Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 6, May 27, 1981

May 27, 1981

Dear Reader:

The twists and turns of the tales in this month’s issue may make your head spin. A couple of business partners try to double-cross each other as well as a hit man in David Morrell’s “The Partnership.” Two muggers find a new variation on the old game in “Spinning the Bottle” by Edwin P. Hicks. A young con man as a client in “The Man Who Flim-Flammed Hiwassee County” by William M. Stephens. Robert Edward Eckels describes an elaborate con in “The Swindle,” and an ex-con returns to a home that’s not quite the way he left it in “Picking Up” by Ernest Savage.

A young man who makes a living writing poetry falls victim to a frameup in “A Cleverly Rearranged Murder” by Richard Purtill, and in Donald Olson’s story a man picks up a hitchhiker who tells him how he can make “An Easy Fifty Bucks.”

We only hope that the crookedness of the plots in this issue doesn’t leave you too dizzy to focus on the printed page.

Good reading.

The Editors

Marti Roch

by William Bankier

They waited supper a full hour and when Felicity did not appear, Sonia left the room with a grim expression on her face. Darius kept on carving the wooden head of a new hand puppet. It was going to be a pretty girl, one he could control.

Sonia’s voice rang down the hall. “Her comb and brush are gone. Her eye makeup is gone.”

Darius set the puppet aside and went to stand in the doorway of his younger daughter’s room. He kept out of this room most of the time because the disarray depressed him.

“She’s run off. I think some of her clothes are gone too.”

“How can you tell?” Darius straightened a school book on the desk beside him. A heap of magazines cascaded to the floor. “Maybe she’s staying with one of her friends.”

“Without telling us? She always phones when she’s doing that.”

They discussed ringing Pamela and asking if Felicity had gone there. Darius was against causing the older sister any worry. “They never spend time together,” he argued.

“Felicity never ran away before either.” Sonia was incapable of sitting still and waiting for a situation to sort itself out. She had to take action, and telephoning her daughter would be only the first move.

During the phone call, Darius went back to his carving. In times of stress, he protected himself by concentrating on his work. The breakdown that forced him to leave the advertising agency had been a blessing in disguise. From being an anxious art director he went to a far happier life as impresario of a children’s puppet theater.

There was luck in it, of course. The arts council put up the money to refurbish and reopen the Lyric Theater in Hammersmith. The Lyric, anxious to maximize audiences, established a children’s theater in an annex and began looking for productions. Darius Fenn was able to audition with a clutch of engaging hand puppets. He did all the voices while Sonia helped with the manipulation. The directors were impressed and the Fenns now performed three days a week. When money ran short, Sonia did part-time secretarial work. Sometimes Darius felt he was being treated to heaven on earth.

“Pam hasn’t heard from her in weeks.” Sonia turned her back on the phone. She picked up her glass and her fingernails clicked angrily against the crystal. “She offered to come over if there’s anything she can do.”

Typical of Pam. She was making sensible progress in the ad business, writing copy, making none of the silly mistakes that had turned her father’s career upside down. Not for her the midday drinking, the too-close personal relationships with clients that went sour and jeopardized accounts.

Darius emptied his own glass. “Can I pour you another gin?”

“I’m calling the police.” She went for the phone. There it was — a hassle with no point to it beyond the fact of doing something.

“The police won’t be able to do anything.”

“This is what they get paid for.” She dialed 999, the emergency number.

“Kids go missing in London by the hundreds. Weeks have to go by before the police will take any notice.”

Sonia behaved with quiet self-righteousness while they waited for the police to show up. Her way was being proved right. Darius set the puppet and the knife aside and concentrated on drinking. He would appear right in the end — and that would make things worse.

There were two young officers in tight uniforms, their belts squeaking as they sat down. Offered coffee, they said “Ta” and one of them placed his walkie-talkie inside his helmet on the settee. They were like casual friends on a social call.

Patiently they told Sonia Fenn exactly what her husband had tried to make her understand.

These days, teenaged girls sometimes liked to take off for a while. Most of them tired of the exposure in a week or so and drifted home to the free food, the warm bed, and the laundry service. So the police did nothing until ten days had elapsed unless there was any reason to suspect foul play.

They went away and the Fenns lapsed into one of their arguments about nothing. They were both frightened and the emotion had to go somewhere. The idea of little Felicity out there with bad companions, becoming involved in...

“We can’t just do nothing,” Sonia said later in the dark bedroom as they were becoming sleepy in each other’s arms. The shouting was all done.

“I’ll look for her tomorrow,” Darius said.

“In all London? Where will you look?”

“I know where her friends hang out. I’ll have a talk with them.”

“They’ll tell you nothing.”

At eleven o’clock in the morning, opening time, Darius walked over to The Crooked Billet. The kids did their drinking here. On a fine day, the patch of grass on the other side of the road would be littered with them by half-past twelve. He nursed a pint near the front window, his mind skating dangerously close to the reality of the situation. If he let the barriers down, he could start feeling the way Sonia was feeling, and that would be terrifying. Felicity had a bit of money saved. What if she and a friend had slipped over to the continent? What if they decided to head for Asia? Darius had just read a book about a psychopathic killer in Nepal named Sobhraj. His daughter, literally, might never be seen again.

Darius went to the lavatory. When he came back to the window he saw the boy he was looking for. He was sitting alone on a stump at the edge of the grass, not drinking, smoking. Darius carried two pints across the road. “Hello, Jeremy. You looked thirsty”

“Thanks, mate.” A year ago, visiting Felicity at home, Jeremy had surprised Darius as he left the house by calling him “mate.” There was an easy rapport between the older man and the younger one. Jeremy seemed to be serving his late teens like somebody under sentence in a rough prison. He appeared to be disintegrating physically and the boredom of his life was agonizing. “Cheers.” The pint was lifted by a skinny arm to vanish into an overgrowth of bushy black moustache, beard, and hair. It came back half empty.

“Have you seen Felicity today?”

“This isn’t today, it’s still last night. I haven’t seen anybody.”

“We’re worried about her. She’s disappeared.”

“Have you called her friends?”

“We only know a few first names. I have no phone numbers, and I don’t even know where they live.”

This confession seemed to satisfy the young man; proper anonymity was being preserved. “She probably got hung up at a party. She’ll be home when the driver sobers up.”

“She took a lot of her stuff. We think she’s gone.”

This disclosure changed the game. The black forest turned to Darius; there was a face inside it and two pale, sensitive eyes. “She’s a restless girl. We all noticed it lately. Felix wants to get going.”

His daughter’s nickname amused Darius but Sonia hated it. “What I need to know is where she’s gone. There won’t be any trouble. All I want to do is talk to her.” He was making it sound as if she could have her freedom, but fifteen years old was too young to be released on her own. Legally, she was still Fenn’s responsibility.

“We’ve been telling her to wait. It was as if the youth had read Darius’s mind. “She wanted to move in with a bunch who are squatting in a building by the river. They told her fifteen is too young.” Jeremy drank off his beer. “Piccadilly Circus is where a lot of the runaways go. You might try there.” He stood up with the empty glass. “Want one of these?”

“Another time. I’m going to Piccadilly.”

“Good luck, mate.”

Darius telephoned Sonia and told her what he was doing. She was keeping busy, washing the girl’s clothes, straightening up her room. The submerged panic in her voice made Darius angry. If he caught his insensitive daughter now he would tear a strip off her. But what good would that do? It would only drive her further away. Somehow he had to reach her, make her an ally, show her how cruel it is to disappear leaving no word with the people who love you.

Wandering through Piccadilly Circus underground station, Darius saw enough to add to his depression. It would be a mistake to come here with Sonia. The scene would confirm her worst fears. There seemed to be scores of young drifters sitting on the marble floor or propped against barriers. Some of the girls suggested what Felicity might look like given a few weeks without parental care.

The worst sight was a squad of police coming out of a washroom with a youth on a stretcher, obviously one who had overdosed. Darius caught a glimpse of yet another hairy face, this one with its eyes closed — permanently, by the look of it.

And yet the main body of children were in a happy mood. Darius had to be honest; from what he could see, they were enjoying life. Of course, that’s what it is to be young. No, wait a minute. He forced himself to remember his own childhood in a shabby house where the father had no work and a depressed mother tried to cope with too many children and too little money in a time when social security was unheard of.

In those years and the ones following, Darius Fenn went about in a mood which, if not grim, was deadly serious. His aim was to get up every day to struggle and succeed. He never stopped being frightened of failure. But these kids didn’t seem to know what fear is. They were all beautifully relaxed and appeared to be anticipating some great fun that was just around the corner.

Darius left Piccadilly and wandered down the road to Leicester Square. The layabouts here were his own generation or older. They competed with the pigeons for possession of the grassy enclosure and its complement of fouled benches. They swung their walnut faces between their knees and passed back and forth bottles of cheap wine or cider, sucking like infants. At times, they rallied what life force they had left and staged a feeble argument. Darius found reassurance in the sight of men too weak to hurt each other.

His old office was not far from here. Pamela’s current one was half a mile away in Covent Garden. He was thinking of going there to see her when she walked by, spotting him as he saw her, freezing and matching his vaudeville comedian’s pose of astonishment.

“I was coming up to see you.”

“You wouldn’t have found me. I’m off to a studio to have my picture taken for the house magazine. It was going to be a surprise. They’ve made me a Group Head.”

Darius was delighted but not surprised. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink to celebrate.”

“I’ll accept a coffee. I want to look sober in the photograph.”

Over coffee and danish, he admired her neat, pretty appearance. She radiated confidence and capability. “Any word from Felicity? Mum sounded scared over the phone.”

“I’m down here trying to run into her. One of her mates at the Billet said she might have gone to Piccadilly Circus.”

“Dad, you’ve got some hope. That place is an anthill.”

“I know.”

Pamela kept her smile in place but he could tell this digression from the safe routine was upsetting her. “You never worried this much about me,” she complained. It was hard to separate the joke from her true feelings.

“It’s the old parable about the prodigal son. The shepherd always cares more about the lost sheep than about the ones who cause no trouble.”

Maybe I should move back home and get some of this fatherly affection by staying out late.”

“Feel free, kid. Your room is the way you left it.”

When Darius arrived home, wondering how to present his failure in encouraging words, he found Sonia in a mood of low-key excitement. “I’ve found something,” she said.

She led him into Felicity’s room. He would not have recognized the place; it now looked as tidy as the rest of the house. “This was in the pocket of a pair of her jeans.” She handed Darius a scrap of paper. It was blank newsprint, probably torn from the border of a tabloid page. He saw his daughter’s printing but the fragment had partially disintegrated in her pocket. All that remained was the name MARTI ROCH. “I can’t read the rest of it,” he said.

“It’s a name. At least it’s something to go on.”

He could feel the silence building. Sonia would turn on him soon, blame him for being negative. He forced himself to say, “You’ve done a terrific job. Not just finding this, but fixing up her room. She’ll love it when she comes back.”

Sonia responded to the praise. She was looking more responsible now, less panicky. “Should we tell the police about this?”

“I think the same rule applies. They don’t want to know about Felicity until she’s been gone ten days or so.”

“Then will you call Joey Singleton?” Her problem-solving mind had been busy digging and had dredged up Joey. If the working police won’t help, find yourself a former policeman.

“That’s a good idea. Joey might know what to do.”

Darius telephoned to make sure Joey was on duty at the billiard academy. Then he took a bus to Wimbledon that evening and climbed the long stairway to the big, dim room with its convoy of green tables, each one illuminated by a shaded light. The place smelled of pool chalk and cheese sandwiches. The sharp click of balls penetrated the rumble of male conversation.

Joey was behind the counter presiding over incipient anarchy, keeping the lid on by using his sense of humor and the threat of his six-foot-four-inch presence. The scar over his left eyebrow was a constant reminder that he was no stranger to physical conflict. When he left the counter and went to empty ashtrays, his limp seemed to emphasize a determination to keep going despite injury. Years ago, he overtook and subdued a terrified felon with a bullet in that leg.

There was no time for conversation during business hours. All twenty tables were going and Joey had to make sandwiches, answer the phone, keep track of table times, draw beers from the lager tap — it was not an easy job. Darius helped but it was not till the doors were closed and Joey had finished adding up his cash that they were able to sit down in the back kitchen over coffee.

“So you’ve got an escaped daughter and Sonia is climbing the walls.”

Darius explained the situation, ending with his unproductive tour of Piccadilly this afternoon. “I suppose I was wasting my time.”

“No, you did the right thing.”

“Is this going to be any help?” Darius produced the fragment of newsprint with Felicity’s printing on it.

Singleton studied it. His oval head was covered with coarse brown hair. Despite his jeans and sweatshirt and his scarred face, Singleton looked like the farmer he was, the product of generations of Somerset dairymen. “Marti Roch,” he said. “This is only part of what she wrote.”

“I know. Does the name help?”

“It might.” Singleton got up and limped to the telephone. “This is the best time for me to call. The people who hate me are off duty.”

Joey Singleton’s heroism under fire would have guaranteed him a successful career had it not been for a weakness in his character that cancelled everything his superiors liked about him. He was an honest man and, worse, one who could not keep his mouth shut. Fair enough that he refused a bribe from a well-established Soho call-girl operation. But when he saw brother officers taking the money, Singleton was incapable of looking the other way. He made an official complaint in writing. The authorities had a choice. They could either readjust the whole delicate balance of the system or they could get rid of Joey Singleton.

The former cop hero came back from the phone. “My friend is going to run Marti Roch through the computer. I can let you know tomorrow.”

Singleton made one more call. “Hello, Mum. How are you getting on? I’m just leaving. Your old friend Darius Fenn is here.” He looked at Darius. “She sends you her love. He sends his back to you. Got everything you need? I’ll be home soon.”

“How’s your Mum these days?” They were on their way down the stairs.

“Still cheerful. Her eyesight is almost gone, I’m afraid. I’ve got her a white cane. She’s too old to learn to use a dog. What the hell — she’s got her faithful Joey.”

On the bus ride home, Darius remembered his first meeting with Singleton. He and Sonia were driving home on a Friday afternoon. He was still in the ad business, had drunk too much at lunch, was escaping early. Singleton, off duty and out of uniform, drove alongside the car at a traffic light, smiled, and said, “Are you going to be all right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Afraid so. How about a cup of coffee?”

Sonia accepted immediately and they followed Singleton’s car to a street in Fulham. They sat for an hour in a tiny living room with the old lady, who could not see very well even in those days. Singleton gave his guest three cups of black coffee and by the time he left, Darius was stone sober and able to drive.

“Why would he do that?” he asked Sonia on the way home.

“There’s only one explanation,” she said, “incredible though it may seem. He’s a decent person.”

The friendship developed. Singleton and his mother came frequently to tea. They stayed for long evenings of Monopoly with the old lady winning as often as not. She had to be told once only where the property was distributed. Then her deals were canny and aggressive. When she had her sight, she had been a successful European guide to coachloads of tourists.

Felicity was Mrs. Singleton’s favorite. The young girl always sat beside “Gran” and insisted on being the one to move her token along the board after the old lady rolled the dice. In those days there was never any problem about Felicity’s whereabouts. If she wasn’t home, she was over in Fulham, reading to Gran from one of the books she collected for her from the public library.

When he got home and saw the state Sonia was in, Darius exaggerated the possibilities of Joey’s computer check. The telephone directory was on the kitchen table, open to the letter R. She had spent the early part of the evening telephoning everybody named Roch, asking to speak to Marti. She had actually uncovered one whose first name was Martin, but he convinced her he was an assistant bank manager and forty years old.

“Joey’s friend will have the results for him tomorrow,” Darius concluded. “I’m to call him at ten.”

He did, with Sonia standing at his shoulder. Joey apologized as he reported the computer had come up empty. If there was such a person as Marti Roch in London, he had committed no crimes or felonies. So far.

“It could be a she,” Sonia contributed. “Marti could be a girl’s name.”

Darius relayed the thought and went on to describe Sonia’s telephone efforts. Singleton thought that was a good move. “Now she wants to run a personal ad in the Times,” Darius said.

“Why not? It might help.” Singleton suggested he would be available tomorrow, his day off, to go into London with Darius and look for the girl. Darius welcomed the idea and they made arrangements to meet.

The Fenns were due at the children’s theater for a performance, but Sonia would not leave until she had composed the ad for the Times and phoned it in. It listed their phone number and asked Felicity Fenn and/or Marti Roch to get in touch.

As usual, the theater was crowded with kids and parents. Darius and Sonia put on their black sleeves and took their places behind the six-foot façade close to a table loaded with hand puppets. With a character on either hand and arms extended above their heads, they paced about to recorded music, pivoted, made exits and entrances. Sometimes Sonia put up a row of “extras” on a frame and, with all four arms in action, they created the illusion of a crowded puppet world.

Darius lost himself in the performance. Much of the dialogue was adlib. He loved keeping four voices going. At one time Sonia had contributed a voice, but it wasn’t the same. The action flowed better when he did it all.

During a fight scene as the caped villain was snatching the baby girl and the mother was fighting to save her, Darius caught a glimpse of his wife’s face. She was grim, only half there, and the sight almost knocked him off stride.

That night Sonia ran the sewing machine, making costumes for the new pirate puppets. Darius went back to carving heads, using the knife for a while, then sanding the features smooth. “Shall I come with you tomorrow?” she asked.

Darius had visualized only himself and Joey. Not that it was going to be fun, but it would be less stressful than if Sonia were there. He began to say it might be dangerous, then realized this would be the wrong thing to tell her. “One of us should stay here,” he said. “What if she calls? Or if this Marti Roch comes through? The ad will be in the paper tomorrow.”

“What will I say to her?”

“Ask her to come home. Tell her she can have all the freedom she wants.”

“I mean Marti Roch. What would I say to her?” The sewing machine went quiet for some time. “I just thought of something. It could be somebody from her school.” Sonia was off to the telephone again.

The Fenns were on good terms with the headmaster at Felicity’s school. More than once they had entertained there with their puppet show. Even though it was summer vacation, he did not mind being bothered at home. He expressed concern about their daughter’s disappearance but gave Sonia reassurance — young girls like to stray short distances before coining home again. He could not recall a Marti Roch, but in the morning he would drive to the school and check the records.

“You’ve decided it’s a girl,” Darius said, putting away his puppet and his knife.

“I suppose I feel that’s safer,” his wife said.

Darius went to bed and had trouble getting to sleep. He kept imagining encounters with Felicity in the company of gangs of aggressive youths. Fighting had never been his style — his past was littered with the wreckage of situations from which he had walked away when he should have stayed and confronted somebody.

He knew he was dreaming when he found himself at a wedding. It was taking place in an ancient church with no roof. There was water running down the walls and the mossy look of a graveyard. The place was full of teenagers, filling the pews, lounging on the floor. Their foul language echoed from the walls, filling Darius with impotent fury.

Felicity came down the aisle. She was naked, smiling — she knew everybody. Darius wanted to cover her with his coat but he wasn’t wearing one. He wasn’t wearing anything. He sneaked outside and was met by a blast of cold air. The chill woke him up and he found himself shivering outside the sheet. He got up and closed the window.

Then he left the bedroom quietly, went to his workroom, and selected the five-inch knife he used for shaping heads. He carried it to the bedroom and slipped it into the inside pocket of the jacket he intended to wear tomorrow.

Sonia sounded half asleep. “You all right?”

“I just closed the window.”

He crept back to bed.

In the morning, as Darius was leaving to meet Joey Singleton, the headmaster telephoned. There was no Marti Roch at Felicity’s school. He had gone further and checked enrollments for every school in the borough. No Marti Roch.

Darius walked to the corner and bought a Times. The ad was in print. There was something about those few lines in the noble newspaper that dispelled worry. He brought it home and showed it to Sonia along with his courageous smile.

