." "As far as I can remember the subject never came up," he said sulkily and breathlessly, "and anyway he wasn't my real cousin. It was just when his mum died, it was my Auntie Winnie who looked after him a lot. Uncle Ernie really took to him. They was always very close. When he started doing well, he'd always be helping them out with a few quid here and there. He was brilliant when me uncle died. Couldn't do enough. Made all the arrangements. He was round the house all the time, helping me Auntie Winnie clear out stuff and that. What are we looking for anyway?" he asked irritably. "Something that somebody wants to get at." "The somebody who broke in, and then set fire to me?" "He didn't break in, Eggy," I said. "You saw me tools." "He wasn't after your tools. It was those wheel tracks that made me think. Ever seen a cart that makes tracks like that? No, nor me." "Well, what was it then?" "Trolley jacks. He wasn't breaking into the shed, he was trying to move it. Trouble was, with your gravel foundation, the jacks just sank in. All he managed to do was shake it about a bit and all your tools ended up on the deck." "Why move it?" "Don't know. Yet. But when he found he couldn't move it, he went away to have a think. The only thing he could come up with was to burn it down, get rid of it completely." "With me inside it. That's attempted murder, that is." "He didn't know you were here. I should think you gave him the fright of his life." "Well, that's something," he said, and his spade gave out a different sound. "Ay, ay, what's this?" "I heard," I said, "let's have a butcher's. Scrape a bit more away. Carefully, now." Eggy scraped away with his spade and then bent down. "Ey. It's a shoe." And it was. An expensive-looking shoe at that. Eggy scraped away more of the soil from around the shoe. And then there was the beginnings of a trouser leg. Eggy stared into his hole. Then he moved, surprisingly quickly for a person of his shape. "Bloody hell," he said. "I'm getting out of here." "That's right," I said, "you get out of here. You got a mobile phone?" "Lots," he said. "No, I mean one that you've actually paid for," I said, then I stopped. "Never mind. Go and find a phone. Ring C.I.D. central and ask for Inspector Middlemass, if he's around. Give him my compliments and tell him we've found something interesting. You can say very interesting if you like -- I'm easy." "And what you going to do?" "I'm going to sit here, calm as anything, and have a think." He went. There was the sound of his departing footsteps, and there was silence. I looked down into the hole, at the shoe and the trouser leg. "Well, Tommy," I said, "and how's tricks?" There was no answer. I was supposing it was Tommy. I didn't know anyone else round here who had his shoes made by Lobb of London and his suits crafted by Huntsman. Dear, dear, what shall it profit a man? It all comes down to the same thing in the end. A recumbent posture in a muddy hole. "It's funny," I said, to keep the conversation moving along, "you should be lying here like that, 'cos that's what you were doing the very last time I saw you." * * * * I don't know the name of Tommy's secretary, and I don't bother to stop to find out. All I hear of her is an outraged squawk as I go past her desk straight to the door of Tommy's office. When I open the door, Tommy is at his desk in shirtsleeves reading a file. He looks up at me as I move into the room, looks down again at the file, makes a careful note, and then puts the file down. "Harry," he says, "nice to see you. Have a seat." Tommy's office is like him: large and expansive. It must be the best-furnished office in Town Hall. His desk is huge, made of honey-colored wood with a deep patina. It must have cost a fortune. There's a drinks cabinet and a bookcase flanking his desk, and on the wall behind him, there are twenty or thirty photographs of Tommy at openings, topping out ceremonies, civic functions; of him shoulder to shoulder with visiting celebs, ministers, and assorted politicos. There's even one of him shaking hands with the Queen, who's looking exactly as though she'd just found a dead rat in her handbag. Tommy says, "Harry, you're not looking too chipper, by the way. A bit the worse for wear. Things not going too well, I hear." I move to the desk. "Two things, Tommy," I say, and to my annoyance there's a shake in my voice. "And what are those, Harry?" He's got this little smile on his face. "First, I don't care what you get up to with me, you stay away from my wife and my family." He looks puzzled and pained at the same time. "Your wife -- " His face clears. "Oh, that. Come on Harry, if I can't give the wife of a friend a lift home from the supermarket, when she's loaded down with shopping, what's the world coming to? We had a nice little chat, actually. She seemed a bit worried about you. Having a few problems, apparently." "So, you gave her a lift home. And how come every time she looked out of the window that afternoon she saw Charlie Marsden sitting in his car outside?" He shrugs. "I can't answer for Charlie, Harry. He does what seems right to him." "You want to send me a message, Tommy, you do it to my face. And you lay off my family." "Harry, I'm sorry but I'm a bit busy this morning. You said there were two things. What was the second thing?" "This," I say, and I step round the desk, haul him out of his chair by a fistful of shirtfront, and hit him very, very hard. He goes sprawling away across the chair and ends up slumped against the wall, with a satisfying amount of blood coming from his mouth, looking at me with eyes that won't focus. And that's it for me, apart from a rowdy interview with the assistant commissioner and assorted brass, during which he tells me exactly what he thinks of me, informs me that I'm lucky not to be facing a manslaughter charge, seeing that Councillor Backhouse is known to have heart problems, that I could easily have killed him. And then he tells me the deal. I go, and above all, quietly. If I do, I get a pension for my twenty-five years in, there's no disciplinary hearing, no Internal Affairs, no criminal charge, nothing. They're making a lot of exceptions for me, and I know why. They don't want any muddy water being stirred because they don't know who might get splashed. So, I go. * * * * Now seven months later here we were again, Tommy and me. The old firm. "And what was it all about, Tommy?" I asked the shoe. "Here I am and there you are, and what on earth was the point of it all?" Tommy didn't answer. Probably because he didn't know. Well, neither did I. * * * * There's one thing that never changes every time you see it, and let's hope you don't see it often, and that's a crime scene with a body. There's something very purposeful and intent about it, but underlying that there's also a sadness. One of ours has left the world and we want to know how and why. People tend to move around only when they have to or when they're told to. Eggy and I didn't have to move and we hadn't been told to, so we stayed right where we were, next to a watchful uniformed type. We hadn't, however, been told not to talk. Eggy said, "I don't see why they had to take down the whole bloody shed. It's just a pile of lumber, look at it. Very disheartening, that is." I said, very quietly, "Listen, I don't think there's any need to worry these nice men with flying tools and arson attacks, it'll only fluster them. Keep it simple. We were working on your shed, that's all. They'll like that." "Right you are," he said. "So what do we do now, then?" "We stand here until somebody in authority decides to talk to us. And here he is." And there he was indeed, emerging from the blue tarpaulin. "Jovial Inspector Middlemass. All right then, Frank?" Frank was in no mood for banter. "Don't give me that sunny smile. This is no laughing matter." I said, "Is it who I think it is?" "If you thought it was Tommy Backhouse, you wouldn't be far out," he said. I turned to Eggy. "See," I said, "I recognized those shoes a mile off. Always well turned out was our Tommy." "Shut up, Harry," Frank said. "I'm still not clear about your part in all this." "Interested observer, that's all," I said. Then, just to push my luck a bit, because you never know where it might lead you, I said, "Anything on the cause of death?" Frank went still. He appeared to be conducting a silent conversation with himself. I knew that neither half of the conversation was in my favor. "You're a civilian, Harry. You know I can't go divulging stuff like that." "I know that strictly speaking this is no longer within my remit, bailiwick, or purview, Frank, but -- " Frank sighed. "Yeah, all right. Preliminary, very preliminary, examination says it was a heart attack." That was interesting and I said so. "And does this very preliminary examination say anything about the time of death?" "Can't be positive. Not yet." "I know that, Frank. But you've got an idea. What does Pettifer say?" "Doctor Pettifer gives it as his preliminary opinion that death occurred late sometime at the weekend. Sunday night thereabouts. Probably. We'll know better after the P.M." "Which will be quick." "The quickest in living memory. I've already got them all on my back, screaming and shouting, wanting answers." I bet. A uniformed constable walked up to tell Frank that SOCO said the body could be moved. Frank said, "Right, I'm coming." Eggy chose that moment to pipe up. "So what happens now, like?" Frank turned on him, glad to have something definite in this mish-mash. "What happens now, Mr. Edgworth, is that you come down to the station. You've got quite a bit of explaining to do." Eggy sort of melted into himself. I took pity. "Frank," I said, "you might try ringing D.S. Crabtree at Priestley Road." "What the hell's he got to do with this?" "I think you'll find that Eggy -- Mr. Edgworth -- was helping with inquiries, albeit abortively, all of Sunday and Sunday night." "Ey! That's right. That's brilliant!" Eggy's face came alive with relief and delight. Frank retained his gravitas. "We'll see about that later. After the P.M. Just go over and get in that car. Sit quiet and don't touch anything." We watched Eggy walk away to the police car in the lane. "He's got nothing to do with this, you know, Frank. I mean look at the poor little bugger." We watched Eggy spoon himself into the back of the car. Frank said, "Maybe. But I'm going to do this one by the book. I don't want any nasty surprises biting me in the leg later on. And you, you can go home, and come in tomorrow. I need a statement from you." "Right you are, Frank," I said breezily. "Good luck." He smiled mirthlessly. "I'll need it. The press are going to have a field day with this." * * * * And they did. It was just in time for the evening editions and the six o'clock television news. Well, you can't blame them. It's not every day a local notable, a very visible town councillor to boot, turns up dead in the proverbial shallow grave in an allotment. The subhead in the Bugle read, "Town Hall to Tomato Patch." I thought this was pushing it a bit, but these blokes have an eye on Fleet Street. If you analyzed what they really said, you could see that they weren't having as much of a field day as they would have liked. Nobody who mattered was saying much. Hizzoner put out a gnomic statement of regret, and there were stunned and mystified comments from his fellow councillors. There were pieces about Tommy's tireless work for the public good, his dedication to urban renewal, and a list of the many public works projects he had masterminded. There was also a rather weepy article about Tommy's deprived childhood under the Communist jackboot. Tommy would have loved it all. There was nothing about smoke-filled rooms, bent contracts, or large brown envelopes changing hands, but then nobody expected there to be. All in all, a satisfying crop. And a fitting epitaph to "a towering figure in local political life." When the Steering Committee rang, I was holding my own private wake, saluting Tommy's departure with a glass of Tallisker, which is for special occasions only. "So what have you been up to?" Linda asked. "Since I last talked to you? Oh well, today I dug up a dead body, and tomorrow I'm helping the police with their inquiries." "All right," she said, very miffed, "be like that. Don't tell me if you don't want to." "What I also did, as it turns out," I told her, "was I laid a ghost." After I'd finished talking to Linda, I took my drink out into the garden to look at the night sky. Being in a valley, and with the cloud cover we often get, a lot of the time it can be like living inside an old flat cap. Some people find it rather glum. But then, you get used to glum if you live in the outskirts of Emily Bronte. Tonight, however, was clear and bright. I like to look up there and think about Pluto. You can't see Pluto because it's miles and miles away. But it's there. And the bloke who discovered it deduced it was there because of the behavior of the other planets, the way they wobbled about and so on. Now that's real detective work with a lesson for us all. I've always thought I'd like to have a chat with that bloke. Him and Dashiell Hammett, if I could have got them together. But they're both deceased and anyway, I wouldn't have had much time for chatting. I needed a good night's sleep. I went to bed where it turned out that what I had told Linda about laying a ghost was absolutely true. I had the best night of dreamless sleep I'd had for seven months. * * * * Frank wasn't really interested in Eggy. He was more interested in why I was at the allotment. "Just doing a favor for a friend," I said. "Yes. Well, you always were a secretive bastard. But let me tell you this, I've got every bugger and his uncle on my back for this one, the chief super, the chief constable, the mayor, and for all I know the pope's in on it. So don't mess me about." "But he died of a heart attack, didn't he, Frank?" "Yes, it's confirmed. But heart attack or not, he didn't climb into that hole and pull it in after him. I want to know who and why." "Well, it wasn't Eggy, was it? He was down at Priestley Road. They only let him out on Monday. Why was he there, anyway?" "Well," Frank said, looking at a piece of paper, one of many on his desk, "according to D.S. Crabtree, it was a phone tip-off. Anonymous, of course. Saying he was mixed up in that post office raid on the twenty-eighth." "We all know that's not Eggy's style at all. And it turned out to be a load of old toffee. But not before Eggy had spent a day and a night in the cells. And what about Eggy's shed?" I asked. "You going to put it back up for him?" As if. "No, I'm bloody not. He can do it himself. We've done a hands-and-knees search, there's nothing there. Tomorrow's Saturday and I'm not going to waste police overtime guarding that place past tonight. Tell him he can do it tomorrow morning, if he likes." "Sure there's no more dignitaries entombed under the spring cabbages?" "Beat it, Harry. But stay available. There'll be an inquest." I was just in time to pick up Eggy, very grumpy after a night in the cells. I took him off to the local caff and bought him breakfast. As he put away three eggs, five rashers of bacon, three sausages, and fried bread, I watched the lines of grumpiness fading from his face. "Right," he said, "that's better. I'm feeling better." "I'm glad," I said, and told him the bad news about the shed. "What? They pull down my shed, and don't even have the politeness to put it back up!" I told him the good news. "We can put it up tomorrow morning. I'm going to help you." "Well, that's really good of you, Mr. T. It knackered me putting it up all alone the first time, and I'm still feeling a bit shaky after our grisly find." I watched the last overloaded forkful disappear. Yes indeed, this was a man plainly still in deep trauma. "So you can go home, when you've finished, and try to banish the horrible events of last night from your mind. But first, I want to get the sequence straight in my mind. Because it's not right, Eggy. It's just not right." "What, Tommy being dead under my shed? Yes, it is a bit of a bummer, that." I waved that away. "No, not that. There's something else about all this that's just not right. When I was still on the job, I learned that you can get into a right muddle if you don't have the sequence clear in your head, who did what and in what order." Eggy looked properly impressed at being admitted to the arcana of crimefighting. "Well, before we start," he said, "let me get some toast." I stared at him. "Go on then," I said, "if you're that intent on teaching your system who's boss. Bring back some paper serviettes." So he did, and it looked like this. Friday the 16th -- Uncle Ernie dies. Doctor comes, signs death certificate. Saturday the 17th -- Auntie Winnie starts organizing. She finds time to sort out the allotment. She begins to clear out Ernie's stuff, helped in this by Tommy Backhouse. Quote from principal witness Cyril Edgworth: "As soon as he heard, he was round to the house. Spent most of the weekend helping me auntie sort stuff out, me uncle's clothes and that. Saved her going up and down the stairs." Monday 19th -- Witness Edgworth goes up to survey his defunct uncle's allotment. Notes that uncle's shed is "in a right old state" and decides to replace it. Orders a new shed that very day. Friday 23rd -- Funeral takes place of Ernie Jones. Reception at the house after the service, where guests partake of a cold collation and drinks (various). Councillor Tommy Backhouse in attendance, the jollop having been furnished by him. Witness Edgworth notes that Backhouse looked "a bit peaky. Gray, like." Witness Edgworth leaves reception early to take delivery of new shed. Saturday 27th -- Witness Edgworth demolishes old shed. States, "All I had to do was give it a good push and it came down all by itself." The only thing of note is that during the demolition, witness Edgworth receives a visit from Councillor T. Backhouse, apparently to add further condolences to those already expressed. Sunday 28th -- Witness Edgworth roused at 5 A.M. by the forces of law and order following an anonymous phone call, and, quote, "hoiked down to the nick and given the third degree about some bloody post office blag." He remains at the station all day and night. Monday 29th -- Witness Edgworth released. Goes up to the allotment where he finds to his pleasure that the load of aggregate bedding he had ordered has been delivered and dumped in exactly the right place by the gate. To calm his shattered nerves he spends the rest of the day erecting the new shed. Spends the evening collecting and hanging up the tools left by defunct uncle. Locks up and goes home. Tuesday 30th -- Witness works in allotment all day. Locks up at night. Wednesday 31st -- Witness arrives at allotment to find tools in disarray. Dismayed by this savage and senseless attack, he seeks professional help. Professional helper shows scant enthusiasm. The rest we knew about, arson attack and digging up of municipal cadaver. "Right," I said, "it's all here." "What is?" Eggy asked. "If I knew that, we wouldn't be here in the first place. I have to think," I told him. "Now, go home, and meet me up there tomorrow morning." * * * * The shed went up far more easily than Eggy had given me to expect. We spread the aggregate in a new site, next to the erstwhile grave of the erstwhile Mr. Backhouse. "There you go, Eggy," I said at the end. "Good as new." It was early evening and we'd just finished hanging up the tools again. "Except it's in the wrong place," he said. Some people are never satisfied. I picked up the bag I had brought along. Eggy watched as I emptied the contents. "What's all that then?" he said. "Vittles," I said, "no point in not coming provisioned. Preparation is all, Eggy." He looked at the large torch I'd brought, then at the pork pies and ham sandwiches, and the cans of beer and the bottle of whiskey to keep out the cold. "I'm grateful to you and that for helping me put up the shed, only I didn't reckon on coming to live here," he said. "Drag those chairs inside and close the door," I said. When we were settled down, I told him what we were doing and why. "Eggy," I said, "someone tried to move your shed, then set fire to it, and then we find there's a body underneath it. Do you think that all that is completely unconnected and coincidental?" "Well, no," he said, "it can't be." "Right. Well now, think about it. If you'd buried a body under a shed, what would you do?" "I don't know. I haven't had much experience, like. Nothing much." "That's the right answer. Congratulations. If you'd buried a body, or if you knew that one was buried, and somebody came along and built a shed on it, you'd do absolutely nothing. You'd go your way thanking Providence. What you wouldn't do is draw as much attention to it as you could. Moving sheds around, setting fire to them. You might just as well put up a great big neon sign saying, Look, Everybody, There's Something Dodgy Here." "Right. Well, that is, unless -- " "Unless what?" "Unless there was something else that you wanted to get at." "Give that man a toffee apple." Eggy said, "So you think somebody's coming after the whatever it is." "I'm bloody sure of it. Tonight's the first chance he's had to get a clear run at it. Frank's lads were here until this morning, we've been here all day. He's got to come tonight." "So why do you want me here?" "It's your allotment, Eggy. And I need a witness, just in case. And someone to help with the digging." "Why don't we do the digging now and get it over with? 'Stead of waiting for someone who might turn nasty?" "Because I want to be sure. And he won't turn nasty because I'm going to persuade him to go away." That didn't really reassure him, I could see. I knew how he felt because it didn't really reassure me, either. But Eggy took a pork pie like the brave little soul he is, and settled back to chew. When in doubt, eat. It was a long night, and I learned quite a few things in the course of it. I learned why Eggy was known as Eggy, for one thing. I'm not going to tell you because it's private. Very weird, but very private. I also learned that a wooden shed is not meant to be lived in. At about two in the morning, Eggy woke up and said hoarsely, "You still think he's coming?" "I'm sure he's coming." And he came. At about four in the morning, the hour when souls give up the struggle and graves give up the dead, I heard a tiny scuffling outside. He was being extra careful out there, so it was only the tiniest sound. I put my mouth to Eggy's ear and whispered, "That's him. I'm going out. Don't make a sound and don't come out until I say so." I picked up the torch and one of Uncle Ernie's crowbars, the heaviest one, and pushed the door open as silently as I could. I paused for a moment. I didn't want to be rushing out to brain a foraging neighborhood cat. But then the noise from the other side took on a definite metallic quality. I walked round the hut and switched on the torch. "Hello, Charlie," I said. I felt almost sorry for him. He dropped the spade with a yelp, then just stared into the torch while his heart rate settled down. "Who the bloody hell's that?" "It's me, Charlie," I said. Well, it was. "Tattersby? I might have known. What the hell do you want?" He relaxed. It was only a washed-up ex-copper, and not the real thing. He could deal with this, no problem. He bent down and picked up the spade again. I moved the torch casually, so that it shone quite by accident on the crowbar. I said, "I want to save you a bit of trouble, Charlie, that's all. I hate to see a man flogging his guts out doing something that's a total waste of time." "It's my time. I'll waste it if I like." "Yes, but it's not your allotment, Charlie. And if I start shouting the odds, we'll have the neighbors out in no time. Just like last time." I think he knew that I knew. But he tried the old Indian trick anyway of blustering. "What you talking about, the last time? What last time?" "Come on, Charlie," I said, doing my big, easygoing Tattersby, "it's just you and me here. I'm talking about the time you were here with Tommy. Last Sunday, wasn't it. Had a big argy-bargy, by all accounts. Had all the windows flying up round here." "Hey. Now listen, I had nothing to do with -- what happened. It wasn't my fault he snuffed it." "I know that," I said. "You had a bit of a struggle though, didn't you? And then all of a sudden he collapsed. Must have been the strain of the digging and then going two rounds with you." "I never touched him," Charlie said. He had lowered the spade now so that it rested on the ground. Hopefully a sign of capitulation, but you never know. "I didn't have time to hardly touch him. He just clutched his chest and keeled over." "And when you looked at him, he was dead." "He twitched a bit, but he was gone, all right." "And by now all the neighbors were out, so you kept your head down, and when things quietened down, you just pushed him into the hole he'd dug and covered him up. And the next night, Monday, when you came along to quietly dig up the doings, curse your horrible luck, there was a shed on top of Tommy. That must have sickened you a bit. I know it would me." He nodded. "Is that what all this chat is for, just to show me how bloody clever you are?" "Charlie, I don't like people who try to burn down sheds with friends of mine inside." "I didn't know anyone was in the bloody shed." "I'll believe you, thousands wouldn't. But I don't want any more of it. Now look, Charlie, you won't see this in the papers, but they found it. After the body, they just kept on digging, and they found it. I was here, I found the body, and I saw them dig it up." "I don't know what you're on about." "They found it, and they're keeping quiet about it. They've got enough of a scandal with a town councillor being found in an allotment without giving the press the rest of it. It's under wraps, and it'll stay like that." I think he already believed me because his shoulders slumped a little. "Conniving bastards." "I couldn't agree more, Charlie. But that's the world we live in. Now, I know some of it was yours. The JCB money, wasn't it?" Now this was a real leap in the dark, but I landed safely. Charlie dropped the spade and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. "I told him it was a bloody stupid idea. But he went ahead and set it up. What could I do? I needed the cash." "And afterwards you agreed to let it lie for a while." He nodded. "Tommy didn't want a load of cash lying around, and he didn't trust me. So he gave it to Ernie Jones to take care of. Silly bugger. Didn't even ask him where he'd put it. Just trusted him." "But you can't trust people not to up and die on you." "He really went mad after that. He was always up at Ernie's house. He wouldn't tell me what was going on, but I was keeping an eye on him most of the time, anyway." "Following him." "I had to. I didn't know what he was going to do, turn himself in, top himself, or -- " "Or do a runner with that. Which is what he was going to do. And which naturally you objected to." He blew out a long lungful of smoke. "It was all your fault, Tattersby. Even when you got the push, he couldn't believe you'd kept it to yourself, that you hadn't talked to someone, but he didn't know who. He was a mental case the last three months. He was looking over his shoulder all the time, thought the Serious Crimes lot were going to have him any moment." Then he threw his cigarette into the hole he'd started. "So," he said, "I suppose you're going to go running to the law with all this." "Charlie," I said, "I'm not a copper any more. I'm not doing their job for them. If they want you, they'll have to do it themselves." "And I'm supposed to say thank you, is that it?" "No, what you're supposed to say is night-night. And Charlie, take your spade with you." I felt a bit sorry for Charlie. Well, as sorry as you can feel for someone like Charlie. The person I felt more sorry for was Eggy, who had to do the digging again. I have to hand it to him, Uncle Ernie was a real little mole. When someone told him to hide something somewhere safe, he didn't stop till he got to the water table. But it was there, just as I knew it had to be. Like Pluto. Four feet down. Three feet under Tommy. We filled in the hole, and then we walked through the night to the house, carrying the big sports bag between us. We set it on the sitting room floor, I gave us both a healthy jolt of scotch, and then we opened the bag. "Blumming heck," said Eggy, "look at that." I couldn't have put it better myself. We sat and looked at it for a little while and then Eggy started to count it. "I think," he said, "I'm going to put them in different piles. Pounds, dollars, and that." "Good idea," I said, "but don't you want to know where it all came from?" "Oh, sure," he said, "what are these?" "Swiss francs," I said, and I told him about Tommy's scams and how they worked, and how Tommy had a lot of cash, but he was getting nervous and decided to steal four JCBs from himself. "Cheeky devil," he said absently. I didn't feel I had his full attention, but I plowed on about Tommy's bag full of cash and how he didn't trust Charlie and he couldn't put it in the bank, and how he gave it to Uncle Ernie, who then died without telling him where it was. "Poor old Uncle Ernie," he said, "and what are these?" I looked at the notes. "Thousand euros. Worth about seven hundred quid. Each." Eggy started a fresh pile with respect. It was like watching a ten year old set up a game of Monopoly. This was getting on my wick. This didn't happen to Hercule Poirot. When he got everyone into the library and expounded ("The murderer of Sir Charles Partly-Barmy, chers amis, is someone in this very room."), people damn well listened. When you've solved something, you're allowed to tell people how clever you've been. It's the law. Or it should be. I persevered. "Didn't you think it was funny how much Tommy was around your auntie's house, helping her clear out?" "A bit," he said without much interest. "Well, he was looking for this. And when he knew it wasn't in the house, he reasoned the only possible place was the allotment. Under the shed. And didn't you think it was a bit odd when he came round to the allotment on Saturday?" "Not really," he said, "but I'll tell you what, he was lucky I was out of the way on Sunday. Stroke of luck for him, that." "Eggy," I said patiently, "who do you think made the phone call that got you pulled in?" Bingo. Gotcha. His eyes opened very wide. "It was him, was it?" "Think about it, Eggy. Who else would it be? So the coast was clear, and he came up to the allotment with his little bucket and spade. He didn't even change into working clothes, that's how panicky he was. But, woe unto him, Charlie had been following him around for quite some time, and turned up to express his hurt and disappointment. The rest, as they say, is history." Eggy looked at me with something in his eyes that I wanted to think was hero worship, but which was probably fatigue. "And Charlie's gone off without it, just like that?" "I've told Charlie the big lie. As far as he's concerned, the law found the money but the whole thing's been hushed up. I think he half expected that, once he read about the body. And given his situation, Charlie's not going to hang around. How much is there, by the way?" Quick as a flash, he said, "Two hundred thousand dollars, a hundred and fifty thousand quid, forty thousand Swiss francs, a hundred thousand euro thingies." "Well done," I said admiringly, "that was quick of you." He blushed a bit. "Well, I was always good at mental arithmetic. At school and that." "Were you really?" I reached over and filled his glass. "Well, here's looking at Euclid." Then I had to explain that to him, which always takes the shine off a bit. But I didn't bother explaining how the whole thing was my fault. If I hadn't been sniffing around Tommy, he wouldn't have panicked, Uncle Ernie wouldn't have buried a sports bag, Tommy wouldn't have had his heart attack, Charlie wouldn't have messed around with Eggy's shed, Eggy wouldn't have come to me, and we wouldn't be there in my sitting room looking at an outrageous fortune. That's Destiny for you, going round in circles, playing silly buggers again. But there was no point in cluttering up Eggy's brain with too many complicated ideas. He said, "What you going to do with it?" "Well, we could hand it in at the nearest police station. But that would be the act of a cretin. Anyway, it's what are we going to do with it, you mean." He straightened up and sat on his heels shaking his head slowly from side to side. "No, there's too much. I'm not up to it." I couldn't believe this. I said, "But Eggy, say not the struggle naught availeth. Think what you could do." "I am. I could splash it around, get noticed, get nicked." We went on like this for a good half hour, but Eggy was adamant. So, in the end, I at least got him to agree that I'd hold his share in trust, sort of, until he came of an age to handle it sensibly. "What you going to do with yours?" he said. "I don't know," I said. "I'll get the car repaired. I might buy another chair. But I'll have to think a bit more about that. I'm not one to rush into things. I might grow another mustache, come to that." "And where you going to put it? In a bank?" "Yes," I said, "but not here. Somewhere where they welcome money and make no bones about it." "Isn't it a bit dodgy these days taking a suitcase full of cash through customs?" "It won't be going through customs," I said. And it wouldn't. After twenty-five years of coppering, if you haven't made some contacts who can be useful in odd situations, you just haven't been paying attention. "So where you going then?" "I don't know. The Channel Islands. Liechtenstein. Luxembourg. Or Andorra, perhaps. I've heard it's very nice there." His brow creased in effort, then cleared. "That's Italy, innit?" That's Italy, innit. God help us all. I blame the parents. * * * * But before I went (with the reluctant and rather mystified approval of the Steering Committee), I took Eggy up unto a high place to show him all the kingdoms of the earth. Well, actually, we went up to Shaw Top, and sat on a park bench dedicated to the memory of Alderman Percy Tunnicliffe. Eggy sat swinging his legs, eating a Spam sandwich that he had magicked out of nowhere. He always seems to have something about him to fortify the inner Eggy. I call that resourceful. We looked across the town and the valley. It was early evening, and there was still some sunlight in the west, but the town had fallen into purple shadow, and streetlights were already coming on. All we could hear of the town was the hum of traffic going home and the rattle-clank as a train left the station, going somewhere else. I pointed across to the huge chimney of Crawshaw's Mill, where two thousand people used to work when it was a mill. Now the top floor's inhabited by a software company that employs two hundred, and all imported. "That's where Tommy Backhouse's dad worked when he first came here," I said, "when there was still some wool about." He nodded. We thought about that and the ironies implicit therein and went on watching as the sun went on sinking and the town grew darker. You could barely make out the town hall clock tower. And all that concrete had happily disappeared into the general murk. "Mucky old place," I said. "Well," he said, "there's mucky and there's mucky, isn't there?" I looked at him. That, for Eggy, was very profound. "Quite right," I said. "Now, what can we learn from the Curious Case of the Shed of the Dead? There must be a moral somewhere, mustn't there? I mean, you can get a moral out of anything if you squeeze it hard enough." His face wrinkled up in thought. "What about -- the wicked shall perish and the righteous man shall be rewarded?" "No," I said, "that's humdrum. Perhaps -- listen, this is good -- perhaps it proves that when you go digging up the past, you might find you've dug up the future with it." Eggy said, "That doesn't make any sense." "No," I agreed, "it doesn't, but then nothing much does in my experience. Come on, it's getting cold and I want my tea." There was a mist in the valley, the streetlights were taking on fuzzy halos, and kitchen lights and televisions were going on, as people settled in their nests for the evening. So we walked down the long hill into town, thinking our own private thoughts, a large ex-copper and his small, fat friend. Piddling, maybe. Inconsequential, certainly. But with a touch of the cosmic too, I like to think, in our own unassuming way. And as we walked through the dusk it came to me. What this business really proved was that my old dad was half right. Destiny does make a pig's breakfast of things most of the time. But every so often, probably when it's not paying attention, it gets things absolutely spot-on. Don't you think? Andorra, by the way, is very welcoming. -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by Neil Schofield. -------- CH007 *Informing the Mole* by Arthur Porges The interrogation room was bone-biting cold, intentionally so; a low temperature slows the mind and weakens the will. The suspect wore only a light shirt and summer-weight slacks. He shivered constantly, and often his teeth chattered loudly. He was not an impressive figure, young, very slight, physically weak, one might infer. But his intolerant eyes were dark kettles of fanatical fire, and his inner spirit of rage, hate, and contempt was almost tangible. The man questioning him, so far in vain, presented quite a contrast, being tall, athletic, and obviously full of angry frustration. Of course, he was warmly clad. Outside, behind the big one-way mirror, three expert observers, also quite anxious, watched and listened intently. Alvarez, the FBI man, very well trained, had a poker face, but Baker, from the CIA, was clearly less patient. Simpson, who worked for the State Department, seemed more of a detached civilian, disturbed at what might become a scene of illegal violence. "Pity the little creep's so feeble," Alvarez said. "If we knocked him about too much, they say he'll croak -- bad heart. That makes a big problem, and time may be very short." "It's clear, at least," Baker said gravely, "he knows where the dirty bomb is and when it will be detonated. If that happens, goodbye, Chicago." "What if he's passed that knowledge on already?" Simpson asked. "He claims that for now nobody else knows, but insists he'll pass it on, no matter how well we guard him. Confident little bastard!" "He can't