“I’ll be O.K. now,” he said. “Stay by the phone; I’ll keep in touch.” Then he went to meet Joey.

They drove to the West End on a balmy August day. Darius was carrying a couple of snapshots of Felicity. They were not very good. She hated being photographed and always ended up looking away or closing her eyes. He gave one to Singleton, who said, “Trouble is, the people who may know where she is — the kids — won’t want to talk to an adult flashing a photo. Too much like a police investigation.”

Darius waited while his friend parked the car and slipped a police permit onto the sun visor. “I don’t know what else to do,” he said.

“It’s O.K. I still know a few newsies I can talk to.” Singleton set off across Trafalgar Square in the direction of Charing Cross Road. “The thing is to start looking — we may get lucky.”

They did. On the pavement below the statue of Henry Irving, several artists perched on canvas stools were doing charcoal or pastel portraits for the tourists. Darius recognized a freelance artist who had done jobs for him when he was in the ad business. “Mark,” he teased, “where are the photoprints you promised me for ten o’clock?”

“Hello, Darius. Someday your prints will come,” the artist said, using one of their familiar routines. “How goes it?”

“Not so good. I’m looking for a missing daughter.”

“Teenager? That’s nasty. They know how to hurt us.”

While Darius talked about it, another artist arrived, opened his portfolio, and began propping samples of his work against the stone wall. The head-and-shoulders sketch of Felicity was there for some time before it registered.

“That’s her!” Darius said. “That’s my daughter!”

Singleton checked the snapshot. “The hair is different.”

“She’s had it cut. That’s what she’d do, obviously. And dyed red — it used to be blonde.” He said to the artist, “When did you do this one?”

“A couple of days ago. She came by when I wasn’t busy and we got talking. I drew her because I liked her spark.” He positioned himself on his camp stool. “A great kid.”

“She’s my daughter. I’m trying to find her.” The artist seemed unimpressed. “She’s only fifteen.”

“I’d have said she was in her twenties.”

Darius bought the sketch. As Singleton rolled it carefully, he asked the artist for any other information he could give them. It seemed she was collected on that day by a dark, husky fellow who sounded not exactly English. They appeared to be very friendly.

The former policeman was looking thoughtful as they walked towards Leicester Square.

Feeling encouraged, Darius asked, “Does it sound like somebody you know?”

“It sounds like a few people.”

“Have we found Marti Roch?”

“I can’t say.”

The day seemed to drag on forever. They made several tours of likely areas. Sometimes they worked together, other times they split up. Darius phoned home every couple of hours. Nobody had telephoned but Sonia was encouraged by their portrait discovery. It meant Felicity had not been spirited away or buried in the woods by some demented rapist murderer. She was roaming around the bright lights with new hair, enjoying herself. Sonia would have something to say to that girl.

It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon when the two men drifted back along Charing Cross Road. Sick of drinking coffee on the run, they were heading for a pub on Whitehall. The artist, Mark, was sketching an Indonesian girl.

“Nice work if you can get it,” Darius said.

“Any luck with your daughter?”

“I was going to ask if she’d come by here.”

“No sign. I was watching for her.”

“Thanks, Mark. Keep your eyes open.” Darius scribbled his telephone number on the back of Mark’s pad.

As they reached the top of Trafalgar Square, the bell in the tower of St. Martin-in-the-fields struck five. Then the carillon began to play one of Darius’s favorite hymns.

“He who would valiant be

’Gainst all disaster,

Let him in constancy

Follow the Master...”

“Hang on, Joey,” Darius said. “I want to hear this.”

They sat on the low parapet outside the National Gallery surrounded by the rush of pedestrians and the din of homeward-bound traffic. In his choir days years ago, Darius had sung the splendid words written by John Bunyan.

“There’s no discouragement

Shall make him once relent

His first avowed intent

To be a pilgrim.”

The old church looked magnificent against the evening sky. Its broad steps and porch were crowded with young people, tourists mostly, flaked out and enjoying the fading sun. It was a precious moment and Darius wished he could be happier. He knew his difficulties were of little weight in the presence of this historic building that had stood through centuries of time. Those great pillars supporting the massive portico with its Latin legend suggested continuity and security.

Darius had been observing the carved block letters for some time when they seemed to leap from the portico. Their message stunned him. “Joey, look up there.”

“The church? Bloody pigeons are all over the place.”

“No, the inscription.”

“It’s Latin. It means St. Martin in the fields, or words to that effect.”

“Keep looking at it.”

They stared up at the weathered letters, S. MARTINI PAROCHIANI. Then it hit Singleton too. “I see it. If you get rid of some of the letters, it becomes MARTI ROCH!”

“Am I crazy or could this be it?”

“But why did your daughter write it down?”

“When we find her we can ask her.”

The church was gloomy, cool, and quiet in contrast to the heat and the roar of traffic. “What are we looking for?” Darius whispered.

“We’ll know when we see it.”

There was nothing happening inside the church. They went back through the entrance doors and stood on the porch. The stones underfoot had been worn concave in places. A bulletin board was plastered with notices of activities, sacred and secular.

“How about this one?” Singleton pointed to a colorful sign advertising folk music in the Crypt. It was due to begin at seven.

“It’s the sort of thing she likes. Let’s check it out.”

The basement was even chillier and darker than the main body of the church. Darius found it disturbing. Perhaps it would be different later with a crowd of kids singing and playing guitars. He was not sure there were ancient corpses in the walls and under the floor, but the musty smell of the place had him holding his breath.

Singleton pointed to a couple of amplifiers at one end of the large room. “This is where it happens,” he said. His voice echoed under the low ceiling. Somebody moved in a doorway half submerged in shadow. Singleton held up a cautionary hand. In the silence, they heard scraping feet. Singleton limped forward without making a sound. Darius followed.

They came to an oak door, ajar. Singleton pushed it inward and sunlight poured through from a window in the far wall of a narrow room. The ex-policeman moved on in. “I thought it was you, Carlo,” he said. “The artist described you, but I wasn’t sure.”

“You make no sense, Joey.” It was an accented voice, Italian perhaps. “But you never did.”

Darius followed his friend into the room and saw a dark, heavy-set, handsome man in his thirties. He was standing at a massive pulpit in the corner of the otherwise empty room. Some of the paneling on the pulpit was broken. Kids had carved and scratched their intials on it.

Singleton unrolled the portrait and displayed it. “Recognize her?”

“Oh, that artist. Hey, you bought Felix’s picture. I was gonna go back and get it for her.”

“What’s happening, Carlo? What are you doing down here with nobody else around?”

“I’m meditating. What do you think? Get lost. I don’t have to talk to you.”

“You’ll talk.”

“You had your chance at me but you couldn’t make it stick. I got friends.”

“They’ll sort you out this time. Not me — the working cops. They’ll find out what you’re doing.”

Carlo began to look uneasy. He stepped down from the pulpit. “You’ve got no authority.”

“I’m making a citizen’s arrest. This man is Felicity’s father. Did you know she’s only fifteen? I’m going to bring you in for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

“She came to me. You’ll never make it stick.”

“Maybe not. But while they talk to you they can shake you down. And search this little hideout too.”

Carlo broke for the door. He was fast. He went around Singleton and was upon Darius before he could think. As Darius grappled with him, the knife fell from his pocket. Singleton had Carlo by the collar now. Carlo kicked backward, dropped to one knee, snatched up the knife, and twisted around, bringing the blade up in a powerful thrust.

Joey Singleton coughed, his eyes widened, and he released his grip on Carlo, who backed away, saw that Darius was not going to try to stop him, and vanished through the doorway.

Darius arranged Joey on his back with his jacket folded under his head. There was a lot of blood.

“Tenacci,” the wounded man whispered. “His name is Carlo Tenacci. Tell them.”

“You’ll tell them yourself.”

Darius knew he had to get help, but he was afraid to leave his friend alone. Afraid? He had been terrified of the place from the first moment and now...

He was squatting beside his friend, paralyzed with indecision, when he heard Felicity’s voice.

“Carlo?”

“It’s me, love. Please don’t leave.”

She came into the room and stood over them. Her short red hair glistened in the sunlight. His first thought was that she looked terrific — not worn out and ratty like some of the kids on the street, but clean and bright. She looked successful, just like Pamela. He had successful children.

“Dad! Is that Joey Singleton?”

“Yes. Carlo stabbed him.”

“Why? He must be crazy!”

“Go for help. Tell the first policeman you see to radio for an ambulance. Run.”

She turned to the door.

“And, Felix...? Come back.”

She came back and sat with her father until the officers arrived with a stretcher. It was too late for Joey Singleton. He was dead on arrival at the hospital. Darius gave his statement and was allowed to take his daughter home. A search of the room off the Crypt revealed a stash of heroin under a loose panel in the base of the pulpit. The girl said she knew nothing of that and Darius believed her, but she was going to be required to testify at the hearing.

Darius drove Joey’s car to his house in Fulham. Felicity sat beside him, smoking. He had never seen her with a cigarette before; in a few days she had transformed herself into whoever she was. She insisted on coming inside.

“Somebody has to tell Gran,” she said. “I’m the best one.”

The old woman listened to the girl’s story about the romantic, glamorous older man who turned out to be a vicious killer. Felicity had really not known him. She understood he had supplies of pot but nothing more. She certainly never realized he carried a knife.

They persuaded Mrs. Singleton to come home with them, to move into Pamela’s empty room. She came like an obedient animal, holding Felicity’s arm, tapping with her white cane. Feeling like a voyeur, Darius watched the blind eyes for signs of accusation, but they showed him nothing.

After the funeral, Felicity announced she was home to stay. She seemed to blame herself for what had happened. When school reconvened, she went back and began working hard. Every afternoon she came home and read aloud to Gran from one of her library books. At night she sat with her and explained the television when it was necessary.

Darius met Pamela for lunch at a restaurant near her office and told her how things had worked out. She was sorry about Joey Singleton but seemed relieved to learn that Felicity was going straight. It was her final statement as they were parting that shook Darius.

“So you’ve given away my room,” she said in her mock-complaining voice. “I guess that’s that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if I was ever going to come back home I can’t now. Never mind. It’s better not to leave doors open.”

A loose end was the scrap of paper Sonia had found in Felicity ’s pocket. Why had the girl copied down the Latin inscription from the church portico? Darius asked her one night when he was in front of the house snapping dead blooms from potted marigolds. She crouched beside him holding a plastic bag open to receive the pungent heads.

“I’m not sure why I did it,” she said. “I was waiting for Carlo in the square one afternoon, reading the paper. I did the crossword. Then I noticed the inscription on the church and I wrote it down. I liked the sound of the words. Maybe I was going to look them up.”

“Maybe you wanted to help me find you. You were providing a clue.”

“That’s very subtle. Do people do things like that?”

Carlo Tenacci’s body was discovered weeks later, buried in a shallow grave. He had been shot once in the back of the head. Apparently the underworld did not want an unreliable employee talking to the police.

“What a strange man,” Felicity said. She was helping her mother fit a costume to a new puppet. Darius was at his bench, carving. “I didn’t have Carlo figured out at all.”

“It’s behind us now,” Sonia said, sounding relaxed and happy.

But it was not behind Darius. He would have to live forever with his secret. Had he not been carrying the knife, Joey would be alive today. Carlo Tenacci would be alive too, in a police cell. It was wrong to carry a concealed weapon. He had always known this. Now he understood one of the reasons why. Unforeseen things could happen.

Bending to his work, Darius put the unpleasant thoughts out of his mind. Tomorrow he was to perform the first of a series of shows at local schools. This was his real life, hidden in the darkness behind the painted façade, surrounded by his puppets, the children laughing out front and everything under control.

Combat

by Gary Alexander

Clyde Ennerson applied full throttle and his World War II Wildcat fighter accelerated across the field. Just a touch to the controls and its tail lifted. Then back ever so slightly on the elevator lever and the Wildcat leaped into the air.

Clyde flicked the landing-gear switch; the Wildcat’s wheels tucked neatly out of the airstream. The ship snarled upward until it was little more than a speck. Clyde performed a loop, another loop, brought it down almost on the deck, put it through an eight-point roll, and as it neared the trees on the far end, climbed it out of danger with a soaring chandelle.

It was a beautiful day for flying. Clyde Ennerson’s radio-controlled model was handling like a dream. He backed off the power and allowed the Wildcat to circle lazily overhead while he admired his creation and the glints of sunlight against its navy-blue paint.

I must have a thousand bucks invested in this one, he thought — and countless hours of labor. He had built it from a kit, painting it to match the real Wildcat he flew during the war all those years ago.

Sounds of engines began to drown out the staccato of the tiny model airplane above. Clyde glanced over to the edge of the field near the road. Three motorcycles had bounded onto the grass and were approaching. Clyde chopped his throttle, lowered the wheels and flaps. The Wildcat glided in, made a smooth landing, and rolled to a halt at his feet.

The bikers pulled up in front of Clyde and shut off their engines. The bikes were large and menacing; the riders appeared no more benign. Leather jackets, greasy, hair, defiant smirks — they looked like the characters in that old Brando movie.

The apparent leader dismounted, studied the Wildcat for a moment, and said, “What have you got going here, Pop?”

Clyde forced a smile. Since Mollie had passed away last year he had indulged his hobby full-time. He was retired and lived alone. The World War II models he built and flew occupied his time and his mind. There were no bullets in these little ones, no death. They were a pleasant anachronism.

“It’s a Grumman F-4F Wildcat,” Clyde said, pointing at the plane. “About all that held the Japanese Zeroes in check early in the war until we really got going.”

The lead biker nodded and said to the man at his right, “Yeah, well, that was before my time. What do you think, Clipper?”

Clipper rolled his eyes and said, “Man, what I think is that Pop here ain’t no kid. That thing is big, but it’s a toy, and he shouldn’t be playing with toys. He ought to be back at the old folks’ home rinsing out his support socks or something.”

His companions laughed and slapped their knees. Clyde Ennerson, grey-haired and wiry, was a good athlete in his day, but the bikers were much younger and larger, and it would be three against one. He held his temper and said calmly, “This is my hobby. And the six-foot wing span on the Wildcat isn’t unusually big. I used to fly the genuine article. I helped make sure you boys wouldn’t grow up speaking German or Japanese.”

The bikers whooped. “How about that!” Clipper said. “A war hero! You believe that, Billy? You believe that, Fang? He’s so old he’s got one foot in his pine box and he’s telling us how he saved the world.”

The leader, Fang, continued smiling, revealing a number of missing and broken front teeth. Thus his nickname, Clyde figured. Fang said, “That’s all well and good, Pop, but maybe you should head home to prune some roses or something. Billy just got some new headers on his Hog and we figure on playing some tag and trying out those trails over by the hill. That toy of yours is going to cramp our style.”

“There’s plenty of room,” Clyde said. “I’ll keep it out of your way.”

Fang’s grin vanished. “No way, Pop. We don’t want to be looking out for some midget flying machine. You nod off at the controls and that thing could be dangerous. Pack up and scat.”

Scat? Clyde hadn’t scatted when the Imperial Japanese Navy decided that the Pacific was their own private lake. Three Zero pilots had found that out the hard way and had joined their ancestors prematurely. He had acquitted himself in like fashion on liberty; some of the dives near Pearl and in Sydney weren’t exactly church socials. Clyde Ennerson would be damned if he’d let three punks run him out like a whipped dog.

Clyde knelt by his Wildcat with his fuel can and funnel. “You boys enjoy yourselves. I plan to do the same.”

Billy had slipped behind him. With a dirty boot he shoved Clyde off balance. Clyde sprang to his feet, but Billy immediately wrapped him in a bear hug.

Fang stepped up to him, nose to nose. “The batteries in your hearing aid need changing, Pop,” he snarled.

“You punks belong in a cage,” Clyde answered.

Fang lifted the Wildcat and held it over his head. Clyde struggled but couldn’t break free.

Fang grinned again. “Your toy gets shot down, you got no reason to be hassling us.” He slammed it onto the ground, breaking only the landing gear and rudder. “Tough little monkey, ain’t it?”

Clipper whooped. “It just needs what you call your coupe dee grass.”

“Yeah, right,” Fang said. He jumped, landing with both feet on the Wildcat, crushing the fuselage and breaking both wings. He jumped on it again and again. Balsa wood, plastic, control cables, the radio receiver unit, hundreds of hours of craftsmanship and love were instantly turned into useless rubble.

Clyde pumped too much adrenalin for Billy to handle. He burst loose and drove a bony fist into Fang’s face.

Fang slumped to his knees as Clyde bore in. “You goddamn old coot! Billy! Clipper!”

Billy and Clipper grabbed Clyde before he could do more damage, wrenching him to his feet and pinning his arms.

Fang staggered up and drove one fist into Clyde’s gut, then the other. Before Clyde blacked out he heard Fang warn him not to call the law and heard the roar of motorcycle engines.

Royal Falls was a mere interruption of scenery, a punctuation of rolling hills rich with virgin timber, a small and random collection of homes and businesses on both sides of the highway that led to the town’s namesake. In the summer, tourists came to enjoy the majesty of cascading white water. Sometimes they stopped for gas and groceries. Sometimes they didn’t.

Royal Falls was too small to support a resident police force, so Clyde Ennerson’s statement was taken by a sheriff’s deputy at the Denton City Hospital. Clyde was in good spirits; the doctors and x-ray folks had discovered nothing broken or torn.

“We know all about them,” the officer said. “A bad bunch. They cruise around with nothing to do but make trouble. They pass through Denton City from time to time. We’ll keep our eyes open. Of course, with just your word against theirs and no witnesses, we might not be able to make a case of it. That’s their pattern.”

Clyde sat upright in bed. “Hell’s bells! Is this what law enforcement boils down to these days? I pick ’em out of a lineup, and they get together and invent an alibi and go free? Or, if we do go to trial, some cheap lawyer gets them off on a technicality?”

The officer shrugged pessimistically. “We’ll do our best.”

Dave Harper, Clyde’s son-in-law, said, “Settle down. They’re working on it. In the meantime, don’t go back out to fly a plane except on Saturdays when you’re with the club. These jokers have a sadistic streak.”

Clyde looked at Dave, patiently absorbing his warning. Of Clyde’s three children, only Laurie had stayed in Royal Falls. Since cancer had taken her three years earlier, Dave, a foreman at the sawmill outside of town, had become both a best friend and a mother hen to Clyde.

They’d thought for a while of sharing Clyde’s house, but each was independent and opinionated, neither could cook, and neither had mastered the intricacies of the vacuum cleaner. The bachelor clutter would be too much. In terms of stubbornness, the proverbial mule was out of his class with this pair. So Dave kept his own place, a half mile from Clyde’s up the river road.

After Laurie’s death, Clyde had drawn his son-in-law into the hobby and now Dave was president of the Royal Falls Model Airplane Club. Two more fellows from the mill were now building and flying also.

“What do you want me to do?” Clyde protested. “Lock myself in my house until you fellows come for me on Saturday mornings?”

“All I’m asking is that you use some common sense until these creeps are picked up.”

“If we’d used that kind of ‘common sense’ during the war—”

“Clyde,” Dave interrupted, “that was over thirty-five years ago.”

Clyde did not reply. Dave’s logic was cruel but true.

Clyde’s small house — outside of Royal Falls proper on three treed acres — was semi-isolated, as many in the area were.

They must have parked their motorcycles at the gate and walked in. He heard nothing till they caved in his back door. When he grabbed for the phone, the line was dead. He hurried across the living room for his shotgun, but the bikers reached it first and Billy enveloped him in another bear hug, even tighter than the first.

“They got Clipper,” Fang accused him. He swaggered around the room, then peered into the spare bedroom Clyde had converted into a workshop. He wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”

“Dope, thinner, glue,” Clyde said. “You punks should recognize it. Isn’t it what you put in plastic bags to sniff?”

Fang charged Clyde and slapped him hard across the face. “Look, old man, we’re not here to listen to none of your smart mouth. We’re here to tell you that when the oinkers call you in to identify Clipper, you never seen him before in your life. Got it?”

Clyde didn’t answer. His hard stare was his reply.

“You think you’re a tough old coot, don’t you?” Fang walked into the workshop and returned with the model Clyde usually flew when he wasn’t out with the Wildcat. “Funny-looking thing. What is it?”

“An F4U Corsair. The same as what Boyington had. Our squadron got them late in the war.”

“Yeah, but I think you made a mistake, Pop. The wings are bent.”

“They’re designed that way. It’s an inverted-gull shape.”

Fang grinned and shook his head. “I never seen a plane with crooked wings before. Lemme fix them for you.”

Crack! Crack!

Clyde struggled fiercely, but Billy pushed him roughly onto the couch. The bikers moved quickly to the door. “That plane, Pop,” Fang said. “It was real brittle — just like your bones. Keep that in mind when the law calls you in.”

Clyde kept it in mind. He also picked Clipper out of a lineup and signed a complaint.

“We’ve got a good case now,” the desk sergeant said. “Your friend Clipper isn’t so rough when he’s away from his partners. He’s no Rhodes scholar either. His alibi is full of holes and a few more days in the slammer might be all he can handle. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a full confession.”

“That’s a relief,” Dave said, “but what about the other two?”

“We’ll get them eventually. But they drift around, cover a lot of territory, so I can’t promise you when.”

Dave turned to Clyde. “In the meantime—”

“I know. Stick close to home. Install some bolts on the doors. Wait till Saturday to fly with my bodyguards. No problem. I’m almost done with my new ship. I’ll just stay indoors and work on it.”

Clyde had never lied to Dave before, and he didn’t feel very good about doing it now.

Clyde’s latest creation performed well when he took it to the field for its maiden flight on Friday afternoon. He experimented with a series of mild aerobatics, getting the feel of the new plane and the control unit. He brought it in, refilled the fuel tank, and had sent it up again when he heard the familiar roar of motorcycle engines from the hillside and saw Fang and Billy emerge from a trail. No wonder the law couldn’t locate them. They must have been holed up there, just waiting.

Clyde gave the plane maximum power and steered it upward in a steep spiral. If anything, this model was overpowered; it gained altitude quickly and effortlessly.

Fang and Billy were at the far edge of the field, their bikes kicking up billows of dust as they raced directly at Clyde. Just then, Dave’s pickup truck came into view — Dave and several of his friends from the mill in it. The rascals, Clyde thought, they had probably been watching him, knowing he would play possum.

Well, Dave and his friends were welcome to Billy — but Fang was his. Clyde adjusted a control lever and the twenty-pound model airplane nosed downward.

It was a replica of the Japanese Zeke fighter, more commonly known as the Zero. It had been a most formidable foe throughout the war in the Pacific, and toward the end it had been used for an even more ominous purpose.

Clyde had followed one down in his Corsair and peppered it with bullets, committing it to the sea just before it accomplished its mission — which was to slam into the bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise.

Kamikaze. The Divine Wind. The enemy’s last fanatic hope.

Clyde’s Zero closed on Fang in a vertical dive. Fang saw it and zigzagged desperately. Clyde subtly corrected Fang’s every move.

“Banzai!” Clyde said too softly to be heard above the vicious whine of the hurtling Zero. “Banzai.”

An Easy Fifty Bucks

by Donald Olson

Jerry would have driven past the man standing beside the road with a suitcase had he merely raised his thumb instead of stepping boldly into the road and flagging the car to a stop. Clamping both hands firmly on the window ledge, he thrust his head forward through the open window and said, “My car broke down back there. I need a ride into town.”

Jerry made a practice of never picking up hitchhikers no matter how plausible their stories sounded. “I’d like to, but—”

“Thanks, pal,” the man cut him off, pulling the door open. He looked quite capable of keeping the car from moving by sheer animal strength. Jerry’s first impression was of a once well conditioned muscle man gone slightly to pot. He had just enough flab to give him the appearance of some bearlike creature, with almost as much black hair visible beneath his open denim shirt as was on his head. As he flung the bag into the back seat, Jerry noticed the elaborate tattoos, one on his bicep, the other on his forearm.

Still, there was nothing menacing in the broad smile he turned on Jerry as he climbed in beside him. His blue eyes were as strong-looking as his other features.

“Where are you headed?” Jerry asked.

Mopping his broad face with a soiled handkerchief, the man said, “I was supposed to be in Meadville tonight, but I’ll never make it before dark.”

“Well, I’m only going as far as Warren,” Jerry said, conscious of the sweaty fumes pouring from the man’s body.

“Warren.” The man appeared to be consulting a mental map. “That’ll help.” He settled himself into a more relaxed posture. “Name’s Sid Jacobs.”

“Jerry Melacker.”

“I really appreciate this, Jerry. That damn suitcase is too heavy to lug very far in this heat.”

“Why didn’t you lock it in your trunk?”

“Too risky. I’ll be lucky to get a mechanic back there before the wheels are ripped off.” A quick grin crossed his face. “Not that I’m worried about it. It’s a rental.”

“I can drop you off at the first service station.”

“There won’t be one before Warren, will there?”

Jerry agreed that there wouldn’t be and resigned himself to the fellow’s company for the next twenty miles. He seemed harmless enough, even friendly, but there was something about his heavy-lidded eyes, and those tattoos.

“Are you a salesman?” Sid asked.

“An engineer. Do you live in this area, Sid?”

“No, I’m from Pittsburgh.”

“You look as if you might work in one of those steel mills down there.”

Sid accepted the compliment with a lazy smile, bunching his arm muscles to take up the slack of flab. “I used to work out a lot when I was in California.”

They remained silent for the next couple of miles until, as if deciding he owed it to Jerry to be more sociable, Sid asked Jerry if he had a family in Warren.

“Just my wife,” Jerry replied.

“You’re lucky. I got no one. I suppose she’ll have dinner ready for you when you get home. That’s what I miss about not being married. I end up eating alone most of the time.”

“My wife’s not home,” Jerry said. “I just dropped her off. She’s spending the weekend with her folks.”

“So you’re all on your lonely, eh?”

“ ’Fraid so.”

“You live in an apartment?”

“House. Complete with mortgage. But we like it.”

“You must do O.K. Nice set of wheels you got here.”

Jerry laughed. “At least they’re paid for.”

“A guy really has to hustle to keep up with this crazy inflation.”

This remark failed to lead into any sustained conversation and, as if he had fulfilled his duty, Sid lapsed again into silence until the traffic started to pick up as they approached Warren. Then he said, with an air of having been struck with a brilliant idea, “Say, Jerry, how would you like to make an easy fifty bucks?”

Jerry darted him a wary look. “An easy fifty bucks?”

“I was just thinking. I’m not going to make Meadville tonight, so why drop thirty or forty bucks on the Holiday Inn or whatever they’ve got in Warren? You put me up for the night and I’ll pay you fifty. How’s that sound?”

The idea did not appeal to Jerry. “I don’t know, Sid.” He uttered a nervous laugh. “You’d find better company at the Holiday Inn.”

“Are you kidding? I’m sick of motels. I spend too damn much of my life in ’em. What about it? We’d be doing each other a favor.”

Jerry still didn’t like the idea. But the fifty bucks sounded good and if Sid had been going to pull anything funny he’d already had plenty of time to steal Jerry’s wallet or make off with his car. He was just too paranoid, he told himself. That was what Marjory was always telling him. Moreover, he didn’t especially relish the idea of going home to an empty house. What harm could it do to let Sid spend the night?

“O.K., Sid,” he agreed. “But you’ll have to take pot luck unless you go out to eat. I’m not the world’s best cook.”

“Hey, don’t give it a thought. I can stand to shed a few pounds. All I want is a place to sack out.”

Sid appeared even more relaxed now, positively jovial in fact.

When they arrived at Jerry’s ranch-style house on Poplar Street he was extravagant in his admiration. Jerry unlocked the door and Sid followed him inside with the suitcase.

“You can put it in here,” Jerry said, leading the way to a small tidy bedroom. Sid glanced around, nodding approvingly.

“Your wife’s a wonderful housekeeper. Not like my old lady.”

Jerry looked at him. “I thought you weren’t married.”

“Not any more I ain’t. Ten years I put up with her, then I split.”

“The bathroom’s down the hall. Take a shower if you’d like. I think I could use a drink. What’s your pleasure?”

“You got any beer?”

“It’ll be waiting for you after you wash up.”

As Jerry fixed himself a drink he listened to the splash of the shower and was suddenly glad he’d agreed to let Sid stay over. He seemed like a nice guy, if a bit rough around the edges.

Freshly showered and with his hair neatly combed, Sid looked even less menacing. Jerry waved him to sit down in the recliner and handed him a beer. Sid took one sip and then snapped his fingers. “Hey, I better call a garage before I do anything else. Know anyplace?”

“Try Marty’s. He knows me. I’ll give him a buzz.”

“Sit still. I’ll do it.” Jerry told him where to find the phonebook and Sid made the call. “Line’s busy. I’ll try again in a few minutes.”

Jerry finished his drink and stood up. “Have another beer while I scout up some grub. I took a steak out of the freezer. We can share it. And I’ll rustle up a salad.”

“Hey, man, don’t put yourself out. Just slap a sandwich together.”

“Oh, I can do better than that.” The drink had made him feel mildly euphoric and removed any lingering doubts about the wisdom of inviting a stranger into the house.

While Jerry stuck the steak under the broiler and tossed a salad, Sid wandered about the kitchen making small talk. Jerry declined his offer to help. Sid looked out the back door. “Nice patio. Mind if I look around?”

“No, go ahead.”

Presently Sid returned and said he’d phone the garage again.

A minute later he called out to Jerry from the living room. “Your pal Marty must do a hell of a business. I can’t get through to him.”

It was growing dark by the time Jerry had dinner on the kitchen table. As they ate, Sid entertained Jerry with the astonishing variety of his adventures. He said he was part Mohawk Indian and part French. He was originally from Oneida County but had run away when he was fifteen, traveled with a carnival, landed in Los Angeles without a dime, got a job as a bouncer, worked as a bellhop, then as bodyguard to a famous rock singer, and got into weightlifting and karate, before eventually settling down to construction work. He said he found it impossible to settle for very long in one place.

Back in the living room after helping Jerry with the dishes, Sid asked him if he knew any karate.

Jerry shook his head. “But then I try to avoid any situation where I’d need it.”

Sid regarded him speculatively. “I could have told you that.” His eyes appraised Jerry’s slim, small-boned build. “But you never know when it might come in handy. Here. I’ll show you a few moves.”

Jerry responded warily to this suggestion. Sid laughed. “Come on, I won’t hurt you. Take a swing at me.”

Jerry clenched his fist and tossed a half-hearted punch at Sid. The big man neatly deflected it, spinning Jerry around and pinning his arm behind his back. It was all done very gently.

Then he said, “You got a knife around here?”

“Knife?”

“Jackknife, butcher knife — anything.”

Jerry felt a momentary qualm, but he could hardly say no. He returned from the kitchen with a steak knife. Again Sid laughed. “Don’t look so nervous, buddy.” He turned his broad back to Jerry. “Now come up behind me and make like you’re going to stab me in the back. Like you really mean it.”

With the knife in his hand, Jerry felt more confident and did as Sid instructed. Before he quite knew what had happened he was flat on his back on the rug and Sid was looming over him with the knife. A sensation of pure terror paralyzed him.

For a moment Sid appeared to enjoy the look on Jerry’s face, then he grinned and tossed the knife onto the chair. Jerry brushed the sweat off his upper lip, then slowly relaxed. There seemed nothing to worry about. He had been totally at Sid’s mercy and nothing had happened.

Sid crossed to the phone and picked up the receiver, then looked inquiringly at Jerry. “Is there something wrong with your phone, or what? Now I don’t even get a busy signal.”

“Let me see.” Jerry took the receiver. The line was indeed dead. “It was O.K. this morning.”

Sid shrugged. “You can’t depend on anything nowadays.” When the line was still dead a few minutes later, Jerry said he’d better go next door and report it.

Sid told him not to bother. “What the hell, it’ll probably be O.K. in the morning. Anyway, your pal Marty can’t do anything for me at this hour.”

“So what would you like to do?” Jerry said. “I think there’s a ball game on TV. You like football?”

Sid replied with a noncommittal shrug. “Not especially. What about a few hands of poker?”

Jerry got the cards and sat down across from Sid at the kitchen table, with a beer for each of them, even gladder he had invited Sid to stay. He toyed with the idea of offering to drive him to Meadville in the morning. It was a Saturday, he had the weekend free to do as he pleased, and it would give him something to keep his mind occupied. He had been under a lot of pressure at the office lately and a long drive would help settle his nerves. But he decided to wait until morning before broaching the idea. He might have changed his mind by then.

Now Sid advanced an idea of his own. “What do you say we make this a little more interesting, play for stakes of some kind?”

“Quarter a hand?”

Sid made a face. “That’s no fun.” He looked at the kitchen clock. “Suppose we play until eleven. Whoever’s ahead takes the whole pot.”

“What sort of pot?”

Sid gave it a moment’s thought. “I need a car and from what you said I sort of get the idea you could use some extra cash. You car’s worth what? About four grand?”

Jerry was already sure he didn’t like the idea. “About that.”

“O.K., if I win I take your car. That’ll solve my immediate problem. If you win I give you four — hell, make it five — grand.”

Jerry laughed. “You mean you’ll write me a check?” Did Sid really think he was that naive?

“Cash.”

Jerry stared at him. “You mean you’ve got five grand with you?”

“Want to see it?” Sid was clearly amused by Jerry’s reaction.

Jerry quickly shook his head. “Sorry. I’m not that brave a gambler.”

Obviously Sid had not actually expected Jerry to go along with the idea. “O.K. We’ll make it a quarter a hand.”

At eleven Sid started yawning. Jerry said, “I think you’re ready for the sack.”

“You’re right. I’ve had a hell of a strenuous day.”

Jerry replaced the cards in their box as Sid stood up, stretching and running a hand over his face. “O.K. if I borrow your razor and give myself a shave so I won’t have to waste time in the morning?”

Jerry said, “Sure, go ahead. It’s on the shelf in the bathroom.” It seemed odd that Sid wasn’t carrying a razor in his suitcase.

As Sid moved toward the bathroom Jerry said, “Tell me something. Were you kidding me about wagering my car against five grand in cash?”

Sid regarded him with a foxy smile. “Nope.”

“But you might have lost.”

“No chance.” Then, with an air of utter candor, still smiling, he said, “I cheat.”

Jerry laughed. “Well, at least you’re honest.”

“I only cheat when the stakes are high enough. Doesn’t everyone?”

“I don’t.”

“Never? Not even a little chiseling on your income tax?”

“No.”

“How about on your wife? You ever cheat on her?”

“Never.” His tone clearly expressed resentment at the idea.

With a slight smirk, as if pleased at having touched a nerve, Sid said, “What about her? She ever cheat on you?”

“No!”

But Jerry’s quick, angry flush gave him away.

“Now I know you’re fibbing,” Sid laughed.

For a moment Jerry hated the other man. But what difference did it make? He’d never see him again after tomorrow. “Maybe once.”

“Once? You’re sure about that?”

“Positive.”

Sid seemed to be enjoying this little game far more than he had enjoyed the poker. “How do you know she’s not cheating on you right this minute?”

“I told you. I know where she is.”

“She often go off on weekends alone?”

“Occasionally.”

“To visit her parents?”

“Yes.”

“You ever check up on her?”

“No. Why should I? It only happened once. It won’t happen again. I trust her.”

Sid nodded toward the living room. “I’m afraid I don’t share your faith in women. How about another little wager? Call your in-laws. If your wife’s there, you win twenty bucks. If she’s not — well, we’ll think of something.”

Now it was Jerry’s turn to laugh. “You forgot something. The phone’s out of order.”

Sid shrugged. “Then we’ll never know, will we?”

“I know.”

“As long as you’re happy, pal, that’s all that matters. It’s your life. But you know something? For all you’ve got here, your good job and your cozy little nest and your ever-loving wife, I wouldn’t trade your life for mine.”

“Exactly as I feel,” Jerry said, deciding he had finally figured Sid out. At heart he was nothing but a gambler, one of those guys who were never happy unless they were betting on something. Jerry didn’t altogether regret the hospitality he had offered Sid, but he certainly was not going to drive him to Meadville.

While Sid was in the bathroom Jerry switched on the light in the guest room and turned down the bed. Without intending to open it, assuming it was locked anyway, he lifted Sid’s suitcase onto the bench at the foot of the bed. But then, hearing the water still running in the bathroom, his curiosity got the better of him. He tried the clasp. It sprang open.

Jerry raised the lid and stared, dumbfounded, at the neat stacks of bills, still in their bank wrappers. But what alarmed him even more than the money was the revolver nestled in it. Unable to move, he stood gaping down at it.

“Surprised, pal?”

Jerry swung around to find Sid standing in the doorway, the heavy, sculptured lids of his eyes crinkling in an amused smile.

Obeying an impulse that sprang from pure panic, Jerry reached down for the gun. But before he could turn it on Sid the big man was upon him, moving as swiftly as when he had demonstrated his skill at karate, wresting the weapon from Jerry’s hand and shoving him backward across the bed.

“You shouldn’t be so curious, Jerry boy.”

And then Jerry remembered the news flash he’d heard on the car radio that morning. He’d had too many other things on his mind to pay much heed to it, but now the sketchy details came back to him. A lone gunman had robbed the Bradford Fidelity Bank and Trust Company.

“You’re the bank robber,” he stammered. “I heard about it on the radio.”

“That’s right, pal,” Sid said, holding the revolver aimed at Jerry. He reached down, slipped a fifty-dollar bill from one of the packets, and tossed it on the bed.

“Relax, buddy, I’m not going to stick you for a night’s room and board. Buy your wifey a new dress or something.”

Jerry cursed himself for not relying on that first impression of menace that had emanated from Sid as palpably as the fumes of his sweat.

Sid stood looking down at him. “The question is, what do I do with you now?”

“Look, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I swear I won’t say a word about this.”

“Won’t you? Maybe I ought to borrow your wheels and split right now instead of having you drive me to Meadville in the morning as I’d planned. But I’d rather wait till the heat cools down a little.”

Jerry realized now that Sid must have cut the phone line when he was outside. “If you’re smart you’ll go now. If someone tries to call and can’t get through they might think something’s wrong.”

Sid sneered. “Like wifey, you mean? Forget it, Jerry. I know these broads. Married or single, they’re all alike.”

“You’re wrong. Marjory will try to call me. She always does.”

“Then it’s a chance we’ll just have to take. Now move ahead of me into the kitchen. Slowly.”

In the kitchen Sid rummaged around until he found some clothesline. Using a paring knife to cut two lengths from the coil, he instructed Jerry to lie prone on the floor and proceeded to bind his ankles and wrists. “There. That ought to keep you out of trouble,” he said, and with exaggerated concern for Jerry’s comfort he fetched a pillow from the bedroom and arranged it under his head. “Now try to relax, pal. In the morning it’ll all be over.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Jerry asked.

Sid laughed. “Don’t let it keep you awake. It don’t make a damn bit of difference it you can identify me. They’ll have made me by now from my prints. I’ll ditch your wheels once I’m safely away from here. And even if they catch me they won’t find the money, I’ll make sure of that.” He started for the door and smiled. “You’re a real nice guy, Jerry, even if you are sort of dumb. But don’t worry, hear? Wifey’s not going to be a widow yet.” He switched off the light and presently Jerry heard him moving around in the bedroom before climbing into bed.