do it," the FBI agent said emphatically. "We have two people watching him twenty-four seven. Even if one was corrupt, a mole, say, the other would be watching him." "Look," Baker said, "he's actually laughing at Kelly. He really despises us. No sign of fear." The terrorist pointed at the mirror, grinned derisively, and said, "God is great!" "He needs a bucket of ice water over his head," Alvarez said angrily. "We're getting nowhere." "Hey, I have an idea," Simpson said. "An old friend of mine, retired Naval Intelligence, will be in town tomorrow. He's an expert interrogator among other things. Let's show him the video, and see if he has a new angle on making this guy talk. We could meet at my apartment tomorrow around four -- okay?" The others quickly agreed. * * * * The following afternoon the three experts, along with Simpson's friend, Commander Walter Blair, met and began to play the videotape of the previous day's interrogation. They watched with as much interest as if none had been there yesterday. Suddenly Blair's impassive face seemed to erupt into a kind of feverish intensity. The other three, grimly amused by the suspect's chattering teeth, stared at him in wonder. "Suffering Christ!" Blair exclaimed. "He's outfoxed you. That's not all just random, I know. I learned it as a kid from my uncle -- he was a radioman on the old liner, QE2. That's International Morse!" He listened with even greater concentration. "He passed on the information, right under your noses. Where the bomb is in Chicago, and how to detonate it. My God, it's sixty-five hundred pounds of nitrogen fertilizer and six hundred pounds of powdered Plutonium! Do you realize what that will do?" "B-b-but," Alvarez stammered, "he hasn't really told anybody. He's never been out of our control." "You said it," Blair snapped. "He passed it on, all right -- to Kelly, or -- " he glared at them " -- one of you. One of you four is a mole, and by now he'll have notified the terrorist cell about the bomb." "But you know now yourself," Baker pointed out. "We'll call Homeland Security in Chicago. They can get a team out to disarm the bomb." Blair looked at his wristwatch, and all the color drained from his normally ruddy face. "Oh, no," he said, full of despair. "It's too late. I..." The room shuddered slightly in one long tremor, and they heard a faint, deep booming sound. Three hundred miles away, a great city was dying, to be uninhabitable for centuries. -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by Arthur Porges. -------- CH008 *The Pullman Case* by John M. Floyd It was almost dark when Scott Varner arrived at the four-storey apartment building on Hamilton. He knew it was the right address: three police cars lined the curb. He found his older brother Mitch waiting at the top of the stairs on the second floor. He also found a barrier of yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the far end of the corridor. Scott turned and studied his brother. "A locked room mystery, you said." Mitch nodded and spoke around the stem of the pipe in his mouth. "Looks that way. Thought you'd be interested." "I'm interested," Scott said, unbuttoning his overcoat. "I'm also confused. I ran into McDade downstairs -- he said the victim was shot through a window. Simple case of murder." Mitch shook his head. "Nothing simple about it." Before he could explain, a short man in a plaid sport coat and glasses charged through the doorway of the apartment at the end of the hall. In his hand was an open folder of papers, which he was reading as he walked. He ducked under the police tape and stopped in his tracks when he looked up and saw Scott standing there. His eyes widened behind the glasses. Both the brothers were used to this. Despite a two-year age difference, they looked almost like twins. "Walter Biggins," Mitch said, "this is my brother Scott. He's a detective too." The short man looked puzzled. "Here in town?" "P.I.," Scott said. Walter Biggins didn't seem to know how to respond to that. Instead he turned and said to Mitch, "I've been on the phone, Lieutenant. Lab says it was poison. I forget the name, but it was fast. Fifteen seconds max." Mitch just nodded. He didn't look overly surprised. "Vanderford's trying to reach the guy's wife. Friends say she's visiting relatives upstate with her kid. And McDade and Parsons are checking out the woods across the street." "Good." Mitch pointed his pipe at the sheaf of papers in Biggins's hand. "These the notes?" "Notes, photos, sketches," Biggins said, handing them over. "I'm done except for typing it up." Mitch was already scanning the documents. "I'll get 'em back to you." It was clearly a dismissal; Biggins nodded once to Scott and left. The Varners watched him hurry down the stairs. "I'm hurt," Scott said. "No one on the force remembers me." "Biggins is new. And you weren't exactly famous." "Sad but true." Scott peered at the papers, reading upside down. "Poison?" "It was on the slug we found in his throat. I wondered about that. The wound was shallow -- " "Mitchell," Scott interrupted, "why, exactly, did you call me?" The lieutenant looked up from the notes. "I told you. I've got a mystery on my hands. One of your few talents is that you can think logically. I need your advice." Scott narrowed his eyes. "I know this is April Fool's Day," he said, "but this ain't funny." "What do you mean?" "What you've got here is a murder, Mitchell. The only mystery, seems to me, is finding whoever put a bullet -- poisoned or not -- through your victim's window." Mitch nodded. "That's what I thought too. At first." Scott heard the sound of voices in the lobby below, then the creak and slam of the front door. The other policemen had gone. "Come on," Mitch said. "Something I want you to see." * * * * The apartment was small but tidy -- living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, bath. The broken window was in the living room. A padded green armchair faced the window from a distance of ten feet or so, and in the space between them, a few spots of blood mingled with the broken glass on the floor. "He was found here," Mitch said, handing Scott the stack of notes. "Sitting dead in his chair with his shirt and shoes off, looking peaceful, considering he'd been shot in the throat with a pellet." "A pellet?" "Like you and I used to shoot in that big air rifle of Jake Mayhew's. Except this pellet had grooves filed into it, and was coated with poison." Scott grunted and began studying the documents. Especially the photos of the body. "Name's Howard Pullman," Mitch said. "Sheet metal worker, down by the river. Haven't found his wife yet, but we've talked to several friends." Mitch paused and struck a match with his fingernail. When his pipe was going to his satisfaction, he said, "Sad story. He was about to be laid off, and had told one of his pals his biggest worry was the fact his daughter's so sick. Juvenile arthritis, I think. Anyway, if he's let go, his family's medical coverage goes too. Also, he has a company life insurance policy, which he'd lose." Scott was watching him now, the papers forgotten. "You saying what I think you're saying? He ... set this up somehow?" "Just hear me out." Mitch walked to the broken window and looked down at the street. "Out there on the sidewalk below the window, we found a slingshot. A kid's cheap slingshot -- plastic handle, long elastic sling. No prints. Inside the little pouch on the sling, though, were traces of the same thing we found on the pellet buried in his throat -- which we know now, of course, is poison." "The murder weapon," Scott murmured. His brother took out his pipe and scowled at it. "What bothers me is, the only reasonable place that pellet could've come from, assuming it was fired using the slingshot, is that vacant lot there, across the street. There's a good angle to the window and lots of bushes and trees for cover. But there are two problems. First, I'm not sure that slingshot was powerful enough to reach that far. Second, if it was shot from there, why'd the killer then cross a busy street, toward the building, and drop the weapon in plain sight on the sidewalk?" Since no answer was expected here, Scott didn't try to provide one. He just listened. "And another thing," Mitch said. "Pullman was found right there, in his armchair. Shirt and shoes off, like I told you, and his right sock. His shoes -- lace-up work boots -- had been neatly placed side by side, with the one sock tucked inside his right shoe." He paused. "And?" Scott prompted. "And the shoes had bits of glass embedded in the soles." For a moment neither of them spoke. "I found it myself," Mitch said. "Haven't mentioned it to anybody else yet. I wanted your opinion." Scott ran a hand through his hair. "Your lab team missed it?" "What can I say? It's hard to get good help." Scott sighed. "Well ... we know he had to get from the window to the chair. Only a few steps, but maybe he picked up the bits of glass in his shoes then, after being shot, then sat down in a daze and took his shoes off. Maybe that's why only one sock was still on. The poison could've gotten him before he finished." "I suppose. But that way there wouldn't have been any cuts on the bottom of his bare foot -- and there were. Besides, I can't see the guy calmly sitting down and unlacing his shoes and taking them off and lining 'em up neat as you please if he's just been plugged in the neck. I don't even think he'd have had time to. If the poison was supposed to take less than fifteen seconds -- " "I see your point," Scott said. "The shoes must've been off already, before he was shot. But if they were, how'd they get glass in the soles, right?" "Right." Scott Varner backed up and leaned against the wall by the window, thinking. At last he blinked and looked at his brother. "When did Pullman arrive here at the apartment?" Mitch tipped his head toward the papers in Scott's hand. "Around twelve fifteen, maybe as early as twelve ten. Lady who lives down the hall saw him come upstairs. Spoke to him, she said, but he didn't respond. He just marched down the hall and through his door and locked it behind him. He was found an hour or so later, at one twenty." "How?" Scott asked. "Someone hear the window break?" Mitch smiled. "That'd clear up a few things, wouldn't it? No, nobody heard anything. The lady who'd seen him come in got to worrying about him, coming home unexpectedly and all -- he never comes home at lunch, she said -- and decided to check on him. She knocked on his door, and when he didn't answer she went back to her apartment, called him on the phone. He didn't answer that either. That's when she called the super and got him to unlock Pullman's door." He paused, then added, "She verified, by the way, that nobody entered or left his place between twelve ten and one twenty." Again the Varner brothers fell silent. Mitch studied the smoke from his pipe and Scott studied the notes in the report. Finally Scott turned to face the window. He bent over, squinted at the broken pane. A piece of glass the size of his hand had fallen inward and onto the floor, but one edge of a hole and its spiderweb cracks were clearly visible. "So," he said, half to himself, "the window might've already been broken when he walked in." "That's what I figured, yeah. But how?" For a long while Scott stood there, staring at the window and through it to the wooded lot across the street, two floors below. Still watching the hole, he backed up a step, moved forward again, crouched down, stood on tiptoe. Then he turned slowly to look across the living room at the wall opposite the window. "Get me something to stand on," he said, his eyes fixed on the wall. He was gazing at a point just below the ceiling. With a puzzled look, Mitch went into one of the other rooms to fetch a chair. Scott continued to stare at the wall, where several cheaply framed pictures were hung in an erratic pattern. After a moment he stepped up on the chair, turned, and looked once again over his shoulder at the window. Then he reached up and lifted the top picture off its hook in the wall. Underneath was what looked like a bullet hole. He handed the picture to Mitch, took out a pocketknife, and probed the hole in the Sheetrock. Seconds later he held a small lead pellet in his hand. "No poison on this one, I bet." Mitch looked at the pellet for a long time. "So when was this done, you think?" Scott shrugged. "Sometime before twelve ten, I imagine. That way, the broken glass was already on the floor when Pullman came in. Thus the glass fragments in his shoe soles when he crossed the room." He stepped down from the chair. "I think, now, that Howard Pullman must've fired this pellet himself, though probably from a big, heavy pellet gun like we used to use, instead of the slingshot. That way it'd be sure to reach, and would be more accurate." Mitch nodded. Unlike BB guns, old-style pellet rifles were powerful. Scott figured his brother was remembering the two of them drilling holes in soup cans from twenty yards away. "But something doesn't figure," Mitch said. "You can't just shoot a window out in broad daylight." "Maybe you can," Scott said. "This is April the first." "So?" "I noticed a fire station a few doors down." Mitch spread his hands. "So...?" "So they probably blow a siren at noon on the first of every month. I know ours does at home. And a whistle like that would be loud enough to drown out the pop of a pellet gun, not to mention the sound of a breaking windowpane." Scott scratched his chin. "You want my guess, Mr. Pullman knew that too, and chose that moment to fire his shot. Twelve o'clock on the nose." "But -- " "He had to show that the window was broken from the outside, Mitchell. So he made the shot, ditched the gun, then circled way around somewhere and walked into the building. Then he climbed the stairs, came inside, locked the door, and -- his one mistake -- walked over the broken glass with his shoes on." Mitch was watching his brother closely now, absorbed. "And then?" "Then he got a picture, hung it on the wall to cover the pellet hole, took off his shirt, sat down in the chair, removed his shoes, arranged them just so, and took off his right sock." Scott's mind was humming now, his eyes glazed. He was in his element. "Okay," Mitch said. "Enlighten me. Why his right sock?" Scott turned and focused on him. "Because he needed a bare foot for his slingshot." "What!?" "He took the poisoned pellet from his pocket, along with the slingshot. You said the sling was a long one, remember. He fitted the pellet into the pouch of the sling, wedged the pouch between the toes of his right foot -- " Scott extended a leg and acted it out. " -- and then, with his hands, he held the handle up here, a few inches from his throat, stretching the elastic." "I get the picture," Mitch said. "That's why the pellet had to be poisoned. He wasn't sure how hard it would hit him, or how far it'd go in. And that's why his shirt was off. In case he missed the soft skin of his throat a little." Mitch pondered that for a moment. "But ... after he shot himself -- " "He got up, probably used his shirt to wipe the slingshot clean of prints, then dropped it out through the hole in the window. He had to get rid of it. He was smart enough to know there might be signs of the poison on the pouch of the sling. Anyhow, that's when he got the glass in his bare foot, and the blood on the floor. Then he came back and collapsed in his chair. An hour later he's discovered by the landlord and the neighbor, they call you, and you call me." Scott spread his hands like a magician. "And I solve your case," he added with a grin. Mitch drew his brows together, thinking. "The question now," Scott said at last, "is what are we going to do about it?" Mitch blinked. "Do about it?" Scott gave his brother a long, measuring look. "Mitchell," he said, "it's not like you to find new evidence, of any kind, and keep it to yourself. We both know that." Without breaking eye contact, Scott held up the report and tapped the top page with his finger. "I think, from the point when you found the glass in his shoe soles, you had doubts it was a murder. A locked room mystery, you told me on the phone. You meant it, didn't you? And you hadn't told anyone else your suspicions because of one thing: If it wasn't murder, it must have been suicide. And if it was suicide then this poor sucker's family wouldn't get a penny of his life insurance, employee or not. Right?" Mitch Varner frowned, fiddled with his pipe, heaved a sigh. "Yeah, I had my doubts, I just couldn't figure it all out. And I kept thinking about ... well, I kept thinking about what our ma could've done with some extra money if the old man had had sense enough to be insured when he flipped his truck that night." He glanced at Scott and shrugged. "You know?" Scott didn't answer. Instead he said, "Let me ask you this. What if one of your men happens to find a pellet gun out there in the woods?" Mitch shook his head. "They won't. They're done with that now. Even if it did turn up, if Howard Pullman was as careful as I'm beginning to think he was, he'd have wiped it clean before he left it anywhere." Scott gave that some thought. It grew very quiet in the room. It also grew cold; the wind was whistling in through the hole in the window. "So what do you think?" Mitch asked. Scott looked his brother in the eye, then handed him Walter Biggins's folder. "I think your man's written a thorough report. I can't come up with a single thing to add." Mitch took the folder, waiting. He seemed to know something was coming. "On second thought," Scott said, "I do need some surfacing compound. They should have some at the paint store on the corner." "What?" Smiling, Scott glanced at the little hole in the wall, just below the ceiling. "I'm the handy brother, remember? I can cover that over in two minutes flat." -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by John M. Floyd. -------- CH009 *Pit and the Pendulum* by John Gregory Betancourt When the phone rang, I rolled over with a groan and reached for it. Who could possibly be calling me? I didn't have any friends left, and all my bills were paid up, thanks to last month's trip to Atlantic City's casinos. "'Lo?" I mumbled into the receiver. My head pounded something awful. "Pit?" asked a man's voice. I blinked. Nobody had called me that in years. "Who is this?" "Pit! Thank God I reached you -- I need your help." "Huh." I managed to sit up in bed. The room swayed; I felt sick and dizzy. "What? Help? Who is this?" "God, Pit, it's three o'clock! Aren't you awake?" "What? Three o'clock?" With my free hand, I rubbed at crusty-feeling eyes. It didn't help. I felt old and tired and all fogged up inside ... thirty years old and ready to die. "Call me in the daytime!" The voice on the phone chuckled. It sounded forced. "Come on, Pit," the man said urgently. "It's three o'clock in the afternoon. Wake up. You're the sharpest guy I know. I need your help!" Slowly I tried to think it through. Only frat brothers had ever called me Pit. Short for Pit Bull -- because I never let go. So that meant we had gone to college together, a lifetime or so ago. At most in any given year, our fraternity had thirty-two members. Times four ... a lively selection of suspects. "Pit? You still there?" I frowned. A decade had deepened his voice, but it sounded familiar. Like a gear clicking into place, my brain started working and the name came to me: David Hunt. Tall, blond, and good-looking in a Calvin Klein-model sort of way, mostly skilled in partying and racquetball, but good enough academically to get his MBA without any special assistance from me. That was the only reason they let me into old Alpha Kappa Alpha, after all, to help the jocks and old-money frat boys keep up their GPAs. Sometimes I had resented it, being there to be used, but mostly I didn't care, since the perks were great. I got into all the parties. I had my share of dates and fun and beer, and I still graduated at the top of our class. So what if I did a lot of tutoring and ghostwriting? David had been ... fifty-third? Yes, that was right. Fifty-third in our graduating class. More than respectable for a party boy from Alpha Kappa Alpha. "What is it, Davy?" I said. The haze was lifting now. "And I go by Peter these days." "Peter. Right. Come see me -- I need your help. I'll make it worth your while." I yawned again. "Where are you?" "The Mackin Chase Hotel. I'll be in the lobby. Twenty minutes okay?" "Make it an hour." "If I have to. But hurry." A frantic note crept into his voice. "My future depends on it." He hung up. Since he sounded desperate, I debated skipping a shower. But one look in the mirror and a sniff at my armpits changed my mind: I could live with bloodshot eyes and mussed-up hair, but popular society frowned on people who smelled like I did right now. Heaving my legs over the side of the bed, I found a bottle of aspirin on the night table and dry-swallowed four tablets. My right foot bumped against a half empty bottle of Jack Daniel's on the floor, and briefly I debated a wake-up shot. No, not now; I had an appointment to keep. Instead, I screwed the cap back on. I spent the next fifteen minutes showering, shaving, and cleaning myself up for polite society. A gulp of half flat Pepsi and a cold slice of pizza from the refrigerator made a very late breakfast. Then I found a shirt that wasn't too rumpled and put it on with jeans and comfortable old loafers. Finished, I grabbed a cane from the umbrella stand by the door, left my little one-bedroom Northwood apartment, and limped out to the Frankford El station. A train came almost immediately, luckily. It was mostly empty, so I flopped down in the corner -- not the handicapped seat by the door, which I hate -- and from there I proceeded to study the gum, scuff marks, and unidentifiable stains on the floor, trying not to look out the window at passing brick factories and endless lines of row houses. Details tended to overwhelm me these days; that was partly what led to my nervous breakdown and retirement from a twenty-hours-a-day job at a Wall Street investment firm four years before. Now I kept to myself, tried not to leave my apartment when I didn't have to, and drank to blunt the pain and keep the edge off my always-racing mind. Already it was starting. Everything I knew about David Chatham Hunt came bubbling up through my subconscious, whether relevant or not. The two classes we'd both taken together (Comp 104 and Introduction to Analytical Writing). His family crest, which he'd once shown me (a griffin on a shield, surrounded by Masonic-looking symbols). I could even name all seventeen girls he'd dated (and the two he'd bedded) while living at the frat house. What could David Hunt possibly want with me? He came from a rich old family; his life should have been golden. Mellow, easy-going, never-a-worry-in-the-world Davy Hunt's greatest decision these days should have been which swimsuit model to date or which of his many Saabs and Porsches to drive. The train tracks went underground, and the car got noisy and claustrophobic and dark. A dozen people joined me in the car. Almost there, almost there. I tried not to look at anyone else. I didn't want to figure out life stories from their clothes, tattoos, body piercings, and jewelry. * * * * I knew the Mackin Chase Hotel quite well, of course; it's a Philadelphia landmark, a towering glass-and-steel building near the intersection of Twentieth and Vine, five minutes' walk from the train station. Elevators ran up the outside of the building, and the roof had a helicopter pad. Several times I had wondered what the view would be like from up there. Several times I'd wondered what it would be like to jump. I was ten minutes early for our appointment, but I strolled into the hotel lobby anyway. There, a modernistic fountain made of bent pieces of copper-colored sheet metal splashed and burbled amidst carefully groomed ferns and bamboo. Pale yellow carp swam lazily through a series of interlocking shallow pools. Around me, orchestral music played an incongruously up-tempo version of the Beatles' "Yesterday." How appropriate. Davy Hunt, dressed all in black from his handmade Italian leather shoes to his mock turtleneck sweater and stylish leisure jacket, folded up the newspaper he'd been pretending to read and rose from a marble bench by the fountain. He forced a sickly grin as I hobbled toward him. His hair had grown longer and he now wore it combed to one side, trying to hide a receding hairline. When I got close, I saw the fine web of wrinkles around his eyes. But if he looked his age, I knew I must look thirty years older than mine. Huffing a bit, I leaned on my cane and tried to look strong and brave. Or at least mentally competent. "Pit -- Peter, I mean. How are you doing?" He stuck out his hand; I shook it automatically. His grip was a little too hard, and I rapidly extricated myself. "I'm fine," I lied. "You look ... well." He swallowed hard, clearly shocked and appalled. Of course he remembered the old Peter Geller, the geek from college, who knew everything and never missed any detail, no matter how small. But those days were long gone. "I know how I look, Davy-boy," I said with a rueful grin. "And well it isn't." "God, Pit!" he blurted out. "What happened?" I shrugged. "Nervous breakdown. Spent six months in the psych ward. Got out, got hit by a taxi that ran a red light. I'm an alcoholic now -- as well as a crip," I added with wry humor. "How about you?" He sank down on the bench and buried his face in his hands. For some reason, he seemed to be hyperventilating. His breath came in short gasps. "God. I'm sorry, Pit. Peter. If I'd known -- " "Really, Davy, I don't mind." I sat beside him and stretched out my legs. They hurt less that way. "Want to tell me about it? I'll help if I can. I didn't have anything else planned for today." "I -- I can't ask you -- " "Sure you can. Isn't that what frat brothers are for?" I didn't add: even second-class ones like me? "So. Tell me what's wrong." His ice blue eyes searched mine for a minute. He must really have been desperate, since he gave a nod. I smiled encouragingly. "Blackmail," he whispered. His shoulders hunched. "I'm being blackmailed." "Oh?" I raised my eyebrows. "Start at the beginning," I said. So much for the squeaky-clean kid I'd known in college. What had he gotten himself into? "Okay, Pit." He looked around. "But not here." "Where, then? Your home? Or your office? You do have an office?" He glanced at the lobby bar -- Mack's Place -- which was open and doing a modest business with the pre-dinner crowd. But then he hesitated. "Come on," I said, levering myself upright with my cane. Best get things moving. "You can buy me a ginger ale while you fill me in." "Are you doing that seven-step thing?" he asked carefully. "It's twelve steps, and no." I grinned back at him over my shoulder. "I'm quite happy being a drunk. Alcohol kills the pain better than Tylenol and morphine. But I can take a day off for an old friend." "Um. Thanks." Clearly that disconcerted him. He grabbed his newspaper and trailed me into Mack's. Most of the customers sat at the bar, so I picked a booth at the rear. When a waitress appeared (Cindy, said her nametag: bleached blond hair, fake fingernails, maybe twenty, looked like a college student from the University of Pennsylvania) I kept my word and ordered ginger ale, even though I felt the shakes coming on. Davy asked for scotch and soda. We sat in silence until Cindy served us. "So?" I said again. I leaned back and sucked soda through a thin red straw. Nasty stuff. "Fill me in. How can I help?" Davy folded his hands and leaned forward. "I told you I was being blackmailed." "Sex, drugs, or murder?" I asked lightly. It was hard keeping a straight face. I couldn't imagine the David Hunt I'd known involved in anything shady. "Gambling. There's a private club out on the Main Line. I was there with a girl a few weeks back..." He shrugged. "Had a few too many drinks, and before I knew it, I was twenty thousand in the hole. I left a marker for it. Didn't want it showing up on my credit card statement -- you understand." "Just pay it off. You have the cash, don't you?" "Sure. But I can't pay it off. Someone beat me to it." Davy reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a piece of paper, and slid it across the table. When I unfolded it, I found a color laser printout of a series of eight small pictures, four on each side. From the graininess, the shots must have been taken with one of those hide-in-your-palm micro cameras. Seven showed Davy gambling: craps, roulette, blackjack. In half of them, he had a drop-dead-gorgeous blonde on his arm. The eighth was a picture of an IOU to the Greens Club bearing his signature -- $20,000. "Who's the lady?" I scrutinized the blonde's face, but I had never seen her before. "A friend of mine. Her name's Cree." "Actress-slash-model?" She had that undernourished look. And breasts that defied gravity. He shifted uneasily. "Yes." "You aren't wearing a wedding ring. She's not your wife. So that can't be the problem." He stared at me. "You don't read the Inquirer, do you?" "Not often." Not in the last four years, anyway. "Here." He picked up his newspaper, opened it to the second page of the business section, folded it back, and slid it across to me. DRESHER NATIVE DAVID C. HUNT, JR. CONFIRMED FOR HUNT INDUSTRIES BOARD OF DIRECTORS, read a small headline. I skimmed the brief article. My friend Davy just joined the family business, it seemed. Nodding, I looked up. "Congrats. But what does this have to do with blackmail?" "Last year, there were ... scandals in the company." He shook his head. "I can't believe you missed it. The chief financial officer is in jail. The chief operating officer plea-bargained his way to fines and probation. Half the accountants are under federal indictment. Dad barely fought off being forced out as CEO. He had to struggle to get me nominated to the board of directors last week. The merest hint of a scandal and they'll yank me out. So ... these pictures and my marker have to stay buried." "You should go to the police." I added pointedly, "Blackmail is illegal." He lowered his voice. "So is gambling in unlicensed clubs. If investors think I'm financially irresponsible, I'll be yanked off the board -- and, well, that will crush Dad. There's been a Hunt at the top of the company for a hundred and ten years. He's counting on me to take over when I have more experience. This is the first step." "Point taken." You couldn't argue with parental expectations. "So what do you want me to do?" "I need someone to handle the payoff for me. Someone I can trust who doesn't have his own agenda. My friends -- well, let's say they're friends of convenience. If they scent blood in the water, they're as likely to turn me in to the tabloids as the blackmailer is." I nodded; that I could understand. "But why me?" "I saw your name in that alumni rag a few weeks ago -- it said you were back in Philadelphia." He shrugged. "You were the most straight-as-an-arrow guy I ever met. That whole 'moral compass' thing they teach in business ethics -- that's you to a T. I thought..." He choked up. "That was a long time ago, Davy-boy." "I know, Pit. I ... I'm sorry to have bothered you." He stood, snatching up the laser printout and the newspaper. I grabbed his arm. "Come back here. Geez, you're touchy. Of course I'll help." He hesitated a moment, then sat heavily. If he hadn't been so desperate, I knew he would have run. "Pit..." He leaned forward, voice dropping. "Look at yourself. You're a mess. Your hands are shaking. You can barely walk. This isn't a game. I appreciate your offer, but -- " "I know I have problems," I said, "but I can still help you. That's what friends are for." I looked at him, my eyes pleading. I needed this. Needed something to do, something special to distract me from the downswing toward unhappy oblivion that was my life. He took a deep breath, then sagged a little and seemed to give in. "Okay. But -- " I cut him off. "Start at the beginning and tell me everything. I assume there's a letter with payment instructions. If so, I want to see it." "Here." He pulled another piece of paper from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. I unfolded it carefully. It had been written on a computer, typed in twelve-point Arial, and printed on the type of generic white copier paper you could get at any Staples or OfficeMax. -------- david you can redeem your marker for two hundred thousand dollars if you agree place an ad in the inquirer that reads single white elephant named dumbo seeking mate you will get a voice mail with delivery instructions a friend -------- I retrieved the printout of the pictures, spread it flat on the table, and studied each image one at a time, committing faces to memory. "What about this Cree woman?" I asked. "I've dated her off and on for two years. She's a bit shallow, but okay. Focused on her career. Expects to marry me in a year or two. At least, we've been talking about it." "So you don't think she's behind it?" "For a mere two hundred thou? Come on, I'm worth fifty million all by myself. If she waits, she'll have it all." "Not with a prenuptial agreement." He chuckled. "The jewelry I bought her last month is worth more than that!" "All right. It's not her. Was there anything else? A threat to send everything to the newspapers? Or your company's board of directors?" "Nothing specific. But I know that's what they'll do if I don't pay up." I chewed my lip. "Did you save the envelope the letter came in, by any chance?" "No. Why? Is it important?" "I want to know where it was mailed from." "Sorry, no return address." "Postmark?" "Philadelphia." "Zip code?" "I didn't notice." Not much help; it's a big city. I asked, "When does the ad run?" He tapped the newspaper on the table. "It's in today's classifieds. I just looked it up." "Any voice mails yet?" He nodded. "A few ladies looking for dates so far. The Dumbo part seems to have tickled their fancy." I rotated the page with the pictures and pointed to the one where Davy stood by the roulette table. A man in the background had caught my eye: a little older than us, salt-and-pepper hair, small mustache ... the sort you'd never look at twice. "Do you recognize him?" I asked. Davy leaned forward, squinted. "No. Why?" "He's looking straight at whoever took the picture. And look -- he's standing behind you and Cree at the blackjack table, too. And in this shot -- you can't see his face, but that's clearly his suit. He was stalking you." "Say, I think you're right. But it still doesn't help. I don't know him." I nodded. "All right." My mind was already turning through the possibilities. Too bad I didn't know anyone at the police department or the FBI. Face-recognition software was the latest thing. A name would be helpful. Who else might know him? The gambling club's management? Davy leaned forward and touched my hand. "Listen to me, Pit," he said seriously. "I didn't ask you here to solve a crime. This isn't a puzzle to work out. Your job is to be a courier. That's it. Once the payoff is made, you have to drop it." I smiled. "I understand, Davy. I'm just naturally curious." "I don't want you doing anything stupid and getting hurt. Don't be a pit bull. Just help me out -- I'll make it worth your while." He slid a cell phone across to me, along with a set of car keys. "Just hit redial. The password on the account is 9-1-1-9." "What are the keys for?" "My car. It's valet parked -- the claim check is on the key ring, see? That plastic chit on the end. Uh, you can still drive, can't you?" "Sure, I just have to be careful." "Good." "And the money?" "In the trunk," he said, "in a briefcase." I stared at him in disbelief. "Are you crazy? What if the parking attendant rips you off?" He grinned. "I gave him a valet key -- it only opens the driver's door and starts the ignition. No way for him to open the trunk." I nodded and said: "So I take them the money, get back your marker, and see that all the files for the digital pictures are destroyed. Is that the plan?" "Uh-huh." "One last question." "Shoot." "Where is this gambling club?" "Why?" "Just curious. I like to gamble, and it's closer than Atlantic City. It's not like they can blackmail me." Grudgingly, he told me. Then he glanced at his watch and frowned. "Some place you have to be?" I asked. "Yeah. Dad's giving a dinner in my honor tonight. The whole board will be there. I have to get going or I'm going to be late. Cree is picking me up in about two minutes. Can you handle things?" "Sure." I gave a quick grin. "You can count on me, Davy. I'll take care of everything." "I know." He smiled -- a bit wistfully, I thought. "You haven't even asked what's in it for you. You'd make a bad businessman, Pit." I laughed. "Must be our old Alpha Kappa Alpha bond. You don't owe me a thing, Davy-boy. I'll help because I can." "Thanks. I mean it, Pit. Thanks." * * * * He left, stopping briefly at the bar to pay our tab. I waited till he was gone, then eased myself out of the booth with the help of my cane, scooped up keys and cell phone, and headed for the lobby. Already a plan was forming in the back of my mind. There was a small barber shop off the hotel lobby, next to the gift store: forty bucks for a simple haircut, but I needed to look my best tonight. I was going to pay the gambling club a visit. The barber did an adequate job of neatening me up. Then I went to the men's room and used wet paper towels to clean all the hairs off my face, neck, and ears that he missed. After that, I went to the gift shop and poked around until I found a travel kit that included a small pair of scissors. I paid for it, pocketed the scissors, then threw out the nail clippers and everything else. I paused long enough by a trash can to cut mustache-man's picture out of the printout. Maybe I'd get lucky and find out his name when I asked around at the gambling club tonight. That's where I intended to go -- straight to the heart of the problem. Then I exited the hotel. Instead of retrieving Davy's car from the parking attendant, I headed for the men's clothing shop I'd passed a block or so down. Time for a suit ... something expensive and Italian, maybe silk. And a flashy tie. I wanted to look like I had a million bucks tonight. It seemed to me Davy's situation had two possible causes. One, blackmailers had recognized him, picked him as an easy mark, and surreptitiously photographed him at the gambling club. Two, the management of the gambling club had set him up and was conducting this sting. To get