Jerry shut his eyes but he didn’t sleep a wink. Would Sid keep his word? If he intended to kill him, wouldn’t he have done it by now? Or did he think it would be wiser, just in case someone did surprise him before he could get away in the morning, to keep Jerry alive so there would be less risk of facing a murder rap?

The sun shone brightly across the floor when Sid came into the kitchen. He looked well rested and jovial. “Sleep O.K., Jerry?”

“What do you think?”

“Oh, well, you can make up for it tonight.”

He filled the tea kettle and put it on the burner, spooned instant coffee into a cup, dropped a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, and poured two glasses of orange juice.

Once he had eaten he put his hands under Jerry’s shoulders and propped his back against the cupboard. “It might be a couple of days before you’re set free, pal. I wouldn’t want you to starve.” With extravagant courtesy he held the glass of orange juice to Jerry’s lips and forced him to swallow it.

“I hope your neighbors aren’t looking out the window when I drive off in your car,” Sid said.

Don’t bet on it, Jerry thought. Especially that nosy Agnes Belinski. She was always glued to her screen door whenever he and Marjory had one of their spats.

Sid looked down at Jerry with a philosophical smile. “Buddy, I can’t tell you how much I’ve appreciated your hospitality. But all good things must come to an end, right? Where are your car keys?”

“On the living-room table by the door.”

Sid went to the bedroom and returned, suitcase in hand. “Don’t be too bored, pal. And do like I said, O.K.? Buy the little woman a pretty dress.”

Jerry listened as the door closed between the kitchen and garage. As soon as he heard the car drive away he let the tension drain out of his body. He didn’t even mind the numbness in his wrists and ankles. He was alive — that was all that mattered.

He tried not to think about how long he might remain helpless. Soon he would begin the effort to free himself. The cutlery drawer was only a feet away. Somehow he could reach one of the knives and cut the rope that bound his ankles.

It was past noon by the time he managed to free himself. Before deciding what to do next, he stripped off his clothes and took a long hot shower.

Then he made himself a stiff drink. He was just finishing it when the police arrived.

“Mr. Melacker?”

Jerry stared at them stupidly. “How did you find out?”

“About Jacobs? His luck ran out. A state trooper pulled him over for speeding on the expressway and recognized him. He’s in custody.”

Curiously, Jerry felt a pang of compassion for Sid. The feeling defied explanation, and yet it was true: a part of him had wanted Sid to get away.

“Jacobs told us he’d tied you up but hadn’t hurt you. Apparently he wasn’t lying about that.”

“You’ve got the money, then.”

The officer shook his head. “Not yet. But we’ll find it. It wasn’t in the car.”

“He said you’d never find it.”

The officer smiled. “There’s not too wide an area where he could have stashed it between here and where he was picked up. We thought for a while he wasn’t as smart as he thinks he is. Figured he pulled a boner when he didn’t get rid of the pick and shovel.”

Jerry stared at the two officers. “Pick and shovel?”

“They were still in the trunk of your car. We figured he must have used them to bury the money. There was an oily deposit on both implements. Only one area where they could have been used. The old refinery property on Wellman Road. No one goes there any more. It seemed a likely spot. As soon as we found the tire tracks leading in, we thought we were right — it didn’t take long to find the spot where it looked like he’d buried the loot.”

The nervous warmth that had suffused Jerry’s body for the last several hours faded, leaving him with an even more uncomfortable sensation of coldness.

“We didn’t find the money, Mr. Melacker. But we found your wife’s body, and the knife that killed her. The lab boys will have lifted the prints by now. Jacobs said you told him you’d dropped your wife off shortly before picking him up. By any chance is that what you meant?”

The Swindle

by Robert Edward Eckels

Right after eight, as I did every morning, I went out and picked up a copy of the Trib at the corner newsstand. As usual the kid who ran it had covered up all the Finals and Five Stars with leftover copies of last night’s City Edition. I did him a favor and didn’t bother to reach under, because as soon as I got back to my phone I pushed the news and sports sections to one side and concentrated on the classifieds.

Most of the ads were the usual help-wanted, this-or-that-for-sale variety, but halfway down the miscellaneous column I found one that looked more than a little promising.

REWARD! $300 for information leading to return of automobile missing from 1732 Beeler since September 30.

There were two phone numbers, a name — I. Dawes — and a kicker — “No questions asked.” I drew a circle around it, then skimmed through the rest of the page to make sure there wasn’t anything else. There wasn’t, so I went back and dialed the number with a city exchange.

As I’d figured, it was a business phone, but the girl who answered put me through to I. Dawes without insisting on the answer to any embarrassing questions.

“You the party looking for the missing car?” I said.

“Yes, I am,” he said, sounding aggrieved, like it was time somebody took him up on his offer.

“Good,” I said. “Maybe I can help you. What kind of car was it?”

“A — hey, now, wait a minute. Who are you? What kind of joke is this?”

“I just told you,” I said. “I’m the guy who may be able to help you. The trouble is, I’ve got all kinds of cars here. Maybe one of them’s yours, maybe not. I won’t know till I know what I’m looking for. So you either tell me or you don’t.”

He was silent for a full half minute. Then he said slowly, “It was taken from in front of 1732 Beeler.”

“I know. That’s what it said in the ad. But I’m just a middle man here. Nobody tells me where these things come from and I don’t ask, either — if you know what I mean.”

He was silent again for the rest of that minute. Then, “It’s a ’79 Impala. Custom powderflake blue.”

“Sounds nice,” I said. “Just a minute.” I put down the phone and made a great, loud show of opening a drawer and riffling through the papers inside, then closed it again and went back to the phone. “1979 Impala,” I said. “Powderflake blue. I got it, all right.”

“Well, fine,” Dawes said. He sounded really pleased. “You bring it back and the three hundred’s yours. No questions asked. Just like it said in the ad.”

“Fat chance,” I said scornfully. “In the first place, the price is a thousand. Three hundred is what I pay the kids who pick these things up for me. And, secondly, no way am I going to deliver that car anywhere and take a chance on finding the place crawling with cops. The way it works is you get the money and bring it where I tell you, then I tell you where your car is.”

He hesitated again.

“Something bothering you, Mr. Dawes?” I said.

“No,” he said slowly, “I guess not.”

“Well, something ought to be,” I said. “Because I don’t have your car and I never have had. I’m not a car thief, either. I’m a cop. My name’s McClure, and I’m a sergeant in Fraud-Bunco. I’m sorry about the come-on, but I wanted to make sure the lesson really went home. Because, like it or not, there are basically only two kinds of car thieves: the joy riders and the pros. If a joy rider takes your car, the chances are you’ll find it again within a couple of days not too far from where it was taken, and if you’re lucky it won’t be too badly smashed up. But if it’s a pro job, you’ll never see it again because it’ll be on its way to a chop shop before you’ve even had time to realize it’s gone.

“But that’s not to say there aren’t a lot of other types of crooks around. There are, and there’s a ring operating in the area right now that does nothing but watch the paper for ads like yours. They’ve got nothing to sell but a story, but you’d be surprised at how many people have bought it — for five or six hundred dollars, or however much the con can bilk them out of. And there’s no way to get the money back, because there are no leads except a telephone call to trace back to the crooks.”

“I see,” Dawes said. “Well, you’ve made your point very well, and you can rest assured I won’t let any money change hands until I have the car back in my possession or at least have seen it.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, “but that wasn’t really the point. What we’d like you to do — if you do get a call — is to go along with it.”

“You mean deliberately let myself be swindled?”

“No, sir, not that far. But, as you can understand, the way these people operate the only time they’re exposed is when they collect their payment and pretend to tell the mark where to pick up his car. And that’s what we’d like you to do. Let them set up a meeting so we can be there to catch them in the act.”

When Dawes continued to hesitate, I added, “There’s no danger. Con men aren’t violent and you’d be covered all the way. And,” I threw in, “there might even be a reward in it for you. Some of the insurance companies they’ve stung would be even happier than we’d be to have them stopped. And we’d see you got full credit, of course.”

“Well,” Dawes said at last, “I suppose I could do it. Of course, there’s no guarantee I’ll be contacted.”

“No, sir,” I said, “but on the chance you are, my private line here is 892-6383. If you do get a call, phone me as soon as the meeting is set and we’ll take over.”

I repeated the number to make sure he had it, then rang off and made one more call before going out to see if the Sun-Times was on the stands yet.

To tell you the truth, I wasn’t all that sure Dawes would follow through when push came to shove. He’d sounded good, but you never can tell with these executive types.

Shortly after eight the following evening, though, my private line rang, and when I picked it up Dawes was on the other end. His voice was breathless with excitement.

“It was uncanny, Sergeant,” he said. “One of those con men of yours phoned and the spiel he used was almost word-for-word identical with yours.”

“That shouldn’t be surprising,” I said. “I learned it from people who’d heard it first hand from him or one of his partners.”

“Yes, of course,” Dawes said. “Anyway, it made it very easy for me. I just reacted the same way I had with you — except this time I didn’t let my suspicions show through.”

He hadn’t really let any suspicions show through when I’d called him either, but if he wanted to believe he had, that was O.K. with me. “Fine,” I said. “When’s the meeting set for?”

“Tomorrow noon at the bus terminal on Randolph. He wanted to meet tonight, but I said I needed until tomorrow to get the money.”

“Good. That gives us plenty of time to stake out the place well in advance. How are you supposed to recognize him?”

“He said he’d recognize me. I’m to wear a blue suit and stand in front of the line of phone booths in the northeast corner, carrying a folded want-ads section under my left arm.”

“Just like Alfred Hitchcock,” I said. “All right, we’ll pick you out the same way — although it wouldn’t hurt for you to give the paper a little wave when you take up station.”

“I’ll do that,” Dawes said. He hesitated. “There may be one problem,” he added. “He said the man who would meet me was only a messenger and wouldn’t know where my car was and he himself would call me back later to tell me after the messenger had let him know he had the money and was safely out of the building.”

I was silent for a moment. “Yeah,” I said at last, “that could be a problem. You don’t want anybody walking away with your money even if there is a tail on him. On the other hand, we don’t want to risk picking up somebody who’s going to turn out to be a dead end.” I paused thoughtfully again. “O.K., let’s see if we can’t handle it this way. How much is he asking?”

“A thousand dollars — just as you did.”

“O.K., bring five hundred. When this messenger shows up, tell him the deal is half now, the rest when you get the car. If he really is just a messenger, the only thing he can do is go back and ask for instructions — in which case you don’t give him the money and we can follow him. On the other hand, if, as I suspect, he’s a member of the gang who’s trying to bluff out some insurance he’s going to want to keep the number of contacts down to a minimum. So the odds are he’ll O.K. the deal on the spot and take the money — which will be our green light to grab him then and there. Either way you’re covered.”

“Yes,” Dawes said, “I will be.”

“And that’s the way we want it,” I said. “See you tomorrow then. Noon sharp.”

I made it a point to be at the bus terminal by 11:30, but even so I only beat Dawes by ten minutes or so. He turned out to be a tall man in his late forties to early fifties with a fleshy, somewhat sharp-featured face, thinning fair hair, and more than the beginning of a paunch, which the blue suit, well cut and expensive as it was, did little to hide. But I think I would have known him even without the suit and the newspaper he dutifully waggled as he took his stand. A sheen of perspiration covered his forehead and his eyes flicked around the room nervously. Which made him the world’s worst conspirator, because there was no way he could have waited out the full twenty minutes he had to go without drawing every eye in the place to him. But, fortunately, his contact was early too and must have sensed the same thing I did, because Dawes had barely gotten set when a small man in a checked sportcoat sidled up to him.

I gave them a minute or two to get well into it, then folded the newspaper I’d been pretending to read and rose to stroll casually across the room as if headed for a phone booth that had just become free.

“—the rest when I get the car,” Dawes was saying.

Shorty in the checked sportcoat hesitated. “Let me see the money,” he said.

Dawes took an envelope from his pocket and opened it briefly to show the green inside.

“All right,” Shorty said. “You got a deal.” He reached for the envelope. Instinctively, Dawes drew back.

Shorty’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, what is this?” He caught hold of one end of the envelope while Dawes clung fiercely to the other. For a minute it looked like a real tug-of-war could develop, but I stepped in quickly.

“I’ll take that,” I said, closing my hand over the middle of the envelope. Startled, they both let go at once. “Police,” I declared. “This is a bust.”

Without a flicker of hesitation, Shorty bolted for the door. I shouted after him and drew my gun, but the terminal was too crowded for any shooting and after only a moment’s delay I took off after him.

Dawes started to follow, hut I called back over my shoulder, “No! You stay here and when the others catch up send them after us!”

There was the usual noontime crowd on the street, but an alley led back to the parking lot behind the terminal and I cut down it after Shorty and caught up with him just as he was getting into his car. The door on the passenger’s side was unlocked, and I scrambled in beside him.

He was panting as he fumbled the key into the ignition. “God damn it, Charley,” he said, “why can’t we do this the easy way just once? Just tell the mark we got his car and collect the ransom without all this yelling and running.”

“What?” I said. “And never know if the real cops are going to be waiting? You got to be kidding! Besides, the exercise is good for you. Now let’s get out of here before Dawes realizes no other cops are going to show up unless he calls them.”

As we drove away I counted the money in the envelope. There was only three hundred dollars. I tell you, it’s disillusioning. You can’t trust anybody these days.

The Man Who Flim-Flammed Hiwassee County

by William M. Stephens

We don’t get many professional swindlers in Balsam Gap, and it was just my luck to get involved with a real humdinger. Kent “Parrot” Barrone was a rogue and scoundrel of the first water. He not only conned the sheriff and the judge; he conned his own lawyer — who happened to be me.

It was in 1951, not long after I’d passed the bar and hung my shingle out, when Parrot Barrone came into my office above the drugstore. As far as I know, he picked me entirely by chance. It had nothing to do with my being female. In fact, I doubt if he knew. The sign on the outside of the building gave no hint. It just read: LEE MURPHY — ATTORNEY AT LAW — UPSTAIRS.

Parrot Barrone would attract attention anywhere in rural East Tennessee because of his slick look and high-heeled cowboy boots. In Nashville, of course, you’d take him for just another musician, but Balsam Gap is a far cry from Nashville. He was slender and catlike and wore tight pants and a fancy jacket. I’m not sure where he came from. He claimed to be a Texan, and he had a Latin air, but with his talent for dialects and mimicry he could have been from anywhere. My first impression of him was that he was as phony as a three-dollar bill.

That afternoon I was typing up a will. He came up the stairs so quietly I didn’t hear him coming and had no time to get into my lawyer’s chair before he came through the door. Consequently, we had to go through the routine of my explaining that I was not the secretary; I was the lawyer.

We went into my tiny private office. He said, “This is all very embarrassing, Miss Murphy — I don’t know where to begin.” He examined his long, delicate fingers. “We were just passing through — Kathy and I — and, due to an unfortunate chain of errors, Kathy was arrested on suspicion of passing bad checks.”

I nodded sagely. “How big were the checks, and who cashed them?”

“One was for seventy-five dollars and one was for fifty. We stopped last night at the Limestone Bluff Court. Kathy cashed a check at the gift shop, and another this morning at the office. After we left we had car trouble and had to get a wrecker to tow us to a garage. The sheriff arrested Kathy there and impounded our new Packard convertible.”

I made little sounds of sympathy. “You picked the wrong place to pass bad checks, Mr. Barrone. The Limestone Bluff is owned by Clem Ricketts, who happens to be the sheriff’s brother.”

“My God!”

“Did you gas up there too?”

He nodded. “A burly man with close-cropped hair filled the tank and checked the oil.”

“That was Clem. I imagine he pulled a distributor wire or something to put you out of commission while he had his brother check you out.”

He shook his head ruefully. “Welcome to Tennessee, huh? So that’s the way you treat tourists around here.”

“That’s the way some folks treat you when they think you’re trying to take them to the cleaners. These backwoods rubes are not as dumb as they look, Mr. Barrone.”

“My mistake.” He looked at me speculatively. “You’re not a native of this region, are you?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. I’m strictly a local yokel — born and raised in Happy Valley, ’way back in the sticks about ten miles from here.”

“But you went to Harvard Law School?” he said, glancing at the diploma on the wall.

I nodded. “I’m still a hick, though.” Pushing my chin forward, I went on, “Suppose you level with me, Mr. Barrone. How many worthless checks is the sheriff apt to come up with if he keeps your car in hock and your wife in jail for a few days while he investigates?”

“Oh, you misjudge me,” he said with a pained expression. “What do you take me for?”

I smiled. “You look like a client to me. But if you want me to represent you, I need to know all the facts.”

“Of course,” he said earnestly. “Let me explain how this preposterous situation came about.”

“That would be nice.”

“Kathy and I are on our honeymoon.”

“Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy.”

He looked at me quickly, then went on. “Before we were married, Kathy had her checking account at the Bank of Houston. But since I was a director of the Oilman’s National, she closed out her account. This week, however, due to the excitement of our honeymoon trip and the news that Kathy’s mother has been critically injured in an accident so that we had to change plans suddenly and head for the hospital she’s in Birmingham—” He paused to take a deep breath. “Kathy’s a very delicate girl. She tends to lose her equilibrium under strain. In her anxiety, she completely forgot she had closed out her checking account. So—” he shrugged “—in all innocence, she wrote those checks.”

“Sounds reasonable,” I said charitably. “However, writing a check on a nonexistent account is a felony in this state.”

He slumped in his chair.

“This is more serious than I thought. I assumed we could simply make restitution.”

“Well, restitution would help,” I said. “If the checks were paid off, the attorney general might agree to reduce the charge to a misdemeanor. Your wife might get off with a fine.”

He bit his lip. “How much money are we talking about?”

“It’s hard to say. The fine could be hundreds of dollars. The checks come to a hundred and twenty-five. Getting her out on bond will be expensive too. How much is the bond?”

“They haven’t set one.”

I shook my head. “I figured as much — but we can force them to. Since you’re a transient, however, no bondsman in this county will touch you. You may have to post a cash bond.”

He sighed. “In addition to the towing charge on the car, a repair bill, and a hotel bill at the Daniel Boone, where I just checked in.”

“Also,” I said, “if you’ll forgive my mentioning it, your attorney’s fee.”

“Yes, of course.” He shrugged helplessly. “At the moment my fluid resources are severely limited.”

“What about this bank you’re director of? Can’t you get some help there?”

Frowning, he said. “Unfortunately, we had a shakeup at the bank. I resigned and withdrew my funds. Most of my assets are now in gold and oil stocks. It will take a day or two to come up with cash.”

“I’ll need a hundred dollars as a retainer,” I said. “Cash. If you want me to get a bond set and start negotiations with the attorney general—”

“My dear lady,” he said, “I will definitely pay your fee. My father is quite wealthy.”

“Would you like to telephone him and reverse the charges?”

“I’ve already tried. He’s off hunting tigers in Nepal. I have other possibilities, but it will take a little while.”

“Well, I’ve got to have a retainer, and I don’t take checks.” I was sick and tired of working for nothing and was damned if I’d let this smoothie talk me out of my fee.

He smiled. “I understand. How about a twenty-dollar gold piece? Hey, there’s one!” Opening his eyes wide and reaching out to a point near my left ear, he produced a gold coin out of the air. Or so it seemed.

“How did you do that?”

He took my hand and pressed the coin gently into the palm. His hands were remarkably soft. “I created it,” he said, “out of the rich energy lodes in your lovely aura.”

I examined the coin. “It looks real.”

“It is real. Whoops, there’s another one coming out of the other ear.” Reaching, he plucked another gold piece out of the air.

“Don’t stop now,” I said. “Between your magic fingers and my rich aura, we can make a fortune. First my fee; then the bad checks; then — Acapulco.”

He laughed. “I wish it were that simple. Unfortunately, it takes a lot of energy to make gold. About two coins a day is my limit.” He took my hand and pressed the second coin into my palm. “Take my advice,” he said, “and keep these in a safe place — after the government takes the ceiling off gold prices they may be worth a hundred dollars each.”