him deep enough in debt to leave an IOU, they would probably have to be running crooked games. And I counted on my own skills with numbers and general mental abilities to be able to spot bad dice, rigged tables, or marked cards. Either way, the casino seemed the logical place to start. As I walked, I used Davy's cell phone to check for voice-mail messages. Nothing new. * * * * Two hours later, and $3,700 dollars poorer, thanks to my credit cards and rush tailoring, I had an Armani suit that fit like a glove. I had traded in my cane for a silver-handled walking stick. A small blood red carnation brightened my lapel. As I glanced at my reflection in the side windows of shops, I had to admit I didn't look like the same seedy cripple who had agreed to do this job. I had a car to get -- my first driving experience since the accident -- and I had blackmailers to catch. Whether Davy wanted it or not, I intended to help him the best way I could. And that meant making sure his enemies couldn't hold anything over him for the rest of his life. If he paid off this time, I knew they would be back in a few months for more ... and more ... and more. * * * * Davy's car wasn't the bright red Ferrari I'd half expected, but a black BMW sports car, low slung and sexy. It had a manual transmission, but after a few jerky starts the rhythm of driving one came back to me, and I pulled out onto Vine and accelerated smoothly toward the Main Line and the old-money towns west of Philadelphia. What should have been a twenty minute ride took nearly four times as long, thanks to the volume of rush hour traffic on Route 76. When I finally pulled off at the proper exit, it was growing dark. I began scanning street signs. Half a dozen turns later, I found myself on a private road heading for what was marked as a members-only golf course. And sure enough, it had acres of floodlit greens to the sides and back, along with a sprawling clubhouse, a catering hall and half a dozen other barnlike outbuildings, and ample parking lots lit by bright floodlights. It was still early for the fashionable set, but even so, the last building, which Davy claimed was the casino, seemed to be doing a lively business. Quite a few vehicles were parked outside its entrance, and a pair of teenage boys manned a valet station at the curb. I parked myself, retrieved the black leather briefcase from the trunk, flipped its latches, and peeked inside at bundles of crisp hundred dollar bills. Two thousand of them, if my math was right. And it was. Turning, I limped across the lot toward the casino. At the door, a security camera panned down slightly to take me in. There was no doorman waiting, so I tried the knob. Locked, of course. I pressed a small brass buzzer. Moments later, a window set in the door slid open. "Yeah?" said a man with brown eyes and weather-bronzed skin. "What is it?" He had a heavy New Jersey accent. "Swordfish?" I volunteered. "Don't play with me." He must not have seen many Marx Brothers movies. Or perhaps he'd heard the line so many times he no longer found it humorous. "Sorry," I said. "I'd like in, please." "This is a private club." "I was invited by a member. Perhaps you know him." I juggled my cane a second, then flipped the latches on the briefcase and held it up so he and the camera could see. "His name is Cash." The eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Who's the real friend, wiseguy?" Jersey-boy demanded. "Well, if you must know, David Hunt." "He's not a member." I shrugged. "He was here a few days ago and spoke glowingly of the action." "He's not a member." "Then refer me to the sales department." "Membership is by invitation only." He seemed determined to make things difficult. I said, "Bump me up a step on the food chain, and I'll get myself invited." I gave him a smile. "Besides, won't you get in trouble if you let me walk away with all this money? I'm sure others are watching on your security cameras." The window slammed shut. For a moment, I wondered if I'd pissed him off. Finally, though, I heard a deadbolt slide over and the door swung out. My personal charms must have worked. Jersey-boy was about forty, of Mediterranean descent, and built like a brick wall. He wore his hair short and slicked back, and a thin white scar ran from his left ear to his chin. From the bulge under his suit jacket, I knew he sported a shoulder holster. I got the impression he could have torn me in half without really trying. This definitely wasn't the sort of person I wanted to tangle with. "In," he said, with a jerk of his thumb. "Thanks." I shut the briefcase and strolled into a richly decorated antechamber perhaps ten feet deep and twenty feet wide. From plush red carpet to oak paneled walls to the crystal chandelier overhead, everything felt rich and inviting. Even the paintings on the walls were tasteful country landscapes. The atmosphere had the well-scrubbed feel of industrial air-conditioning. "Sit," he said, indicating a low bench, its seat done in crushed red velvet the same shade as the carpet. I sat, briefcase beside me, cane across my knees. It hurt, but I kept my legs folded back. A small table held recent issues of Newsweek, Cosmopolitan, and Sports Illustrated. None looked like it had ever been read. I picked through them. The subscription address labels had been meticulously clipped out. After a couple of minutes, four people trooped through after me: two middle-aged men in tuxedos, two women in evening gowns. Jersey-boy greeted them warmly. I felt underdressed until I recalled the photos Davy had shown me. Most men in the club had been wearing suits. Gambling wasn't necessarily a black-tie event here. The newcomers passed through a doorway to my left, into a short windowless hallway. Jersey-boy resumed his post by the entrance. Then the door on the other end of the room opened, and an older man in a gray silk suit appeared. White hair, brushed straight back, dark Mediterranean complexion, trim and wiry looking -- and I knew him. Somehow, somewhere, we had met before. But where? I began to search my memories. He gave a slight nod to the muscle on duty. "Mr. Smith will see you now," Jersey-boy told me. "Thanks." I used my cane and limped toward Smith. He turned to lead the way up another red-carpeted hall. As I passed through the doorway, I caught a whiff of Smith's lavender cologne. Then beefy men on either side grabbed my arms in vicelike grips. I gave a startled yelp and dropped both cane and briefcase. They half carried, half dragged me forward. I should have seen the trap. Davy's money made a very tempting target. When I glanced back, a fourth man was picking up my briefcase and cane. He trailed us. The two goons brought me to a small room with a chest-high wooden table pushed up against the back wall. Handheld metal detectors and other equipment sat there. Of course, they had to check me out to make sure I wasn't an FBI agent of some sort. I let myself relax a bit. Maybe this wouldn't take long and we could get down to business. The fourth man set my cane and briefcase down next to the table, then frisked me. He removed Davy's cell phone and my billfold, then turned to the table and selected one of the metal detectors. Switching it on with his thumb, he stepped forward and ran it over my body with practiced efficiency, starting at my head and working his way down. Each time the device beeped, one of the goons removed the offending bit of metal and tossed it onto the table: car keys, house keys, cufflinks. They even took my belt for its buckle. As his men worked, Smith picked up my billfold and went through it item by item. Where had I seen him before? Strangely, the fact that I couldn't identify him bothered me more than the search. I could usually place any name or face in a few seconds. Several times Smith murmured, "Hmm." Once was when he held my driver's license -- probably in reaction to my address. No one with money lived where I lived. He pulled a small notepad from his back pocket and jotted something down. Then the metal detector hit my legs and went wild. Everyone jumped. The goons' grip on my arms became painful. "I have pins in my bones," I gasped. "That's why I need a cane." "Kick off your shoes and drop your pants," the man with the metal detector said in a not-to-be-argued-with voice. I did so. I could feel the tension go out of the room as their gazes dropped from my gray briefs to the hideously scarred, vaguely fleshy mess of my legs. I looked like something out of a freak show. Pity -- oh, how well I knew pity. And revulsion. I saw it now in their faces. It had taken six operations to make my lower limbs at all usable after the accident. For a while, every doctor I saw told me I'd need the right one amputated. Stubbornly, I had refused. They had also told me I'd never walk again. "There are," I continued, to break the sudden and uncomfortable silence, "seventeen steel pins in my right leg and eight in my left. I can point them all out, if it's helpful." "Not necessary." The man with the metal detector ran it over my shoes. Apparently the nails were too small to register, or he had adjusted his equipment for them. Then he took my pants and searched them before giving them back. "He's clean," he told Smith. "Check the bag and the cane," Smith said. He nodded to the goons, who released me. I had to lean against the wall to get my pants up. It hurt enough to make my eyes swim, but I kept my face calm and impassive. "Mr. Geller," said Smith. He tossed my billfold to me. "You have a most unusual way of making an entrance." "I realize that, sir." "You understand, we have to be careful about who we let in." "Of course." I shuffled to the table, leaned on it heavily, and recovered my keys, cufflinks, and belt. Slowly I put everything back. "His cane is fine," said the man examining it. "So is his bag. Lots of money in it." "How much?" Smith asked. "Want me to count it, sir?" "Don't bother," I said. "It's two hundred thousand even." Smith raised his eyebrows. "That's quite a lot to carry around. Not that I'm complaining, of course. Games always work in the house's favor." "I didn't come to gamble," I said. "I came to meet with the person in charge. I assume that's you." He inclined his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "Yes." "So -- " I smiled. Hopefully he would go for it. "How about a meeting?" He studied me for a moment, undoubtedly trying to figure out my angle. Apparently he didn't find me the least bit intimidating. I just wished I could remember where we had met. Then, suddenly, it came back to me. At the Golden Nugget Casino in Atlantic City, right after they released me from rehab. I had braces on both legs and had to be helped onto my stool at the blackjack table by casino attendants. I was on pain killers, heavy ones, and I seemed to be viewing the world through a haze. Smith had watched me play for half an hour, winning steadily. I had about forty thousand in chips in front of me when he approached, leaned forward, and whispered in my ear, "The house doesn't mind regulars who win small amounts. It's card counters who try to take them for a fortune that gets the house upset." I had glanced at his nametag -- "C. Tortelli" -- as I nodded. "Thanks," I said. Even through my painkiller haze, I understood. Maybe it had been charity for a cripple. Maybe he had just been a good guy. But I took his suggestion. The hospitals and doctors had sucked my insurance, then my savings, dry at that point, and I needed money. A lot of it. And I needed a consistent source for more too. If the casinos blacklisted me, I realized, I would never get back inside them. I spent the next ten minutes losing steadily, like I'd had a run of luck that went sour. I left with twenty thousand instead of forty or fifty. And ever since, I kept my winnings to two thousand dollars, more or less, per casino per monthly visit. And so I managed to keep myself both afloat and under their radar. All thanks to Mr. Smith here. Or "C. Tortelli," as his nametag once said. Now Smith-Tortelli said, "Very well. I'm intrigued, Mr. Geller. This way, please." * * * * Two minutes later we sat in an office that might have belonged to any mid-level executive at any big corporation: heavy walnut desk, computer, pictures of wife and kids in silver frames, signed baseball on a little wooden stand. He even had an inbox and an outbox. Who knew organized crime had such amenities. "Drink?" he asked. "Water, please." He handed me a bottle of Poland Spring water from a tiny refrigerator in the corner, next to a small wet bar. I peeled the plastic wrapper off the spout and took a sip, spilling a little. My hands were shaking again. "So," he prompted, settling down behind his desk, "you say you're not here to gamble." "That's right." Without preamble, I told him Davy Hunt's blackmail story. "It occurred to me," I said in conclusion, "that there are only three possibilities. One is that your little operation here is behind the blackmail scheme, and that you're using the casino to set up unsuspecting men like David Hunt. In which case, I'll just cut out the middleman and leave you the money now. Payment in full. Destroy the pictures and we're done." He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "What's the second possibility?" he asked. "That rogue members of your staff are doing it on the sly. In which case, you need to be informed so you can act to stop it. Or, if you prefer, cut yourself in on the action. Once you remove David Hunt, of course, from the target list." He nodded slowly. "And the third?" "That you and your staff are unwitting victims. After all, your club's reputation will be severely damaged if word gets out that members are being photographed and blackmailed. This is my personal suspicion, of course." "Of course." He looked off into the distance thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you know who's behind this blackmail plot." "Possibly." I reached into my jacket pocket and fished out the clipped picture of mustache-man. "There are at least two people working the setup. One arranges the shots, the other snaps photos with one of those micro spy cameras." Smith took the picture. From the way his eyes widened slightly, I knew he recognized mustache-man. And he was trying hard not to show it. "I've seen him," he said slowly. "He comes in once or twice a week, and he drops a couple hundred each time. Not a big spender, but the sort of solid repeat customer we like." He put the clipped picture into his vest pocket instead of returning it. Then he rose. "Thank you for coming to me," he said. "I'll handle things. You can tell Mr. Hunt that he won't be bothered again." I nodded and rose. He did not offer to shake hands, nor did he offer to return Davy's money. Quid pro quo; he could keep it with my blessing if it got Davy safely off the hook. Davy didn't need the cash as much as he needed security. "Do you gamble, Mr. Geller?" he asked unexpectedly. "Now and again, Mr. Tortelli." He didn't react to my using his real name. Instead, he handed me a small piece of paper. "What's this?" I asked. It had "10K-S" written on it. Instead of answering, he pressed a hidden button under his desktop. A second later, the door opened. Goon Number Two stood there. "Sir?" "Mr. Geller has a chit for ten thousand dollars. Make sure he has a good time. He's going to be my guest tonight." Then he turned back to me. "I suggest you play at table number five. Find a comfortable seat and relax." * * * * Smith's personal invitation opened all the right doors. The goon smiled a perfect shark's smile as he escorted me through several hallways to a cavernous casino done all in reds and golds. Roulette, baccarat, blackjack, poker, craps, and other table games occupied the center of the room. Jangling slot machines lined the walls. Cashiers' stations at both ends of the room doled out a steady supply of chips, while scantily clad women circulated with trays of drinks. Keep the alcohol flowing and the money will follow: it seemed like a sound business plan. A hundred or so people were already inside, moving from game to game. "This is table five," said the goon, halting at a low-rent blackjack table. The dealer, a middle-aged woman, was shuffling eight fresh decks in preparation for filling a card shoe. Three of the five seats were already taken. "Thanks." When I settled onto one of the empty stools, I found I had a nice view of the whole room. I put Tortelli's chit in front of me, and without batting an eye the dealer slid over several tall stacks of red, blue, and black chips. They had values stamped in gold from $5 to $100. I didn't bother to count them. For the next few hours, I played slowly and conservatively, adding more chips than I lost to my stacks. I kept my eyes open and my mouth shut. This was business, I told myself. Tortelli wouldn't have put me here without cause. With half my attention on the game, I surveyed the crowds and began picking out plainclothes security. I found six of them. And a couple I suspected, but couldn't quite confirm. Then I saw him -- mustache-man. He strutted in with a middle-aged woman on his arm. Both of them dressed conservatively, with bland haircuts and dull watches, rings, and jewelry. No one would have looked at them twice. The dealer placed a king and a five in front of me. "Hit," I said, tapping the table. She dealt me an eight -- busted. While she finished out the other players' hands, I leaned back and watched as a subtle change came over the movements of the crowd. Three people converged on my blackmail suspects. A passing woman deliberately spilled her drink on mustache-man and -- though I couldn't hear her voice over the noise of the room -- began to apologize profusely, brushing him off with a cocktail napkin. A couple of security guards appeared and, with sympathy, escorted the pair off, I assumed under the pretense of getting the man dried off. Perhaps even promises of free chips to help ease the distress ... anything to keep a regular happy. I rose and tossed the blackjack dealer a fifty dollar chip. "Thanks," I said. "Cashing out now." "Thank you!" she replied, smiling for the first time since I'd sat down. She handed me a small dish, and I scooped my winnings into it. Then I headed after mustache-man and his date. But Goon One and Goon Two cut me off before I reached the door. They simply blocked my way, folded their arms, and smiled their sharky smiles. "Hello again, boys," I said, smiling back. I could play the polite game too. "Mr. Smith says you should go back and gamble," Two said, tapping the little brown earplug he now wore. "And miss the fun?" I leaned forward and spoke into Two's lapel. He had to have a microphone in there somewhere. "I have a vindictive streak, Mr. Tortelli. I like to see things properly finished. No loose ends." Goon Two said, "Mr. Smith doesn't think you should be an accessory to what's happening. Play cards or go home. This isn't a game now." That's what I needed to hear. I nodded and spoke again to his lapel. "Very well. I'm done, and thanks." Tortelli had it wrong. It was a game. Mustache-man was one player, and Davy was the other. All the rest of us ... we were merely pawns on the board. I handed Two my tray of chips. Turning, I limped toward the door. It was one thing to orchestrate Davy's victory, but quite another to actually execute it. Or see it executed. I did not want to know the details. * * * * I had thought to simply return to my old life after that, but -- as they say -- events conspired against me. The next morning Davy phoned, and I assured him that his problem had been taken care of. "Thanks," he said, sounding relieved. "Then it went well?" "Better than I had hoped. I don't think we'll be hearing from the blackmailers again." "How did you like the car?" I laughed. "Nice. Took me a few minutes to get back into driving stick, but don't worry, the transmission's fine." He chuckled. "Good. Stop by my office. I have some paperwork for you." "What sort?" I couldn't imagine needing paperwork for eliminating a blackmail threat. "Sometimes, Pit, you're pretty dense for a genius. I told you I'd take care of you. I'm giving you the car, with my thanks. Just a matter of signing the registration over." My heart skipped. That had to be a forty-thousand-dollar vehicle. "I can't accept," I said. "It's too much, and I'm a public transit sort of guy. Buy me lunch sometime instead, okay?" "Pit..." "I mean it," I said firmly. "I enjoyed helping, Davy. I don't get out enough. Give me your address, and I'll drop the car off this afternoon." * * * * That should have ended matters. I dropped off the car at the Center City office building where Davy had his office, accepted his invitation for dinner that Sunday (Cree apparently liked to cook; she didn't eat, but she was a master of Cajun cuisine). The train ride home was uneventful. I got my favorite corner seat after a couple of stops, and I even managed to look out the window as we headed for the Frankford station. I limped to my apartment five blocks from the El station, unlocked the deadbolt, and paused in the doorway. Something was wrong. I always left a light on in the kitchen, and it was off. Instead, the bedroom light was on. Someone had been here. I paused, listening, and heard a slight creak from my sofa. Broken springs could be useful sometimes. Then I caught a faint whiff of lavender. "Reach out to your right," I said, "and turn on the lamp, Mr. Tortelli. I like to see my guests." There followed a half-second silence, then two sharp clicks as he turned the switch. A dim yellow bulb came on, revealing my Spartan living room: worn yellow sofa, two white-and-yellow wingback chairs, wooden coffee table, two tall bookcases mostly devoted to bric-a-brac. As the lamp's fluorescent bulb began to warm, the light steadily increased. Tortelli leaned back, watching me. He wore another silk suit, dark blue this time with pinstripes. His tie glistened faintly, like sharkskin. Even his black shoes had an enviable shine. "Two seconds in the dark to realize you had an intruder, identify him, and conclude you weren't in danger. Very good, Mr. Geller. Very good indeed." "Not in danger? You understate your abilities, Mr. Tortelli." He half shrugged modestly. "Perhaps." I came in and closed the door. Casually I glanced around the room, taking inventory ... not that I owned anything worth stealing. Every object in the room had been moved slightly out of place; it would take hours to put them back. And the changes were so slight that few others would have noticed, or cared. "Why the search?" I asked. "What were you hoping to find?" "You knew my name," he said. "My old name. I haven't used it in nearly three years. I need to know how." "We met in Atlantic City when you worked at the Golden Nugget." I eased myself into a chair, wincing a bit. Then I told him my casino-enlightenment story. "Of course," I went on, "your hair is a bit different, and your clothes are vastly better these days. You've really come up in the world." "And you remembered me, even after all these years?" He looked surprised. "I must have made quite an impression on you." "No." I leaned forward. "I remember everything and everyone, Mr. Tortelli. It's a curse. Oh, sorry, I'm a bad host. If you'd like a drink, please help yourself. Beer in the fridge, hard stuff over the sink. I'm not up to waiting on anyone. Need to catch my breath." "Still..." He rose and began to pace. "It took quite a bit of effort to find out about you, Mr. Geller. Or may I call you Pit?" "If you like. Charles? Or Charlie?" "Cal." "Ah." So much for "C. Tortelli" on his nametag. "See? I don't know everything." "I don't like loose ends, Pit. I imagine you don't, either." "Sometimes I do." I tensed, but tried not to show it. Was I a loose end, to be rubbed out in my own apartment? He seemed to sense my unease and chuckled. "I like you, 'Pit Bull' Peter Geller. You have a unique style." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, almost square bit of plastic, which he flipped onto the coffee table. It was a flash memory card for a digital camera. I leaned forward with interest. "From the blackmailers?" "Yes. As far as I can tell, it contains the originals of their pictures. There don't appear to be any copies." "Thank you," I said. He nodded once, then rose and started for the door. Halfway out, he paused. "You turned down Hunt's offer of a car. May I ask why?" How did he know that? My phone had to be bugged. I'd deal with it later. I said, "I don't need a car. The insurance premiums would eat me alive. And this isn't the right neighborhood for a BMW, anyway. Wouldn't last a week on the street." He nodded. "Interesting. Thank you, Pit. I'll be in touch." A shiver ran through me at those words. But then he closed the door and was gone. And somehow, I didn't feel like drinking. -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by John Gregory Betancourt. -------- CH010 *In the Fire* by Peter Sellers Shortly before noon on a warm Monday in late June, the Asian Express opened to great fanfare and a waiting line of customers. By the end of the following week we were getting hate mail. The anonymous letters were on stationery from one of the provincial government ministries a couple of blocks away. The correspondent claimed that "the best rats in town wouldn't eat there." That wasn't true. I'd seen them in the alley, making off with our scraps. Kevin and I had found the job at the University of Toronto Student Employment Office. The posting said that a new fast food restaurant needed staff. The pay was two fifty an hour days, and three bucks nights. The job wasn't what either of us was looking for, but it wasn't as bad as most of the other opportunities advertised. It didn't involve waiting tables, lifting boxes, or selling things over the phone. We called and were told to be at an apartment in Thorncliffe Park the next evening at seven. Donald Chu answered the door wearing a tight-fitting tank top and a Speedo. "Come in," he said. "Come in, please." At first I thought it was another one of those situations and that the ad had been a ruse. But Donald Chu was smaller than I was, and Kevin was a lot bigger. Unless Chu knew karate, we could have taken him. When he stepped aside we saw three guys and a girl sitting in his dining room. They were around our age and fully dressed. We joined them. "It is called Asian Express," Donald Chu said as he walked back and forth, waving his arms enthusiastically, "because everything will be fast. The food will be good Chinese food. Egg roll. Chop suey. Pineapple chicken. The service will be fast, fast. The food will be hot and ready. People will come in and get good food fast and go away and come back tomorrow. There is no other Chinese food in the area, and Chinese food is very, very popular." He was right about that. But he didn't explain why his staff consisted of four Jewish guys, a Greek girl, and me. I wondered if the rest of them knew any more about preparing Chinese food than Kevin and I did. Training took place over two days during the week before opening. In those few hours we were supposed to learn everything there was to know about running a fast food outlet. Fortunately, there wasn't much actual cooking involved. Most of the food arrived already prepared and frozen in vacuum-sealed plastic bags. One of Donald's equipment suppliers, a flamboyant man in a felt hat and a camel hair sport jacket despite the heat, talked lovingly about the new bain marie, a tank of water kept almost at the boiling point. The frozen plastic bags were suspended in the water for set amounts of time, and the food was supposed to emerge hot and ready to serve. The salesman's pudgy hands caressed the machine tenderly and directed most of his instructions at me. We learned about the microwave oven. It seemed fantastic that you could pop uncooked food into a cold oven and it would be ready to serve a few minutes later. There was a brief seminar on the deep fryer and how to make egg rolls and wontons. I never got that quite right, and they frequently came out soggy. We learned how the steam table worked and we were shown the trick of spraying the food with water and stirring it to give the illusion of freshness. As time went on, we did that a lot. Donald also showed us how much food to serve in the various Styrofoam containers. The small portions were guaranteed to ensure that customers would be on their way quickly. We were shown where to put the garbage in the side alley, and we were taught how to clean and maintain the machines. That information came late in the day. By then I was having trouble keeping my mind from wandering. Donald posted the first week's schedule. Kevin and I got some of the night hours. Cary and Moshe got the rest. Ira didn't want to work nights and Donald didn't want Louise doing it. She'd have been quite safe, probably, but no one knew that at the time. For the first couple of weeks, most of the food was kept in a basement freezer and heated up every morning. As the day progressed, we could replenish as needed. The rice arrived freshly cooked in the morning, delivered to the side door by two Chinese men, and was placed in the steam table. It needed to be sprayed and stirred most often. I didn't eat Chinese food, but Kevin said that what we were serving wasn't good. The frozen sauces had odd, artificial flavors. The meat that wasn't gristle was dry. The reheating was inconsistent. Donald didn't seem to notice. He let us open up, get the food ready, and serve it, with no supervision. When he did show up, he usually didn't stay long. One night, two girls came in asking for pineapple chicken. There was none ready, but Kevin and I didn't have the heart to tell them. He said it would be a couple of minutes and I got a package from the freezer and popped it into the microwave. We chatted with the girls until the oven beeped. The chicken was still frozen. I gave it another couple of minutes, then a couple more. We kept joking, but the girls were checking their watches. I took the chicken out of the oven and touched a couple of pieces. It was warm enough and the sauce was hot. The girls didn't come back to complain. They never came back to eat again, either. There were tourists who didn't know any better and a small group of hardy souls who came back day after day. One of them gazed around the otherwise empty store and looked sad. "I don't understand it," he said, taking his dollar ninety-five lunch. "This stuff is great. See you tomorrow." True to his word, he returned almost daily until the end. The usual customer response wasn't so kind or so generous. A man who stopped in for an egg roll came back and threw it on the counter. "I can't eat this shit. It's disgusting." Kevin gazed into the deep fryer. He put his face down close to it and sniffed. "Maybe we should clean this," he said. * * * * The humidity in Toronto could always get bad in July, but in 1975 it was particularly unkind. Being on Wellesley Street just off Yonge, we did a fair business selling cold drinks to passersby. Quite often one of us would have to go down the basement to replace the tanks of syrup. Other than stirring the rice, there wasn't much else to do. We spent a lot of time leaning on the counter watching the street. "Rapunzel's at it again," Kevin said. Across the street, on the second floor, was a body rub parlor, which were big in those days. One of the girls was a blonde with long wavy hair. She liked to lean out the window and call to men passing below. Most ignored her. Some yelled back. Occasionally, one would change course and head up the stairs. "You notice something?" I asked Kevin as two plump, balding men surrendered to Rapunzel's siren song. "What?" "All the guys who go up there are old." "Yeah," Kevin said. "I wonder what it's like up there," I said, when Rapunzel was back. "Go find out," Kevin said. "I'll mind the store." I looked up at Rapunzel and thought, she's way out of my league. "I'll think about it," I said. * * * * At the end of the second week, there was still enough business dribbling in to keep Donald's spirits high. But he cut staff. "I have to fire Ira," Donald said. "He's too slow. Here we have to be fast, fast." He slapped the back of one hand against the palm of the other. "And I have to fire Louise. She can't work nights." That was too bad. Louise was cute and I thought she liked me. * * * * Thursday was what Kevin and I called Boys' Night Out. There were several gay bathhouses in the area, and Thursday was the busiest night. Not many of the bathhouse-bound men were in the mood for Chinese. When they went by our window, some peered in as if checking to see what we could see. Most just walked past. One man, though, stopped at the window. He was maybe fifty and slightly scruffy. He stared through the glass, not at the menu and the walls as people did in the daytime. He looked at me. I glanced away, then back. He was still staring. I told Kevin I had to get something from the basement. When I came upstairs the man had gone. * * * * Queer men have always been attracted to me. One day I was sitting on the subway, beside the door, when I noticed that a guy across the car was staring at me. When I looked at him he winked. As the train pulled into the next station, he came to stand by the door. Reaching out, he pressed his fingers into my shoulder and held his hand out to me, leaving it there until the doors opened. * * * * One of our regulars was a guy who wore military fatigue trousers and had his hair buzzed. He drifted in one evening and stood at the counter eating chow mein. "Good food," he said. We were so grateful we gave him a free drink. He looked surprised when I handed it to him. He said his name was Chuck and he told us about things he ate while on patrol in Vietnam. Compared to roasted rat and raw bamboo shoots, our food may have been okay. Chuck ate without looking at the food. His head never rested. All the time he talked he looked around. It was disconcerting. Kevin and I both started doing it unconsciously. "Thanks for the Coke," he said, and he walked away, searching. * * * * The food was better now. Donald had changed suppliers, probably too late. Word of mouth spreads fast and I wouldn't have been surprised to see people crossing the street to avoid us. The frozen food was gone. Instead, the Chinese men who brought the rice filled the steam table with the whole menu, fresh and hot. It looked and smelled fine, at least for the first few hours. Then we sprayed and stirred as much as before. If supplies ran low, we called Donald. We had to let the phone ring twice, hang up, and then call again before he'd answer. * * * * The next Thursday night, I was cleaning up some garbage that a couple of drunks had left on the counter when the scruffy man came back. He appeared at the window staring at me like before. As soon as he knew that I'd seen him, he came in. "Hi," he said. Kevin was downstairs changing a soft drink canister. I felt like yelling for him to come back, but then I thought I was being foolish. "What can I get you?" I asked, smiling to counter the fact that I was backing away. There was a louvred door into the kitchen. It wasn't much, and it was held shut by a simple hook and eye, but I wanted to be behind even that suggestion of security. "Wait." His voice was plaintive. "Do you want something?" "Yes." He grasped my arm. I was unsure what to do. I didn't seem to have the strength to pull away. Then Kevin came up the stairs. "Get out," he said. His voice was soft but he spoke with purpose. "Get out or I'm calling the cops." I heard him lift the receiver. The grip on my arm tightened until it hurt. Kevin dialed zero. "Get me the police, please," he said. The man let go abruptly, walked to the door, and blew me a kiss. "It's okay now," Kevin said. He hung up. "You all right?" he asked. I nodded, but it was a while before I could stop shaking. * * * * "Guys kept trophies," Chuck said. Everyone knows about this now, but it was news to us then and brought with it a thrill of the gruesome and forbidden. "Some guys kept ears. Some guys kept wieners." He nodded in a way that included us as men of the world. "I knew one guy," he chuckled, "who went everybody else one better. He took a face. He sliced all around here." He traced the sides of his head, along his hairline, behind his ears, and under his chin where it joined the neck. "Then he peeled it off. Lots of guys wrote home about that one, you bet." He munched away contentedly, eyes scanning. "They shipped that guy home, though." He chuckled again. "Imagine that." * * * * Sometimes the body rub girls would come in. They had bought food once early on. Now they only got cold drinks. Sometimes Rapunzel came, but usually it was a stacked brunette whom we called Miss Twilly, after a character in a William Goldman novel. "Business stinks, eh?" she said one afternoon. I found it hard to talk to her, but Kevin had no problem. "Whatever gives you that idea?" he asked. She laughed. "I ate here," she said. "You oughta give out a length of plastic tube with every meal." "How's your business?" Kevin asked. I was aching to know, but never would have brought it up myself. "Better'n this." "What's your secret?" "Come over. We'll show you." * * * * Two days after changing the food, Donald had a terrible idea. "We have to tell everyone that we have new food," he said. "I want to have someone walking around on the street with one of those signs." He indicated his back and front. "A sandwich board," Kevin said. "Yes, a sandwich board." "Well," I said, "there are lots of places that make them. And you can hire some derelict to wear it." Donald shook his head. "No, no. We are not busy, and I don't have extra money to spend. We will make our own sign, and you have lots of time. One of you will wear it." He smiled, as if assuming we'd appreciate this stroke of genius. Donald bought two sheets of orange Bristol board, a black marker and some rope. Kevin had the neater printing, so he made the sign. It looked uneven and cheap. But Donald nodded and said, "Excellent. Who wants to wear it?" Kevin lost the toss. "You want us to walk back and forth in front of the store, right?" he asked hopefully. "All over," Donald said, waving his arm in a circle round his head. "On Yonge Street. At the corner. Up and down. Wherever there are people and traffic." When Kevin had tied the two pieces of card together and slipped them over his head, I held the door for him. He had to turn sideways to get out. "Good luck, pal," I said. "I'll be thinking of you." He walked toward the corner. Miss Twilly was on the sidewalk, laughing. Donald had left again, and I started preparing for the lunch trickle. When I looked up from dishing out some fried rice for the only lunch customer yet that day, the scruffy man was standing at the window. I almost didn't recognize him. He was wearing a suit and he had shaved. I was so startled that I returned his stare. "And some chop suey," the customer said, loudly and slowly, the way people do when they're having to repeat something they shouldn't. "Oh, right." I dished that up, too. The man was still at the window. Fumbling nervously, I dropped the spoon. I picked it up and was going to scoop out the customer's chicken chow mein when he said, "Hey." "Oh, right," I said, tossing the spoon in the sink and getting another. The customer looked at his order suspiciously, but he paid and left. There was no one else in the store. The man was still at the window. He watched the customer leave, then he smiled, winked, and walked away too. When I was sure he was gone, I went to the window to look for Kevin. I wanted him to forget the damn sign and come back. He was halfway to the corner, talking with Miss Twilly who put her hand on his chest. * * * * Donald had taken to coming to the restaurant late at night. A few times, Kevin and I were just about to close when he walked in and told us that he was going to stay open a while longer. By then, some of the food had been sitting since eleven in the morning. Even spraying and stirring wasn't going to help it to look palatable. Maybe that's why he often wore the Speedo. Maybe he figured it would help bring in customers. * * * * On Wednesday night, Kevin said, "We better find something to put the fat in." The fryer held fifty pounds of the stuff, and the job of cleaning it was overdue. We had to drain the fat last thing at night while it was still hot, then let it congeal so we could throw it out in the morning. While I cashed out, Kevin found two round metal containers. "How about these?" "Perfect," I said. We turned the machine off, pushed a container under each spigot, opened them, and went home. * * * * When I walked in the next morning, Donald was fussing with the steam table. The fat had congealed in the two containers. Kevin arrived and we each picked up one of them. "You can't throw those out," Donald said. "I need them. Use something else." He left without offering any suggestions. All Kevin and I could find was a green garbage bag that had been used before and didn't look promising, but it was almost opening time. I took a serving spoon and, while Kevin held the bag open, I lifted the containers, tipped them over, and scooped the fat into the bag. The sound was unpleasant. When the containers were empty, Kevin closed the bag and began dragging it across the kitchen floor. Through a small tear that we hadn't noticed, the bag left a six-inch-wide trail of fat behind. Kevin pulled faster. The trail got wider. I opened the side door so he could back out into the alley. Then I grabbed hold of the bag too. We lifted and, as soon as the bag was clear of the ground, the bottom broke. The fat splatted onto the asphalt and lay wobbling in the morning sun. "Oh well," Kevin said. "At least it's outside." We had to open in fifteen minutes. There was the deep fryer to clean and refill. There were food preparations to make. And now there was a streak of fat on the kitchen floor to clean up. * * * * I had mopped the floor. Kevin had scrubbed the deep fryer, replaced the fat, and unlocked the front door. We were watching people pass by, wondering if anyone would come in, when a woman slid off the sidewalk. She had been walking briskly and all of a sudden she looked like someone on skates for the first time. Her feet went in opposite directions, floundering for purchase. She waved her arms in frantic pinwheels. Then she launched off the curb, landing unsteadily in the gutter. "Wow," Kevin said. "She's lucky there wasn't a car coming," I said. The woman looked around with a stunned expression, then, gingerly, she climbed back onto the sidewalk. Then a businessman had his feet shoot out from under him, like a silent film character stepping on a banana peel. He twisted his body, arms out for balance, briefcase bursting on the sidewalk. He caught himself awkwardly and froze, bracing for an aftershock. Kevin said, "Oh no." We went to the side door. It was very hot in the alley and the pile of fat was gone. * * * * Kevin lost the toss. Taking a bucket of hot water and a mop, he went out onto Wellesley to clean up the fat. A few more people had done pirouettes in front of the window but no one had been hurt or been crushed by a truck. When Donald returned, he was pleased to see that we had saved his metal containers. He told us that Moshe had quit. He hadn't taken to wearing the sandwich board as good-naturedly as Kevin. He was a doctor's son. Being suddenly short of staff, Donald wanted us to work through until two A.M. Kevin negotiated time and a half. By then we were laughing about the fat. Nobody had been hurt after all. Around eleven, Chuck came in for his chop suey. I gave him a free drink. It was habit now, although he was as surprised and appreciative as he had been the first time. It was still hot outside and there was no hint that things might cool off. The extra heat from the bain marie, the deep fryer, and the steam table made it worse in the Express. It was a time before every place was air-conditioned. Movie houses still could draw customers by advertising, "It's cool inside." Chuck didn't mind. He leaned against the counter eating and looking around. "I like this weather. The hotter the better. Stickier the better. Like the jungle." I wiped the counter as we talked. When I looked up, the scruffy man was outside the window, smiling. Chuck gave no hint that he'd registered anything, but he must have caught my expression. "Buddy?" He took a large mouthful of chop suey, not looking at the window but obviously seeing it nonetheless. I shook my head. "Bad guy?" "I don't know him." Chuck turned to look out the window, directly at the man on the other side of the glass. The man stopped smiling and went away. * * * * Just before closing, I took the garbage out to the alley. All I had to do was take two steps outside the door and heave the bag toward the sidewalk. If raccoons or rats didn't get it, the garbage men picked it up sometime after dawn. Just as I was about to swing my arm back to throw, my foot slipped and I almost fell. Damn, I thought, Kevin hadn't cleaned up the fat out here. I wasn't about to do it now. In the morning I'd slop some hot water around. After aiming the bag almost perfectly, I turned and saw the body. It was outlined by the glow of the streetlight behind me. At first, I assumed it was one of the bums who slept in the alley some nights. But this one was lying twisted around in an odd way. Normally, the bums curled up like babies, even on hot nights. I wasn't about to touch him. I never disturbed anyone I found sleeping there. But there was an emergency flashlight inside. I switched it on and saw the scruffy man. The ground around his head was bloody, and near his feet it was slick with fat. He must have slipped and smashed his head. That was all I could think. I went inside and was going to tell Kevin to call the police, but I didn't. It was our carelessness after all. I locked the side door. If the body was still there in the morning, we'd do something. Chuck had left his cup on the counter. The ice had melted. I dumped the water in the sink and threw the cup away. -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by Peter Sellers. -------- CH011 *Death at the Port* by Marianne Wilski Strong As the sun rose over the blue sea, the harbor of Kantharos at the port of Piraeus, four miles below Athens, bustled. Ships had come in carrying corn from Egypt, cheeses and pigs from Syracuse, ivory and seasonings from Libya, and pillows and carpets from Carthage. "It's been busy all spring and summer, Kleides," my half brother Lamicus said. "Once we get our ship out, we can make two trips this season. One to Sicily with vases. That'll take two weeks round trip. Then one to Egypt with olive oil. That'll be three weeks. We have a contract to bring back flax for cordage and papyrus." Lamicus rubbed his hands together. "Kleides, you'll get a good return on your investment in our ship. Athens is the powerhouse on the sea now. Commerce is booming. The whole Mediterranean wants our coins and our naval protection." Lamicus clapped me on the back. "A shipment of flax for papyrus," he said. "You should be overjoyed. You and your friend Socrates can write to your heart's content." I stopped dead. Lamicus disapproved of Socrates and my other intellectual friends. Said we talked too much, questioned the state too much, and most damning of all, even questioned the existence of the gods. He also said, and his wife Cleodice agreed, that since I'd started hanging around with Socrates and other bad company a few years ago, I never looked quite as well groomed as I ought. Well, in my own defense, when you're busy reading Homer and Hesiod and busy discussing whether or not fish fossils mean some sort of slow development of creatures, including humans, as Anaximander proposed, or whether or not, as Pythagoras proposed, the universe was ordered by a harmonious system of numbers, you haven't time for a regular haircut or beard trimming. From behind, two men bumped into me. Traders from the Black Sea. I could hear them muttering in a strange language. Sounded barbarian. Certainly not Greek. I stepped out of the way. "Lamicus," I said, "are you actually approving of Socrates and myself working together? You haven't been drinking too much Chian wine, have you?" This time it was Lamicus who stopped dead. "By Zeus, of course not. I haven't taken to hanging out with your wine-drinking, fish-brained philosopher friends, though I do admit that now and then Socrates does seem to make some sense." Actually, I couldn't imagine Lamicus, unlike myself, ever drinking too much, eating too much, or even paying too much for a flute girl, no matter how beautiful she was. Oh, Lamicus did pay his due to Dionysus, drinking to the god of wine at festivals, and to Aphrodite, honoring the goddess of love now and then with a flute girl, but on the whole, he preferred to worship Hestia, honoring the goddess of the home by keeping his young wife, Cleodice, happy. Lamicus was the perfect citizen, or would have been had both parents been Athenians. But my father's affair with a Syracusan woman had made my half brother a metic -- able to live and work in Athens, paying taxes, attending festivals, but not able to vote -- a kind of half citizen. I was about to protest that all the discussion with my so-called fish-brained friends was the real excitement of Athens and that our elected head of state, Pericles, whose building plans and democratic ways Lamicus adored, liked our fish-brained talk. But at that moment, three things happened that took the breath out of me, like the whirlpool Charybdis sucking a ship, one of our great naval triremes, right down a watery hole. Of course, Lamicus would say the whirlpool was Poseidon displeased, but I subscribe to our new philosophy of the universe: It is a material, natural world, and we can use reason to understand how it works. Anyway, I remember those three things that happened that day as if it were just yesterday rather than back in those heady days when I was a young man and Athens was heady with prosperity and new ideas. First, I saw, just ahead standing in the colonnade behind the stone-paved quay and holding a crock of our sweet-smelling Athenian honey, an exquisite young woman: tall, slender, black shining hair fixed Ionian style, with two curls hanging down the whitest and most elegant neck I'd ever seen. If I believed in the gods, I would have said it was the goddess Artemis herself. The woman's body, beneath her flowing chiton, was graceful, elastic, buoyant, as if she could bound off and, like the huntress goddess, leap over streams and fields. "Aspasia," I heard the older man with her say. She turned toward him, facing me, and I saw the light of life and intelligence in her eyes. It was then that I fell in love with the woman who was to become Pericles' paramour and the mother of two of his sons. "Kleides," Lamicus said. "Are you ill?" Indeed, I was thunderstruck, sick with longing. Then the second bolt struck. A boom rang out over the colonnades, the quay, and the Saronic Gulf. I swayed and grasped my head, certain that Aphrodite had just sent an arrow into my heart. For that moment, I was a believer, instead of a skeptic. Then my ears began to work again. I heard screaming and banging. Fish, spices, hides, figs, nuts flew off the marble slabs of sellers and spilled out of ceramicware. Vases tumbled off tables. Along the quay, merchant ships rocked as if in a tempest. When the swaying stopped, the busy harbor had fallen silent. Buyers and sellers had stopped haggling; harbor agents had stopped their collecting of harbor duties; sailors, prostitutes, shippers all stopped talking; Macedonians, Egyptians, Libyans, Corinthians, Carthagenians, Athenians, Syracusans all stood hanging on to each other, to columns, to anything they could grasp. Slowly, talk began again, became louder and louder, as people pointed, speculated, warned. Sellers began to pick up their tumbled wares. We had had an earthquake. "Hades," someone yelled. "A warning from Hades." "Poseidon," Lamicus said beside me. "Poseidon sends earthquakes." "I don't think so," I said. "Actually, Leucippus of Miletus thought that the universe was made of colliding atoms. I think so too. Poseidon's probably nothing but colliding atoms and that's what caused..." "Oh you're worse than the earthquake, spilling out words faster than the quake spilled the figs and nuts," Lamicus said. He hates blasphemy. "You'd better make a votive offering to Poseidon today. We need him to watch over our ship when..." That's when the third thing happened. A woman started screaming. "Someone's hurt," Lamicus said, "over there." He pointed to a small shop in the colonnade. I could see a woman's back and head. She was clad in a rough-looking gray chiton that hung heavily round her bulky form. Her hair was bundled into a head scarf of the same rough gray material. She was holding her hands on either side of her head and facing into the shop. She was knee deep in tumbled ceramicware. Leaping over spilled eels, bundles of material, several charcoal braziers, and sundry other items, Lamicus and I ran to her. "Are you hurt?" Lamicus asked. She turned to us. Her face was a deep olive color, her skin as tough as an animal hide. She had a very broad forehead and equally broad jowls, quivering now, whether in pain or fear I could not yet tell. "Are you hurt?" Lamicus repeated. She pulled at her hair and rocked back and forth. "Oh great Zeus," she wailed, "oh great Zeus." "Madam," Lamicus tried again, this time with less patience, "what is the matter?" She stopped wailing and glared at us both. "Are you blind?" She pointed to the back wall of the colonnade. I peered into the shadows. At first, all I could see was a small hill of ceramicware, half of it broken, smashed into shards of use now only for scratching in names of people we wanted exiled. I squinted and stepped forward. Then I saw it. An arm, thrust out from beneath the hill of ceramic. "Lamicus, help me get him out." I presumed the hand, long, thin, but a bit hairy, belonged to a man. Lamicus and I knelt and pulled at the ceramicware, tossing away shards, rolling away wine pitchers, pushing water jugs behind us. "Great thundering Zeus!" Lamicus exclaimed. The body of a man lay before us. His skull was crushed on the right side. An eyeball hung precariously from its socket, a cheekbone was pushed grotesquely up toward the eye, and blood stained the neck, the arm, and the chest. "Out. Get him out of here," the woman behind us shouted. Lamicus turned and stared at her. "Is this your husband?" I asked. "Of course not, you trash fish," she shouted at me. "My husband went to talk to a shipper." I wasn't sure how I was supposed to have known that. "Do you know who he is?" I asked. "A thief," she said. I looked at the corpse. If he were a thief, he'd paid a heavy price for trying to steal cheap ceramicware. "Did you kill him?" Lamicus asked, his brown eyes very round. "You son of a boar. How dare you claim I killed him?" Lamicus stood up. "Madam, I didn't claim you killed him. I was asking..." "How do you know he was a thief?" I interrupted, realizing that apologies were useless. "What else would he be doing in the shop?" "Perhaps he came in to buy something," Lamicus suggested. "I had just come in to open the shop, you fish brain," she said. I looked at Lamicus and smiled. "Why don't you two Spartan dummies do something?" the woman yelled. Lamicus looked offended at being called fish-brained and a Spartan, but he said nothing. I realized that he'd decided silence was his best defense against this harpy. By this time, several people had gathered in the doorway of the shop. Among the various tongues, from Egyptian to Syrian, I heard the Athenian dialect. "The earthquake," a man said. "It tossed up this man from Hades and killed him. He is cursed." The harpy took a step back. Mouth open, Lamicus looked at the corpse again. But to my half brother's credit, he closed his mouth and looked skeptically at the superstitious Athenian. "The earthquake might have tossed around everything from mussels to wine jars, but it didn't toss this man anywhere," I said. "Perhaps he struck his head against the wall," Lamicus suggested. "I don't think so, Lamicus," I said, shifting my weight to my left knee and leaning more closely over the corpse. "Had he hit the wall, it might have knocked him out, but it would not have caved in the side of his face." I looked around. Nothing in the shop appeared hefty enough to have been used as such a damaging weapon. "Besides," I said, "the blood is brown and dried. This man died in this shop a while ago." I sniffed. "Not that long ago, of course, or we wouldn't be able to breathe easily." I turned to the harpy. "Madam, when were you or your husband last in this shop?" "At sundown. Yesterday," she said. "And the corpse wasn't here, so don't you dare say that..." "Can you and do you usually lock the shop?" "No," she said. "In the sailing season, we sleep up above." She thrust her thumb up toward the ceiling. "And you didn't hear any noise last night?" She thrust out her impressively wide jaw. "No." Lamicus found his tongue. "If this man was murdered here last night, you must have heard something." The harpy put her hands on her hips and took a step toward Lamicus. He took a step back. I smiled again. I've known Lamicus to face tempests at sea that would frighten Poseidon himself and I once saw him beat a pirate so badly, the man's whole crew rowed faster than a top trireme crew to get away. "I said I didn't hear anything," the harpy said. "If you say differently, you're not going to hear anything ever again." Lamicus took another step back. "Madam," I said, "Piraeus has many a good tavern and many a bad one. Which kind were you at last night?" She glared at me. "If the tavern owner served cheap wine, it's no wonder you and your husband slept soundly," I said, guessing that unless she was lying, a drunken stupor was the only way she would not have heard anything. "Armides, that son of a stinking centaur, has good wine. But he always serves sour swill along with rotten cheeses. But then he's cheap enough." I nodded and committed the name to memory. I had no reason to get involved in this man's murder. It would be up to his relatives, if he had any, to find his murderer and bring the charge before the Areopagus, our homicide court, who would deal with the matter. But I stored away the name in my mind just in case. Besides, I was curious about this murder. I had noticed the victim's hands. They were smooth and white. He was no farmer, no sailor, no tavern keeper. This man was someone of importance. His robe and cloak, draped over a slender body, were woven of a fine wool, unlike the harpy's rough wool chiton. I examined what was left of his face. His beard was well groomed, unlike mine, and his features handsome, though I fancied his nose less straight than mine, my one really good feature. That's when I noticed something strange. The corpse's mouth was partly opened, and I could see a substance crammed in, as if he'd been eating something at the moment he'd been attacked. I pointed. "Look, Lamicus. What does that look like?" Lamicus peered over my shoulder. "God, Kleides, what does it matter?" "Maybe not at all. But detailed observation tells us a good deal about the nature of things." I could hear Lamicus' sigh and almost feel his eyes rolling in frustration at my Sophist philosophy, but I ignored both and reached into the corpse's mouth to pull out a bit of the substance. Lamicus groaned louder. "Kleides," he said, "the man is dead. He belongs to Hades. It was probably coins to help him pay for passage over the River Styx." "First, Lamicus," I said, "unless the murderer was very supersti -- uh, religious, I doubt that he, or she," I said, remembering the harpy, "would take the time to do the dead man the service." I looked at the yellowish white chunk in my hand. "Besides, this is certainly no coin." Lamicus peered over my shoulder again. "Great Zeus," he said. "It looks like frankincense." "It is frankincense," I said. "But why would the dead man have eaten frankincense? Some strange religious rite?" "We don't know, do we, that he was eating it. Perhaps the murderer stuffed it into his mouth." "But why?" Lamicus grabbed my shoulder. "Kleides, this is dangerous. Very dangerous. You know that the trees in the east from where the frankincense comes are inhabited by winged serpents. I've heard tales of this from the Phoenicians who bring the resin into the harbor." "I've heard the tales too. They sound like the kinds of stories devised to keep people away from the valuable trees." "I tell you, Kleides, Protagorus and your other Sophist friends will get you into deep trouble someday. This frankincense is holy. This is a dangerous matter. You must not fool with the gods." I stood up. "I agree that this is a dangerous matter, indeed. But not because of the gods or some mythical serpents. This is a human act, Lamicus. I have learned from my Sophist friends to consider what is normal in human behavior. Stuffing frankincense into a dead man's mouth is not normal. This act must have some significance." I looked down at the dead man. "When we find the cause for this strange use of frankincense, we will know why this man was killed. Perhaps we will also know who killed him. I think that..." I stopped to see what the commotion was behind us. I had almost forgotten the harpy and the other people who had gathered, and I had certainly forgotten about the mild earthquake. "Kleides," I heard someone say. It was Pericles, handsome and statesmanlike in the helmet he wore so often in public, not as his critics said because his head was distorted, but because he thought of himself as the servant of the city and as the defender of the people who had elected him to office. "Pericles," I said, surprised. "I did not know, sir, that you were in Piraeus." "I am here to inspect the new colonnade. I was checking to see that all was well after the earthquake. I've been told that a man died here." I nodded and gestured for him to enter. I did not want to speak in the hearing of the crowd. "Indeed. A strange death." I pointed out the man's wounds and showed the frankincense to Pericles. "I know the man, Kleides. He is Zeno, a harbor official, a collector of the two percent duty on the value of imports coming into the harbor. He comes from my own deme, my own part of Athens." Pericles stayed silent for a moment. "Athens is fast becoming the center of our Greek world. Our navy is unmatched; our port is the best and the busiest. It must be kept so. Kleides, I ask you to use the keen powers of observation you have to solve this murder. Do what you need to do. I will provide any funds you need." "Of course," I said, bursting with pride. I'd helped Pericles before. It had been an honor and would be again. Perhaps I would never be the great thinker Protagoras is, or the great statesman Pericles had already become, or the great playwright Sophocles was fast becoming, but I might make some contribution to my city that my descendants might honor. If, that is, I didn't stumble my way to the wrong conclusions. It was a bit frightening. But we all owed duty to our state. I told Pericles I would do all in my power to find the murderer. "I believe that is a harbor official lying there." Pericles, Lamicus, and I all turned toward the low, mellifluous voice, like the throb of a lyre's strings. I almost dropped the frankincense in my hand. It was the lovely woman I'd seen holding the crock of honey. Aspasia, the man with her had called her. I frantically smoothed my hair and searched my mind for something appropriate to say, ashamed that I, an aspiring Sophist, should be speechless. Such is love: a blessing and a curse, as our great poetess Sappho wrote. "Indeed, he is," Pericles said. "But so beautiful a woman as you should not be exposed to such a scene of violence." "I am from Miletus," Aspasia said. "I have seen much violence from the Persians." She gestured to the dead man. "Death is offensive when it comes with such violence, but offensive more to the heart and mind than to the eyes." I looked from her to Pericles. I knew, then, that I had lost Aspasia. I could see the glow in the eyes of our great statesman. Despite his marriage to an Athenian aristocratic woman, he had clearly fallen in love instantly with this Ionian beauty, struck as I had been. I was no match as a competitor for her against Pericles. "It is this official's partner who should have been murdered." We all looked to the swarthy, square-faced man who had spoken, a Libyan, I thought. The stubble on his jaw looked as tough as boar bristles and the scar across his right eyebrow cut in deeply. "Why?" Pericles and I asked at the same time. "A drunken wide-assed piece of trash. Never at his post when he should have been. Forever swilling and stuffing his stomach at Armides' place. And we had to pay for his bad habits, pay and pay and pay again. Couldn't or wouldn't do his job right and that one knew it." He gestured at the corpse and shook his head in anger. Then he stomped off. At that, I knew where to begin my inquiries and what a possible motive had been for the official's murder. But I turned my attention to Aspasia. She nodded and smiled to me, but her bright brown eyes went back immediately to Pericles. I wondered if Pericles' political enemies, the conservative wealthy, might find enough support to ostracize him, exiling him for a year. I'd hate to see it happen for Athens' sake and for friendship's sake, but there might be a certain advantage for me. Pericles thanked me again so graciously for agreeing to help that I felt ashamed of my thoughts. It didn't stop me from feeling a bit disgruntled, though, when he walked off with Aspasia and the man I took to be her father. I turned to see Lamicus looking at me. "She is lovely, isn't she?" he said. "I didn't notice." Lamicus snorted. I commandeered two Scythian police to remove the body and left. * * * * Armides' tavern had a floor composed of half the shells, bones, crockery pieces, and dirt in the universe. Leucippus would have had a fine time examining the floor to see what the universe was composed of. Armides poured wine for me from an earthenware vessel painted with a pitifully bad picture of Odysseus' men turning into pigs. I thought the picture appropriate for the tavern. When I asked about Tisias, the name I'd been given as Zeno's partner, Armides pointed to a man seated on a stool, his chins, all three of them, propped in his hands, his elbows resting on a crude table. He looked half asleep, and, from what I could tell, was about as wide-assed as the Libyan shipper had said. I took my cup of wine and water and approached the table. Tisias looked up at me, then promptly lowered his flabby chins back into his hands. I said nothing. I drank my wine slowly. It was only midday, and if, as I had decided to do, I were to hang around the taverns of the port to pick up information, I would have to pace my drinking or I'd soon be as besotted as Tisias. Three men entered the tavern, ate some salted fish and barley bread, looked at Tisias and myself, and left. I had Armides pour two more cups of wine, paid him the three obols, returned to the table, and set one of the cups in front of Tisias. He looked startled, but he pulled the cup to himself. "Tisias," I said. "I'm Kleides of Athens. My half brother's a merchant." Tisias' bleary eyes opened a bit wider. He looked at me as if I were speaking some Egyptian dialect instead of good Athenian Greek. "I want to talk to you about Zeno's murder. I'm sure you've heard about it by now. Pericles has asked me to look into the matter. I understand that you were his official partner for duty leveling." Tisias reached for the cup I'd put in front of him and began to hoist his bottom-heavy frame from his stool. "You can talk to me now or go with the Scythian police to a prison. I'm sure some officials will come to see you within a year or so." Tisias sat down, his red face turning rather pasty. "Do you know a square-faced Libyan shipper with a scar across his right eyebrow?" Tisias took a massive gulp of wine. He obviously didn't ascribe to our Athenian saying, meden agan -- nothing in excess. "I've seen hundreds of shippers," he said. "I can't be expected to remember them all." This was reasonable. "Well, this one remembers you." I decided on shock value. "He thinks you should have been murdered instead of Zeno." Tisias swallowed hard. "Me? I haven't done anything." "The Libyan thinks differently. I have the duty records in my possession. Two other officials are examining them." Tisias swallowed again, this time washing down half his cup of wine. "Tell me about the last several shippers you levied. Any arguments with them?" I knew that generally murder was preceeded by some argument or resentment. "No arguments. None." "The duties were standard: two percent of the value of the cargo?" Tisias looked forlornly at his almost empty cup. "Yes, standard. Uh, yes, I think so. It's hard to remember." I began to wonder how the slender, elegant Zeno operated with wide-assed and rather dull-minded Tisias. Drinkers like Tisias were easily corrupted. But then why had the fastidious-looking Zeno tolerated Tisias? I decided on a test. "Look, just tell me about the last three shipments you two taxed." Tisias' hands were now shaking. "You can look them up, can't you?" "You can tell me about them, can't you?" Tisias put his pudgy hands over his mouth. "I don't know anything. I wasn't involved in the whole thing." He got up and lurched out of the tavern. He was sick or pretending to be. He couldn't remember the last few shipments or wouldn't talk about them. I rather suspected the former. Armides came up with a krater of wine. "More?" "No." He picked up Tisias' cup, exposing from beneath his chiton a well-muscled, black-haired arm. I suspected he could handle the rough characters in Piraeus with little trouble. "He'll be back. He's a good customer." He winked. "Good for me. He spends quite a bit here. More than he should be able to." He tilted his balding head at me. "I suspect he's corrupt, but I don't ask questions. Best not to know too much. You could end up like Zeno." "You think Tisias killed his partner?" "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. Piraeus is a dangerous place." I nodded, considered having Armides bring me some eels, decided his eels were probably as cheap and ill kept as his wine, and left. Outside, I spotted Tisias pushing himself away from a wall he'd been leaning against. I watched him. I was sure that he was neither alert nor intelligent enough for either murder or corruption. But he was just the type who could be silenced with a few good bottles of wine. I followed him through some streets, keeping him in sight easily since the streets of Piraeus followed the neat rectangular grid Hippodamus of Miletos had designed. Thinking of the island of Miletos brought Aspasia to mind with her Ionian beauty. I decided I was entitled to some good wine at Pericles' expense and hoped Tisias was headed to a good tavern. I was only a little disappointed. He entered a tavern in the southern part of the harbor where the navy kept its light, narrow triremes docked, the pride of Athens, except for aristocrats who referred to our skilled sailors as "sea trash," and refused to even go into this part of Piraeus. I myself didn't mind. I knew that rowing a trireme was back- and arm-breaking work, and I admired our sailors, whether citizens, metics, or foreigners. I hung around the harbor admiring the sleek triremes, waiting for Tisias to leave the tavern he'd chosen. I wanted to talk to the tavern's customers without Tisias' presence. I had to wait two hours. Inside the tavern, considerably cleaner than Armides', I ordered a half pint of wine and headed for a table and bench where four sailors sat talking. They looked at me with some suspicion, but after I revealed that I knew how the three banks of rowers moved the triremes, a genuine interest of mine, they relaxed. I got round to Tisias. They knew him, at least I presumed so because they laughed heartily when I brought up his name. Daneus, the handsome one with the very curly black hair and veiled brown eyes that betrayed little, flicked the dregs of his wine toward a wide-mouthed krater. The dregs hit their mark and went into the urn, an indication that the handsome Daneus, probably paid well as a top-notch rower, had attended a fancy symposia or two, hosted by someone with some wealth, and played well the game of cottobus, the flicking of the dregs at a target. He poured out some of his own water and wine for me. I tasted it with approval: Thasian wine, with a nice flavor of apples. "Why is someone like you interested in the likes of Tisais?" Daneus asked. "The likes of me?" He gestured to my chiton. I happened to be wearing one of my better ones. "You've got some drachmas. Besides, I think I recognize you. Kleides of Athens, aren't you? Your father owns a large farm. Good olive trees." I nodded. "It's a good profitable farm. My father despairs though. I have ambitions of becoming a Sophist and getting paid well for lectures." I looked Daneus in the eye. "Easy work." Daneus met me eye for eye. "With your father's money, you don't have to work, even easy work. But I was on Pericles' naval expedition round the western Aegean. I know the reputation you earned for fighting hard and coming through in dangerous spots." "Yes," I said. "We hoplite soldiers killed a good twenty Corinthians. You sailors successfully rammed seven ships. My half brother Lamicus says he'd rather have one trireme of sailors than a thousand hoplites like myself to protect his merchant ship." This satisfied Daneus. "So why are you asking about Tisias?" I told him, explaining what Armides had said about Tisias' corruption. Daneus eyed a young prostitute walking past the doorway. "Nice," he said, then turned to me. "Tisias is a bottomless hole of wine and food, too bloated to be truly corrupt. He just turns his eyes from corruption." I had figured just that. I remembered Zeno's elegant chiton and slender hands. "From whose corruption? Zeno's?" "Exactly," Daneus said. The three other sailors, who'd been listening intently, nodded. "Talk to the foreign captains," one of them said. "They hated Zeno. He overvalued their cargoes and kept the overcharge. And he encouraged Tisias' drinking to keep him silent." Another sailor laughed. "I doubt that Tisias could see straight enough to double-check the books the way he was supposed to. That made the captains hot as peppers too." I thought of the Libyan. "Why didn't they complain to the authorities in Athens?" I asked. "Because they are foreign," Daneus said. "Afraid complaining will cause more trouble for them than just paying the extra charge." I knew Pericles would be upset to hear this. "Did any of them ever refuse to pay the extra charge?" Daneus shrugged. "There are rumors. We 'sea trash,' as the aristocrats call us, at least most aristocrats," he said, giving me a quick nod, "hear everything down here at Piraeus." He leaned toward me. "What I have heard is that Zeno had ways of taking care of troublemakers. You might want to talk to Polos of Syria, a wine shipper. You can probably find him down at the commercial agora at the Periclean corn market tomorrow morning." He leaned back. "It'll be dangerous business, figuring out Zeno's schemes. Polos can tell you how dangerous. So be careful what you say." I wasn't sure if the warning was to me or for me. "Thanks," I said. "Are you really becoming a Sophist?" one of the other sailors asked. "My half brother says I'm already one." "So you know how to persuade the assembly in Athens. I mean on things like paying sailors more money or giving them pensions." "I can certainly try. I am a democrat. Demos. Means people, not aristocrats. Only." I rose. When I got to the door, I turned. "You sea trash," I said. "You saved Athens from the Persians. Nice trash." Daneus flicked some wine toward me and laughed. I couldn't tell the nature of his laugh. He was sly. Intelligent, but sly. I stepped outside to head to the house where Lamicus and I were staying. It was raining. We would have the evening to discuss the ship we were having built. It was then that I saw her again. Aspasia. She was with Cephalos, a Syracusan who had been induced to come to Athens by Pericles. He owned a shield factory and was wealthy enough to have a hetaera, a high-class prostitute, if that's what Aspasia was. I was wondering if I could splash mud on him when I realized that the woman was not Aspasia. She had the same elegant neck, the same graceful body, but her eyes were lighter, as was her hair. She was a beauty, and she was looking at me with interest. I pulled myself up to full height and tried to look as handsome as possible. If I couldn't have Aspasia, I wanted this girl. I stepped up to Cephalos. "Excuse me, Cephalos," I said, thinking of as good a lie as I could come up with, "Pericles is in town. He would like to see you." Cephalos gave me a contemptuous look, glancing at the bit of wine I'd spilled on my