“But it’s against the law to keep gold.”

“Technically.” He shrugged. “You’re the lawyer. Would you rather wait until I have currency?”

“No. I’ll hold onto these until you redeem them with long green.”

“Fine. But don’t leave them lying around. Put them in a safe place.”

I nodded and pulled out the bottom drawer in my desk. Placing the coins in my cash box, I wrote him a receipt while he watched with a funny kind of smile.

“Now,” he said, “what I want you to do first is get a writ of habeas corpus. Kathy is being held for investigation with no formal charges. Let’s force them either to release her or to set a reasonable bond.”

I looked at him in surprise. “That’s exactly what I planned to do. How do you know so much about habeas corpus?”

Waving a hand carelessly, he said, “I went to law school for a while, before Dad talked me into studying geology. He thought geology would be more valuable in our business. He heads Barrone Oil Wells, Limited.”

“Good for him. O.K., Mr. Barrone. I’ll draw up a petition this afternoon and see if the judge will schedule a hearing for tomorrow morning. Then we’ll find out what kind of case the prosecutor has.”

He nodded. “Time is of the essence.”

“Absolutely.” Giving him a sideways glance I said, “Just in case there might be some other checks floating around, we’d better get Kathy out on bond before the attorney general’s office is deluged by bad paper.”

“My sentiments exactly, ma’am.” He smiled. “You’re very perceptive, Miss Murphy. I knew in a flash today that you should be our lawyer. I have certain psychic abilities, as you may have suspected.”

“Do you really?” I said innocently. “How did you happen to come to me? I’m curious.”

“Elementary, my dear. I simply looked in the yellow pages under Attorneys, then closed my eyes and moved my hand slowly across the page. A special vibration told me you were the one.”

“I don’t know whether to believe you or not.”

He held up his right hand. “God’s truth. Already my intuition has been confirmed. I can tell from your deep blue eyes that you are intelligent, warm, and compassionate.” He placed the tips of his fingers lightly on my arm and stared intently at me. “I can sense,” he said slowly, his voice vibrant, “that you have great empathy for people. You will help me... you want to help me... and you will be richly rewarded for doing so.”

His eyes were hypnotic and his voice made me feel strange. With an effort I turned my head away.

“Perhaps you’ll have dinner with me tonight,” he said softly.

I was tempted — he had a certain charm, even if he was a crook and a bounder. I don’t meet many interesting men in Balsam Gap. But there was something in his eyes that disturbed me. Besides, he was a paying client — and a married man.

“No,” I said. “I have to start earning my fee and get your wife out of jail. But since you don’t have transportation, I’ll give you a ride to the Daniel Boone. Telephone me in a few hours and I’ll tell you when the hearing is scheduled.”

We went down the steps and through the alley to the back of the building where I parked my 1941 Studebaker. “Since you’re accustomed to touring in a Packard convertible,” I said, “I hope you won’t mind slumming for a few blocks.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Actually, this is quite nice.”

“I use it only for driving back and forth to court,” I said facetiously, glancing at the courthouse directly across the street from my office.

But Parrot Barrone was absorbed in his thoughts and failed to catch my little joke.

The writ of habeas corpus, Blackstone said, is the greatest protection the common man has under the common law. In America today, just as in England five hundred years ago, it safeguards the individual against flagrant abuse of police power. And also, of course, it sometimes allows a scoundrel to beat the system.

Habeas corpus gives a confined person an absolute right to have a judicial inquiry into the legality of his imprisonment. This means that no one can be held under an “open” charge or “for investigation.” Not for long, anyway, if he can get word to a lawyer or even smuggle a note to a judge, who has a sworn duty to honor the application and order a prompt hearing.

Besides these advantages, the writ is the criminal lawyer’s best friend. At a habeas corpus hearing, the accused has everything to gain and nothing to lose. He can find out everything about the prosecutor’s case without tipping his own hand.

The hearing was held in Judge Lively’s courtroom. Sheriff Rex Ricketts brought Kathy Barrone over from the jail and she took a seat beside her husband and me. The sheriff and the attorney general sat at the other counsel table. Kathy had long black hair and flashing eyes. She didn’t look delicate or frail to me. In fact, I’d bet she could pin Parrot two falls out of three. I didn’t sense as much affection between them as I’d expect to find between honeymooners who had been forced to spend the night in separate beds. But maybe they had other things on their minds.

Judge Lively rapped his gavel. “All right, let’s get started. This is a hearing in the matter of Kent Barrone and wife Kathy Fernandez Barrone versus Rex Ricketts, sheriff of Hiwassee County. Let’s hear from the petitioners.” He nodded to me.

“If the court please,” I said, “I represent the petitioners. Your honor, these young people, while passing through Hiwassee County, were seized and deprived of their liberty and their property without due process of law. Mrs. Barrone has been locked up without a charge being filed and without being taken before a magistrate. This is an outrage, your honor, inflicted on two citizens who have a compelling need to be on their way.”

The judge nodded, then looked at Rufus Haggle. “All right, Mr. Attorney General.”

Haggle stood up and arched his back to look down his long nose at Parrot and Kathy. “Yes, they do have compelling reasons to get out of this county as quickly as possible.” With a dry chuckle, he turned back to the bench. “Your honor, we’ve had a plague of bad checks these past few months. All up and down the John Sevier Highway, people in big touring cars have been stopping at roadside stands and tourist courts to pass bum checks. It’s getting so the local folks are losing their faith in the Golden Rule. They help the tourists out and get slapped in the face for their trouble.”

“If the court please, your honor,” I interrupted, “we’re not here for a morality lecture. My clients have been deprived of—”

“You made your little speech and I’m making mine,” snapped Rufus Haggle.

“All right, all right,” said the judge, “but get on with it. What kind of charges are you making against these petitioners?”

With a brief smile, the attorney general opened his file and withdrew two oblong slips of paper. “Here are two checks, your honor, dated November seventeenth, written on the Bank of Houston, in Texas, in the amounts of seventy-five and fifty dollars. They are signed by K. Fernandez, which we understand is an alias of Kathy Barrone.”

“We object, your honor. It’s not an alias. It’s her maiden name.”

The judge nodded. “She did write these checks, then? You admit that?”

“With all due respect, your honor,” I said, “it’s not incumbent on Mrs. Barrone to admit or deny anything at this point. No legal charge has been made. No prima facie case has been established. If the attorney general intends to use those checks as evidence of some kind of wrongdoing, he must first establish that a crime has been committed, and secondly that there is reason to believe Mrs. Barrone is the person who committed it.”

“What about that, Mr. Attorney General?” the judge said. “Let’s hear your proof.”

Haggle hesitated, then nodded brusquely. “Take the stand, Sheriff.”

After being sworn, Sheriff Ricketts testified he had received a call from his brother at the Limestone Bluff Court. “He said a couple of suspicious characters had passed some—”

“We object,” I said. “Hearsay.”

“Sustained.”

“Let me ask you this, Sheriff,” said Haggle. “Please state whether or not you acted upon information received from your brother, and subsequently apprehended these suspects?”

“Yes, I did. It seems they had a slight problem in the distributor of their Packard—” he hid a grin behind his hand “—and they got towed in. I found them at Watkins’ garage and showed them the checks. The lady admitted—”

“Objection! Also hearsay,” I said.

“Overruled. An admission against interest is an exception to the hearsay rule, as you well know, counselor.” Turning to the sheriff, he asked, “Did she admit she’d signed and passed the checks?”

“She sure did, Judge.”

Judge Lively compressed his lips. “Anything else from this witness, General?”

Rufus Haggle, glancing through his file, looked up. “I think that’s all, your honor.”

“Cross-examine,” said the judge.

“Sheriff,” I said, walking toward the witness stand, “let me see those checks.” He handed them over and I examined them, front and back. “What’s wrong with them, Sheriff? Why do you call them bad checks?” He darted a glance at the attorney general, then said, “They’re no good. They’re not worth the paper they’re written on. That’s what’s wrong with them.”

“How can you tell?” I asked innocently. “They look perfectly good to me.” With a perplexed expression, I handed them to the judge, who frowned as he turned them over in his hands.

“They’ve never even been presented for payment,” he said. “How can you make an arrest for passing worthless checks when the checks haven’t yet been refused by the bank?”

The sheriff glanced again at Haggle. “Well, I telephoned Houston, Judge, and they told me at the bank that—”

“I object!” I said. “You can’t tell what they told you, Sheriff. That’s clearly hearsay, your honor.”

“I’m well aware of that, counselor.” Turning to the witness, the judge said, “You can’t relate the telephone conversation.”

Glaring at me, the sheriff said, “But that’s how I know the checks are bad.”

“You don’t know they’re bad,” I said. “That’s your problem. You don’t know, of your own knowledge, anything about Kathy Barrone’s dealings with the Bank of Houston, do you?”

“No, but—”

“That’s all. Step down,” I said.

“Any other witnesses for the respondent?”

Rufus Haggle stood. “Not at this time, your honor.”

The judge rubbed his chin and frowned. Beckoning with both hands, he said, “Approach the bench, General. You too, counselor.”

We went up to the bench and the judge said, in a low voice, “Rufus, is that all you’ve got to hold the lady on?”

“That’s all I’ve got at this moment, Judge, but in a day or two we’ll have more. They fit the description of a couple who’ve passed beaucoup checks in Boone and Watauga Counties. Also, the woman is believed to have bilked a bank in Kingsport of five hundred dollars.”

“She passed a bad check at a bank?”

“A male confederate made a phone call impersonating the president of the bank. It fooled the cashier and he gave her the money. They’re real flim-flam artists, Judge. That’s why we’re trying to tie them up while we get all our ducks in a row.”

“Well,” I said, “while you’re getting your ducks in a row, General, you’re violating the constitutional rights of my clients. Your honor, you heard the so-called evidence against these people. The State’s case is a travesty. They’ve got absolutely nothing on Mr. and Mrs. Barrone. They have already had their honeymoon interrupted by this farce, and they need to get to Birmingham to see Mrs. Barrone’s mother, who is critically ill.”

“Well, she is entitled to bond,” said the judge. “Rufus, have you personally contacted that bank in Houston to see if they’re holding a bale of bad checks written by these two?”

“No, I haven’t, your honor. As you know, that information wouldn’t be admissible unless we got a bank official up here and—”

“Who’s talking about admissibility? Damn it, Rufus, at least we’d know. Right now we don’t know pea turkey, and I’m gonna have to release that woman unless you make a charge. You got to fish or cut bait, buddy.”

“All right.” Haggle spoke through tight lips. “We’ll charge her on two counts of passing worthless checks and see what else crops up. Two thousand dollars bond.”

“One thousand,” I said. “Those two checks only come to a hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

The judge nodded. “I think a thousand is enough. Can they make it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Possibly. Also, I want their car released.”

The attorney general shook his head. “Judge, we think that car is stolen. There are papers in the glove compartment in the name of one William D. Walker. We think—”

“Wait a minute!” I said. “Did you have a search warrant when you went rummaging through the car?”

He glared at me without answering.

“Damn it,” I said, “you know you needed a warrant to search that car. Anything you found will be inadmissible.”

“What the hell’s the difference?” he said. “As soon as we get the F.B.I. report, we’ll have plenty of corroborating evidence.” Flushing angrily, he said, “I’m not going to release that car, Judge. Not unless you order me to.”

The judge nodded. “You’ve got till noon tomorrow to make a case on the car. Otherwise, you’ll have to release it.”

Haggle smiled. “That’s fine. By tomorrow a federal lien is liable to be slapped on that car for a charge of transporting a stolen automobile across a state line.”

“If the car is stolen,” I said.

So that was the way the judge left it, and I was satisfied with the outcome. The sheriff took Kathy back to jail and Parrot Barrone walked back to my office with me. He was jubilant and had a strange, wild look in his eyes.

“I can get a thousand dollars easy,” he said, “by telephoning my dad’s office. Also—” he raised his eyebrows “—I’ll get an extra hundred for you, for doing such a great job.”

“That would be nice,” I said.

“If you’ll let me use the telephone in your office, I’ll make a collect call and get the money wired to me right away.”

“Be my guest,” I said, ushering him into the office. Then, while he closed the door and made his call, I caught up on my filing.

He came out with a grin a yard wide. “Success!” he said. “They’re sending enough to cover everything. I’ll pick up the money at Western Union late this afternoon.”

“Wonderful!”

“As soon as it arrives I’ll settle up with you and post Kathy’s bond. Then perhaps you’ll join us for dinner tonight?”

“I’d love to.”

He gave my hand a warm squeeze and said, “See you later, Lee. Will you be here in the office all afternoon?”

“Till five, at least,” I said. “Call me when you know something.”

“Of course.” He winked. “Adios, señorita.”

I worked all afternoon, typing up a couple of title abstracts, pausing occasionally to gloat over the way the hearing had gone. I was delighted to have earned a nice fee on a walk-in case. If I could get one like it every week or so, I’d soon be in clover.

Thinking back over it, I decided my initial impression of Parrot had been harsh and judgmental. Maybe he was a crook, but he operated with verve and charm. And quite possibly he wasn’t a crook. Who was I to say? In any event, he was entitled to legal counsel. I was a lawyer, not a moralist.

About five-thirty, I decided to lock up. Parrot still hadn’t called, so I assumed it had taken longer than he’d anticipated for the people at the other end to get the cash together. The money would surely arrive by morning.

I opened my purse to get my keys. They weren’t there. I stood there, puzzled. I’d had the keys when we got back from court. I’d unlocked the outer door and then dropped the keys into my purse, which had been on my desk all afternoon.

A chill went through my heart. Parrot! He’d been in my office with the door closed. Quickly I yanked the bottom drawer open and looked in the cash box. Empty. Cleaned out. The two gold pieces were gone, plus forty dollars and some change. Another twelve dollars had been taken from my purse.

Furious with myself for being so trusting, I ran down the steps and around the building. My car was gone. In a black, seething rage, I stalked into Sheriff Rex Ricketts’ office next door.

Rex was reading the Balsam Gap Bugle, his feet propped on the desk. He glanced up at me, then put his feet down. “What in the world is wrong, Lee?” he said with concern.

“That carpetbagging reprobate!” I sputtered. “That depraved scalawag! That oily-tongued hustler! Rex, I want to swear out a warrant against Parrot Barrone.”

“Parrot Barrone?” he said, astonished. “But he’s your client.”

“Was my client. That no-account swindler took my car and all the cash I had. I want him, Rex—” I pounded the desk “—I want him!” Then came a sudden thought. “And you’d better make sure his wife is still in her cell. I wouldn’t put anything past those two flim-flammers.”

The sheriff had a funny look on his face. “Why, she’s been gone since noon, Lee. Didn’t you know?”

“Are you serious? Since noon? How in the—? You mean Parrot posted bond?”

“Why, no. The judge said he didn’t need to. After the hearing this morning — right after I brought Kathy back to the jail — Judge Lively called me on the telephone and said he’d reconsidered. Said he’d decided to release Kathy on her own recognizance.”

“Her own recognizance?” Bewildered, I shook my head. That didn’t sound like Judge Lively. He’d have told me first, wouldn’t he? Then I thought about the phone call Parrot had made from my private office and I felt the blood drain from my face. “Oh, my God,” I said, sitting down. “Rex, what time did the judge call you?”

“Lemme check the log. Here it is. Eleven-forty-two, only a few minutes after we got back from the courthouse. Right after I hung up from talking with the judge, Parrot Barrone walked in and said the judge had sent him over to get Kathy. So I signed her out, naturally.”

“Naturally,” I said in a tiny voice. “We’ve been had, Rex. You and the judge and me and everybody.” I released my breath in a long, hoarse sigh. “We’d better get the judge on the phone.”

Sitting down to dial, I closed my eyes for a long moment and wondered why I hadn’t gone into teaching like my mother wanted me to.

Well, Parrot had indeed conned us all. He’d imitated the judge’s voice so well that the sheriff had been completely fooled. Later, after rehashing the whole mess, I concluded that Parrot had planned from the beginning to spring Kathy with a phone call, but he needed an opportunity to listen to Judge Lively’s voice. That was why he wanted the hearing. He was a master of voice mimicry. And he’d had to work fast, before the sheriff got an F.B.I. report on him. If he couldn’t get the Packard out of hock, he’d take my car, which I’d very conveniently pointed out to him. The Packard wasn’t his anyway, we learned. He was wanted in California, Arizona, and Nevada for larceny, embezzlement, bank fraud, larceny by trick, impersonating a bank officer, forgery, and even practicing medicine without a license. As far as the record showed he’d never been to Texas.

The Boone County police found my Studebaker, none the worse for wear, at the Booneville Airport. Parrot and Kathy had caught a plane for Charlotte, and there the trail turned cold.

The next day I received a postcard from Charlotte.

“Dear Miss Murphy, Thanks for letting me borrow your car, and for all your help. We really are grateful, and I’ll pay your fee in full the next time I strike oil. Kathy sends her best. Don’t take any wooden nickels. Love, Parrot.”

Strange as it seems, he did eventually pay my fee, and in a totally unexpected way. But that’s another story.

Spinning the Bottle

by Edwin P. Hicks

“You’ve got sense enough to pick up a buck or a five-dollar bill or maybe a ten-spot when you find it in the middle of a sidewalk, haven’t you, kid?”

“Why, sure,” I said, “but I don’t want to go to no jail for mugging a guy.”

Lefty Warren finished his bottle of Coke and winked. “You won’t be muggin’ no guy, and if I should miss — which ain’t likely from a distance of twenty feet — you’re faster than a greased alley cat at making tracks. Come on. We split everything fifty-fifty, right down the middle, and you ought to make more in a couple of hours than in a whole week washin’ dishes in this greasy joint.”

It was my break time at the Golden Horseshoe, where I had been washing dishes on the night shift for the past six weeks. The pay wasn’t much — a dollar a night — but I got three square meals and a warm place to sleep, and that was better than I had done since I’d run away from school and Aunt Martha in New York City the year before.

We stepped outside the restaurant, and Lefty went on up the block to the west and turned the corner into a dark alley, while I leaned against the wall and smoked a cigarette.

A young couple passed by, and then an old fuddy-duddy in his late sixties with a cane. He was fairly well dressed. I trailed him pretty close. He reached the dark alley and was halfway across when I saw the flash of the Coke bottle. The old man’s hat went flying and he fell to the sidewalk. I ran to him, and there was a big lump of grey hair sticking up where the bottle had hit him, but there was no blood, and I figured he’d come around all right. My hands flashed over him quicker than a cat grabbing a fat mouse in a corner, and I got his wallet, his wristwatch, and a stickpin. I turned and looked around. Nobody had seen what had happened. There wasn’t a sign of Lefty anywhere. So I trotted back to the restaurant.

“Here’s Lefty’s empty,” I said, dropping the empty Coke bottle into a wooden case behind the counter. “Well, I guess it’s time to hit that stack of dirty dishes.”

“It sure is,” said Mr. Turner, the night manager. So I left my coat with the loot hanging on a rack and began digging into the dishes.

After the place had closed up at midnight, Lefty rapped on the back door and I let him in.

“Let’s see what we got,” he said.

The old man’s wallet contained twenty-seven dollars. Lefty kept fourteen and gave me thirteen. And he took the watch and stickpin. “I know a fence,” he said. “We’ll divvy up what it brings later. That’ll be another three or four bucks for you and the same for me. Good job you did, picking up the empty Coke bottle. The police won’t have any idea what hit him.”

“What happened to the old man?” I asked.

“After I beaned him I circled up the alley and out a couple of blocks up the street. Somebody came in all excited and called an ambulance. We all run down there, but the old guy wasn’t hurt at all. He didn’t even want to go in the ambulance, but they made him.”