chiton. "Already has." "Oh, I see. Well then I'll say goodbye to you and..." "Goodbye," Cephalos said. "Selkine," the lovely creature said. "I live near the theatre." Cephalos gave her an angry look and began to pull her along. She yanked her arm from his and nodded to me. "You are?" "Kleides of Athens." She smiled, turned, and walked past Cephalos. He dashed after her. She had spirit. I knew I couldn't have her tonight, so I decided to walk to the agora and find a reasonably priced flute girl. * * * * The next morning the sun burned over the Saronic Gulf, its rays reflecting blindingly off the blue waters. The columns of the long colonnade blazed white in the sun. I walked to the corn market in the colonnade from the hill of Mounykhia, leaned against a column, and watched the sea of felt hats, protection from the sun, moving about, checking out the grain cargoes. I could see the Athenian officials checking to make sure that two-thirds of all grain cargoes stayed in Athens to feed the population. I could see that grain purchasers were buying at high prices since the volume of grain shipments had been lower than expected. I knew Pericles' policy. The state would sell the grain to citizens at normal prices. I made my way past a cargo of timber and pitch from Macedon, holding my breath against the sharp odor that almost burned the nostrils. Further along in the bazaar, I was tempted by black and ivory pillows made by some master from Carthage. Lamicus' new wife, Cleodice, would love it. I made a mental note to buy one later and continued toward the corn market, succumbing to only one more temptation: some succulent dates from Syria. At the corn market, it took me another half hour before I found someone who pointed out Polos of Syria, a short, stocky man with a face that held a nose as pointed and sharp as his dark eyes. I introduced myself and told him I wanted to talk about Zeno. I learned some new curses, then resorted to invoking Pericles' name, telling Polos that Pericles wanted the port kept clean, in all ways. That seemed to mollify him a little, but he still looked at me warily. "Zeno," I said, "overvalued cargoes, but entered a more realistic estimate into the books. Am I right?" Polos listened to the price a local seller was offering for a load of olives, then turned to me. "Yeah," he said. "That's right." He sneered. "So the snake got murdered, I hear." "He did. Any idea who might have murdered him?" Polos laughed heartily. "Look around. Pick somebody. Anybody. That Egyptian." He pointed to a man in white linen. "That Phoenician. That Syracusan. Plenty of candidates. Everybody hated him. He hit every foreign shipper, no matter what the cargo." "Including frankincense?" He face reddened. "What the hell does frankincense have to do with it?" I was inclined to take a step back but stood my ground. "You tell me." He glared, then smiled. "I don't know and don't care. But I'm willing to celebrate that double-headed monster's death with the best wine and the largest Sicilian cheese." He turned to watch two port officials board a merchant ship. "Why did you call him double headed?" "I'll tell you why," he said, swinging back to me. "The snake overcharged shippers, then, if they protested, sent them straight into the hands of the pirates from 'thieves' harbor,' the cove to the west. One of my friends died at the hands of those predators. He wasn't willing to pay the price." "You think Zeno alerted the pirates to when your friend was leaving port?" "Yeah, I think so. So much for your vaunted Athenian law and justice." He walked away and stopped at the table of a money changer. I followed, fingering the lump of frankincense in my pouch: the frankincense I'd extracted from Zeno's mouth. "Was frankincense among the items in your friend's cargo?" "No," Polos said. I watched the money changer's hands sift through darics from Persia, coins from Sicily, from Libya, from Ionia. He changed them for Athenian drachmas, with their pictures of Athena and her owl. Athenian money, accepted everywhere as worthwhile coinage. Pericles was right. If Athens were to maintain her superiority, the port had to be kept clean. I began walking along the quay, thinking about what Polos had said Zeno was doing. Overcharging, then betraying shippers to the pirates, for a hefty cut of the stolen cargo, no doubt. Then I remembered something else Polos had said. His friend had died because he hadn't been willing to pay the price. I'd assumed he meant Zeno's overcharging. But suppose he'd meant that Zeno would, for a price, double-cross the pirates and send the shippers out when the pirates weren't expecting them to go out. It would account for Zeno's prosperity, far greater than mere overcharging should have brought in. It would also account for the Libyan's comment about paying and paying and paying again. And, if pirates were involved and had been betrayed, they would have had no qualms at inflicting a violent death on Zeno. And that would account for Tisias' fear. It was the jerking on my arm that brought me out of my thoughts. The harpy was pulling at my chiton. "Will you listen? I have a shop to take care of. Tisias wants to talk to you. He says it's important, says something about wanting to explain. He was blathering. He's scared about something. Says he'll be at the agora, at the theatre side." I thanked her. She expressed the strong belief that she was owed a few obols for her services. I obliged and headed for Piraeus' central marketplace. But I could not find Tisias. I spent an hour or so with Lamicus on our ship's business, then headed for the marketplace again, hoping to find Tisias. I was cutting through the colonnade when the commotion began. I heard someone yelling for Scythian police. I ran to the shop from which the yelling had come. The owner pointed toward a large ceramic vat of eels. "I leave my shop to buy some bread and look. Some drunken lout. Help me get him out of there," he said. "Those are prime eels. Very valuable." A man lay behind the vat. I knelt to look. It was Tisias, his head half bashed in as Zeno's had been. His mouth was stuffed with frankincense. I stayed until the Scythians removed the body and then headed to the villa where Pericles was staying. I had to let him know that Tisias was dead, killed perhaps by the same pirates who had probably killed Zeno. I was feeling depressed. I'd discovered Zeno's corrupt dealings and his likely murderers. But I couldn't be sure the pirates had killed either man. I had not discovered a key part of Zeno's plot, how he had informed the pirates when he was sending a ship into their trap. I knew he would not have direct contact with the pirates. It would have been prison for a harbor official if such contact had been spotted. At the villa, I became even more depressed. Pericles assured me that I had done the state a service in discovering what I had. But it did not help that the lovely Aspasia was with Pericles. She poured me a glass of good Syrian wine and gave me some advice. "You must," she said, "find someone who could have contact with pirates easily and without raising suspicion. Someone who could move freely about the harbor." She looked at the amphora of Syrian wine. "Perhaps even someone like the owners of the ceramic shop where Zeno was killed. My father purchased this wine there this afternoon. The shop owners clearly know where to buy good wine. They know Piraeus." I thought about that. I had an idea why someone had provided the harpy and her husband with good wine. They'd betrayed Tisias, telling someone that he had wanted to talk to me. So he was killed before he could. But by whom? I walked back down toward the harbor. The afternoon sun was blazing hot. Most of the shops had closed for a few hours and few people were out. In the distance near the harbor, I spotted Daneus and his friends walking up the hill from the bay. I was tempted to find out where they were heading, but I had to get more information first. I stepped into Armides' tavern. He knew the harpy, and maybe he knew Polos. It took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Light came in through two narrow slits in the front wall and through a back window whose wooden shutters were open. Two men sat on stools by the table at which I'd sat with Tisias. They were both old, with gray grizzled hair and beards. They didn't bother to look at me. I took a stool from along the wall and put it by the only other table in the place. "Armides here?" I asked the two men. One didn't move. The other straightened his stooped shoulders, then gestured to a side room. "Served us, then disappeared. A blessing. He stinks." "Indeed," I said. I waited. I was wondering about Daneus' whereabouts when I smelled it. A fragrant odor. Unmistakable. It drifted into the tavern from the side room. It was followed by Armides himself. He saw me, stopped, nodded, then went behind his bar. I motioned for him to come over. I had intended to ask him if Polos shipped good as well as cheap wine. But now I had a different question. "Have any good Syrian wine?" I asked when he'd approached. "No." I took off my felt hat and pretended to drop it. It gave me an excuse to lean down, bringing my head close to Armides. I could smell the frankincense on his hands, and beneath its sweet odor, a musty smell. Armides had been burning frankincense and using it to take away the smells of eels. I straightened up, pushed away from the table, and stood up. "A good cover, this tavern: cheap wine, gloomy, dirty. Any lowlife, including pirates, could come in and no one would think anything amiss. Did they give you the order to kill Zeno for betraying them?" Armides said, "I don't take orders." "Did you shove the frankincense into his mouth out of anger or as a warning to other officials you and your pirate friends are trying to corrupt?" "I always warn those I intend to harm. I warned you." I glanced at the two old men. They were staring, fear on their faces. I swallowed. I'd gotten myself in a sticky position. I was young and strong, but Armides was brawny and ruthless. I pushed ahead anyway. My damned desire for knowledge. "Why did you kill Tisias? Because he was coming to me? How did you know?" Armides smiled. "I have my informants. But don't feel too sorry for Tisias. He was an informant too, though he didn't know it. He talked freely if given enough wine." "So Zeno kept clear of suspicion by letting Tisias in on the schedule of ships. And when he told you a ship's schedule, you passed it on to the pirates." "Well, well. Aren't you the bright young man? But not bright enough. You didn't spot the shop owners as my informants. They let me know that rotted-out Tisias was having qualms. He'd figured out Zeno's scheme, you know, just as you have. So when he got scared enough over his part in it, he asked the shop owner's wife to get a message to you if she could." "And then the harpy told you. Do you always reward your informants with good Syrian wine to drink or sell?" "For those who cooperate, yes. For those who don't, this." He lunged at me. His hands grasped my neck and squeezed. I was caught in a vise. I brought my arms up sharply against his, but his hands held steady. I jerked forward, smashing my head against his face. His hands loosened. I gasped. The smell of frankincense and eels filled my nostrils, almost choking me again. Armides shoved me against the wall and grabbed my neck again. I grunted and reached an arm out to one of the older men. He stood, knocking over his stool, and ran out of the tavern. The second man stood frozen, his eyes as round as the moon. I brought my knee up against Armides' groin. He yelped but didn't let go. He pulled me forward, then slammed me back against the wall. My head reeled. I hung on to Armides' arms, pushing. I couldn't break his hold. I managed to kick Armides' shin, but my leather sandals made little impact. I slackened a little, then let go of Armides' right arm and shoved my thumb into his eye as hard as I could. Armides yelled and rubbed his eye. I went for him, butting my head into his stomach. He was as steady as a fat old olive tree. I stepped back and prepared to launch myself against him again. The door of the tavern banged open. Four men rushed in and flung themselves on Armides, like the hounds of Artemis. I put aside my Sophist disbelief and thanked the huntress goddess. Then I quickly thanked the sea god. Poseidon surely had sent Daneus and the sailors to help, though since I am a skeptic regarding the gods, I couldn't imagine why he should have. * * * * After the Scythian police had hauled off Armides and the harpy and her husband to a prison in Athens, Pericles and I sat talking. "What happy circumstance brought Daneus and the others up to Armides' tavern?" "One of the old men, may Athena bless him, ran out and got help from the first men he saw. The sailors were headed for the agora to buy market supplies. They are shipping out tomorrow for practice maneuvers." Pericles nodded. "With new orders to clear the bays of pirates as far as possible. You've cleared the harbor of a nasty scheme. For that, Kleides, I thank you, indeed. I want Athens to be remembered always for its architecture, its democracy, its law. And from now on, the courts will hear any suit brought by shippers, foreign or Athenian, with due speed." I had no doubt that he would succeed in his plan. Athenians would rise to meet his high ideals. But when he told me that he intended to divorce his Athenian wife and take up with Aspasia, I feared for him personally. His enemies, those against the democracy, would use this against him. As for me, I found ample consolation that night with the young and beautiful Selkine. -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by Marianne Wilski Strong. -------- CH012 *A Jar of Bean Paste* by Martin Limon Slowly, so as not to allow rusty hinges to squeak, Kimiko raised the wooden top of the storage bin and peeked out into the darkened courtyard. All was as it should be: wooden stools scattered across a flagstone-covered square, red streamers fallen from festive heights, rotund eathernware jars rolling on potbellies in puddles of sloshed rice beer. The aftermath of a kut. A seance led by a highly paid female shaman, with music and dancing and free-flowing rice liquor. It seemed as if every matron in the village of Itaewon had attended, celebrating good fortune, commemorating the death of the husband of the woman who owned this home and hosted the attempt to commune with the dead. Superstitious nonsense, Kimiko thought, but she was happy to attend, for she had a motive beyond merely paying her respects to the man who had passed on to the nether realms. She raised the lid and climbed out of the storage bin. Then she crouched and stared into the darkness. Listening. Kimiko was after money. Cold hard cash. Cash would help her escape from the years of degradation she'd been forced to suffer here in Seoul's red light district of Itaewon. Cash was liberty. And Kimiko would do anything to obtain it. After assuring herself that all was quiet, Kimiko tiptoed across the courtyard and, barefoot, stepped onto the raised wooden floor of the hooch owned by the woman who called herself Mrs. Culverson. Her real name, Kimiko knew, was Pak Ok-hi, a poor country girl from Yoju who'd wandered into Seoul when she was nineteen, applied for and received a VD card, and started "entertaining" American G.I.'s in the notorious nightclub district of Itaewon. After experience numbed feeling, Pak Ok-hi latched onto a middle-aged noncommissioned officer known as Sergeant First Class Frederick K. Culverson. But Culverson was overweight and suffering from adult onset diabetes, and the U.S. Army was threatening him with medical discharge before he could reach his twenty year retirement. That threat, plus the stress of a demanding job at the 8th U.S. Army Headquarters nearby -- and possibly the threat of a demanding wife -- resulted in a coronary. A coronary that, three nights ago, abruptly took Culverson's life. In the hours that followed, Pak Ok-hi shed copious tears. But while she did so she kept one eye open for the Serviceman's Group Life Insurance that she knew would be coming her way. And it did. This morning. Ten thousand dollars in greenbacks, compliments of the United States government. The entire fortune was paid in cash, in denominations of twenty dollar bills. The U.S. Army believes that the distribution of fifties or hundreds would make it too easy for Communist agents to transfer money from one country to the other. Therefore, they pay their troops -- and bereaved widows -- in twenties. Pak Ok-hi could've taken a check. But like most Koreans she preferred cash. During the turmoil of the twentieth century, Koreans have learned not to trust banks. Too many have folded, leaving depositors high and dry. True, usually the bank president is decent enough to commit suicide, but that doesn't get your money back. As she stared into the dark hooch, Kimiko inhaled deeply. The smell of PX perfume, stale rice beer, and the pungent odor of kimchee -- cabbage fermenting in brine -- assaulted her nostrils. Everything seemed to be quiet. Everything in order. Kimiko placed her weight gingerly on the varnished wood-slat floorboards. They creaked but not much. After taking a few steps into the hooch's dark interior, Kimiko could hear, behind a latticework paper-covered door, the strong, steady breathing of the mistress of the house. With long, tapered fingers, Kimiko fondled the ivory handle of the straight razor she kept beneath her belt. Thus reassured, she continued her forward creep. A legal clerk at 8th Army JAG, the Judge Advocate General's office, was one of Kimiko's regular customers. She'd sat with him last night at a table in a dark corner of the King Club while he bragged about the.45 he was going to check out of the arms room tomorrow and the second lieutenant he was going to escort in a jeep to Itaewon in the morning to make a payment to the woman he called Ok-hi Culverson. Kimiko let him talk, and while he did, she dreamed of all that cash and what it could do for her. A beauty shop in Suwon. That's what every businesswoman in Itaewon seemed to long for. Why Suwon? It was a quiet town fifty miles south of Seoul with no G.I.'s. Why a beauty shop? Because there'd be no men around. No Korean men. And especially no Americans. Kimiko's plan was simple. Wear a woolen scarf over her head and crash the kut, pretending to be a friend of the mudang, the female shaman, who was paid to commune with the dead. Then, while all the other women were drinking and dancing and generally making fools of themselves, find a place to hide. Which she did. In a spider-infested storage bin half full of dried sweet potatoes. Now her plan was equally as simple. Find the money and take it. And if Ok-hi Culverson woke up and was foolish enough to try to stop her, she'd taste the razored edge of Kimiko's stainless steel blade. When she reached the back bedroom, Kimiko paused for a moment, listening. There was no rustling of blankets, no coughs, no hint that anyone was aware of her presence. Slowly, Kimiko slid back the latticework oil-papered door. When it was open about shoulder width, Kimiko paused once again. Still no movement. Only steady snoring. Kimiko peered into the room. Moonlight filtered in through a small window. Jumbled blankets lay on a down-filled mat. The bean-filled pillow was where Kimiko planned to look first. If Ok-hi Culverson was sleeping on a fortune, that's where's she'd keep it. Close to her. Stuffed in the lining of the pillow where she could keep the money pressed close to her cheek. Kimiko would slide the pillow out from beneath her head and if the woman woke, Kimiko would place one hand on her throat and with the other... Someone coughed. A deep rumble. Not the cough of a woman. Kimiko leapt back to the far side of the hallway. And then she stopped, controlling herself, and peered into the bedroom through the open door. Whoever coughed hadn't moved. The only sound now was the steady breathing of the person Kimiko had assumed to be Ok-hi Culverson. Without moving, Kimiko waited a full five minutes. No more coughs. When it seemed safe she crawled back to the door and stuck her head through. By now her eyes were more accustomed to the dim light, and she could see the room clearly. A tall armoire inlaid with fire-breathing mother-of-pearl dragons, a short dressing table shoved up against the far wall, and in the center of the room the pile of jumbled blankets. But this time Kimiko noticed something that almost made her, once again, leap backwards. At the bottom of the sleeping mat, peeking out from beneath the silk-covered comforter, were human feet. Not two as she'd expected but three. And one of them was huge. Gross. She recognized it immediately for what it was. A man's foot. Men are bad luck at a kut. Spirits prefer to deal with women. And at the kut this evening, before Kimiko slipped away to hide in the storage bin, there had not been even one man in attendance. This man, Kimiko realized, must've been back here in the bedroom of the house, hiding from the women in the courtyard, waiting for the recently widowed Ok-hi Culverson to join him. Never mind, Kimiko thought. I'll take the money anyway, man or no man. She pulled out her ivory-handled razor and flipped open the blade. Its sharp edge glimmered in faint moonlight. Slowly, Kimiko began to creep through the open door of the bedroom. And then she stopped again. One of the blankets, on the near side of the sleeping mat, began to rise. It rose and rose again and then slid to the floor, leaving in its wake a tall Korean man, facing away from her, wearing only white shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. Kimiko thought of charging him from behind and slashing the front of his throat. But it was too late now. The man was young and appeared strong and he was fully alert now. He'd turn before she'd taken three steps and would probably be able to fight her off, and even if Kimiko did manage to kill him, the woman would be alerted, and during the fight she'd probably run away -- with the money. Too late to act now. Kimiko leaned back away from the door and melted into the dark edge of the hallway, where she could observe without being observed. The man stood for a moment with his tall frame glistening in the moonlight. He stared down at the supine figure of Ok-hi Culverson. The silence in the room was interrupted only by Ok-hi's heavy breathing. The man took two steps backwards until he was out of Kimiko's line of sight. But she could hear him. A minute later, when he reappeared, he was fully clothed. Again, he stared down at the still sleeping Ok-hi Culverson, as if contemplating what to do with her. Finally, he sighed and, crouching down, slipped his hands beneath her bean-filled pillow. When he pulled the pillow out from beneath Ok-hi Culverson's head, she grunted but just briefly. Then the slow, steady breathing began again. The man searched the pillow, finally pulling off a cloth casing. Wads of cash fell out, landing on the silk comforter, making only the softest of thuds. The man squatted down and picked up the bundled cash and held it between his arms. But now he seemed at a loss as to what to do with it. The pillowcase, apparently, had been nothing more than a cloth wrapping and had fallen apart during his search. When he found no suitable receptacle, the man rose to his feet and, hugging the cash, headed for the hallway where Kimiko crouched. She backed up. Could she slice his throat before he dropped the cash and grabbed her? Maybe. But it was doubtful. The man was young and strong and fully alert. Instead, Kimiko backed down the hallway and stepped into an alcove that led toward the byonso, the outhouse out back. Silently, she crouched behind a varnished wooden cabinet. The man stepped out into the hallway and, still hugging the cash, tiptoed past Kimiko and continued toward the front door. As quietly as she could, Kimiko followed. Inside her bedroom, Ok-hi Culverson still dreamed the dreams of a woman with a future. At the front landing, the man stepped off the wooden platform and slipped his feet into a pair of sandals. When he reached the middle of the courtyard he paused, looking to either side. Kimiko stopped breathing. For a moment, she feared that he had sensed her lurking behind him. But it soon became apparent that the reason he stopped was not because he'd heard something, but because he was looking for some way to carry the bundles of cash. He stooped and dropped them in a small pile in the middle of the courtyard. Then he checked the earthenware jars that lined the courtyard walls. They held various types of kimchee -- cabbage, turnip, cucumber -- that were being preserved for the winter. Then, on a wooden shelf, he found what he wanted, a small earthenware jar, maybe a foot tall and half a foot wide, just large enough for holding deinjang, spiced soybean paste. Also large enough -- barely -- to hold ten thousand dollars U.S. After stuffing the bundles of tightly bound twenty dollar bills into the jar, the man located a length of twine. Knotting it deftly, he secured the varnished cap to the top of the jar. Taking one last glance back at the hooch, he crossed the courtyard and opened the door in the front gate and, holding the jar of bean paste, walked out into the narrow pedestrian road that ran in front of the home of the Widow Culverson. Kimiko trotted to the gate, leaned her ear against the wooden frame, and listened until his footsteps faded. Then she opened the gate and ducked through after him. * * * * Behind the Dragon Flame Nightclub, a door popped open. Light flared onto an alley lined with garbage bins. A young woman wearing a see-through negligee, her black hair mussed, held open the door, peering into the darkness expectantly. Immediately, the young man clutching the jar of bean paste stepped in past her and the woman slammed shut the door. Kimiko wasn't surprised. A good-looking young man, under normal circumstances, wouldn't want anything to do with the aged and jaded Widow Culverson. This young Korean man was, apparently, one of the legion of good-looking young men who hang around nightclubs, catering to the lonely Korean wives of American servicemen. He probably also knew that Ok-hi Culverson's husband was not well, and his patience had paid off with this bonanza in insurance money. But what right did he have to all that money? At his age, he'd probably been hustling for no more than a few years. Kimiko had been putting up with the pawing of foreigners for most of her life -- since she was fourteen and expelled from the country home of her father because he could no longer afford to feed an unmarried daughter. During the turmoil of the Korean War, and in the two decades that followed, Kimiko had been forced to fight fang and claw to eke out a bare existence. No, this young man had not suffered like Kimiko had. He would not keep this money. He didn't deserve it. Soon, she swore to herself, the money would be hers. Kimiko spent the better part of an hour wandering around the nightclub, searching for a way in. But the building had few windows and they were high, and both the front and the back doors were locked and bolted shut. As she searched, Kimiko kept a wary eye out for the police. Curfew in South Korea ran from midnight to four A.M. every night and it was strictly enforced. Now was no time to be caught and locked up for a curfew violation. From the lowering moon, Kimiko figured that the curfew would be over soon. She found a dark corner in the alley and waited. As soon as someone opened a door, maybe the cleaning lady, Kimiko would find a way to slip in and grab the jar of bean paste and the wealth it contained. She was almost asleep on her feet, leaning against a dirty brick wall, when the same back door by which the man had entered the Dragon Flame Nightclub creaked open. Kimiko awoke with a start and peeked around the corner. The same young man stood in the dim moonlight, dressed now more elegantly, with a green suit and a white shirt open at the collar. The same woman who had let him in emerged with him. She apparently preferred black because now she wore a smart black dress, closed at the collar and with a hemline that was too high, Kimiko thought, to be becoming. The man still clutched the jar of bean paste, tightly bound with thick twine, beneath his left arm. Together, they hoisted traveling bags and started walking briskly toward the main road of Itaewon. Kimiko followed, wondering what to do. Attack now? Not possible, the man would overpower her. Clearly, the two of them were leaving town. When the Widow Culverson awoke, undoubtedly she'd run straight to the Korean National Police, and it wouldn't take them long to show up at the Dragon Flame Nightclub. Leaving now was the smart move. At the main drag, the four A.M. traffic had just started. An occasional three-wheeled truck trundled its way out of town, a few cabs were parked with their front windows clouded. As soon as the tall man and his elegantly dressed girlfriend stepped out to the curb, bean jar and traveling bags in hand, two of the cabs started their engines and raced to the edge of the curb. Kimiko was forced to hide a few yards away at the mouth of the alley, but she could hear them arguing about fares. Finally, a resolution was made and the man and the woman climbed into the back of one of the cabs. They sped off. Kimiko was about to jump into the back of the other and follow, but then she thought better of it. Although she couldn't hear clearly where their destination was, she knew that the first train leaving from the Seoul station didn't depart until seven A.M., almost three hours from now. Would this couple want to wait at the station for three hours while the Widow Culverson and the police searched for them? Not likely. Undoubtedly, they would head for the bus station. There, by government fiat, the buses started departing Seoul at five A.M. So she had time. Time to plan. Kimiko jumped in the back seat of the cab and told him to take her to the Itaewon open air market. * * * * The express bus to the southern city of Kwangju was about to depart. The crowd at the Central Seoul Bus Station was large, even at this early hour. The tall young man and the elegant woman in a tight silk black dress stood in the middle of the crowd, gazing into one another's eyes. Apparently, this was goodbye, Kimiko thought. He had the money now and he didn't need this gal from the Dragon Flame Nightclub any longer. She'd say goodbye to him, expecting him to return, not realizing that he'd just stolen ten thousand U.S. dollars. And the chances that he'd come back for her, Kimiko knew, were nil. All men are swine. Somehow, before the express bus to Kwangju departed, she had to grab that jar of bean paste. Striding forward purposefully, Kimiko motioned to the two tough boys she'd just hired. Like a couple of jackals, they hopped through the crowd, laughing and pretending to be chasing one another. Inexorably, they closed in on the tall young man and his black-clad paramour. Screeching and laughing, the boys dodged to and fro through the swirling crowd until finally the first of them smashed into the back of the young man. When he turned, the other one smashed into the woman, almost knocking her off her feet. While the man shouted his outrage, Kimiko darted forward, crouching amidst the milling crowd, everyone craning their necks to see what had happened. Now, almost on her knees, Kimiko grabbed the jar of bean paste next to the young man's traveling bag, replacing it immediately with another jar that was an exact replica. Kimiko had prepared it to look exactly like the other one, even down to the thick twine knotted to hold the top of the jar shut tight. While the crowd was preoccupied with the argument between the young man and the tough boys, Kimiko stuffed the jar in a gunny sack and backed away. Now the express bus for Kwangju was departing. Desperately, as if suddenly remembering something, the young man turned his attention away from the tough boys and knelt and searched next to his traveling bag. With a sigh of relief, he lifted up his precious earthenware jar, hugging it against his chest. Sticking it once again securely beneath his arm, he grabbed his traveling bag, pecked his erstwhile girlfriend on the cheek, and turned to join the line loading now onto the express bus for the far city of Kwangju. In front of the ladies' room, the boys found Kimiko. Frowning, she slapped some coins in their hands and when they demanded more she scolded them and threatened to scratch their eyes out. Cursing, the boys departed. But in seconds they were laughing again and scampering away. Kimiko entered the restroom, stepped into a stall, and closed the door behind her. Frantically, she untied the tightly knotted twine. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened the top of the jar. What she saw made her heart fall. Newspaper. No money whatsoever. Kimiko pulled it all out, dropping it onto moist tile, and then read the neatly wrapped note at the bottom. It was written in the childish script of a girl. "Yobo," it said. Boyfriend. "I know you have been deceiving me with that old woman married to the American. But hiding money from me, that is too much. I never want to see you again. Don't try to follow me. Yours, Suk-ja." Kimiko stifled a scream. Getting control of herself, she set the empty jar down and scurried out of the ladies' room. In the main hall of the bus station, she could see that the express for Kwangju had already departed. She searched for the woman in the tight silk dress. Nowhere to be found. She ran to the front of the station. Just as she reached the long line in front of the taxi stand, she glimpsed a splash of black silk climbing into a cab. Running to the front of the line, Kimiko shoved her way past a startled elderly man. She jumped into the back seat of the first cab in line, and ordered the driver to follow the cab that had just left. Staring at the face of the enraged Kimiko and listening to her teeth gnash, the driver shoved the cab in gear and urged the little engine forward. * * * * She should've known, Kimiko told herself. She should've seen it coming. Women aren't stupid. And they know that in this cruel world they must at all times protect themselves. The cab holding the young woman in the tight silk dress wound through the busy streets of Seoul, heading away from the red light district of Itaewon, toward the crowded downtown business area. Kimiko and her nervous cab driver followed until the lead cab pulled over in the center of the swanky shopping district known as Myongdong, the Bright District. Kimiko flung some money at the driver, climbed out, and was now only twenty yards behind the young woman in black silk hurrying down the sidewalk. The girl slipped through an opening between a teahouse and a boutique. When Kimiko trotted down the stone steps leading into the narrow pedestrian passageways, she couldn't see her. She must've turned down another side alley. The tiny lanes were like a catacomb down here and, unfortunately, Kimiko wasn't as familiar with the back alleys of Myongdong as she was with the back alleys of Itaewon. Soon she spotted the young woman, a block ahead, turning another corner. Does she know I'm following? But Kimiko put the thought out of her mind. When she caught up with her, the straight razor clutched in her right hand would answer all questions. Up ahead, around another corner, Kimiko heard a buzzer. A metal door creaked open and then slammed shut with a clang. By the time Kimiko reached the entranceway, the girl had disappeared behind a steel grill backed by a door of carved oak. Kimiko stared up at the sign: The Garden of Forests and Moons. A kisaeng house. Kisaeng are female entertainers, providing service for the wealthiest men in Seoul. Something like Japanese geisha but without the elaborate costumes. Kimiko cursed her bad luck. She thought better of ringing the buzzer. No sense tipping her hand. Instead, she backed up to the front of a noodle shop across the way and stared up at the seven-storey edifice in front of her. All the windows were shuttered and protected by steel bars. Only men with money and political connections could enter. By invitation only. * * * * It took three days for the woman in black silk to emerge. By then, Kimiko was a regular at the Myongdong Noodle Shop. Mrs. Bei, the owner, a rotund jolly woman, had taken such a liking to the ingratiating Kimiko that she now called her onni, older sister, an honor in a Confucian society. Kimiko started out as a customer but later, by virtue of all the hours she spent in the noodle shop, become an unpaid hostess, voluntarily ushering customers to their tables and making them feel comfortable. All the while, she kept an eagle eye on the kisaeng house known as the Garden of Forests and Moons. And whenever she found a chance, Kimiko grilled Mrs. Bei about the provenance of that exalted establishment. "Kampei," Mrs. Bei told her. Gangsters. They owned the business and often took advantage of the elegant young women to entertain their important guests. In ancient times, kisaeng were trained in the arts of music and poetry, dedicated to providing entertainment for the king and his guests. Now, they pour scotch and smile, and perform other services -- services that require little special training -- by arrangement. "Many Japanese go there," Mrs. Bei said. "Businessmen. Rich businessmen. And important men in the Korean government." Exactly who, Mrs. Bei couldn't say. She'd seen their faces on television, but she couldn't remember their names. It didn't matter what their names were, Kimiko thought. Ugly old men of wealth, beautiful young women of spare means; a combination that has been with us since time immemorial. But how to get in there, and how to find the woman in black silk, and more importantly, how to find the jar of bean paste? The front door of the Garden of Forests and Moons was guarded day and night by burly men in suits that Kimiko assumed to be apprentice gangsters. She would be unlikely to bluff her way past them, so instead Kimiko decided to wait. There was no back exit, Kimiko had checked. Apparently, the gangster who ran the Garden of Forests and Moons didn't want any of his kisaeng taking unexpected trips. The woman in black silk could only emerge from the front door. And so far, after three days, there'd been no sign of her. Even at night, Kimiko stood guard. Until the midnight curfew when the front door clanged shut with a bang. And then Kimiko would be back on sentry duty, bright and early, at four A.M. At that hour, the door was still locked and so far it had stayed locked every morning until about eleven A.M. For the last three days, Kimiko ran plot after plot through her mind, trying to devise a way to enter the Garden of Forests and Moons. But the reclusive occupants never did so much as order in Chinese food. It was a mysterious place and Kimiko worried about the well-being of her money. For now, in her mind, it had become her money. Money she had earned. The noon rush at the Myongdong Noodle Shop ended. Kimiko was scrubbing the top of one of the wooden tables, staring through the front window, when she saw a gangster shove open the front door. A slender young woman paraded out past him. She wasn't wearing black this time. She wore gray. Her head was covered in a scarf, and the gray dress fell shapelessly almost to the ground. She kept her head tilted toward the ground but Kimiko recognized the even features of her profile. The woman in black silk. The woman from the Dragon Flame Nightclub in Itaewon. The woman who had signed the note in the earthenware jar using the name of Suk-ja Suk-ja hurried down the street. Alone. Kimiko set down her soapy sponge, shouted a goodbye to Mrs. Bei back in the kitchen, and hurried out the front door of the Myongdong Noodle Shop. She followed a half block behind. Apparently, Suk-ja was not worried about being followed. She never glanced back. Instead, she shuffled resolutely forward, her head bowed, studying the pavement beneath her feet as if it were the most interesting document in the world. Finally, the kisaeng known as Suk-ja stopped and pushed her way through a glass-plated doorway. The sign above said: MYONGDONG PUBLIC HEALTH CLINIC. A few seconds later Kimiko entered and slid unobtrusively onto a bench toward the back of the seating area. Suk-ja, her wool scarf still wrapped tightly over her head, whispered to the receptionist at the front counter. Forms were filled out and signed and money exchanged and five minutes later, Suk-ja was ushered into the back rooms of the clinic. Kimiko waited. An hour passed. Suk-ja emerged, a white patch stuck to her cheek and gauze wrapped tightly around her left wrist and thumb. Still, her head was down and she pushed through the glass doors of the clinic and immediately turned as if heading back to the Garden of Forests and Moons. Kimiko followed. When Suk-ja was about a block from the clinic, Kimiko caught up with her. Shoving her into a deserted alley, Kimiko pushed the smaller Suk-ja up against a dirty cement wall. Immediately, the razor appeared in Kimiko's hand. She leaned it against the soft flesh of Suk-ja's neck. "Where's my money?" Suk-ja didn't ask why Kimiko thought it was hers. Through a restricted throat she simply said, "They took it." "Who took it?" "You know who." "I do?" Kimiko pressed the blade a little deeper into the indentation of Suk-ja's flesh. A bright spot of blood blossomed and started to trickle down her neck. Suk-ja's eyes filled with tears. "I tried to hide it from them. But they knew I wouldn't leave my boyfriend without good cause. Mr. Shin searched my room." "Who's Mr. Shin?" "The owner. The man who owns the Garden of Forests and Moons." "And he found the money?" "Yes. And then he beat me for hiding it from him." Kimiko leaned toward the woman until her breath rebounded from Suk-ja's lips. "You're lying," she said. "I'm not. I only returned to my old job at the Garden of Forests and Moons because I thought I could pick up my things and leave. But Mr. Shin said they had a party that night and I decided he might become suspicious if I turned down the easy money, so I stayed. While I worked, Mr. Shin kept staring at me, sensing something had changed. I became more and more nervous and finally he searched my room and found the jar of bean paste and then he beat me." Suk-ja's eyes filled with tears, but at the sight, Kimiko felt only loathing. Sure, pimps are like wizards, they seem to have the ability to read a young woman's thoughts. But that's where a strong mind must be cultivated. To keep your face and your actions from revealing turmoil inside. This young Suk-ja had not even learned that? Then why did she think she could join the ranks of thieves? "You should've never returned to the Garden of Forests and Moons," Kimiko said. "But they'd been nice to me before." The last word came out as a wail, and Kimiko was thoroughly disgusted now. She stepped away from Suk-ja, snapping her straight razor shut, slipping it into the pocket of her skirt. "All right," she said, "go back to them. They'll use you for a few months more. Maybe a year or two. Then your beauty will fade and they'll toss you out like used charcoal." At this, Suk-ja wailed more loudly, but Kimiko had already turned and strode back to the main road. * * * * "You must be out of your gourd," the G.I. said in English. "You can do it." Kimiko shoved him into the front door of the Myongdong police station. The startled desk officer, wearing the khaki uniform bedecked with the rank insignia of a sergeant of the Korean National Police, looked up at them. "I'm Robert Pernweller," the G.I. said. "Specialist Six. I work at 8th Army JAG." The desk sergeant didn't understand but soon a captain wearing the nametag of Ahn emerged from a back room. Specialist Pernweller repeated his story. "You have the serial numbers of these bills?" Captain Ahn asked. "Right here." Pernweller handed him a neatly typed list. Whenever the 8th Army Judge Advocate's Office pays a Serviceman's Group Life Insurance policy in cash, they keep a certified copy of the serial numbers of the bills. "And where's the money now?" Captain Ahn asked. "This woman knows," Pernweller said, turning to Kimiko, "but she wants a twenty percent finder's fee." Captain Ahn stared at Kimiko, his hard stare trying to burn all courage from her heart. But Kimiko stared back, unflinching, and after a long while, Captain Ahn nodded his head in agreement. * * * * The raid on the Garden of Forests and Moons was successful. Only two gangsters were injured, by nightsticks and not by bullets, and none of the Korean national policemen were hurt. Only part of the money was recovered, a little over seven thousand dollars, and of that, Ok-hi Culverson, the rightful owner, agreed happily to allow a twenty percent finder's fee. Unbeknownst to 8th Army JAG, Captain Ahn kept half of that fee for himself, his two lead officers in the raid split a quarter, and Kimiko was allowed to keep the rest: a little over three hundred and fifty dollars U.S. A fortune. Suk-ja, broke now, remained in the Garden of Forests and Moons, working as a kisaeng for the rich and powerful. Mr. Shin, her pimp, was held by the Korean National Police for three days, but then all charges were dropped and he was released. Suk-ja's boyfriend never returned from Kwangju. Mrs. Ok-hi Culverson, shortly after recovering more than half of her money, flew to the United States to live near a cousin in Cleveland where, Kimiko heard later, she was making a small fortune in real estate. Kimiko, on the afternoon she received her share of the insurance money, bought some rice wine for herself and her friends and spent the next two nights playing flower cards. She won at first, but then moved on to a bigger game in the back room of the Rising Phoenix Teahouse. Sharks arrived and Kimiko ended up being cheated out of her entire fortune of three hundred and fifty U.S. dollars. Frederick K. Culverson's remains were shipped back to the United States -- to his hometown of Dubuque, Iowa -- at U.S. taxpayers' expense. -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by Martin Limon. -------- CH013 *Coughing John* by Russel D. McLean In a city, even one as small as Dundee, some people just seem to be part of the scenery. Coughing John, for instance. Coughing John lived on Union Street, generally in the shelter of the overpass that goes from up Union Street, crosses a roundabout, and comes back down to Dundee Rail Station. I used to give John money from time to time because he looked in need of it. I always figured that even if he spent it on drink, at least the drink would keep him warm. He was a short man, maybe five-five, with gray hair and a beard that made him look like a Santa Claus who knew better days. He was always dressed the same: black trousers, a stained white shirt, and a green jacket that in its day probably cost a few quid. He was always polite to me, although we never really exchanged many pleasantries. I was just one of those few generous people who would share whatever I had with him. I was the one called him Coughing John. I didn't know his real name until after he died. I knew he was called John because once I asked him for his name before I gave him his change. I called him Coughing John because of his rasp, a hellish, torturous implosion that used to overtake his entire body. But Coughing John was little more to me than a part of the Dundee city landscape, and like any landmark, when he left things were different somehow. It was ten thirty on a Saturday evening, and I was walking down Union Street to meet Ros at the train station. Ros had been down in Bristol for a conference. She's a philosophy lecturer at the local university. She specializes in Continental and feminist philosophy. I don't know much about any of it, though God knows she's tried to teach me. I guess I can't always see the point in it; it just seems like so much talk. Ros had only been gone a few days, but it felt longer. I like to keep a hard exterior, but if I'm honest, I think inside I'm getting soft with old age. My mother always said when you fall in love, you know it because you can't imagine your life without that person. I'd like to have the opportunity to tell her she was right. Sometimes, when I go to visit her and Dad up at Balgay Cemetery, I imagine she can hear when I'm talking about these things. As I turned off the Nethergate and down onto Union Street, I knew something was wrong. At the far end of the street, blue lights flashed, strobing the night air. The karaoke bar was silent. I walked quickly down and saw Sandy talking to a uniformed officer. He looked serious, listening as the officer read off his notes. I waited until Sandy was done and then walked over. "Hey," I said. "Hey, Sam," he said, looking up. "How're you doing?" "What's going on?" "Some homeless guy got himself killed," Sandy told me. He dug his hands into the pockets of his gray suit. It was a cold night. The wind picked up, ruffling his wispy orange hair. "What happened?" I asked. I saw the overpass had been closed off. Paramedics were coming down the stairs, negotiating a bed trolley. The body was covered in a white cloth. D.O.A., like they say in all the American movies. "Scuffle of some kind," Sandy said. "If you ask me, it was some kids out for kicks. That copper there, he thinks it was drugs, but it doesn't feel right, you know?" I nodded. It wasn't uncommon in any city. Kids get bored and sometimes that boredom erupts into violence. All the same, it was still unsettling. "Ros is waiting for me," I said. "At the station." "Take the car," said Sandy. "No one's getting over." I exhaled loudly. Sandy got the hint: "No favors." "Can I see the body?" "Why would you want to? You're not on the force anymore," Sandy said. I shrugged. "Professional curiosity." "Morbid curiosity," Sandy said. "I can't resist a mystery." "Every time you look at a corpse, the situation gets out of control," Sandy said. He was right, of course. I'm known at the Tayside police force as something of a jinx. Even when I'd been a beat officer myself, I had a nasty habit of getting myself too deeply involved in cases most other coppers wouldn't even glance at. The paramedics brought the stretcher down the steps. They stopped beside us. Sandy lifted the sheet to look at the homeless guy. I looked over Sandy's shoulder. He must have heard my sudden intake of breath because he looked at me with surprise. "Do you know this guy?" "Aye," I said. "That's Coughing John." * * * * Sandy gave me a lift round to the train station. Ros was waiting in the arrivals lounge, which was cold and bare at eleven P.M. She looked pleased to see me when I slid into the plastic seat beside her. We kissed briefly, and she stood up, ready to leave. We took the long route back, walking back on the footpath beside the River Tay. We didn't pass anyone on our walk. We took our time, talking about what we'd been up to the last few days. When we arrived back at my place, Ros commented on what a mess it was. She said it with a smile, and I knew she was joking. I'd missed her voice, the sly way she'd poke fun at me, that cute Alabama accent obscuring the sarcasm she'd inherited from too many years living in Scotland. She went to the bedroom to dump her bags, then she took a shower. I prepared a quick dinner, zapping some ready-made meals in the microwave. Hardly cordon bleu, as they say, but I felt too tired and drained to do anything else. The death of Coughing John was weighing on my thoughts. I kept asking myself who would want to kill him. He was a drunk and a bum and a pathetic old man, but he'd never done any harm to anyone. And I knew even then that the city was going to feel a little more empty without him and his sad, strangled voice asking passersby if they could spare anything for a wee guy who just happened to be down on his luck. When Ros came out after her shower, I pulled out the fold-down table I kept in a corner of the living room and threw a cloth over it. She watched me do this, still in her thick white robe. She smiled as I brought out some candles and then fumbled around, getting them set up in the center of the table. "All this for me," she said, smiling gently. I loved the way her eyes sparkled. Sometimes, when I start thinking about the hell that we've made of this world, I just have to make Ros smile and things don't really seem all that bad. It's a hellish, romantic cliche that's undeniable. I've never been able to articulate any of this to her, but I think she knows. I lit the candles. She moved away from the door and sat down at the table. I brought out the microwaved meals and laid her plate before her. She laughed, and I laughed too. "Romance," she said, looking at the store-bought lasagna. "Scots style." * * * * I woke up early the next morning, about half six. It was a sudden awakening, like I'd had a bad dream, but as usual I couldn't remember any of it. I looked at Ros who slept peacefully beside me. I got up and had a shower, then made myself a cup of tea in the kitchen. I sat on the stool at the breakfast bar and tried to figure out what I'd been dreaming. I called Sandy at about half past seven. He was wide awake, and he knew what I was calling about even before I asked. He told me to meet him at the Howff. He fancied some fresh air. * * * * The Howff graveyard is a ten minute walk from my flat. It dates back to the fifteenth century, if my local history serves me well, and was built atop the ruins of a monastery. These days, it lies smack dab in the center of the city. When you're actually walking through the Howff, though, it's easy to forget that you're in the midst of a city. There's a restful silence that hangs in the air. I've noticed a lot of office workers tend to have a quiet sandwich among the dead at lunchtime. In the summer, it is almost beautiful. This particular Sunday morning, there was a gentle mist in the air. The gates were half shut, but you could still squeeze through. Sandy had beaten me there. He was sitting on a bench, looking at gravestones so old the names had been worn away. I sat beside him. "His name was John Woodrow," Sandy said. "No living relatives. Only way we could determine his ID was that he kept his wallet on him. Nothing in it except an old Social Security card and a picture of a young woman we assume was his wife." "What do you know about her?" "We did a quick background check and found she died twelve years ago. Coughing John, as you called him, was sixty-six and a very unwell man. Last known address was a high-rise up by Charleston. He couldn't keep up the rent. Poor bastard." I nodded. Coughing John had always been Coughing John. To learn that he was John Woodrow somehow made him less landscape and more of a real person. "Who killed him?" "To hell if I know," said Sandy. "Best guess is still bored kids. There's a lot of them hang around the underpass. They probably started beating him for kicks and things got a little out of control." "What are you going to do about it?" "What I can. Which is pretty much sod all, Sam. Homeless people die all the time in little spats like this. There isn't a whole lot I can do." He looked apologetic, genuinely so. "What was he to you, anyway?" I took a moment to reply. "Part of the landscape." * * * * Business was slow. I wasn't really worried. I had enough money in the account to tide me over, and besides, I figured I needed a holiday. Babs, my secretary, had my pager at the office in case anything came through, but it was a quiet time for Bryson Investigations. Philandering husbands and runaway daughters, it seemed, were behaving themselves. I rationalized that working for Coughing John was an exercise, a professional stretch to keep me in shape during this quiet period. I wasn't being paid and no one had hired me. Still, I felt that justice -- no matter how meager -- had to be served somehow. I suppose part of me was affronted at what had happened to Coughing John. I would not have called him a friend, but now that he was John Woodrow, I needed closure on the situation, as Ros liked to say. He was undeserving of such an undignified death. Even just to find out something about what had happened to him on the Saturday evening would make everything seem just that little bit easier. * * * * On Monday I walked to the overpass at nine thirty P.M. The skate-kids were out in force. There were ten of them, seven boys and three girls. The girls weren't skating, but stood on the sidelines, dressed in black and watching with veiled interest as the guys tried to do stunts that were well beyond their capabilities. Every one of them wore Slipknot jumpers. Two of the guys had as much makeup on as the girls. Not a one of them was above eighteen. I guess they weren't that different from way I used to be. Punks, skate-kids, it's all the same in the end: the perpetuating faux-revolution every generation tries to achieve. I walked to a guy who'd just finished a trick. We were in the overpass itself, over the dual carriageway. The traffic below us was light. The harsh lights in the overpass made the kids' skin seem pale, almost translucent. "Hey, man," I said to the trickster. "Could I have a word with you?" He looked at me with deadeyed suspicion. "I'm just asking around," I said. "Need to know if you knew a homeless guy who hung around here most nights." "Whit is it to you?" "He died on Saturday." A girl, her dyed-black hair done in pigtails, said, "The auld git wi' the cough?" "Aye," I said. "That's the one." Another girl, who had a stud through her lower lip, said, "Bloody shame." "Aye," the first girl said. I noticed that the first girl looked particularly nervous for some reason. She knew more than she was saying. The guy I'd initially approached -- the trickster -- said, "What has that got tae do wi' us?" "You guys are around here a lot," I said. "I thought you might have seen something." A second guy, taller than the first, came over and made an impressive stop on his board. He kicked it up under his arm. "Who are you?" Probably he thought he smelled bacon. Anyone asking as many questions as me was probably a copper. All of them had clustered in a threatening little circle around me. I wasn't really nervous, but I still stood straight and made sure they knew I wasn't going to be dicked around. "Samuel Bryson," I said. I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out a card. I flashed it around. The girl with the stud in her lip took it from me. "Cool," she said, and showed it to her friend. The friend said, "He's a private investigator." I wasn't sure if she was just trying to hide the awe in her voice or if I was really boring her as much as it sounded. "There's no such thing," said one of the boys. "It's all just a load of crap in the movies." "I'm serious," I said. "Do any of you know anything?" No one said a word. They were too quiet, in fact. The rabble that had been in full force just a moment ago was suddenly gone, snuffed out of existence like a flame on a dying candle. "If you think of anything," I said, "call the number on the card." I figured on the odds being at least one of them would bite. I broke through the circle and walked down the steps onto Union Street. I thought, as I passed the karaoke bar, that maybe my little fishing expedition had been in vain. Maybe none of them would call. I was halfway up the street, passing a club called The Rendezvous, when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see the girl with the ring through her lip. She said, "Can I talk to you?" * * * * We moved onto the Nethergate and sat outside the city center cathedral on a park bench. We were still in sight of the main street, able to see each other by streetlight. She said her name was Anna, but refused to give me a second name. I didn't care. I just wanted to hear what she had to say. "I don't know whit I'm doing," she said. "But you look like you're serious." "I am," I said. "I wasn't there on Saturday. But Marty was. There was three of them just pissin' about, ken? Daein tricks and all that. Usual rubbish." I nodded. I took out a pack of cigarettes. She looked at them with wide eyes. I lit one for myself. "I hope you've got enough for everyone," she said. She tried to smile. "Ma teacher used to say that, like, when we had sweets and stuff in class." "It's a disgusting habit," I said. "What's that say about you?" I looked at her jumper, recognizing the name of the band emblazoned across the front as one of the nue metal bands I saw sometimes on MTV. I didn't think much of them, but I knew it was probably the same way my dad felt when I listened to heavy metal and punk back in the day. Like I said, the kids' revolution has never really changed. Each generation just paints it that subtle extra shade of black. Anna resigned herself to the fact I wasn't going to give her any ciggies, and took a deep breath. "The tramp used tae shout at us, ken, when we were doing tricks. Most of the time we just told him tae get lost. But, I think it was the Sunday before the Monday, like, he went psycho, totally chicken Oriental, like." I had to smile at that. "Chicken Oriental" was a phrase my mother used to employ when my dad was acting up. Anna kept going, caught now on the momentum of her confession. "He started shouting at us as we went past. I'm the only one who doesn't do the boards, like. I can't stay on the thing for more than two minutes. But he was nae just shouting about the boards; he was telling us that we were the ruination of this country and all that crap. We just ignored him, like, and went on up the overpass. He came running after us, and he caught Marty by the hood, pulling him off his board." "Giving Marty a pretty good reason to be angry at him," I said. "He was going tae kill the old man," said Anna. "But Jimmy just said it wasn't worth it, and we just walked off, like. I don't want any hassle, I just want to hang, like, wi' ma mates." "And you weren't there on Saturday?" "I didn't have tae be. Jimmy was there." "Jimmy's your boyfriend?" She didn't answer. She didn't exactly look coy, but she wasn't meeting my gaze either. "I'm curious, more than anything," I said. "Just knowing the group dynamic here is going to help me a little bit to understand." "What is there to understand?" "A whole damn lot," I said, sounding more angry with her than I meant to be. "A man is dead!" She looked me straight in the eyes and said, "I was going out wi' Jimmy for a wee while. He's a good mate." "That's all I wanted to know. So, he was there on the Saturday night?" "Aye." "And that's how you know what happened then?" She nodded again. "And this Jimmy's pretty reliable, you'd say?" "He's a good mate." "I asked if you could trust him, Anna." "Aye. You can trust him. I can trust him." "What did he say happened on Saturday night?" "They were just going tae head out tae the wasteland, ken, next tae the railway," said Anna. "It's no great for skating, but you can hang there, smoke some dope, ken? Jimmy wanted to go another way, but Marty made sure they came down here." "Right past Coughing John." "Was that his name? The auld git?" "That was what I called him. He had a real name but that was a long time ago." She nodded and said, "Marty'd been drinking vodka, like, since mebbe twelve or something. He was drunk and he was stoned as well. He's no nice when he gets like that, ken? Anything can just set him off." "And it didn't help that, to his mind, Coughing John had assaulted him the night before." "He was a drunken old fart and we didn't ever pay him any attention. We never gave him any grief. Marty had a right tae be annoyed." The taxi rank in front of us was empty now. Across the road, at Castaways Bar, someone had set up karaoke, and a Robbie Williams number was being murdered by a Dundee accent. I took a deep drag on my cigarette. I pulled out the packet again, this time offering her one. She took it quickly, without bothering to thank me. She didn't wait for the offer of a light either, producing a cheap plastic one from her deep pockets and sparking up before I had a chance to change my mind. "What's Marty to you?" I asked her. "Get stuffed! I dinnae sleep wi' every boy I know." "I never said that. I merely asked what he was to you." "A mate." "Good a mate as Jimmy?" "He's a laugh." She looked at her feet and drew on her cigarette. I thought to myself how young she looked, suddenly. Little more than a girl, but believing she was a woman. "That's not an answer," I told her. "Jimmy's a good mate. Marty's -- " "One of those people you just seem to know from somewhere." I finished her sentence for her. We both knew where it had been going, anyway. She nodded, inhaling the smoke from her cigarette, and knocking her head back to look up at the pale stars. "Do you want tae know something?" she said. "Marty's scary. I mean, a lot of people are scary, but Marty's twice as scary. You just don't know where you stand with him, ken? One minute he's a great laugh and the next minute, you just don't ken if he's going tae pan yer face." I made a grunt like I knew what she was talking about. Everyone knows someone like that. He's the psycho that just appears in your life one day, and once he's there it's damn difficult to shake him. Anna laughed when she talked about Marty's mood swings, but I knew they scared her. I could see it in her eyes; Marty terrified everyone and no one in her wee group was brave enough to admit it. "He's no a bad guy, like," she said. "But anyway, that's what I'm saying is that sometimes he can snap." "He snapped at Coughing John," I said. "Jimmy saw it and he told you and now you're scared if he could attack Coughing John like that, what's to stop him doing the same to his friends." She looked at me wide eyed, almost amazed by my powers of deduction. "Aye," she said. "What happened? What did Jimmy tell you, precisely?" "They went back on the Saturday like I said. The wee tramp was there, hacking and coughing away like usual. He started tae shout as they walked past, but I think Marty looked at him and he shut up. That should have been the end of it, but Marty had a wee knife with him." "What kind of knife?" "Wee flick knife." "Still pretty deadly," I said. "And illegal." She looked at me like I was stupid. "That's why he has it. He's fond of saying that no facist dictatorship is going tae tell him what he can and can't do." I sighed. I'd heard that line before from a lot nastier than little Marty. "He just went for Coughing John?" I said. "And no one tried to stop him?" "What were they meant tae do?" "So now everyone's just keeping quiet? Why? Are you all that afraid of him?" "No," she said. A tear welled in one eye. The cigarette dropped from her mouth and landed between her feet on the pavement. "Then why?" She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, dragging some black eyeliner away from her eyes and across her skin. "He's a mate. You've got tae stick up for yer mates." I stood up. "What're you doing?" "I'm not calling the police," I said. "For that, you'd better be bloody thankful." * * * * Marty was the first one to speak when I walked back to the overpass, Anna walking a few steps behind me looking sheepish and ashamed. I recognized him from her description. He was a small lad, but built like a brick wall; probably he owned his own weights. His hair streaked blond and blue. "What did you say to him?" Marty asked Anna, ignoring me. I stepped in anyway. "She told me about Saturday night," I said. "She wasn't there." "No," I said. "But Jimmy was." Marty turned to the other boy, staring at him with incredulity. "Arsehole," he hissed, and Jimmy shrunk away. Marty turned his attention back to me and said, "So what are you going to do about it? Call the police?" "No," I said. I walked right up to him, drew back my hand, bunched it into a fist, and punched him square in the center of his face. There was a crack and he drew away from me, his nose gushing blood. I could feel everyone draw breath. They all stepped back, looking ready to bolt for it if they had to. I knew that it wasn't fear of me. It was fear at what Marty's reaction would be to my punching him in the face. I didn't care. I'd faced idiots like him in the past; young and old, they were all the same, little messed up arseholes who had an unresolved grudge against the whole human race. The hardness in his eyes masked something that looked like fear. "Gonnae mess you up," he said. He reached inside the folds of his jacket and took out his wee flick knife. Probably he thought it was going to be as easy as taking down Coughing John, a pathetic, defenseless old man. Maybe I was an old man to someone of Marty's age, but I wasn't defenseless, and I knew how to fight. And Marty was nothing more than an amateur with an attitude problem. I kicked out with my left foot, catching his wrist with force enough to spasm his hand. His fingers opened and the knife fell to the ground, the clatter echoing off the clear plastic walls of the overpass. He spun away, losing his balance long enough for me to regain my own once more. I grabbed him in a headlock, using my own momentum to propel us against the wall. The crown of his head rammed against the plastic, a resounding shake echoing along the walls of the suspended corridor. I let go and he stumbled backwards. He toppled over, landing on his arse in an incredibly undignified manner. Under other circumstances, I'm sure some of the others would have laughed. As it was they just stood there. "No one cares," I said to Marty, "that you killed a tramp, is that right?" "Aye," he mumbled. He couldn't stand up again. You could see the confusion in his face; he was probably hearing bells. "You took a man's life, you little bastard!" "He wasn't dead when I left him." "As good as," I said. "He attacked me!" His tone took me by surprise: he was whining like a five year old complaining that the game wasn't fair. I looked at Marty and I saw before me a young boy with blood on his hands, caught somewhere between the games of childhood and the uncomfortable morality of adulthood. Each time they said, "Bang-bang, you're dead," the joke was less and less funny, as they began to realize that any one of them could die. Revenge is a child's weapon; honor is a game that children play. For them the world is black and white. Someone hits you and you hit them back because it's not fair. And if you hit them back harder, then it's their own fault. After all, they deserved it. I looked at Anna. Her eyes were wide, but they were different than they had been five minutes beforehand, when we were sitting on a bench talking about the death of an old man who had lost everything life had given him. She was realizing what it meant to leave childhood and childishness behind. It was a lesson I doubted someone like Marty could ever learn. Marty was on the floor, bleeding from his nose and sulking like he couldn't understand why the adults were punishing him like this. I could have turned him in. I suppose I should have turned him in, but he cut such a pathetic figure that I could not bring myself to do it. He was going to suffer enough through his whole self-centered life without my making things any worse for him. I turned my back on him and walked away. The others didn't move. No one said a word. As I walked back out into the night, I felt tears in my eyes. I waited until I was out of sight of the gang, and I wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve. I took a deep breath and walked back home, feeling a weight in my heart that only became heavier with each step I took. When I arrived home, the lights were off. I looked in on Ros who was asleep in bed. I let her sleep and went through to the living room. I opened the window and took out a cigarette. Ros doesn't approve of me smoking indoors, but it barely seemed to matter that night. I'd finished two cigarettes and was sitting on the sofa when the door opened. I looked up, fully expecting Ros to reprimand me. She opened her mouth, but then her expression changed. She gently took the cigarette from my fingers and stubbed it out on the glass surface of the coffee table. She climbed onto the sofa beside me and laid her head on my chest. Neither of us said a word. -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by Russel D. McLean. -------- CH014 *A Long Sad Song for My Fair Lady* by DeLoris Stanton Forbes My father ran away from my mother and me exactly three days before Chicago Mayor Anton J. Cermak was shot by a man named Giuseppe Zangara in Miami, Florida. The target was Franklin Delano Roosevelt. I asked my mother if my father had anything to do with the assassination attempt. She yelled at me, she yelled, "Are you crazy?" After awhile she told me my father had left Chicago to find work someplace -- anyplace because things were very bad all over. Because of the Depression. I knew she was keeping things from me, she always did bend the truth a little for my benefit. I perversely preferred to imagine my father hiding out in some faraway cellar because the G-men were after him. I could see him clearly, all hunched over with only his old green velvet smoking jacket to protect him from the damp Lake Michigan vapors; eyes like an animal's darting this way and that, seeking out danger. My father was a man who smelled of danger. The papers said Zangara was an anarchist, and my father was a black Irishman who was always talking about Sacco and Vanzetti and the Irish rebellion, which I figured mixed with anarchists. He had this rashness inside him, you see, but truthfully, I knew my father didn't have anything to do with this Zangara business. For one thing, I was pretty certain that he couldn't have driven from Chicago to Miami in three days even if he had a car, which he didn't. And the smoking jacket scene was all wrong because he'd left it where he always left it; it still hung limply at the back of the hall closet. I really believed my mother. He'd just skipped out because he couldn't take it any longer. He made his living as a musician -- or tried to. I don't know what he was thinking when he took up music (singing tenor and playing the Irish harp) and came to America where all the working Irishmen were construction workers, cops, or politicians. All the smart Irishmen. After he left, we pawned his harp and put a sign in the window reading: ROOMS FOR RENT. Somebody important said when you throw a stone in a pond the ripples go on forever; the first stone in the Carmody pond was my father's leaving, causing us to turn our house into a boarding house. The second stone (maybe a cobblestone) was the Chicago World's Fair, the Century of Progress Exposition, which brought Lurlane Salome and her daughter Tamara to our two front rooms on the second floor, and they caused ripples upon ripples, believe you me. My mother was in the back hall scrubbing something (she was always scrubbing something) when the doorbell went ring-ring, so I went to open the door. The lady standing there had hair the color of shiny yellow straw all done up in waves and curls and meant to stay that way. Her lips were the color of cherries. Where there should have been regular eyebrows were two perfect lines like bird wings drawn with a black pencil and a steady hand. She wore a little hat with a veil on it that matched her dress. Pale blue it was. Both the dress and the hat matched her eyes. She said sweetly, very sweetly, "How do you do? I see by your sign that you have rooms to rent. I am Mrs. Salome and this is my daughter. Is the lady of the house at home?" I looked past her then and saw a smaller, younger version of herself, only dressed all in pink. I stuttered, "M-my mother. The lady of the house is my mother, Mrs. Carmody. I am Francis X. Carmody, but everybody calls me B-buddy. Won't you come in?" I opened the screen door for them, and they stepped daintily across the threshold. Then I dream-walked down the hall into the kitchen. "Ma, there's two ladies to rent a room. They saw the sign we put in the window." My mother, red hair pulled back into a bun, sighed and wiped her flushed face with the corner of her apron. Her hands were soapy from dishwater, so she wiped them on the rollaway towel as she said, "Do they look like nice ladies?" I swallowed, "Yes, ma'am. They do. They're real pretty. Dressed nice. They look to be well off." "Oh dear." She took her apron off and smoothed at her hair. "I thought men would be better..." She made herself taller then. I could see her collecting the Irish inside her, and went past the swinging door with me right behind her, seeing at the far end the pale blue and the pink figures looking like strange flowers against the brown woodwork and tan wallpaper. "Ah. Mrs. Carmody. How do you do." Mrs. Salome put out a white-gloved hand, and from the way my mother touched it I could tell she didn't take to the Salomes on sight. "This is my daughter, Tamara," Mrs. Salome went on. "We've come from New York City to appear at the Fair and we're looking for a clean, convenient place to call home." She smiled, and dimples appeared