It was a pretty good go, and we played it all over town. I’d pick up a job as a dishwasher, Lefty would come in on my break, I’d follow him out, and bang! He’d let some well dressed guy have it with a Coke or beer bottle out of the darkness. How that guy could throw a bottle!

He said he’d learned it by accident. One night there was a tomcat yowling in the alley in back of his place, and he found an empty Coke bottle and let fly. The bottle sailed and smashed into a thousand pieces when it hit an iron pipe.

“It exploded just like a hand grenade,” Lefty said. “I didn’t miss that cat more than three inches.

“That got me to thinking. You’ve no idea how accurate you can throw a bottle when you hold it by the neck. One day me and another guy got into a fight with six members of the old Reuben gang in back of a grocery store. There was a Coke truck parked there while the driver was making a delivery. We grabbed Coke bottles by the neck and started throwing. We had so many bottles sailing through the air and bustin’ against the brick walls we chased them for three blocks, just the two of us.

“Well, every time I could get my hands on a Coke bottle or a long-necked beer bottle after that I practiced with it. Boy, how they can bust when they hit something solid! I got to be real good throwing bottles, and that’s what I been doing ever since. It’s a good racket — better than muggin’. You never know what’s goin’ to happen when you mug a guy — sometimes you get hold of someone you can’t handle. But a bottle comes out of the darkness and beans a guy on the side of the head, he goes out like he’s been hit by Joe Frazier.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You throw the bottle and bean a guy and then hightail it without anybody ever seeing you. You leave all the dirty work to me. Somebody’s going to see me frisking the guy.”

“Listen, kid — for the tenth time. Someone comes up on you going through a guy flat on the sidewalk, you’re giving him first aid. Get down over him and give him mouth-to-mouth — whatever you call it. You’re trying to bring him to. You saw him suddenly tumble to the street in front of you, like he had a heart attack or something. You didn’t see no Coke bottle hit him. You’re a hero. You’ll get your picture in the paper! Ain’t no risk at all for you. I’m takin’ the risk, fencin’ the jewelry and watches and stuff.”

O.K., so we went along together, playing it good and cool and averaging ten or fifteen bucks a night easy, besides the money we got from the fence. We got away with it for three months, changing our scene of operation about every two weeks. And then a guy looking out the second-story window of a cheap rooming house saw me going through a gent’s pockets. He came downstairs and followed me back to the restaurant where I worked, put in a call from a telephone booth, and brought the cops. They found the old duffer’s wallet with fifty bucks in it, his watch with his initials engraved on it, and a diamond fraternity ring with his initials inside the band in my coat. My rap was six years in the state prison.

If I’d been a model prisoner I’d have been paroled in two years. But I wasn’t a model prisoner, because one day I happened to read in the paper how Lefty Warren, a local young man, had been seen pitching for a sandlot team by a Big League scout and had been signed for a tryout as pitcher for the Arkansas Travelers in Little Bock. For a minute I saw red. Unfortunately, there was a guard nearby and I slugged him.

So it was four long years before I got out of stir, and every waking hour of them I thought about Lefty. I’m not the smartest person in the world, but I could see now how he had played me for a fool from the very first. Having developed that wonderful throwing arm of his, he could stand way back in the dark alleys, cold-cock a guy with a Coke bottle, then beat it and be blocks away from the scene while I had the dangerous job of going through the victim’s pockets. If anybody was going to be caught it was me, not Lefty.

Lefty had two good years in a row with the Travelers and then was promoted to Tulsa. After two years there, there was talk of him going up to the St. Louis Cardinals next season.

Out of the penitentiary at last, I was sitting in the grandstand at the Tulsa ballpark one night in September when Lefty was pitching. He had a real system, and I knew where it had originated — in back alleys, with a bottle in his hand. Every first pitch went straight for the batter’s head. If that didn’t scare the pants off the batter, the second pitch either hit him or sent him to the dirt. He’d already hit more batters than anybody in Big League history, and every hitter knew he was taking his life in his hands whenever he faced Lefty at the plate. The night I watched, he didn’t throw a single curve or slider, just a straight overhand hard one with a hop on it. The pitch either came rising up toward the batter’s whiskers or cut the middle of the plate. Twice batters charged him and when one threw his bat at him Lefty ducked and the bat almost hit the infield umpire.

Lefty had as fast a pair of legs on him as he had a fast ball. He hit two batters, struck out eleven, and didn’t walk a man. The way he could move when a batter was charging him, bat in hand, was something to see. It took me back to the time when he and I were a team and how after he’d put a pedestrian on the ground with his Coke bottle he sped like the wind down the alley and out of sight. Now he was fleeing to the umpire for protection — or to the wide open spaces in centerfield, if necessary — to escape a charging batter.

Lefty had real talent. And he’d always known I’d never squeal on him. He’d sized me up, he said, before he ever let me be his partner. But when you spend four years in stir and the other guy, equally guilty, gets off free and has his name glorified in the sports pages, you begin to see things in a different light.

Me, I got a hot temper — like the time I slugged the guard and had to do two extra years — but I also brood a lot, and I never forget something when I feel like I ain’t been treated right.

The morning after the game I saw Lefty pitch, the Tulsa sports pages really made Lefty a big man. Eleven strikeouts — a shutout for the team. Lefty, they said, was certain to make the Cardinals next year. He had the speed of Bob Gibson, they said.

But I knew the sports writers were talking through their hats. Lefty wasn’t going anywhere next year. I bought the heaviest bat I could find at a sporting-goods store, stationed myself in an alley near the Tulsa ball club’s hotel, and waited there several nights, knowing my time would come. Once or twice Lefty passed with several other players, his mouth moving, same as usual. I could hear him coming long before he reached the alley, but I couldn’t do anything with those other guys around.

Then one night he came past alone, after the club’s curfew hour. He was starting out for a spree and was already half lit. The night was young for him and his future looked great.

“Lefty!” I called from the alley.

He stopped. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Mickey — your old pal.”

“Hey, Mickey! What do you need? A handout?”

His voice had the old arrogance I’d hated. He stepped toward me in the darkness of the alley. I swung for a home run with the power that had made me the home-run king of the prison league. The blow almost tore off the top of Lefty’s head. The Cardinals would have to get along without him next year.

I hurried through the darkness for blocks until I reached the bank of the Arkansas River, where I tossed the bat as far as I could. It hit the water with a slap out there in the darkness. It might float clear to the Gulf of Mexico before anybody noticed it. Anyway, my fingerprints would be washed off.

I turned back then, whistling. A burden had been lifted from my shoulders. Tomorrow was a new day. Maybe I could get a job selling peanuts and Cokes at the Tulsa ball park. And who could tell? Maybe in time I could become the best selling vendor at Busch Stadium in St. Louis.

The Forced Retirement of Elton Pringle

by Nancy C. Swoboda

The years had eroded rather than enhanced their marriage. Elton Pringle, trim, promising young business-equipment executive, had at age fifty become a balding, paunchy lump of clay. His fading lack of initiative had reduced him to a static, unchallenging salesman’s position with which he was perfectly satisfied. There was always Doris’s nest egg to smooth him over the rough spots.

Doris Pringle — exacting, fastidious, and extremely conscious of what others might think — had come to regard her husband in the same league with the aphids that threatened her roses, a blight that could dim the glory of her colorful garden. Periodically, he had eaten into her inheritance because of his failures. But then, what would people think if they found out that the Pringles were in financial difficulty?

She had always lived her life according to appearances. It was a tacit challenge among her peers to catch Doris without her makeup, with a strand of hair out of place. The story circulated for years about a local group who flew to Europe for a tour and observed Doris sitting bolt upright for the six-hour flight and emerging at Orly perfectly coiffed, pressed, and painted.

Lest someone drive by and see a weed or a bit of chipped paint, Doris kept the yard and house in House Beautiful condition. The dog Elton brought to live with them, surely as a small source of respect and affection for him, was given away because the poor creature turned the grass yellow in spots and traumatized the zinnias.

Elton’s favorite pastime was to settle deeply into his recliner in front of the television set and dust potato-chip crumbs comfortably across his wide girth. His relaxation was usually interrupted by the whine of the vacuum cleaner, vigorously wielded by his wife.

“What if someone stops by?” was her response to his futile protests.

For a time she had monitored his diet, tried to keep his weight at a reasonable level, but it was a hopeless, thankless endeavor. He would simply gorge himself during working hours and come home dutifully to watercress dinners. To preserve at least an illusion of trimness she insisted he have his clothes tailored to minimize his bulk. But at best, he reminded her of a well dressed bullfrog.

Doris was proud of her slim figure. It seemed she could exist for days on a piece of cheese while she cleaned or worked in her garden. The garden was her outlet, her refuge. Having children had never interested her. Tending and nurturing her plants and flowers was satisfaction enough.

The back yard was enclosed within a privacy fence. Flower beds ran along the sides, the garden to the rear was bordered with stepping stones and a latticework archway. In the quiet of late afternoons Doris indulged herself by relaxing on the patio chaise and gazing contentedly at her creation. She alone had turned every shovelful of earth, laid out the borders, rid her paradise of every weed.

With Elton becoming more and more of an irritant in her orderly life, the garden was a panacea. Doris never discussed her private life with anyone. From outward appearances, the Pringles were a comfortable middle-aged couple — Elton a bit henpecked, Doris a bit too fastidious, but a compatible twosome.

One late afternoon in the spring, Doris paced the house nervously. She was impeccably attired in white slacks, sandals, and a stylish blouse. Elton was late. They were due for the annual dinner cruise down the river with the Hestons. The hors d’oeuvres were wrapped, a bottle of vodka packed, and their jackets were on the hall chair ready to go.

She heard him drive up and opened the door. “Where have you been?” she said, peevishly. “You have ten minutes to change. And wear your navy pants. They make you look thinner.”

He’d been drinking. Carelessly, he tossed his briefcase in the hall closet and swung around belligerently. “Listen, today I—”

“Later,” Doris said. “Hurry! You won’t even have time to shower!”

“Sure, sure.” He lumbered up the stairs. “Gotta be on time. Can’t keep Doris’s friends waiting.”

The Hestons had a natty little sixteen-footer and liked to play host to their friends by boating down the river for shore cookouts or putting in at the marina for dinner. Normally Elton enjoyed these excursions, but this night he sat, his drink in his hand, and stared out at the water.

“Ol’ Muddy,” he muttered glumly. “Keeps moving on. Wonder where it goes?”

Nervously, Doris tried to cover his rude detachment with small talk and frequent offerings of her hors d’oeuvres. By the end of the evening her jaw was clamped into a fixed smile.

“It was lovely, as usual,” she assured the Hestons as they parted and then whispered, “Elton’s allergy has been bothering him all day. I’m sorry he’s such a stick.”

He insisted on driving home. Completing the fifteen-minute ride in ten, he slammed out of the car, ricocheted up the stairs, and fell across the bed like a beached whale. Methodically, Doris hung up her clothes, showered, creamed her face, and retired to the guest room. She could hear Elton’s resonant snores through the closed door.

The next morning he came down in his robe, his face puffed and unshaved, dropped into a kitchen chair, and stared out the window.

“Coffee?” Doris said coldly.

“Hm? Oh — yes.”

She poured him a cup, pushed it toward him, and watched him as he drank. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“The Hestons. You were awful last night! What got into you?”

He took several gulps of coffee and then focused on her with bleary eyes. “As of next month I’m being replaced by a computer.”

“What?”

“My job’s being phased out.”

Her tone changed to one of apprehension. “Well, surely they’ll give you another position after all the years you’ve put in.”

“Not at my age. Partial retirement and a severance check is all they’re offering.”

Sputtering, Doris said, “What ingrates! The least they could do is find a place for you!” But in her heart she knew there was little chance of that. Elton was no fireball and never had been. As with so many businesses these days, automation was taking over and older employees were being let go to avoid full pension payments.

She felt no sympathy. All she could think about was the drain on her own funds that was sure to come with Elton’s forced retirement. Just looking at him she knew he was finished. He would become an overweight albatross around her neck. Automatically, she began formulating excuses to make to her friends for his unemployment.

She explained it as a heart condition. Poor dear Elton had to take it easy, quit his job, and rest for a time. And that he did. He made no effort to seek out other employment. He retired to his recliner and became as demanding as a sheik with a corner on the oil market. Self-pity became his occupation, and his cocktail hour began earlier with each day of idleness.

Furiously, Doris dug up the bed for the asters. She loved the solid array of colors they offered each fall. She could see Elton through the patio door, a reclining blob constantly feeding and spilling, growing larger, sinking deeper into a world of self-gratification. She had already had to dig into her savings to meet their obligations, to save face.

She had picked at him all morning, made him shave and dress in case someone dropped by. In between her loving ministrations to the garden she tried to keep ahead of his littering. When he’d been working she’d had the whole day to tend her flowers, the house, herself. If nothing else, why couldn’t he be neat, considerate of her routine?

At last she had the bed ready for the asters. The earth had been worked until it was like velvet. Before Doris could devote her full attention to the careful placing of the seeds, she made another sweep of the living room, picking up newspapers and dirty dishes and running the vacuum to take up the new fall of crumbs, scolding Elton in a crescendo that reached a pitch well above the Hoover and the TV.

Back in the orderly, serene world of her garden she dropped to her knees and began the ritual of planting. In the quiet afternoon robins sang their twilight song, wrens chattered in the bushes. Then, abruptly, the patio door flew open and Elton, roaring like a maddened bull, charged out.

“What’s wrong?” She sat back on her heels.

“You never let up on me, you shrew! I’ll show you!” His voice was trembling with rage. His shadow, a giant behemoth, loomed over the peaceful garden. With both hands flailing he began to rip up flowers, pushed over the fragile archway, and began rooting out plants.

Doris’s primary reaction was to save her precious garden. She jumped up and tried to subdue him, but he brushed her off like a fly. She looked around helplessly. Seeing the shovel, she picked it up and circled behind him. The hatred she felt for him now gave strength to the blow she delivered to the back of his head.

He fell heavily face forward into the jonquils, and was still. For a moment Doris stood triumphantly, then she bent down to examine him.

He was dead. She regarded him for a long moment but it wasn’t until she looked at the surrounding ruination that a sob welled up in her throat.

Then panic set in. She had to hide what she had done. There was a tarpaulin in the garage that she used to cover the various sacks of fertilizer, lime, and seed. Quickly she ran over and stripped it off, dashed back to the garden, and covered Elton. She considered the ominous mound, fascinated and horrified, and then bolted into the house, where she poured herself a small glass of straight vodka, lit a cigarette, and sat down at the kitchen table to think.

“He went berserk. I had to defend myself.” “It was an accident. He fell and hit his head on a stepping-stone.” “There was an intruder, and they fought.” Nothing seemed valid.

If he’d fallen she would have called for help long ago. The same with the intruder. If Elton had gone mad, what would people think? Besides, she could have escaped easily by merely outrunning him. The least she could expect was a manslaughter charge. But no matter what the outcome, she couldn’t bear to face the humiliation and awful notoriety of a trial.

It was dusk before she formulated a plan. Recalling Elton’s behavior over the past few months gave her the idea. There was work to do, backbreaking work, and she was thankful for the stamina she possessed, the strength she had acquired from working in the garden.

The dirt in the aster bed was soft and easy to turn. Gingerly, she took the tarpaulin off Elton, spread it alongside the bed to accommodate the earth she would have to shovel out, and began digging. It took her two hours to make a hole deep enough to hold him. The next step would be the worst.

She took several long boards she had used for framing the beds and managed to shove the ends under Elton. Laboriously she rolled him over and over along the wooden track until with one final revolution he plopped neatly into his grave. Next came a generous dose of chemicals from her supply in the garage to hasten his return to dust.

It seemed to take forever — watering, tamping, shoveling — but at last the bed was level, its secret hidden beneath the fine, rich topsoil. Now she was back at the stage in her planting that Elton had interrupted. Carefully, she put down the aster seeds according to her design, gave the bed a light sprinkling, and returned to the house. It was time to make the call.

With a cloth over the mouthpiece she dialed the police.

“I’m at the phonebooth on this side of the river. I just saw a man jump off the bridge!”

“From what part of the bridge, ma’am?” asked the policeman, voice alert.

“In the middle, over the railing of the pedestrian walk. He was in my headlights for just a second. All I can tell you is that he was heavy-set. I have to go now. I left my baby alone in the car.” She hung up before he could ask her any more questions. Over the years people had reported seeing jumpers on that bridge and at least two bodies had never been found. With the strong current and the undertow, it was assumed that they were snagged someplace beneath the murky waters. Satisfied with her performance, she stretched her sore muscles and returned to the garden, where she worked until dawn setting it to rights.

The birds were well into their cheerful welcome to the morning when she collapsed on the chaise to survey her work. Everything was back in order and the archway again presided over the garden. She had been able to save most of the plants and flowers by rerooting them back into the ground. The aster bed looked neat and innocent, awaiting glorious blooms to spring from it.

She gave one last approving look and went inside to shower, change, and apply fresh makeup. It didn’t upset her that there were dark circles under her eyes. It was right for her to look tired, worried. Next, she cleaned the house. Then she began phoning friends.

“Have you seen Elton?” she asked them. “I’m so worried. He said he was going for a walk, to think. In the mood he was in I thought he needed to be alone. But he’s been gone much too long.”

Finally she called the police and a detective came to the house. She told him the same thing, how depressed her husband had been about being unemployed.

“Mrs. Pringle,” he said evenly, “I have to tell you. Sooner or later you’ll hear it on the news. There was a suicide off the bridge — a woman reported it last night. He was a large man, she said.”

Hysterics came easy. She was so tired, worried that she’d make a slip. “Oh, no! The Hestons — I remember when we were on their boat. He kept staring at the river. It wasn’t like him at all.”

The detective was soothing and tried to reassure her, but she could see from the look in his eyes that he thought Elton was the man who’d gone off the bridge.

The woman who had witnessed the man jump from the bridge was urged to come forth by the news media — but, of course, people hesitate to become involved. After a few weeks of investigation, Elton Pringle went into the police records as “missing — probable suicide.”

By early fall Doris had settled into a secure routine, comforted by her friends, enjoying her freedom. The aster bed was blooming in riotous color. Enough time had elapsed that she decided on a shopping spree for some winter clothes. She wanted to go to the jeweler as well — the diamond in her wedding ring was loose.

A man named John Rupert had been their jeweler for years. He had an elegant and dignified shop in the heart of downtown. Doris had always admired his style. He was attractive, slender, silver-haired, and flawlessly tailored.

“Mrs. Pringle,” he greeted her warmly. “It’s so nice to see you. I was very sorry to read of your misfortune. Your husband was a fine man.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rupert.” Doris looked down for a moment and then smiled bravely back up at him. “I’m here about my ring. The diamond seems to be loose.”

“We’ll certainly fix that. Can you leave it with us for a day or two?”

“Of course.”

“By the way, hasn’t it been some time since we’ve appraised your good jewelry for insurance purposes?”

“I–I don’t know. Elton always took care of that.”

“Forgive me. I’ve upset you. Yes, he spoke about it last time he was in. It would be wise, you know.”

“You’re right.” She sighed. “It’s time I learn to do these things myself.” She hesitated. “But I wouldn’t feel safe bringing my most valuable pieces here alone.”

“Of course, that’s understandable,” Mr. Rupert said and suggested he could come by the house to do the appraisal. He was a widower and now that she was alone too something seemed to click between them. Perhaps it was her imagination, Doris told herself, but she felt a thrill, the long-dormant emotion of a mutual attraction.

He was very businesslike when he arrived on his professional visit. She watched his precise movements and his neat handwriting as he appraised and listed each piece. She served him coffee and a torte and he didn’t drop a crumb. In fact, he insisted on assisting her with the dishes.

“You have a lovely home here,” he remarked. “Were I to examine it with my jeweler’s glass I daresay I wouldn’t find a speck of dust.”