at either side of her cherry red mouth. "Being so conveniently located, it would seem that your house might fit the bill." "Well, I'm not sure..." Mother took her hand away but didn't seem to know what to do with it, so she put her hands in back of her and clasped them together. "To appear at the Fair, you say? And what would appearing at the Fair consist of?" The smile widened. "When I tell you that I am Lurlane Salome, you'll know." My mother twisted her hands behind her in agitation. "No. The name doesn't mean a thing to me." Mrs. Salome made a disappointed little face and Tamara spoke up. "Ma-ma (pronounced like that) is a soubrette." Her voice reminded me of tinkling glass bells. "A soubrette?" Ma brought forth her arms around in front, folded them. "I've never heard of the word. It sounds like it's foreign..." "I'm on the stage," explained Mrs. Salome. "The star. The leading lady of a theatrical presentation." "An actress?" My mother used her snotty tone, the one she used when my father brought home one of his musician buddies. Mrs. Salome laughed. She laughed the way her daughter talked -- do-re-mi, do-re-mi. "A bit more than that, really. I prefer to be modest, but apparently you don't read the theatrical news. In New York and various places, I am rather famous." Ma opened her mouth, but before she could say what I knew she was going to say, I butted in: "How many rooms would you be needing? For how long?" "Two rooms would do nicely. We'll probably be here some time, as long as the Fair lasts, I should think." "We've got two rooms up front, upstairs with a bath in between." My mother spoke at the same time saying, "I charge seven dollars per week per room. That may seem on the dear side but..." "That sounds satisfactory," said Mrs. Salome. "May we see them?" "I'll take you up," I said, heading for the stairs and almost falling over my own feet. "Francis!" my mother said, and I stopped and looked around at her. The Salome ladies were right behind me. Ma hesitated, then nodded her head to mean I could take them up. Whether they could stay or not was still a question. "We'll discuss it when you come down," my mother said, sounding just as ritzy as Lurlane Salome, who beamed and answered, "Of course." The rooms were big and sunlit. The wallpaper was newish; one room was pink, and one blue. Hanging the wallpaper had been one of the last and, truth to tell, few household chores my father had done. The old furniture looked all right too, if you didn't look too closely. My mother could do a lot with a polishing cloth. "How very homey," Mrs. Salome said. "We'll take them." "Breakfast and dinner go with them," I offered. I wasn't sure they knew. "I'm certain your mother's a fine cook," Tamara said, standing close and looking up into my eyes. She smelled like spice. "How old are you, Buddy?" I swallowed. "Seventeen." Well, I would be in a few days. Ninety-three days, in truth. "How old are you?" She giggled and tossed her head. "It's a woman's prerogative never to tell her age." * * * * We found my mother just where we'd left her in the very same pose. "Mrs. Carmody," Mrs. Salome said, "the rooms are charming, so sweet and old fashioned. We'll be pleased to be paying guests." "Well, now, that's nice but I prefer men. I told Francis we should put a sign saying gentlemen preferred." "You said seven dollars per room per week, I believe..." Mrs. Salome shifted a hat box to the other arm, opened her lacy white pocketbook, and extracted money. "Here is two weeks in advance." She handed over twenty-eight dollars, and I thought, Oh boy, now we can pay the grocery bill. Mother set her mouth. "I prefer to be paid by the month." I knew she was itching to take the money, but at the same time she hated to accept it. "All right," trilled Mrs. Salome. She counted out thirty additional dollars and took back two singles without batting an eyelash. Ma, after a minute's hesitation, took it and said grudgingly, "I'll make you out a receipt." "Thank you, Mrs. Carmody. I take it we're the first. You have other rooms?" I was helpful, "We've got two in the back on the second floor and two on the third floor." Mrs. Salome nodded. "Tamara, would you pay off the taxi man and ask him to bring our things? Buddy, perhaps you can assist?" "Yes, ma'am." I walked out with Tamara. Maybe I swaggered a little because I knew Mrs. Hennessey was watching, the way she watched everything around our house. I would like to have yelled at her, "See, Mrs. Hennessey, we've got two boarders already and one of them's a soubrette!" I guess boarders are like mice, but in a nice way -- one boarder attracts another. That's the way it was with us, anyway. I was at the upright in our living room intending to practice the hymn Father Connolly had assigned us for choir practice but found myself singing a song my father fancied, "Kevin Barry" was the name of it, when the doorbell rang again, and when I went to answer it a man stood looking in through the screen door. "Hi, kid," he said. "You got rooms for rent?" I nodded and looked past him. Parked at the curb was a really keen shiny black sport coupe with red wire wheels. "Golly," I said. "Yeah. Come in." He wasn't real tall, but he was broad shouldered, so he looked big. He had on a fancy suit with white pinstripes and his black shirt looked like silk. He held a straw hat in his hand, and his brown hair sprung back off his head in a pompadour. His brown eyes were deep set and he had a neat little mustache like Clark Gable's. He told my mother his name was John Hall and that he was visiting the Fair from Indianapolis. He wasn't certain how long he'd stay, maybe as long as a month. Or two. Before my mother could tell him, I said the rent was seven dollars a week with breakfast and supper and we only rented by the month. And again before she could speak, he said that was fine, and we had our second boarder just like that. The Salomes then brought the other two, a thin blond man named Albert Pfenn (pronounced Fenn and called Al), who sang in Mrs. Salome's theatrical presentation, and a fat fella named Herbert (Bert) Dawes, the head comic at the Hindustani Palace, where Mrs. Salome was the star soubrette. The seven of us sat down at the dinner table with me in my father's chair. Mrs. Salome sat next to my mother and I couldn't see her too well, but she'd removed her hat and fluffed out her hair, and from my seat she kind of looked like one of the Christmas angels that go up top on a tree. Mr. Hall was next to her, and I heard her ask him what kind of work he did that allowed him to take time off to come to the Fair, and Mr. Hall said he was in the laundry business, and Mrs. Salome said, "Oh, really? I have a friend in New York who's in the laundry business too," and he said, "You don't say?" and they looked at each other in a funny way, and my mother said, "Buddy, stop daydreaming and finish your supper. You're due at choir practice in twenty minutes." Jimmy Crosby was waiting for me on the steps of St. Patrick's, waiting to tell me he'd got a job at the Fair. "Yeah? Where? Do they need anybody else?" I asked. It seemed like all the breaks always went to Jimmy Crosby. He smirked. "Naw, I don't think so. I'm a dishwasher in The Streets of Paris." "What's The Streets of Paris?" "It's a nightclub. Kind of. There's a woman who works there that does a dance with fans and nothing else. An old guy who works in the kitchen told me." "Fans? What kind of fans?" "Big feathery things. Her name is Sally something. Here, want a Wing?" He offered me a crumpled cigarette pack. "No thanks. We've got four show people staying at our house." For once I could top him. He was probably making it up about the woman and the fans anyway. Jimmy had a habit of exaggerating. "Yeah?" He puffed on his cigarette. "Who are they?" I recited their names. Jimmy blew out a feeble smoke ring. "Never heard of them." "They're in the show at the Hindustani Palace." He scuffed out his cigarette, turned to go into the church, whipped his head back around. "Where?" "The Hindustani Palace." "Boy, oh boy!" And just then Father Connolly appeared at the door. He wasn't smiling like usual because we were late, so I had to wait for an explanation of the boy-oh-boy until we got to Jimmy's house after practice. We were in Jimmy's cellar behind the coal furnace; we each had a bottle of Jimmy's old man's home brew in hand when he told me. I said, "A cooch dancer? Mrs. Salome is a cooch dancer?" "That's the story. The Hindustani Palace does burlesque. When the Fair officially opens next week, she'll be bumping and grinding away. Boy, are you lucky! Right in your own home." "What's bumping and grinding?" Ordinarily, I wouldn't have let on that I was ignorant of the phrase, but Jimmy seemed so impressed that I went ahead and asked. "Well, you know. No, I guess you don't." He stood up to show me, "Kind of like the hula. Only more so." It didn't look like much when Jimmy did it. "How do you know all these things?" I asked crossly. He was a know-it-all from the git-go. "My father tells me. After all, he's a cop. Which reminds me, he told us at supper tonight that John Dillinger got out of jail yesterday. I guess he bought off somebody or got paroled or something. My old man says he'd bet a C-note that Dillinger will turn up here." "In Chicago? What for?" "Buddy, you sure are dumb. All the big-shot gangsters hang out in Chicago." "But Dillinger isn't a gangster, is he? Like Capone and Nitti and all those guys?" I wondered if I dared take a big gulp of brew like Jimmy. "Naw, he's more like Robin Hood, I guess. My old man says he's a dangerous one, though." "Aw, I read where he doesn't kill anybody. He just robs banks and stuff like that." I thought what the heck and took a big swig. It made my eyes water and I coughed. "Hey, Buddy," Jimmy peered at me like he was having trouble seeing. "Heard anything from your father?" "Naw. I think maybe he's gone for good." "What's your mother say?" "Nothing much." I wished he'd stop talking about it. "I think sometimes she's glad. They had a lot of fights, you know." "That must be tough. Did he hit her?" I winced at the thought. "I'm not sure. Sometimes I think you're lucky having only one parent. Two can be bad news." "I guess so. I don't remember my mother, but she must have been nice. My old man is always talking about her." "Why do you think people get married?" "Sex and all that stuff. And having kids." "I guess. Only I can't imagine my mother and father ... you know." Jimmy laughed. "You've just never taken a good look at your old man." "What does that mean?" "Well, I've heard my father talking. Some guys say Donal Carmody's hot stuff." I scrunched up against the coal bin wall for leverage. "You'd better not say that. My mother's not like that!" "I didn't say she was. I said your father. Ask Carmine Genna. Hey, ssh, Buddy. I think I hear my old man. Better not let him catch us down here..." But he did, I guess 'cause cops are trained to catch people. And when he did, he made us chug-a-lug what was left in the bottles, and when I drank it all down without taking a breath my stomach received it numbly at first, then after a few minutes sent it back up, and Sergeant Crosby made us clean up the mess, so it was after midnight before I got home, and I only went home because I didn't have any other place to go. I knew Ma was going to kill me if she caught me. I slipped off my shoes at the end of the sidewalk and my heart sank even lower when I spotted a light in Ma's room. I had my foot out on the bottom step when a voice spoke out of the darkness from the other side of the porch where the porch swing shone palely. "Didn't choir practice run a little late, Buddy?" I came up the steps fast with my finger to my lips, but Mrs. Salome paid no mind. "Your mother was looking for you." "I was just getting some air. It's a warm night, isn't it? Almost too warm for sleeping." I went over and sat in a rocker. "Is my mother asleep?" "I don't think so. I thought I heard her out in the kitchen." "Mrs. Salome, I was wondering -- is there any work to be had at the Hindustani Palace? For me, I mean?" "I wish you'd call me Lurlane, Buddy. Mrs. Salome makes me feel ... I guess I could ask Mr. Max Henry. He's the manager and he would have to be the one to say so." "I wish you would put in a good word for me. I really need a job and I'm willing to do anything. Thanks, Mrs., ah, Lurlane." The screen door opened and closed quietly and made me jump. "Hot night tonight," Mr. Hall said. Mrs. Salome -- Lurlane moved over on the swing. She was wearing something ruffly; it trailed onto the porch floor. He sat down beside her, and I got the sudden feeling I wasn't wanted. "Good night," I said loudly and got up. I let the screen door slam and went right down the hall into the kitchen; heck, I was the man of the house now and so what if my mother did holler at me. I'd just take it like a man and tell her, "Ma, I'm not a little boy anymore..." Except there wasn't anybody in the kitchen, no one at all. The lights were on and the back door was open, nothing between the house and the night but the screen door. I stepped out onto the porch and tried to see out. I called, "Ma," but the only answer I got was busybody Mrs. Hennessey's fox terrier yapping next door. I started down the back steps. The yard was full of black shadows. Suppose Ma had come out with the garbage (because I was off drinking home brew with Jimmy Crosby) and something happened to her? Between the dog's yaps I thought I heard a whisper that might have been a breeze and might have been voices speaking very softly. I made my way across the yard to the back gate. It was open. Something caught my eye down at the end of the alley, and I thought it was maybe someone walking quickly away. I was scared. I didn't reason it out, I just knew I was scared of the dark figure at the end of the alley, a shadow now gone or blended with other shadows. I turned quickly and nearly stumbled back to the lighted square at the end of the kitchen door. I jumped and let out a little sound as my mother spoke up from the darkness. "Francis, what are you doing out here? Where have you been, anyway?" She startled me so that my voice didn't sound as I'd meant it when I snapped back, "Where have you been?" "Why, in the kitchen, of course. Baking bread. Feeding seven people isn't like rolling off a log, you know." She had some words about how I hadn't been home to help her and how tired she was, but I hardly heard her because for the first time in my life I had caught my mother in an outright lie. The next morning Ma had fire in her eyes and manpower on her mind -- the manpower being me. She gave me another lecture on how much work it took to run a boarding house and right after I had my breakfast I was to go up and do the rooms. "But what if they're still in bed, Ma?" I wanted to know. She glared at me. "No decent sort of person lays in bed past seven o'clock." This because she knew I could sleep till noon if I ever got a chance to. But nobody came to breakfast, and I got to blame her for that because she never told them what time she planned to have breakfast. "Besides, they're show people -- except Mr. Hall -- and they're not used to getting up. How about the preserves pantry? I could clean that." There was an old mattress stored in the back that might do for a little catnap. But my mother didn't go for cleaning the preserves pantry. Instead she sent me to clean the windows in the front of the house -- inside and out. There were a lot of windows, five big ones and three in the bay, which caused me to spend half the morning on a ladder giving Mrs. Hennessey a good opportunity to spend half her morning watching me. I waved to her just for spite and the dog yapped louder, just for spite too, I figured. All the time I'd lived there, which was all of my life, Mrs. Hennessey had never spoken to me except to tell me to get off her grass or out of her apple tree. She lived all alone, except for her dog, and looked older to me than God, and nobody came to see her except when her married son brought his family from Omaha, and that was maybe once a year. I'd have thought she'd be lonesome, glad to talk to somebody to pass the time of day with somebody like Ma, but no. Maybe because Ma called her a busybody. All Mrs. Hennessey ever did was peek out, then duck back behind the curtains. She must really be enjoying the view now, I thought, with all the different people coming and going. I considered taking a walk over to the Hindustani Palace after lunch to remind Mrs. Salome to ask about a job for me. It wouldn't hurt to remind her, I figured. She'd said she had to rehearse and maybe I could catch her doing whatever she did ... but Ma wasn't having any of that. I had to do the bedrooms, she said, handing me a sandwich to speed things up. No point in arguing with my mother. I downed my fried egg sandwich and kept my pouts to myself. I climbed the stairs with a lick and a promise (Ma's expression) on my mind. Tamara's room looked like she'd just spilled everything out of her suitcase, everything being underwear and stockings of all colors, silky as silky could be. I reached for a stocking and it felt like a cloud, so I dropped it and let it be. I didn't dare pick it up, and if I did where would I put it? Maybe when Tamara came upstairs she'd put her own stuff away. I sure wasn't going to take the responsibility. In Al Pfenn's room everything was put neatly away. Even his bed was made. I did find one thing that shed light on the Hindustani tenor. A bottle of peroxide. Apparently Mr. Pfenn dyed his wavy gold hair. Bert Dawes's room was a different story, though. Half his stuff was still in his grip and there was a ring on the bureau top from a now-empty bottle. I sniffed at it. It had no label and I didn't know enough about bootleg liquor to identify it. What I did know was that Ma was dead set against liquor. Lurlane's room was neat as a pin compared to Tamara's, and it smelled extra nice. Mr. Hall's third-floor closet didn't have much in it, just a couple of suits, the pinstripe and a tan summer suit that I kind of fancied because it had a belt in the back. I went over to make his bed and found a gun under his pillow. I quickly dropped the pillow back over it. I wouldn't make Mr. Hall's bed just then, I'd clean the bathroom instead. While I thought about it. Lots of guys carried guns these days, there was so much gangland killing going on. Every time you picked up a paper ... If I told my mother, we'd lose one roomer and a nice piece of change, when maybe Mr. Hall had a good reason to have a gun. Or I could tell Jimmy's father ... but if Mr. Hall really was a gangster, he wouldn't be too happy to find out it was me who sicced the cops on him. That was when the bathroom door flew open, and I turned to see Mr. Hall looking in at me with a strange look on his face. Dear Father, I thought, he knows I've found the gun! "Hey there, kid," he said, sounding menacing. He looked stern, very serious. "Yes, sir?" "I've got to use the john." "Yes, sir. I was through anyway. Sorry, Mr. Hall." I backed out of the bathroom as fast as I could, met up with Lurlane and Tamara in the hall. "I've been cleaning the rooms," I told them. Tamara said, "You needn't bother with mine. I haven't finished unpacking." Lurlane said, "He's done mine already and made the bed very nicely. I've got to go. I won't forget about the job, Buddy." And she didn't. When she came back from the Hindustani Palace I was all fixed up with a job selling candy entre actes, which she explained meant between the acts. I'd been out too. I caught up with Jimmy before he left for work to tell him about Mr. Hall's gun, and he decided that Mr. Hall was actually John Dillinger in disguise hiding out at our house, and I told him he was crazy; Mr. Hall didn't look anything like the pictures I'd see in the newsreels of John Dillinger, and he said he'd probably had plastic surgery done, and I said again that he was crazy, why would a big shot like Dillinger hide out at our house, when he could stay anyplace he wanted to, like the Palmer House, and he said I was crazy, but he'd tell his father when he saw him next, although his father was very busy and he might not have time to deal with a gun under a pillow, unless the pillow belonged to somebody like John Dillinger, and I gave up the argument. I'd done what I should have done, told somebody in authority (sort of), and headed home little knowing how my life had changed because of Mrs. Salome and the job. Tamara was stretched out on the divan like a baby Jean Harlow when I returned. She'd twisted her ankle, she said, and a man she described as a new boarder was now occupying my room, "So you'll have to move out of your room." "Who? Who is this new boarder?" But she didn't know. She patted the side of the sofa. "Sit down and talk to me. Would you like to use my Ouija board?" "Francis," my mother said. She stood in the doorway looking worried; come to think of it, she looked worried all the time lately. If she wasn't careful those lines would turn into wrinkles and she'd be old. "You'll have to go up on the third floor with Mr. Hall. I'm putting a new boarder in your room." And just when I was going to ask her who the heck this big shot boarder was that I should give up my room, a man joined her in the hallway and my words dried up and my mouth fell open. "Good day to you, lad." He made a welcoming gesture. "Come along, I'll help you get settled." So I followed my mother and my father into my bedroom. He looked as though he'd never been away, smoking jacket and all. Like he owned the world, that's what he looked like. "What's going on?" I faced them accusingly. "I've got a right to know." My father threw his arms around me, and I backed out and off. He exchanged a look with my mother, put his thumbs in his jacket pockets, a phony gesture he'd made a habit of, and straightened his shoulders. "It's this way. You see, I've been in a bit of trouble. That's why I took off. I didn't want you and your mother to get mixed up in it." "And you're not out of it yet," I told him coldly. Whatever it was. "In a manner of speaking, no." Again they exchanged that sharing of looks. "Your mother and I grew lonely for one another, and we thought that if we were discreet, if I moved back very quietly, no one would know. Especially with all these other people in residence; nobody would notice." "You're not to let on that your father's back, Francis. Not to Jimmy Crosby or anybody else. Nobody." And she pressed her lips together, drawing them into a thin line. I saw his harp then, standing in the corner of my room with its green baize covering around it. Probably the very first thing she did with our hard-earned money was to get that harp out of the pawnshop. "Has he got a job, then? Or did he just come home to get in on our newfound prosperity? You know what Roosevelt says, Happy days are here again!" And I grabbed an armload of my clothes and dragged them up to the third-floor room, where the narrow bed had a lumpy mattress and the wallpaper was peeling, and dropped my stuff on the dusty floor and lay on the lumpy bed and tried to figure things out, but I couldn't make sense out of any of it. Only that it had to do with my father. And maybe my mother. * * * * The Hindustani Palace wasn't anywhere as grand as its name. It held maybe a hundred people, and it had seats like a movie theater. There was a stage that extended out into the audience area, with an orchestra pit on either side underneath. The manager, Mr. Max Henry, explained that I was to carry a big bag over my shoulder and make a spiel about prizes inside the boxes. I was to deliver a box to anybody who'd pay their quarter. I was to work with Mr. Sam Ordway, who was called a candy butcher. Mr. Sam Ordway called me Buster even though I kept reminding him that I was Buddy. He sent me to sit in the back of the theater until my time came, and he told me most all the spectators would be men and my sales pitch would be, "Take a treat home to the little lady. Then she won't ask where you've been!" It was the dress rehearsal, and pretty soon the lights dimmed, the orchestra played a fanfare, and Bert Dawes came out. He had a new red bulbous nose and wore loud baggy clothes and spats. He told a couple of jokes about a sheik and his wives that I didn't think were very funny. When he was done, Al Pfenn appeared under a palm tree that somebody had pushed on stage and sang about a desert moon, then Bert came back to introduce Lurlane (he called her Salomay) and her dance of the seven veils. The orchestra started playing an Oriental dirge. Bert disappeared in a puff of smoke, and there she was in a pink spotlight, all dressed in silver gauzy stuff like clouds, looking like something off the Christmas tree. She had something around her neck, something black that moved when she moved. It had a head that came out of nowhere and danced in the air.... Holy Mother, it was a snake! She went this side and that, shedding veils every so often, then faster and faster until she was down to one brief arrangement on the top and a single on the bottom. Suddenly, zing! Something flew through the air and fell almost at my feet. I recognized it as Lurlane's top garment, and I looked back just in time to see that all Lurlane had around her torso was the snake and that she held the seventh veil in her hand. Then all the lights went out and I began to breath again. A voice came out of the darkness, snickered in my ear. "Gets to you, Buster, don't it?" I turned to glare at Sam Ordway. Some people can make something smutty out of anything. But I'd never, in my whole life, in my wildest imagination, seen anything more beautiful. Mr. Max Henry wasn't satisfied. He complained that Lurlane's act had been done before and couldn't she come up with something different, with more class, like that Sally Rand down the street with her fans, and they argued until she told him, okay, she'd come up with something special, and after that when she came out in her street clothes and saw me she said, "What did you think of it, Buddy?" I swallowed and said, "You were beautiful." That pleased her. She patted my hand and invited me out for coffee, and we walked out into the bright afternoon sunlight. It was hard to take in the vastness of the Fair. Everywhere I looked I could see strange shapes, great new buildings, expanses of glass and aluminum. A Century of Progress. Past and present. Such a world I lived in! That's when I had the thought that I hadn't thanked Lurlane properly for getting me the job; heck, I couldn't even pay for our coffees in the French sidewalk cafe. I made up my mind that the first thing, the very first thing I'd do when I got my first pay envelope was to buy my Fair lady a thanks present. I had to ask her where she kept the snake. If Ma knew we'd had a snake in the house she'd have fainted -- well, maybe not fainted; Ma wasn't a fainter -- but she would have come close to it. "Guess," Lurlane said with one of her dimpled smiles, "just guess what I keep in my wicker hat box. Don't worry, Buddy. I've moved it to my dressing room." I slept late the next morning. Ma came knocking on my door at some early hour, but I told her, "I'm a working man now; let him help you with the housework." And so when I came down to breakfast with the rest of the boarders and found him vacuuming the hall, the sight pleased me. And it surprised Lurlane. "Aren't you the new boarder?" she asked. "I'm the man of the house, madam. Donal Carmody at your service." Said with a half bow and a look from his black-browed Irish blue eyes. "Why, Buddy," she turned to me. "You didn't tell me your father was home," and then, to my immense pleasure, she linked her arm in mine, and we went into the dining room where I'd no sooner dipped into my wheat cakes when my mother stuck her head out of the kitchen. "Francis, that Crosby boy is here to see you." Jimmy sat on the back steps boldly smoking a Wing in broad daylight. "Hey," I told him, "I was just eating. My hotcakes are getting cold." "That's okay. I've only got a minute myself, and I thought I should let you know. That can't be John Dillinger living in your house 'cause he robbed a bank in Indiana yesterday, and he threw the cops off by tossing roofing nails out of the back car window so's they'd puncture their tires." Jimmy puffed hard on his cigarette, then coughed. "I told you it couldn't be Dillinger." I turned back to my hotcakes. "I see your old man's home," Jimmy said. "Don't go broadcasting that," I said sternly. "I told you when he left, that's all. I didn't tell anybody else about him taking off." "Oh, come on, Buddy. Everybody knew when he left and why." I glanced into the kitchen. It was empty. "If you think you know so much," I spoke loftily, "you tell me why and I'll tell you if you're right." "Why because -- " He looked at me sharply. "Hey, that's an old trick. You don't know. You really don't know." "Of course I do. That's an old trick too, and I'm not going to tell you so you can blab it all over the neighborhood." I started back up the steps, leaving him to speak to my retreating back. "Jeez," he said. "He really doesn't know about his old man. He should ask Carmine Genna." I turned back. He'd said something about Carmine Genna before. But Jimmy was gone. Carmine Genna ran a store a few blocks from our house, kind of a grocery store but not like the store where Ma shopped. I asked her once how come she didn't shop at Carmine Genna's, it was closer, and she said she didn't think his produce was very fresh and she didn't think he sold much in the way of groceries, and when I asked her what she meant by that, she just shook her head and changed the subject. Like almost everything, I had to find out from somebody else that Carmine Genna was a bootlegger who ran a gambling den in his back room. But I'd been in Carmine Genna's a few times, mostly with Jimmy buying cigarettes, so I knew he carried lady stuff like perfume and all, so I thought when I got some money I'd have an excuse for stopping in. I'd buy a present for Lurlane. As soon as I had some money. And that came sooner than I expected. From my mother. She wanted to know what I was doing at the Hindustani Palace, and when I told her I was selling candy she said, "That's nice. It's a nice stopgap until you find your niche. I want you to have a little pocket money. They may not pay you for a bit, so take a dollar out of my change purse." And while I was in the pantry getting my dollar, I heard the sound of the harp coming from the dining room, and I knew he was in there charming them all. The harp sounds stopped and there was applause. I took the dish towel and dried some dishes and thought how he and she were always fighting, but after the fights she always made up with him no matter what. I said, "What about doing the rooms, Ma? Is he helping you?" She rinsed out the dishpan and turned it upside down in the sink before answering. "I told them they'd have to do their own beds. Except when I change the sheets." That explained why she hadn't found Mr. Hall's gun. Just then my father came in. He was grinning and his eyes were shining. "I've got me a position," he crowed. "Mrs. Salome, she's been needing a new act for her show, and she tells me my harp is just the ticket. I'll add a bit of class!" He grabbed my mother and pulled her to him. I looked away and walked quickly out the back door. "Buddy," I heard him call, "Mr. Hall is going to drive us to work.... "But I kept on going. If I hurried I'd have time to stop at Genna's. Genna's store, like everybody else, was capitalizing on the Fair. They had a bunch of souvenirs on the shelves by the window. Behind a lineup of Campbell's tomato soup cans, I spotted a pillow with fringe all around it, in the middle of which it read, "A Century of Progress, Chicago, 1933." I stepped inside looking for Carmine Genna, but he wasn't in sight. Instead his daughter Fiona was behind the counter at the rear, jabbering in Italian to an old lady. I guess it was Italian, it was all Greek to me. I picked up the pillow and moved behind the old lady. When she finally left, Fiona took notice of me. She'd been three years ahead of me in school so I figured she didn't know who I was, but when I asked how much the pillow was, she answered "Eighty-nine cents" on a strange note. Now that I was closer to her, I could see that she was going to have a baby. Soon. When I handed her my dollar and the pillow she asked in a low voice, almost a whisper, "Are you the Carmody boy?" "Yes, ma'am." I was still holding the pillow and the dollar. "You get outta the store," she hissed. "But I want to buy..." I heard a man's voice talking to somebody in the back of the store. Fiona looked over her shoulder, and I noticed for the first time that she was a pretty girl in a dark kind of way. She had big black eyes and high cheekbones. "Go," she commanded. "But I want the pillow..." The male voice said something in Italian, and the curtains behind her parted, and there was Carmine Genna in person. He was swarthy, with matted curly hair and mean eyes. Jimmy had told me once that Carmine Genna had connections with the Capone mob. Right then I didn't doubt it. His eyes got even meaner when he saw me. Fiona grabbed the dollar and the pillow, rang the cash register. Carmine said something in his native tongue. She shook her head and handed me eleven cents. I could see her hands were trembling. "You the Carmody kid?" Carmine demanded. "Yes, sir." I fought an impulse to back away. "Where's your old man? You know where he is, don't ya?" He reached over the counter, grabbed my shirt, pulled me closer. I could smell garlic on his breath, garlic and liquor. "No, sir. He left us -- in February." "He don't know nothin', Papa." Fiona clutched at his arm. "Leave the kid alone." One thing was certain, whatever my father had done, Carmine Genna was pretty mad about it. "I don't know where he is, Mr. Genna. Ma and I, we've been taking in boarders to make ends meet." His little dark eyes looked deep into mine. Fiona stuck my pillow in a paper sack and thrust it at me. "I told you, I never wanted to see him again," she muttered under her breath. "What you want don't matter," snapped Carmine. Reluctantly he let go of me. "When you see your old man, you tell him Carmine Genna will catch up with him. You tell him that! Hear me?" When I got to the Hindustani Palace, Mr. Max Henry was sitting down in front watching Bert and Hal and a chorus girl rehearse a scene. Al was playing a lawyer and Bert was the judge. The woman -- she had bright red, almost orange hair -- was sitting in a chair with her skirt way up above her knees. She said, "I shot him between the coffeepot and the buttered toast." Bert leered at her, came back with, "One inch lower and you'd have got him in the percolator." The lights went down. I clutched the pillow to me and asked Mr. Henry, "Is Lurlane here?" "She and your father went out for a cup of coffee or something. Sam's been looking for you. He's backstage, better go give him a hand." I did as I was told and helped Sam get the candies set up, but Lurlane and my father didn't come back and they didn't come back. I'd been carrying the pillow around so long that the sack had a rip in it. The orchestra leader called to Mr. Max Henry, "When's the prima donna coming back? And the fruit with the lute?" "Buddy," Mr. Henry called. "You go out and look for them." "Yes, sir. But where? Where would they go to get coffee?" "Try places where you can get booze." And he named them. "They haven't been sittin' this long over a cup of coffee." I found them in the back of one of those places that had "Cafe" in its name. They were sitting in a booth in the corner. My father was talking and she was listening. He'd had quite a few, I could tell; his eyes were shining the way they did when he got soused and his cheeks were extra red. He was saying, "and the trout streams, like crystal, they are; and the air is like wine, new wine..." "It's time to go home for supper," I told them. "Ma will be waiting for us." "My goodness," said Lurlane. "What time is it?" "I'm afraid I got carried away," my father smiled ruefully. "I always do when I get going about the old country..." "Mr. Max Henry sent me to find you," I told her. She gave me a look that asked me to be on her side. "Is he mad?" "Sort of." "We'd better get back," she said to my father. "We don't want to spoil our beautiful act." "Tell your mother," he said grandly, "we've been detained rehearsing. She'll understand." "You're not coming home for supper?" "We can't. We have to work right through. We'll get a bite later." She reached out for my hand and I realized I was holding the pillow in it. "I'll tell her," I said. "Here. This is for you." And I walked off and left them there. With her holding the pillow. I saw the new act that night. Lurlane wore a gown that made her look like a queen. My father, wearing a tuxedo, sat at the edge of the stage on a gilded chair with his harp. He started playing "All I Do Is Dream of You" and she began to sing it, sort of, and as she got into the chorus she began to move her hands up and down her body. After a minute or two, she stepped out of that black dress, revealing lacy black underclothes. Somehow in the other act with the snake I hadn't been disturbed, but I couldn't say the same about the black underwear. When she got off the stage, Mr. Max Henry clapped his hands and said, "It's got class, Lurlane! It's got class." So my father had a job. My mother came with me to the Fair the morning of the official opening. She'd put on her best dress, a filmy voile with little blue flowers and buttons up the front. We stood in line with the rest of the world, and when the gates opened and the turnstiles clicked, we went in. A Century of Progress was described as "the crystallization of a modern creative spirit through the use of new materials and new design." "Isn't that interesting?" my mother said and then she said it again at the Sears Roebuck Building and at the Illinois Host House, which had a lot of stuff about Abraham Lincoln. She thought everything was interesting -- the Chinese Lama Temple and the Golden Temple, the "seat of worship of the Manchu emperors shipped in 28,000 pieces to Chicago," and Admiral Byrd's polar ship. She didn't want to go on the Sky Ride, "where you could see Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, and Wisconsin," so I said, "What do you want to see next? The World a Million Years Ago?" She asked, "Where's the place your father works?" Not "where you work" but "where your father works." "Don't you want to stop at the Hall of Science first? They've got..." "It's an awful warm day, Francis, and I'm tired. Let's just go by the Hindustani Palace and then go home. There'll be lots of other times to see the Fair." But when we got to the Hindustani Palace, there were pictures out front of Lurlane in her seven-veil outfit with a great deal of Lurlane on view. I waited for Ma to say something so I could say something back, but she only turned and headed back the way we'd come. I had to trot to catch up with her. "It's an artistic show, Ma," I told her when I'd caught my breath. "Don't be upset. If it bothers you so much, I'll quit." "It's too late for that." I tried to ask her what she meant, but she was going full steam ahead, heading for the gates and home, and there was no stopping her. Next morning I found Father Connolly wearing a carpenter's apron in the parochial school playground where he'd been painting the platform on the push merry-go-round. Of course he had time to listen to my problem, he said, and when I'd told him my father'd come back and my mother had given him my room he said, "When I was your age, Buddy, I was already in the seminary so I missed out on some of life's disappointments." "Disappointments? Is that what you call it? Finding out the world is a lousy place?" "Not a lousy place, Buddy. Maybe some people ... you must learn some compassion." "I'm supposed to honor my mother and my father. But how can I when he drinks and doesn't work and I think he -- fornicates with other women. That's adultery, isn't it? Like Fiona Genna. Is he the father of her baby?" "I can't answer that, Buddy. I can only tell you that Carmine Genna is bringing a husband for Fiona over from Italy. The child will have a name." He shrugged and I realized for the first time that Father Connolly was a man, just like any other, except that he had taken vows. "You haven't reconsidered about the seminary, have you, Buddy? I thought you felt a leaning toward the priesthood." I shook my head emphatically. "No. I'm not good enough." "I wonder sometimes," he said softly, "if any of us are." "Why did my mother marry him? She came from a good family. Why did she marry an Irish ... bum?" "She indeed came from a good family. Pillars of the church, the O'Malleys were, bless their souls, and hard workers. Your grandfather O'Malley bought himself a house, your house. I remember your mother from those days. A fine young woman, Mary Kathleen O'Malley, a clean-minded, pure-hearted, godly daughter. Maybe not as beautiful as some, but then she didn't use paint and powder. There were plenty of pretty girls who set their caps for Donal Carmody when he first came to Chicago. He was like a fresh breeze from the Shannon as a lad, a darlin' boy with a merry Irish eye and a beguiling brogue ... a bit of the old Ned in him, but nothing that couldn't be set right. You've been listenin' to tales, Buddy; tales that shouldn't be told." "How can she take the abuse that man gives her?" "Does he strike her? Is he a cruel man?" "Of course he is. Sometimes. I think so. Once he tried to smother her -- I came in and pulled him off. After that, they locked their door. So he could do what he wanted." "Buddy, I've never been married, of course, but I've counseled many a married couple in my twenty-some years as a priest. The thing is, a woman like your mother gives her heart and soul to a man when she marries him and that's that. I say a woman like your mother because I remember their wedding day. She was like a girl gone to heaven, every star in the sky was in her eyes." He stood and came over to me. "I don't think your father's all that bad, Buddy. As you grow older you'll come to realize there's many a man who can't live up to his dreams. Your father's sins are mostly of omission, not commission. Your mother knows that and, I suspect, loves him all the more for it." "Swell!" I punched the post on the merry-go-round. My fist stung. "You won't say he's guilty, and you can't say he's innocent. Well, thank you, Father Connolly. I thank you for nothing!" I wanted to kick the can of paint as I went by but didn't. It would have given me too much satisfaction and I wanted to feel miserable. I wasn't sleeping too well at night. It was because I kept hearing noises. Somebody kept creeping up and down the stairs. Yet every time I looked, no one was there. And one morning I sneaked into Mr. Hall's room and checked under his pillow. The gun was gone. Somehow a gun missing was worse than a gun under a pillow. It was time, I decided, to tell my mother about the gun -- and about somebody creeping around at night. I straightened up, replaced the covers, and looked out Mr. Hall's window. Mrs. Hennessey was on her front porch. I found Ma in the kitchen. Before she could say anything, I told her. "I didn't tell you before because I was afraid you'd make him move out and we'd lose a boarder. Mr. Hall keeps a gun under his pillow." "I know that." She ran water into the dishpan. "I found it shortly after he moved in. I told him I wouldn't stand for guns in my house, and he said he needed it in his business; he carried payrolls to his laundries. I told him he wasn't carrying payrolls now, so give me the gun, and he did." "What did you do with it?" "I put it away, of course. I locked it up." "Where? Where did you put it?" She stared hard at me. "That's none of your business." I switched subjects. "I think somebody's fooling around at night. I wake up when I hear footsteps on the stairs." She gave an angry swipe at a plate with the dishrag. "Now I won't have that. I suppose it's that girl Tamara. She'd chase anything that wears pants. She keeps making eyes at Mr. Hall. He's old enough to be her father. I'll give her a talking to -- her and her mother. I told you women boarders cause trouble...." The World's Fair was winding down for the coming winter and some of our boarders were getting ready to leave. Al and Bert were taking the Super Chief for New York; they had jobs there. But Lurlane and her daughter told Ma that they thought they'd stay on. Mr. Hall hadn't decided; it seemed to me that Tamara had something to do with that. Ma was making oatmeal and pancakes. The minute the temperature went down a little she made oatmeal. Tamara and Mr. Hall spoke to each other and went into the dining room. He was following her like a puppy dog. Al and Bert came down together, and as they came through the door, I heard Bert give the punch line of the new routine they were planning: "When you've seen two, you've seen them all." I glanced quickly at Ma, but she didn't seem to have heard; either that or she didn't get it. My father came in then wearing the green velvet smoking jacket that he kept in the hall closet. He looked around and asked, "Where's Lurlane?" "I guess I'd better call her," Tamara said, pushing her chair back. "She was dead tired last night, she must have overslept." "Came in pretty late, didn't she?" My mother asked the question of no one in particular. "I wouldn't know," Tamara said as she headed for the stairs. "I don't keep track of my mother's hours." "Could I have some more syrup, please?" I asked. "I hate to complain, Mrs. Carmody," Al took his oatmeal in little sips while Bert gulped, "but that dog next door woke me up with his barking at some ungodly hour this morning." My father interjected, "I don't care for any flapjacks this morning..." Then from upstairs Tamara screamed. And screamed. And screamed. I sat frozen, syrup bottle in hand. My father jumped up, hit the edge of the table in the doing, and the coffee from his cup slopped over the tablecloth. Then we all started moving, pushing against each other to get through the door, bumping against each other as we tried to get up the stairs. My father reached Lurlane's open door first, and I was right behind him. Lurlane lay on the bed under the covers. All I could see of her was her hair and part of her forehead. A pillow lay across her face. The pillow with the words A Century of Progress printed on it. My father moved forward and yanked the pillow away. Lurlane's blue eyes were staring and her mouth was stretched into an ugly grimace. Al squeaked, "She's..." I finished up for him. "Dead. She looks dead." Tamara, who'd been standing frozen, mouth open but soundless, keeled over. Mr. Hall picked her up. My father said, "Buddy, get a doctor." My mother said, "A priest. Francis, get Father Connolly." Then my father added, "And the police." * * * * They arrested my father two days later. They took him in after the testimony of Mrs. Hennessey. I heard her tell it at the trial. "I wasn't one to spy on the Carmodys, you understand, but I'm not a good sleeper and then, too, I've got this dog Tippy that wakes me up at all hours. Tippy got me up that morning between four and five A.M. I got up to let Tippy out and I waited for him to scratch when he wanted back in. That's when I saw this light go on on the second story of the Carmody house. The light was in the bedroom of the boarder with the peroxide-colored hair and it's easy to spot her when she gets home -- when she does get home; she stays out pretty late most nights -- what I was lookin' at kind of reminded me of a motion picture but in color -- you know, the scene opens and you wait for somebody to come in so the movie can start? That's when I saw the man in green. That funny green." "That funny green?" asked the district attorney. "I've never seen a color green just like the green jacket that I've seen on Donal Carmody for twenty years or more and I thought what is Donal Carmody doing in Mrs. Salome's room? At this hour?" Naturally the defense attorney Ma hired objected all over the place, and when he took on Mrs. Hennessey on cross examination he did his best to shake her story, but when he got her to admit that, well, maybe she'd never actually seen my father's face, she told him and the judge and jury that "Nobody else ever wore that green jacket. It was as much Donal Carmody as that Irish brogue and that harp and I've been seeing Donal Carmody for twenty years, don't you think I'd recognize him from the back, from the side, and from every which way? It was Donal Carmody, all right. I'd swear to it on a stack of Bibles." He didn't have much luck with Tamara either when he couldn't change her testimony that before she and Mr. Hall went up to bed she carefully locked the front door "just like Mrs. Carmody told us to." That plus the fact that my mother herself always locked up the back put the kibosh on any stranger-off-the-street theory. Tamara's testimony ended with tears after she swore that she went straight to bed and "slept like a baby" because that very night Mr. Hall, a widower and a fine gentleman, had asked her to be his wife. "And now my mother will never see my wedding day!" she cried. Bert and Al and Mr. Hall, called to the stand, made like the monkeys who saw no evil, heard no evil, and spoke no evil. After them, they called Ma. The district attorney wanted to know why they slept in separate bedrooms. Did it have anything to do with his having an affair with another woman prior to February when he suddenly went away?" Her mouth was tight. "No. It just worked out that way. When he came back. It seemed best." "And your husband didn't leave Chicago because this other woman had a father who threatened to do him bodily harm?" "No. I told you he went to look for work." "One final question. Do you have any reason, Mrs. Carmody, to believe that your husband was having an affair with Mrs. Salome?" "No." Loud and clear. "I do not. He had no reason to kill her. No reason at all." And, at last, they came to me. The district attorney wanted to know if I'd ever seen my father touch Mrs. Salome when they were at work. I said, "Touch?" He said, "Yes, touch. Like hold her hand. Put his arm around her. Pat her on the shoulder. Anything like that?" I squirmed as I tried to remember. "I don't think so." The district attorney put his hands on the witness box railing and looked closely at me. "Isn't it a fact, Francis, that if you'd seen your father and Mrs. Salome in a most passionate embrace, you wouldn't admit it?" I looked across the room at my father. "No, sir," I said. "I wouldn't admit it. After all, he is my father." * * * * It's funny how things turn out. When you're a kid you can't think straight beyond tonight. But when you get older, as old as I am now, you can think backward better than forward. Yes, sir, you sure can remember. I remember Father Connolly ringing our doorbell that morning in November. I'd been in the kitchen trying to put something together for breakfast when I heard its br-ring, and for a moment I stood stock still thinking I'd walk out and there'd be Lurlane and Tamara standing there smiling in their blue and pink dresses. But it was Father Connolly coming to express condolences. My mother had taken to her room, had stayed there since they'd sentenced him. "Tell her I've brought good news about something else," he said, and I rapped gently on the panel of her door and told her what Father had said. "Good news?" she said in a voice that hardly sounded like hers. "Not about what you think. Something else." "Tell him I'm -- not -- up -- to -- company." "Please, Ma. You're going to make yourself sick." "I am sick." So Father Connolly told it to me, he'd found me a job, a real job as an apprentice to a man in the religious jewelry business who'd lost his son in World War I and so he had no one to take over the store. He was looking for, according to Father Connolly, "a fine, decent young man who'd come in and learn the business. Then after he's got it down pat, it would be his, lock, stock, and barrel. He could pay for it over the years and Harry (Harry McCormack, that's his name) would have an income and the lad would have this steady, successful business. Right away I thought of you." I'd always wanted to end up in New York doing something -- I didn't know what -- exciting, but I was the man of the house now, so I went to work selling crucifixes and rosaries and Knights of Columbus rings and advent candleholders and fine crystal, until finally (!) Mr. McCormack got ready to retire and I met a girl I wanted to marry. Lila Terhune. Not only was she a good-looker, but she was a college graduate to boot. I thought how nice it would be to have someone to talk to when I got home and someone to help me with the housework because even though Ma got better and didn't hide in her room all day, she never seemed to take an interest anymore, and it surely was a big house to take care of. I finally had to shut off the top floors, more or less, had a little bathroom put in where the pantry was. Anyway, I proposed to Lila and she accepted and let me kiss her and I told her I wanted to bring her home to meet Ma. I'd told her a little about Ma, how Ma had been sick for some time but not to worry because she, Lila, would be in complete charge, only Ma would have to live with us. I planned to have Lila visit for Sunday supper so I'd have all day to prepare a nice meal. I told Ma that Lila was coming and she nodded and strummed his harp which she kept in her bedroom. But she'd never mentioned him, not once, and neither had I. Lila came that Sunday about five thirty, and I sat her down on the sofa, told her how pretty she looked. Then I went to get Ma. When Ma's door opened she wasn't dressed, she had her bathrobe on, that was the first thing I noticed. The second was that she held Mr. Hall's gun in her hand, pointing it right at Lila. "Get that slut out of my house," she yelled, waving the gun. After that I sort of lost heart, I didn't try to find anyone to marry anymore. When I told Doc Nelson about her he told me that at seventy her health was very good indeed, and when I asked him if she was crazy, he said, no, he didn't believe she had a sickness of the mind, but of the heart. "Well, she acts crazy sometimes," I told him. "Don't we all?" said Dr. Nelson. * * * * The phone call came late in the afternoon. I'd just come home from work, and even though I'd expected it one day, some day, I couldn't talk very well. So mostly I listened and croaked yes or no, except when they said to expect a letter. They were quick about it. The body was delivered two days later, and that required a trip in person to the mortuary. Driving back, I could feel the shape of the letter in my pocket. I'd read it in private and then dispose of it. Like the others before. No need to upset Ma with a message from the dead. I'd just closed the front door behind me when Ma's door opened. I called out, "Hi, Ma. I'm home." "Where've you been?" I breathed a sigh of relief. This was going to be one of her good days. "At work, of course." I unbuttoned my coat but kept it on. The letter in my pocket felt like a bushel basket. "The new branch store is doing well." "He's dead, isn't he? I heard you on the phone last night. He left me a letter. I heard you say. Where is it? I want it." "They said they'd mail it." Later, I would claim it was lost in the mail. She insisted that I take her to the funeral home at once; then she announced that the wake would be held at home. I started to contradict her, but I decided to let her do what she wanted. Maybe she'd be all right now, maybe it wasn't too late for me. I was only fifty-three. That wasn't ancient. "How about some pork chops for dinner, Ma? I picked up some nice ones at the market yesterday." "Pork chops would be nice, Francis. Baked with sliced apples and onions. The way your father likes them." When she'd gone to bed I took the envelope into the kitchen and steamed it open. It was written in capital letters, pencil on lined paper. I read: -------- DEAR MARY KATHLEEN, DEAR WIFE, THIS IS THE LAST LETTER I'LL BE WRITING YOU. THE DOC HERE TELLS ME THERE'S SOMETHING BAD WRONG WITH MY LUNGS AND THAT'S MAKING MY HEART WORK TOO HARD SO IT WON'T BE TOO LONG FOR ME. I'M LEAVING THIS LETTER WITH THE WARDEN SO THAT I'LL BE SURE IT GETS TO YOU. I FIGURE THE OTHERS NEVER MADE IT INTO YOUR HANDS BECAUSE I KNOW YOU'RE NOT A HEARTLESS WOMAN AND I KNOW YOU WOULD HAVE ANSWERED ME IF YOU'D GOTTEN EVEN ONE OF MY LETTERS. THERE'S A LOT OF THINGS I COULD SAY BUT I'VE GIVEN EVERYTHING A LOT OF THOUGHT AND I RECKON THERE'S ONLY TWO THINGS THAT ARE IMPORTANT AT THIS TIME. ONE IS THAT I NEVER STRANGLED LURLANE, NEVER. I'M SURE YOU FIGURED OUT THAT ANYBODY COULD HAVE PUT ON MY SMOKING JACKET AND TURNED ON THE LIGHT SO THAT OUR NEIGHBORHOOD SNOOP COULD GET A GOOD LOOK. I'M SURE YOU'VE FIGURED THAT OUT. ALL OF IT AND IT WOULDN'T DO ANY GOOD AT ALL TO SPELL IT OUT. I HURT YOU IN A LOT OF WAYS, MARY KATHLEEN, AND I'M SORRY BUT ALL THE TIME I LOVED YOU -- LOVE YOU STILL TODAY. THAT'S THE SECOND IMPORTANT THING, MY DARLIN'. THE MOST IMPORTANT. I LOVE YOU. YOUR HUSBAND, DONAL. -------- "I want my letter!" Ma's voice from behind made me jump. Involuntarily I scrunched the pages behind me as I turned around. I took a deep breath. "I can't give it to you, Ma. It wouldn't be good for you. It wouldn't be good for you at all..." She spun around and snatched the letter. "He loved me," she cried. "I never knew it until he got rid of her. It was the most loving thing he ever did, killing that Jezebel!" Her words like cymbals crashed in my head. To her retreating back I shouted, "He didn't do it. I did it, Ma, I did it. Because I was the only one who truly loved you. Not him, Ma. Me! Me! Me!" My voice beat upon boulders, sea against the shore. And off somewhere a little dog was barking... -------- Copyright (C) 2005 by DeLoris Stanton Forbes. -------- CH015 *The Mysterious Photograph* * * * * [NOTE: Image omitted. Images not supported in this ebook format. Download the MS Reader, Acrobat, Hiebook or Rocket format file.] * * * * All in Favor -------- We will give a prize of $25 to the person who invents the best mystery story (in 250 words or less, and be sure to include a crime) based on the above photograph. The story will be printed in a future issue. Reply to AHMM, Dell Magazines, 475 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10016. Please label your entry "July/August Contest," and be sure your name and address are written on the story you submit. If possible, please also include your Social Security number. -------- CH016 *The Story That Won* The January/February Mysterious Photograph contest was won by Mark Cook of Williamsburg, ON. Honorable mentions go to J. F. Peirce of Bryan, TX; Brian Spencer of Aptos, CA; Robert Kesling of Ann Arbor, MI; Sharon Near of Puyallup, WA; Frank T. Johnston of Jacksonville, FL; Mike Befeler of Boulder, CO; Heather Creamer of Canning, NS; Michelle Mach of Fort Collins, CO; and Kathleen Cooley of Monroe, WA. -------- *When One Door Closes* by Mark Cook * * * * [NOTE: Image omitted. Images not supported in this ebook format. Download the MS Reader, Acrobat, Hiebook or Rocket format file.] * * * * Officer Hanley pointed, "Is he in there?" "Ya. He's in there all right," confirmed Lieutenant Scanton. "What do we do?" "What can we do? Door's locked. Until we get a locksmith here all we can do is wait him out." "Doesn't make sense, Lieutenant. Guy snaps an' takes all that loot just to hide in a closet." Hanley shrugged, "I mean, where's he gonna go?" Good question. So was, why? Why would old Willie Carmen, janitor for thirty years, do this? Why today while sweeping the vault would he grab two million in bearer bonds just to run and lock himself in the mop closet? Manager said Willie was peaceable. Always had a smile. In fact, only time he didn't was once last year when after his wife died the bank turned down Willie's loan request for a stone monument. Standard bank policy. Willie was old. If he died, how would the bank collect on a monument? Just business, he told Willie. Nothing personal. Besides, it was just a day or two before Willie was back to his smiley self. After two hours the door was unlocked. Scanton opened it. Empty. Looking down he saw a piece of paper. He picked it up and read two words: "Nothing personal." Then he saw the tunnel. Six months later at the cemetery a quiet anonymous delivery of a beautiful large monument was made. Off to one side in the shade of an elm tree stood an old man. He was smiling. -------- CH017 *Reel Crime* Column by Steve Hockensmith For most folks, summertime is synonymous with fun in the sun. But there's a special breed of person -- _homo sapiens americanus celluloidus_, more commonly known as the American movie fan -- for whom summer means just the opposite. While their neighbors are lounging on beaches or grilling brats in the backyard, they're cloistered away in the air-conditioned shadows of the cineplex, feasting their eyes on the escapist fare Hollywood serves up during the dog days. But while BDL (Big, Dumb'n'Loud) sci-fi/action blockbusters will dominate the box office from May through August, that doesn't mean film fans with a taste for the more old-fashioned pleasures of thrillers and mysteries won't find a few good excuses for slipping out of the sun for some fun in the dark. _House of Wax_ If you're one of the millions of Americans who'd love to see Paris Hilton get her comeuppance, rejoice. You'll get your chance this summer. While the irritating heiress's fifteen minutes of fame haven't elapsed yet (according to our calculations, she's at fourteen minutes, thirty seconds), her life will be ending -- at least on screen. Hilton plays one of the victims-in-waiting in a remake of the 1953 Vincent Price chiller House of Wax. The new version jettisons the original's gothic flavor in favor of a more teen-friendly, hotties-chased-by-serial-killer approach. The update features a house of wax and a villain named "Vincent," but the similarities end there. May 6 _Unleashed_ Little wonder the producers of this Jet Li vehicle changed the name: The original title, Danny the Dog, would've drawn flocks of parents thinking they were dropping their rugrats off for the latest G-rated Disney offering. Instead, the traumatized toddlers would've been subjected to R-rated martial arts mayhem. But though the film features plenty of kung-fu derring-do, it's not your typical chop-socky action flick. Oscar nominee Bob Hoskins plays a vicious gangster who raises a child to be his personal "fighting dog." When the grown-up killer (Li) befriends a kindly blind man on the run from the mob (Oscar winner Morgan Freeman), he slowly comes to understand his own humanity. Hopefully, the resulting melodrama will be uplifting as opposed to uproarious. May 13 _Crash_ Sandra Bullock, Don Cheadle, Matt Dillon, Thandie Newton, Ryan Phillippe, and Brendan Fraser headline the huge ensemble cast of this sprawling, Robert Altman-esque exploration of life and death in modern L.A. Not just about a crime, this ambitious film attempts to examine crime as one strand of the complex web of connections that holds a community together -- or tears it apart. If that synopsis sounds pretentious, blame me. Hopefully, writer/director Paul Haggis (a recent Oscar nominee for his Million Dollar Baby screenplay) can pull it off with more aplomb. May 13 _Mindhunters_ The hunters become the hunted in this thriller about a group of FBI profilers (including Val Kilmer, LL Cool J, and Christian Slater) stalked by a serial killer. Dimension Films, the Miramax genre division notorious for consigning completed projects to movie limbo for a seeming eternity, lived up to its reputation again here: Mindhunters was originally intended to be a spring 2003 release, then a winter 2004 release before landing on the schedule for May 2005. Given the studio's lack of faith in the film, it seems possible ticketbuyers might end up doing some hunting of their own ... for refunds. May 27 _Asylum_ Like Mindhunters, this long-in-the-works erotic thriller has had more than one announced release date -- and it might have more still. But if Paramount Classics sticks to its planned early summer opening, fans of offbeat horror/suspense writer Patrick McGrath (Spider, The Grotesque) will finally get a chance to see an adaptation of one of his most acclaimed novels. Natasha Richardson plays the neglected wife of a psychiatrist who enters into a torrid affair with one of her husband's most dangerously unbalanced (or is he?) patients. Sounds interesting. Now the real mystery is, when will we get to see it? May ... ? _High Tension_ Moviegoers who assume the French only make romantic comedies or existentialist art flicks will have their minds changed by this no-holds-barred thriller. What starts off as a quiet getaway in the country turns into a non-stop fight for life for two college friends relentlessly pursued by a mysterious -- and seemingly unstoppable -- maniac. Think The Bordeaux Chainsaw Massacre ... only with an existentialist twist ending. Hey, the filmmakers couldn't entirely escape being French, could they? June 3 _Mr. and Mrs. Smith_ It's going to take a lot more than marriage counseling to help the Smiths (Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie). They might look like just another couple who've grown bored with their lives, but in reality they're international assassins. Their latest targets: each other. When the bullets start flying so do the sparks, and their love life revives as they dole out death together. The Prizzi's Honor-meets-True Lies plot might sound hard to swallow, but director Doug Liman (Swingers, Go, The Bourne Identity) knows how to make comedy and action go down easy. June 10 _Batman Begins_ As devoted DC Comics readers know, Batman's not just a superhero: He's also "The Darknight Detective," the world's greatest criminologist. While other recent Bat-movies have emphasized over-the-top guest-star villains (and camp), this latest big-screen outing promises a more subdued tone and a serious crime story. With an outstanding cast (including Christian Bale as Bruce Wayne and Michael Caine, Gary Oldman, Morgan Freeman, and Liam Neeson in supporting roles) and the perfect director (Memento/Insomnia helmer Christopher Nolan), Batman Begins might actually please hardcore comics junkies and non-batfans alike. June 17 _Into the Blue_ While May brings us an in-name-only remake of House of Wax, July offers the exact opposite: a movie with almost the same plot as an earlier film but a different title. While Into the Blue isn't officially a remake of The Deep, anyone who's read Peter Benchley's 1976 novel (or has seen the 1977 movie it spawned) will get the feeling they've sailed into familiar waters. In both films, vacationing scuba divers (Nick Nolte and Jacqueline Bisset in '77, Paul Walker and Jessica Alba in '05) stumble upon sunken treasure and run afoul of a local drug lord. At least Into the Blue director John Stockwell (Blue Crush) won't be desecrating a classic -- The Deep doesn't have many fans, so it probably won't be hard to top. July 15 _November_ Sick of watching perky Courteney Cox yukking it up with her Friends friends? Then this film might be the perfect antidote: a disturbing psychological thriller about a woman's slow unraveling after the murder of her boyfriend. There's no laugh track here, just a disorienting Memento-style narrative structure and a shocking twist ending -- or at least an ending that tries to be shocking. Whether it succeeds might depend on whether or not you've seen movies like ... nah, that would be telling! July 22 _The Skeleton Key_ Anne Rice isn't the only writer to be inspired by the spooky atmosphere of New Orleans and the surrounding bayous. Busy screenwriter Ehren Kruger (Arlington Road, Scream 3, The Ring) has set his latest spine-tingler there. A gumbo of mystery, ghost story, and psychological thriller, the film follows a hospice nurse (Kate Hudson) who agrees to care for a dying man in a remote (and possibly haunted) mansion. Needless to say, she ends up with a lot more to worry about than changing bedpans. August 12 _Four Brothers_ So we've already looked at a "remake" that has nothing to do with the original and an "original" film that seems to be a remake. Here's another variation: a remake of a Western that's actually pretty faithful ... except it's not a Western. The fondly remembered John Wayne vehicle The Sons of Katie Elder serves as inspiration for Four Brothers. Just as in the original, a band of men set out to avenge the murder of their mother. The remake takes place in present-day Detroit as opposed to the Old West, and the "brothers" are a multi-ethnic group of young men (among them Mark Wahlberg) raised by the same foster mother. But the story of crime, loyalty, and revenge remains largely the same. Of course, whether or not the quality will remain is another question entirely. August -------- CH018 *Booked & Printed* Reviews by Robert C. Hahn Collaborations by mystery writers have a long history (think Fred Dannay and Manny Lee's Ellery Queen series) and it would take a sizeable bookshelf to hold the many volumes being produced by collaborators today. Often it seems that collaboration is a family affair; notable combinations include mother/daughter (Mary and Carol Higgins Clark), sister/sister (Barbara Taylor McCafferty and Beverly Taylor Herald -- twins, no less!), and husband/wife (Bill Pronzini and Marcia Muller). In some cases, one spouse may already have a successful series and then teams up with the other to create a new series. For example Annette Meyers's Smith and Wetzon series was nicely established before she teamed with husband Martin to create a historical series tracking the development of New York City from its inception forward. Likewise, Susan Wittig Albert's China Bayles series was launched well before she teamed with husband Bill to create a series of Victorian-era mysteries under the name Robin Paige. Charles Todd is the nom de plume of the mother/son team Caroline and Charles Todd. Their excellent collaborative series features Ian Rutledge, a shell-shocked Scotland Yard inspector returning from the gory battlefields of WWI to try to resurrect life and career; the series has won plaudits from the start. The first book, _A Test of Wills _(1996), was nominated for several awards and won a Dilys Award as well as notice as a New York Times notable book of the year. More books and awards followed, each featuring the haunted inspector who carries with him the spirit of Hamish MacLeod, a soldier and comrade Rutledge had felt compelled to execute, who now accompanies him as an almost physical presence. But it wasn't until the fourth book in the series came out that it was revealed that the singular name of Charles Todd also contained another presence: that of Caroline Todd, Charles's mother and collaborator on each of the books. The series relies on Rutledge's ability to fathom the psychology of the crimes rather than reading clues or deciphering forensic evidence. And the American Todds vividly recreate an England still reeling from the aftereffects of a war that robbed their youth of life and limb and left the survivors forever changed. In _A Cold Treachery _(Bantam, $25), the seventh Rutledge mystery, a weary Rutledge is the closest available Yard officer when a shocking slaughter is reported in the remote village of Urskdale in the north of England. In terrible weather Rutledge treks to the small hamlet with its scattering of farms, ruins, and sheep pens. At the Elcott farm, husband Gerald, wife Grace, daughter, and twin babies have been shot. The only other member of the family, Josh, a young boy, is missing. While the locals organize and conduct a desperate search for the boy, Rutledge sorts through the possible suspects, which include Gerald's brother, Grace's sister, and Grace's former husband, as well as the missing boy. Rutledge is aware that what physical evidence there might have been has likely been obliterated by the snowstorm that struck and that finding the boy, alive or dead, is likely the only way to solve the crime. As in all of Todd's novels, the characters are very finely drawn and the insular character of the villagers, their stoicism and strength, resonate strongly. Series fans will recognize that Rutledge's health is continuing to improve and that Hamish's presence, while still important, is somewhat muted from earlier volumes. Accomplished mystery writers William G. Tapply and Philip R. Craig, each with long-running series of their own, have joined their talents and their series heroes for a couple of adventures. Tapply's mysteries featuring Boston lawyer Brady Coyne have been delighting fans for more than two decades now, and Craig's J. W. Jackson has been patrolling Martha's Vineyard for more than fifteen years. In 2001's _First Light_, the real-life friends and fishing buddies brought their heroes together for the first time. Now they are reunited in _Second Sight _(Scribner, $24) in a collaboration where the veteran authors passed the story back and forth, chapter by chapter, for a smoothly seamed book that combines Coyne's intelligent insights and Jackson's rough-edged readiness. In _Second Sight_, Mike Doyle, a client of Coyne's, wishes above all else to be reconciled with his runaway daughter, Christa, before he dies. Coyne's initial spadework uncovers the possibility that Christa is on Martha's Vineyard and he sensibly tries to hire Jackson to locate the girl. Unfortunately, Jackson has already taken a round-the-clock job as bodyguard/driver to mega-star Evangeline. Alain Duval, leader of the Temple of Light and a cult-like figure who is equally praised and damned, has organized the "Celebration of Humanity" and Evangeline, a Madonna-like performer, is the featured star. With Jackson unable to devote time to a search for Christa, Coyne decides to undertake the chore himself. Needless to say, the tasks of Coyne and Jackson eventually intersect in a plot more thriller-like than either author would likely concoct on their own. The result is a tale that lacks the subtlety and finesse common to both but remains enjoyable for the ease with which the authors handle each other's characters. The husband and wife team of Aimee and David Thurlo have been collaborating on a series featuring Special Investigator Ella Clah of the Navajo police for a decade now. But the prolific Thurlos aren't content with their primary mystery series, for which they share equal credit, but also have two additional ongoing series. Their Lee Nez series about a Navajo vampire/cop (!) credits David as the primary author, while their Sister Agatha series credits Aimee as the primary author. _Blood Retribution _(Forge), the second Lee Nez mystery, and _Thief in Retreat _(St. Martin's), the second Sister Agatha mystery, were both published late last year. _White Thunder _(Forge, $23.95) is the eleventh in the Ella Clah series and illustrates the typical strengths of the Thurlos with a solid grounding in Native American traditions and beliefs coupled with the myriad adaptations the Navajo continue to make both on and off of tribal lands. The ongoing tensions that result are illustrated within the Clah family itself where Ella, her mother, Rose, and her brother Clifford each hold different views that sometime result in clashes. (Rose was even given a book of her own separate from the Ella Clah series, 2003's Plant Them Deep.) In her latest adventure, Ella has to find a FBI agent who disappears after interrupting a "sing" ceremony. If the missing agent is alive but injured, it's imperative that they find him quickly because he will not survive long in the harsh land of the Dineh. Further, if the tribal police cannot locate him quickly, it's a given that the FBI will take control of the search -- a move that will cause additional bad feelings on the "Rez" (reservation). Well-constructed plots and a recurring cast of growing characters make this one of the best series featuring a Native American sleuth. And the Thurlos quite obviously are not content to rest on their laurels, so new mysteries and new series should continue to grow. * * * * *Solution* to the June Unsolved Greta VanDusen attempted to steal the purple fabric luggage of Betty Zinger, in which was contained a huge fortune in undeclared diamonds. Position, Couple, Hair, Luggage 1, Ed & Ellen Tompkins, brunette, black leather 2, Ivan & Doris Quigley, blonde, plaid fabric 3, Allen & Joyce Yager, red, orange fabric 4, Floyd & Flora Unser, blonde, tan leather 5, Dan & Betty Zinger, brunette, purple fabric 6, Jim & Greta VanDusen, red, red canvas 7, Brett & Iris Xander, brunette, green leather 8, Harry & Alice Saunders, blonde, blue leather 9, Claude & Helen Rappaport, red, green leather 10, George & Clara Washburn, brunette, red leather ----------------------- Visit www.dellmagazines.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.