“My friends chide me,” she murmured, “but order seems to be a passion with me.”

“You remind me very much of my late wife. I was fortunate to have her as long as I did,” he said wistfully.

To cover her pleasure and embarrassment, she wiped her soapy hands. “Come out and see my garden.”

He stood on the patio and surveyed it. “My dear!” he said. “It’s a miniature paradise.”

She was ecstatic. For a man as meticulous as Mr. Rupert to enthuse over the garden raised her spirits to a level she had never known. “Oh, thank you,” she said. “Please, won’t you come visit again? Have dinner with me here on the patio and have a nice long talk.”

“Yes — Doris — I’d like very much to do that. Don’t think me forward, but I know what it is to be lonely. And I think we have much in common.”

She invited him to come early, when the last sunlight fell over the garden in a cascade of golden light. The house was immaculate, her hair and makeup perfect, the waiting dinner exquisite. She wore her turquoise caftan to highlight her hazel eyes and dark hair. He appeared promptly in a beige flannel suit, a bottle of wine in hand.

He too preferred martinis and he mixed them expertly. They sat on the patio and, as two people who have just discovered each other do, they exchanged likes and dislikes.

“I share your appreciation of order, Doris, even in my leisure time. Crossword puzzles, for example. And mysteries — they’re my passion! Each clue is like a jewel. You keep rearranging them in the setting until a pattern emerges.”

“Oh, yes,” she enthused. “I know what you mean. My garden affects me the same way — planting the seeds and seeing them bloom into the design I’ve envisioned.”

“I’d like to interest you in mysteries. You’d love Miss Marple, the way she collects odd little bits of information and observation and weaves them into a solution.”

Doris really didn’t like to read. She had enough to keep her occupied, and when she went to bed at night she collapsed into a short but sound sleep. But she wanted to please him. “She sounds like someone I’d enjoy,” she lied.

The rich orange sun had settled on the aster bed and turned the flowers various shades of bronze.

“Look,” John drew her attention to them. “They’re magnificent!” He took her hand and they walked over to the flower bed.

Standing there, he put a tentative arm around her waist and she moved closer. There wasn’t a thought in her head about Elton until they saw it glinting in the sun.

“My word!” John said. “What’s this?” He stooped over and pulled the gold circle free of the foliage growing around it.

Doris froze. She stared at the ring he held in the palm of his hand.

The import of what had happened combined with what she knew forced her scattered thoughts together into an explanation. She covered her face with trembling hands. “Oh, no! Why now — after all this time?”

“What do you mean?” John regarded her intently.

“Just before Elton disappeared he helped me dig up this bed. He was on his hands and knees, poor dear, breaking up the clods, and—” she sobbed “—and he lost his wedding ring.”

“I see,” he said.

“Do you suppose it was some kind of omen?” She tried to enhance the sense of tragedy.

“Perhaps.” He dropped the ring in his pocket. “Shall we go back inside?”

Silently, he mixed her a martini and handed it to her. “I’m going to leave now,” he told her. “In view of what’s happened, I think I should.”

He seemed strangely detached, cool. But there was no possible way he could suspect the truth, she reasoned. Finding his wedding ring had probably just reminded him that, missing or not, Elton still held legal claim on her, at least for a time. John was very proper. A thing like that would upset him.

“Yes. Of course,” she agreed. “It has put a damper on the evening, hasn’t it?”

“I’m afraid it has. I’ll let myself out. Stay here and finish your drink.” He looked at her for a long moment and left.

As soon as she heard his car driving away she hurried back out to the aster bed and looked through the blooms, down among the bottoms of the stems, and saw nothing unusual. She had heard of lost rings and other small articles growing up from beneath the soil with plants. The horrid thought occurred to her that perhaps Elton wasn’t dead when she buried him and had tried to claw his way out.

She hurried into the house and turned off the oven. Then she remembered that John had left without returning the ring. Well, no matter. She was glad to have it out of the house. But she would have to ask him for it, as a remembrance of her dear husband.

She had just finished cleaning up and putting the roast in the freezer when the doorbell rang. With a quick primp in the hall mirror she opened the door. “John!” She looked beyond him and saw four men. “What’s happened? Who—?”

One of the men stepped forward. “Detective Boswell, Mrs. Pringle. We have a warrant here to search your house and grounds.”

“You what? John!”

“I’m sorry, Doris.” His expression was pained.

“But why?” Fear was affecting her senses.

He reached in his pocket and held out Elton’s ring. “Just a week before your husband disappeared he stopped in to see me.”

“Yes, you told me that. About reappraising my jewelry, wasn’t it?”

“That too. I didn’t tell you the rest because I saw how it upset you to talk about him.” He laughed bitterly. “Little did I know. I was trying to be kind. I admired you.”

“But why else did Elton go to see you?”

“He’d put on weight, as you know, and he wanted to see about having his wedding ring made larger — it was becoming painful. After examining it on his finger I told him it would have to be cut off. He said he’d stop by when he had more time.”

Doris looked around weakly for a chair.

Detective Boswell led her to one and she sat. “It’s highly unlikely that in a week’s time a man could lose enough weight to get a ring as tight-fitting as Mr. Rupert says your husband’s was off his finger intact,” he said.

“You told the police that, John?” She looked up at him in shock.

“I’m afraid so. If it’s any consolation, had I known you longer I might not have.”

“Mrs. Pringle, there’s only one way that ring could have come off. Decomposition.” Detective Boswell shoved the search warrant in front of her. “Do you want to show us where he’s buried or do we have to dig up the whole garden?”

She jumped up. “No! Don’t do that! I’ll show you — he’s underneath the asters! But, please, try not to make too much of a mess!”

A Cleverly Rearranged Murder

by Richard Purtill

Yes, I suppose they are marvelous gadgets and I could probably afford to get one, but I have rather a prejudice against them; I’ll tell you why. It happened last spring when I was in San Diego looking for picture subjects. I don’t know if you realize I’m a poet. I suppose if you do you wonder, like most people, how I make a living at it.

It started when I made a birthday card for a friend with a photograph I’d taken myself and some lines of my verse inside. At the party everyone exclaimed over the card and someone said I should go into business making them.

She was probably joking, and it wouldn’t have gone much further if I hadn’t had a cousin with a print shop. But Harry, my cousin, liked the idea and we hunted through vacation pictures until we found some that I could fit verses to. Harry made up the cards and we managed to place a few at local gift shops. The demand grew slowly, but eventually I was able to give up my job at the shoe store and spend my time looking for picture subjects. Since I’m not a professional photographer, I take many pictures for every one we can use, and the best pictures don’t always inspire me to verse.

So I spend a lot of time wandering around new places, snapping away and jotting down ideas for verses. I probably travel more than I need to, but since I can deduct my photo trips as business expenses I feel I might as well enjoy my occupation and see a bit of the world.

The trip to San Diego had been a good one. I’d walked from the Embarcadero to the Zoo and was on my way back with some pictures and some ideas. On that trip I got the pictures of the old men in the park that went with my verses on loneliness: that’s sold very well. Some pictures of young people on roller skates sold well for a while, and I’ve reused the verses on youth that I wrote for them.

The sun was getting low and I was beginning to get hungry, so when I came to a little restaurant with the sign AUTHENTIC LEBANESE CUISINE, I decided to give it a try. I like all kinds of ethnic food. When I went in, though, all of the tables in the small room were empty, and I nearly left. Then I heard what sounded like a television news program coming from an open door at the back of the room. I hesitated, but I was tired and hungry; perhaps whoever was watching, the television would be as glad for my business as I would be for some food and a place to sit. I walked over to the door and peered in.

The first thing I saw was a large color television set on top of a bookcase. I had been right; it was a news program. For a moment my attention was caught by something the announcer was saying about tomorrow’s weather. There was a big reclining chair between the door and the television set with such a high back I couldn’t be sure whether someone was sitting in it or not. Clearing my throat, I said, “Excuse me.” Then I saw the foot.

It was sticking out at the bottom of the chair at a strange angle and I noticed automatically that the shoe it was wearing, though well worn, was an expensive one. I took a few steps toward the chair and then stopped when I saw the huddled shape sprawled in front of it, a heavy-set man with a bald head wearing a white shirt and dark trousers. With vague thoughts of first aid I bent toward the man. Then something hit me a vicious blow on the side of my head and I fell fathoms deep into dark, disturbing dreams.

I woke to find a rugged face with a stern, accusing expression close to my own. “You want to tell me about it, buddy?” said a voice.

I shut my eyes and opened them again. The face was still there. I tried to move my head but that hurt too much, so I moved my eyes from side to side to get my bearings.

I was back in the main room of the restaurant, sprawled on a chair that had been pulled away from a table. The room with the television set and the sprawled body seemed to be full of men and I saw the intermittent glare of flashbulbs out of the corner of my eyes as I looked back at the stern-faced man.

“Who are you?” I asked. “What happened?”

“Detective Cominski, San Diego Police Department,” he said, and I realized that some of the men in the other room were wearing police uniforms. The man before me was wearing slacks, a sportjacket, and a colored shirt with a rather lurid tie. He was as big as a football forward and looked rather like one. He went on, “What happened is what I want to know. We found you in the back room with the proprietor, George Klouri. It looks like there was a fight. Klouri’s dead. You want to tell me about it?”

I touched the side of my head very carefully. There was dried blood there. I tried to gather my wits. “I came in for a meal,” I said. “The place was empty but I heard a TV. I went toward the room with the TV and there was a man lying on the floor. When I bent over to look at him, something hit me on the side of the head.”

Cominski’s expression didn’t change. “O.K., that’s your story,” he said. “Now let’s have some details. What time did you come in here?”

I shook my head and winced at the pain. “I don’t wear a watch, and I hadn’t really noticed the time,” I said. “But, since the news was on, I suppose it must have been some time between five-thirty and six-thirty. I saw a local weather forecast when I first looked in.”

The detective nodded without changing expression but his voice was a little friendlier as he said, “O.K., let’s let the medic look at that head while I check a couple of things. Then we’ll begin at the beginning and get a formal statement from you.”

He moved off and a man in white cleaned my wound carefully and put something on it which stung. “A bandage would be more trouble than it’s worth there with your hair in the way,” he said cheerfully. “It’ll swell up some, but if you keep it clean it should be O.K.”

By the time he was through with me Cominski had returned. He took a seat across the table from me, produced a notebook, and began to read something from a card inside it. With a shock I recognized the words I’d heard only on television programs: “the right to remain silent,” “if you cannot afford an attorney—”

The detective finished reading and produced a pen. “Let’s start with your name and address,” he said calmly.

Resisting an impulse to plead for some reassurance that I wasn’t really a suspect, I said as calmly as I could, “My name is Walter Kane. I live in the Beachside Apartments in Venice. Here in San Diego I’m staying at the Aztec Hotel downtown.”

Cominski nodded. “And the purpose of your visit to San Diego?”

There are some people you just don’t tell you’re a poet, and Cominski was one of them.

“I’m taking pictures for greeting cards,” I said. “My cousin and I are in partnership— My camera! Was there a camera with me when you found me?”

The detective shook his head. “No sign of one,” he said. “I’ll ask you for a description of it later and if it was stolen we’ll do what we can. Where were you before you got to the restaurant? Can you think of anything that’ll narrow the time down?”

I explained that I’d been wandering around looking for picture subjects and he took me through my arrival at the restaurant and every detail I could remember of what had happened. Then he drummed his fingers on the table and considered.

“Latest local news on TV is six o’clock,” he said. “We can probably find out which channel you saw and when the weather comes on the show. Trouble is, the guy who found you and Klouri and called us is a waiter here. He says he worked from five to seven and then went home to take a break; business picks up again around eight. That’s when he found you — eight o’clock, when he came back. According to the waiter, Klouri was O.K. when he left. We’re trying to find some regular customers and check that. There’s no TV news you could have seen after seven. The TV unit isn’t hooked up to its antenna and it’s tuned to Channel 3, which is a blank channel. Have you got any explanation for that?”

I shook my head. This time it didn’t hurt so much. “But I suppose someone could have been trying to steal the TV — struck down Klouri first, then me when I wandered in.”

The detective nodded. “Could be,” he said. “Most times we get a businessman killed, some kind of robbery’s involved. The trouble is we got this conflict on time with you and the waiter. Till we get that figured out I’m afraid we’ve got to hold you both. Give me a description of that camera and then take it easy for a while. I’ll see if we can get some coffee for you. I’m staying here at the scene in case we get a customer who can give us some information.”

He moved off to another corner of the room and began talking to a small, dark man with a bulbous nose who was wearing black trousers and a cardigan sweater over a white shirt and dark tie. I supposed he must be the waiter. A uniformed man brought me some coffee in a styrofoam cup. I wondered why they didn’t use the restaurant’s cups. While I was sipping the coffee another uniformed man brought in a tall, white-haired man with a beak of a nose.

Cominski left the table where he was talking to the dark man to greet the white-haired man. He glanced around and led the other man to a table as far away as possible from both myself and the man I presumed to be the waiter, but the room was so small I could overhear a good deal of the conversation.

The white-haired man said, “Stephanos, yes, that’s my name, Platon Stephanos. I live opposite in the big apartments there — 9C is mine. I am Greek, but there is no good Greek restaurant here, and George is not a bad cook. Yes, I was here earlier for coffee and to talk to some of the younger men who come in after work. Now I am back for my dinner and I find a policeman at the door!”

I couldn’t hear all of Cominski’s question but Mr. Stephanos’ reply was easy to follow. “Yes, I was here till about seven, when Stavros the waiter goes home and George goes to rest his feet. He is not a good waiter, you know, Stavros. Always he bangs the dishes on the table and tonight he was worse than usual. But he is a cousin of George — what can you do? What? No, George I don’t see yet tonight. When the men come from work he is busy in the kitchen. Later he has time to talk sometimes.”

That was the important part of what Platon Stephanos had to say, but it was another ten minutes before Cominski ushered him out of the door with thanks. The detective hesitated, then came over to me.

“I guess you couldn’t help hearing,” he said. “That pretty well confirms the waiter’s story and makes it kind of hard to see how you could have come in here when a news broadcast would have been on television. Till we get that cleared up I’ll have to ask you to stick around.”

Even though the restaurant was comfortably cool, I could feel myself sweating and wished I had never mentioned that newscast. “Couldn’t Klouri have had some sort of special antenna that brought in programs from some other area?” I suggested desperately.

Cominski shrugged. “There’s no sign of anything like that and I don’t see a thief stealing an antenna—” he began, then suddenly fell silent. “Hold on here,” he said unnecessarily and strode out the door.

There was a long, long wait, but eventually Cominski returned with a grim smile on his face. Behind him was a man in uniform carrying a large cardboard carton. Cominski and the other man went into the room where I had found Klouri’s body and closed the door.

After another endless wait, Cominski opened the door and beckoned to me. The television set was on and as I got to the door a man on the screen was saying “—should burn off by noon and the afternoon will be sunny.”

I gaped at Cominski. “That’s the same weather report I saw when I came in!”

He nodded. “Exactly the same weather report,” he said, and pointed to a rectangular object sitting next to the television set. It had two round tuning dials like those on a television set and a row of buttons along its front. In a small rectangle in the upper left-hand corner red numbers glowed.

“This is a video cassette recorder — VCR, they call it,” said Cominski. “They’re just beginning to show up on robbery reports. When you said that about the antenna and I said a thief couldn’t walk away with an antenna, it struck me that he could walk away with one of these.” He pushed one of the buttons and there was a loud click. The picture on the TV changed. He pushed another button and there was a whir, then a click. He pushed still another and the TV screen went grey for a moment, then the weather forecast began again.

“Suppose you’ve got a job that keeps you busy during news time but you like to watch the news,” said Cominski. “You push a button on this gadget and it records the news for you on a video cassette. The TV doesn’t even have to be on. Then, when you have the time, you turn to Channel 3 and push some buttons to rewind your tape and play it back. You sit down in comfort and watch the six o’clock news at seven-fifteen. That’s what Klouri was doing.” He looked over my shoulder and said, “You must have known Klouri had this gadget, Stavros. How come you didn’t tell us?”

I turned and saw the bulbous-nosed waiter just behind me, turning pale under his sallow skin.

“We found this under some trash in the alley,” said Cominski, “along with this.” He held up a camera I recognized as mine. “A man would be kind of foolish to carry them very far in broad daylight. But he might come back for them later.” He looked hard at Stavros. “I think we might find some fingerprints on one or the other of these unless the guy who put them out there was in less of a hurry than I think he was.”

The waiter’s lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl. “Goddamned bloated capitalist!” he said. “He could buy expensive toys like that for himself, but he wouldn’t pay his cousin a decent wage! I begged him for a raise, told him I’d met this girl but he just laughed at me. Well, he’s not laughing any more!”

The next day I went down to the police building on Market Street to sign a statement and to say goodbye to Detective Cominski.

“Sorry you had a bad couple of hours,” he said. “The way I read the crime scene, it really didn’t look to me like Klouri could have knocked you out in a fight, and I didn’t believe any murderer would be stupid enough to knock himself out and lie next to his victim just to mislead the police. But that business about the newscast did make it look like you were lying, and that’s something we’re always alert for. Lying — or suppressing evidence, like Stavros did.”

“Did he make a deliberate attempt to involve me?” I asked.

Cominski shrugged. “You or any other drop-in customer. He went back after he left at seven o’clock, but first he had a drink to get his courage up. He made a pitch for a raise and Klouri laughed at him. He hit Klouri with a bookend, probably harder than he meant to. Then he started thinking again and figured if he just walked out he’d be the number-one suspect. He left the TV on and hid behind the door, hoping for a casual customer he could implicate in some way: maybe grab him and claim he’d caught him walking off with the money from the cash register and then found Klouri dead. He was a tough little guy, but you’re pretty big. He was afraid to do anything but drop you. I don t know how clearly he thought out what would happen when you said you saw the six o’clock news at seven-thirty, but I guess he figured it would confuse things if he hid the VCR and your camera. Or maybe he was just greedy and wanted to fence them. He’s clammed up since that one outburst. But, whether he planned it or not, it was that VCR that nearly got you into big trouble.”

As I said, they’re marvelous gadgets. But do you blame me if I’m somewhat prejudiced against them?

The Partnership

by David Morrell

Sure, it was cold-blooded, but there didn’t seem another way. MacKenzie had spent months considering alternatives. He’d tried to buy his partner out but Dolan had refused.

Well, not exactly. Dolan’s first response had simply been to laugh and say, “I wouldn’t let you have the satisfaction.” When MacKenzie kept insisting, Dolan’s next response was, “Sure I’ll let you buy me out. It only takes a million dollars.”

Dolan might as well have wanted ten. MacKenzie couldn’t raise a million, even half a million or a quarter — and he knew Dolan knew that.

It was typical. MacKenzie couldn’t say “Good morning” without Dolan’s disagreeing. If MacKenzie bought a car, Dolan bought a bigger, more expensive one and, just to rub it in, bragged about the deal he got. If MacKenzie took his wife and children on vacation to Bermuda, Dolan told him that Bermuda wasn’t anything compared to Mazatlan, where Dolan had taken his wife and kids.

The two men argued constantly. They favored different football teams. Their taste in food was wildly different — mutton versus corned beef. When MacKenzie took up golf, Dolan suddenly was playing tennis, pointing out that golf was just a game while tennis was good exercise. But Dolan, even with his so-called exercise, was overweight. MacKenzie, on the other hand, was trim, but Dolan always made remarks about the hairpiece MacKenzie wore.

It was impossible — a Scotsman trying to maintain a business with an Irishman. MacKenzie should have known their relationship would never work. At the start, they had been rival builders, each attempting to outbid the other for construction jobs and losing money in the process. So they’d formed a partnership. Together they were more successful than they had been independently. Trying to outdo each other, one would think of ways to turn a greater profit and the other would feel challenged to be twice as clever. They cut costs by mixing too much gravel with the concrete, by installing low-grade pipes and sub-spec insulation. They kept special books for Uncle Sam.

MacKenzie-Dolan Enterprises. The two of them were enterprising, all right, but they couldn’t bear to talk to one another. They had tried to solve that problem by dividing the work so that MacKenzie ran the office and let Dolan go out troubleshooting.

For a time that did the trick. But they still had to meet to make decisions and though they were seeing each other less, they seemed to save their tension up and aggravate each other more when they met.

To make things worse, their wives became good friends. The women were constantly organizing barbecues and swimming parties. The men tried not to argue at these get-togethers. When they did, they heard about it from their wives.

“I hate the guy,” MacKenzie would tell his wife after a party. “He bugs me at the office and he made me sick tonight.”

“You just listen to me, Bob — Vickie Dolan is my friend and I won’t have your childish antics breaking up our friendship. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”

So both men braced themselves while their wives exchanged recipes.

What finally caused the big trouble was when Dolan started making threats.

“I wonder what the government would do if they knew about your special way of keeping books.”

“What about the sub-spec plumbing and the extra gravel in the concrete?” MacKenzie had replied. “You’re responsible for that, Dolan.”

“But that’s not a criminal offense — the judge would simply fine me,” Dolan answered. “The IRS is quite a different kettle. If they knew you were keeping separate books, they’d lock you in a dungeon where I’d never have to see your ugly puss again.”

MacKenzie stared at Dolan and decided there was no other choice. He’d tried to do the right thing, but his partner wouldn’t sell. There wasn’t any way around it. This was self-defense.

The man was waiting at the monkey cage, a tall, thin, friendly-looking fellow, young and blond. He wore a tailored light-blue jogging suit and he was eating peanuts.

At the water fountain, bending down to drink, MacKenzie glanced around. The zoo was crowded. It was noon on a sunny weekday, and people on their lunch breaks sat on benches munching sandwiches or strolled among the cages. There were children, mothers, old folks playing checkers. He heard tinny music from an organ grinder, muffled conversations, strident chattering and chirping. He was satisfied that no one was paying any attention to him, so he wiped water from his mouth and walked over.

“Mr. Smith?” he said.

The young man didn’t turn — he just chewed another peanut — and MacKenzie was afraid he’d spoken to the wrong man. After all, the zoo was crowded and there were other men in jogging suits. Besides, no matter what the papers said, it wasn’t easy finding someone who would do this kind of work. MacKenzie had spent several evenings haunting low-life bars before getting a lead. Once someone thought he was a cop and threatened to break both his legs. But hundred-dollar bills had eventually paid off and at last he’d arranged this meeting on a pay phone. But the man, apparently afraid of a trap, either had not arrived for the appointment or was playing possum.

As MacKenzie moved to leave, the young blond fellow turned to him. “Just a second, Bob,” he said.

MacKenzie blinked. “Your name is Smith?”

“Just call me John.” The young man’s smile was brilliant. He was holding out the bag. “You want a peanut?”

“No, I don’t think so—”

“Go on and have a peanut, Bob.” The young man gestured with the bag.

MacKenzie took a peanut. He ate it, but he didn’t taste it.

“That’s right, relax, live a little. You don’t mind if I call you Bob?”

“I don’t care what you call me as long as we get this matter settled. You’re not quite what I expected.”

The young man nodded. “You were counting on George Raft and instead you got Troy Donohue. I know it’s disappointing.” He was frowning sympathetically. “But nothing’s what it seems today. Would you believe I was a business major? But with the recession I couldn’t get a job in management, so I’m doing this.”

“You mean you’re not experienced?”

“Take it easy, Bob. I didn’t say that. I can handle my end. Don’t you fret about a thing. You see these monkeys? Just watch this.” He threw some peanuts. All the monkeys scrambled, fighting for them.

“See — they’re just like us, Bob. We’re all scrambling for the peanuts.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s very symbolic—”

“All right, you’re impatient. I’m just trying to be sociable.” He sighed. “No one takes the time any more. So what’s your problem, Bob?”

“My business partner.”

“Is he stealing from the kitty?”

“No.”

“He’s fooling with your wife then?”

“No.”

The young man nodded. “I understand.”

“You do?”

“Of course. It’s very simple. What I call the marriage syndrome.”

“What?”

“It’s like you’re married to your partner, but you hate him and he won’t agree to get divorced.”

“Why, that’s incredible!”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re right. That’s it.”

The young man shrugged and threw a peanut. “Bob, I’ve seen it all. My specialty is human nature. So you don’t care how I do it?”

“Just as long as it’s—”

“An accident. Precisely. You recall my price when we discussed this on the phone?”

“Two thousand dollars.”

“Half now, half later. Did you bring the money?”

“It’s in my pocket.”

“Don’t give it to me yet. Go over and put the envelope inside that waste container. In a moment I’ll walk over and stuff this empty bag in. When I leave I’ll take the envelope.”

“His name is Patrick Dolan.”

“The particulars are with the money?”

“As you asked.”

“Then don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.”

“Hey, wait a minute. Afterward, I don’t have any guarantee that—”

“Blackmail? You’re afraid I’ll extort you? Bob, I’m surprised at you! That wouldn’t be good business!”

Dolan walked out of the hardware store. The afternoon was glaring hot. He wiped his brow and squinted. There was someone in his pickup truck, a young guy eating corn chips. Blond, good-looking, in a jogging suit.

He stalked across the parking lot, reached the truck, and yanked open the door. “Hey, buddy, this is my truck you’re—”

The young man turned. His smile was disarming. “Hi there, Pat. You want some corn chips?”

Dolan’s mouth hung open. Sweat was trickling from his forehead. “What?”

“The way you’re sweating, you need salt. Have some corn chips.”

Dolan’s jaw went rigid. “Out!”

“Excuse me?”

“Get out before I throw you out.”

The young man sighed. Tugging down the zipper on his sweatshirt, he revealed the big revolver bulging from a shoulder holster.

Dolan’s stomach lurched. He blanched and stumbled backward, gaping.

“What the—?”

“Just relax,” the young man said.

“Look, buddy, all I’ve got is twenty dollars.”

“You don’t understand. Climb on up here and we’ll talk a little.”

Dolan glanced around in panic. No one seemed to notice him. He wondered if he ought to run.

“Don’t try to run, Pat.”

Relieved of that decision, Dolan quickly climbed inside the truck. He ate the corn chips the blond offered a second time but he couldn’t taste the salt. His shirt was sticking to the back of the seat. All he could think of was the bulging object underneath the jogging suit.

“Here’s the thing,” the young man told him. “I’m supposed to kill you.”

Dolan sat up so hard he bumped his head against the ceiling. “What?”

“Your partner hired me. For two thousand dollars.”

“If this is a joke—”

“It’s business, Pat. He paid a thousand down. You want to see it?”

“But that’s crazy!”

“I wish you hadn’t said that.” The young man reached inside his sweatshirt.

“No, wait a minute! I didn’t mean that!”

“I only want to show the note your partner gave me. Here. You’ll recognize his handwriting.”

Dolan glared down at the note. “It’s my name and address.”

“And your physical description and your habits. See, he wants your death to seem like an accident.”

Dolan finally accepted this wasn’t any joke. His stomach burned with sudden rage. “That dirty—”

“Temper, Pat.”

“He wants to buy me out — but I won’t let him have the satisfaction!”

“I understand. It’s like the two of you are married and you want to make him suffer.”

“You’re damn right I want to make him suffer! I’ve put up with him for twenty years! So now he figures he can have me killed and take the business for himself? That sneaky, rotten—”

“Bob, I’ve got bad news for you.”

MacKenzie almost spilled his Scotch. He turned. The young man had come up beside him without warning and was eating popcorn at the bar.

“Don’t tell me you botched the job!” MacKenzie’s eyes went wide with horror. He glanced quickly around as if expecting to be arrested.

“Bob, I never even got the chance to start.” The young man picked at something in his teeth.

“My God, what happened?”

“Nearly broke a tooth. These kernels aren’t all popped.”

“I meant with Dolan!”

“Keep your voice down, Bob. I know you meant with him. No one cares if someone else breaks a tooth. They only care about themselves. Do you believe in competition?”

“What?”

“Do you support free enterprise, the thing that made this country great?”

MacKenzie felt his knees go weak. He clutched the bar and nodded weakly.

“Then you’ll understand. When I went to see your partner—”

“Oh, my God, you told him!”

“Bob, I couldn’t simply kill him and not let him have a chance to make a bid. That wouldn’t be fair.”

MacKenzie started trembling. “Bid? What kind of bid?”

“Don’t get excited, Bob. We figured he could pay me not to kill him. But you’d just send someone else. So what we finally decided was that he’d pay me to come back and kill you. He offered double — two grand now and two when you were shoveled under.”

“He can’t do that!”

“But he did, Bob. Don’t go simple on me now. You should have seen his face. I mean to tell you, he was angry.”

“You accepted what I offered! You agreed to take my contract!”

“A verbal contract isn’t binding. Anyhow, you’re in a seller’s market. What I’m selling is worth more now.”

“You’re a crook!”

The young man’s face looked pained. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“No, wait. Don’t leave. I didn’t mean it.”

“Bob, you hurt my feelings.”

“I apologize. I don’t know what I’m saying. Every time I think about that guy—”

“I understand, Bob. You’re forgiven.”

“Pat, you’ll never guess what Bob did.”

At the railing, Dolan shuddered. He was watching as the horses thundered toward the finish line. He turned. The young man stood beside him, chewing on a hot dog.

“You don’t mean you told him?”

“Pat, I had to. Fair is fair. He offered double our agreement. Four grand now, four later.”

“And you’ve come to me to raise the price?”

“They’re at the stretch!” the track announcer shouted.

“It’s inflation, Pat. It’s killing us.” The young man wiped some mustard from his lips.

“You think I’m stupid?” Dolan asked.

The young man frowned.

“That I’m a moron?” Dolan said.

“Excuse me, Pat?”

“If I pay more, you’ll go to him and he’ll pay more. Then you’ll come back to me and I’ll pay more. Forget it! I’m not paying!”

“Fine with me, Pat. Nice to see you.”

“Wait a minute!”

“Is something wrong?”

“Of course there’s something wrong! You’re going to kill me!”

“Well, the choice is up to you.”

“The winner is number three, Big Trouble—” the track announcer shouted.

Horses rumbled by, their jockeys standing up to slow them. Dust was drifting.

“Damn it, yes, I’ll pay you,” Dolan muttered. “But do it this time! I can’t sleep. I’m losing weight. I’ve got an ulcer.”

“Pat, the race is over. Did you have a bet?”

“On number six to win.”

“A nag, Pat. She came in last. If you had asked me, I’d have told you number three.”

“You’ll never guess what Pat did, Bob.”

MacKenzie stiffened. Dolan stopped beside him, looked around and sighed, then sat down on the park bench. “So you figured you’d have me killed,” Dolan said.

MacKenzie’s face was gaunt. “You weren’t above the same temptation yourself.”

Dolan shrugged. “Self-defense.”

“I should sit back while you sic the IRS on me?”

“That was just a joke.”

“Some joke. It’s costing me a fortune.”

“It’s costing me too.”

“We’ve got a problem.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Dolan said. “The only answer I can see—”

“—is for both of us to kill him.”

“Only way.”

“He’ll bleed us dry.”

“But if we pay someone else to kill him, the new guy might try something cute too.”

“We’ll do it together. That way you can’t point the blame at me.”

“Or vice versa.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?”

They were glaring at each other.

“Hi there, Bob. How are you, Pat?”

The young man smiled from behind their files. He was munching a taco as he went through their records.

“What the hell is this now?” MacKenzie said.

“He claimed you expected him,” the secretary said.

“Just shut the door,” Dolan told her.

“Hey, fellas, your records really are a mess. This skimping on the concrete. And this sub-spec insulation. I don’t know, guys — we’ve got lots of work ahead of us.”

A drop of taco sauce fell on a file folder.

“Us?”

“Well, sure — we’re partners now.”

“We’re what?”

“I took the money you gave me and invested it.”

“In what?”

“Insurance. You remember how I said I was a business major? Well, I decided this sideline doesn’t suit me, so I went to see a specialist. The things a graduate is forced to do to get a job these days!”

“A specialist?”

“A hit man. If the two of you decide to have me killed, you’ll be killed as well.”

MacKenzie’s chest began to stab. Dolan’s ulcer started burning.

“So we’re partners. Here, I even had some cards made up.”

He handed one across to each of them. MACKENZIE-DOLAN-SMITH, it read. And at the bottom: CONTRACTORS.

Picking Up

by Ernest Savage

Tom Benton felt alone and alien, a stranger even to himself; but that was inevitable. Two years and five months of the phantasmagoria of Folsom Prison had driven him into a shell of privacy that he would have to break, he knew, like an embryonic bird lusting for light and air. An eagle, he thought; and smiled tentatively as the bus pulled off Main Street in Sheldon, California, and nosed into the station just around the corner on Pine.

There was nobody, of course, to meet him. Sheila was dead — and who else would there be? Harry Moss, maybe, Harry being the only person in town who would know he was coming home. Or so Benton thought.

He waited for his suitcase and then walked it a half block up Pine to the Mountain View Motel and registered. He told the clerk he wanted a room for exactly twenty-eight days, and revived an old civilian skill by bargaining him down to twelve bucks a day from fifteen. A first useful peck at the shell. He would come back, but it would take time and what he would need more than anything else was his house, his land, the place he’d lived for forty of his forty-six years. The place Sheila had lived. But it would be twenty-eight days yet...

It was quarter to six and he went back down Pine to the bus station cafeteria for supper. Last night he’d eaten his final meal at Folsom in the usual silence. No one had said, “Hey, Tom, good luck,” even though they knew his time was up. He’d made no friends in prison, no alliances. It would be a self-erasing interval in his life, an unrecorded hiatus; he wanted no fraying of that cord that bound him to his proper place, his home. He’d been a model prisoner, almost invisible; a cipher. They’d paroled him on his first petition.

He didn’t sleep well that night in the motel bed and was up early, out on Main Street before seven. The street was empty, the air cool and sweet, the sky overhead a comforting blue. In Folsom he’d seldom looked up at the sky; he’d kept his eyes level and unfocused. But those twenty-nine months were behind him now. He smiled as a Safeway truck rumbled by on its way to the store at the east end of town; a friendly, familiar sight, another small peck at the shell.

He stopped in front of Charley Ellison’s Bar deliberately, self-consciously, and gave it his full rueful attention. The scene of the crime. They always come back, it’s said. The fight had taken place here, but he didn’t mind thinking about that — it was pre-Folsom, a part of life, a part, almost, of Sheila’s life; the coda.

The big young man had risen from a table when Benton walked in that night. But Benton didn’t notice him in the smoky, dim light, and didn’t notice Hamp Carswell at the same table. If he’d known Carswell was there, he wouldn’t have come in. Sheila had been dead three weeks then and this was Benton’s first attempt at picking up the threads. All he wanted was a cold beer, a little distracting noise.

He sat at the bar. Ellison drew him a beer and quickly went over to put some coins in the jukebox; the place had fallen suddenly silent. But Benton didn’t notice that either. He was gazing into the back-bar mirror and telling himself he looked too damn old for forty-three. He did see the man on his left get up and move two stools away, and that should have told him something, but it didn’t. Then he saw the big young man standing just behind him and Carswell at his table, hunched over expectantly, staring at him. Then, in the sluggishness of his bereaved mind, he recalled the big young man rising instantly from Carswell’s table when he came in — like a trained guard dog, he thought belatedly.

Ellison, in the way of barkeeps sensing trouble, was industriously wiping a clean deck with a damp rag. Benton, without thought, took it from him and wrapped it around his left fist. In high school he’d had one bad fistfight and the knuckles of his left hand — his best punching hand — had hurt for weeks after. It was a simple act of preparatory defense, he claimed later in court, and did not constitute, as the D.A. tried to contend, premeditation. But that night the rag felt cold and hard around his fist and some atavistic observer in his mind was pleased. It was a weapon.

The big young man touched Benton firmly on the shoulder — that was generally agreed upon at the trial — and suggested he get the hell out of the place while he was still mobile.

“Why should I?” Benton asked.

“Because you’ve threatened Mr. Carswell — everybody knows that.”

“I have not threatened Mr. Carswell. And what everybody knows is that Mr. Carswell forced my wife’s car off the road and caused her death.”

“There’s no proof of that.”

“What everybody knows need not be proved. The guilty flee where no man pursueth, kid — and hire guards against no threat.”

“Get out or I’ll throw you out,” the big young man said flatly, and thus made it a matter of pride. Plus something else that Benton would admit only to himself — an opportunity to rid his heart of rage.

“No,” Benton said and swiveled to his feet to face the young man. It didn’t come out in the testimony later that he looked almost happy.

But outside on the street this first morning of his freedom, he wasn’t happy and showed it. He had a prison pallor of face, and still something of a prison pallor of mind. He had killed the big young man with his left-hand weapon, and there was no joy in that. He had not wanted that night, or at any time ever, to kill Carswell, or anyone else, but he couldn’t prove that, of course. He’d wanted only that justice be served, that the illegal death of his wife would be balanced by a legal retribution.

The rage in his heart that night he knew he could contain — as he had for three weeks — and feather out over time. It is everybody’s problem and everybody’s duty to contain the rage that lives in his heart. But there was no doubt in his mind that Carswell was guilty, an opinion shared by most of the town. By ten o’clock of the day after Sheila’s death Carswell had reported his big canary-yellow Cadillac stolen. It was never found, but a sheriff’s investigator had determined that a Cadillac of the same vintage and color had had a front fender replaced the next afternoon in a Sacramento garage, been painted blue, and disappeared. The garage had a reputation for handling such problems quickly.

At the coroner’s inquest, Hampton Carswell did admit to having spent some time that night at Hildy’s Place and to having had one or two drinks there. But he claimed cold sobriety as he drove home over the winding, ill-kept, rocky road that ran past Benton s hundred-acre ranch and was the single link between Hildy’s after-hours house of all joys and civilization. Beyond Hildy’s the wilderness was pristine and almost impenetrable. Sheila had been coming home alone from a late drive-in-theater movie at about the same time, but Carswell claimed he saw no one on the six-mile run to town. The whole right side of Sheila’s dark-green Toyota was streaked with canary-yellow paint. Benton had found it at two o’clock that morning at the bottom of the steep, stony arroyo alongside the road. His wife had not died instantly.

From the safety of his table at Ellison’s that night, Carswell had hollered, “O.K., kid, lay the bastard out!” The big young man had drawn back a brick-sized fist and had torqued his upper body halfway around to the right, leaving his chin hanging midair. Benton, well-set, flat-footed, had arced his wrapped left hand up to meet it square and the big man had stumbled backward two paces and fallen down dead. Benton knew it at once. With his arm and shoulder still ringing from the impact, he jumped forward and fell to his knees beside the man’s head, then looked up at Ellison and told him to call an ambulance.

Then there was the memory of Carswell’s back, made broad by a thick slab of fat, edging down the hall to the rear exit. He had the shamble of a primate as he moved, the forward lurch of something primeval and ill-formed. He had killed Benton’s wife; and between the two of them they had killed this big young man. In Folsom, that fixed image of Carswell’s flight became for Benton a symbol of all that still links us with our animal past; and when he thought about it that morning he shuddered in the cool quiet air and turned away, partly away from himself.

At eight o’clock the town was coming alive and Benton ducked into the ABC Cafe, sat down at a table, and ordered coffee and a couple of doughnuts. He didn’t particularly want to meet any of his old friends out on the street just yet. The waitress greeted him by name, and he looked up sharply and said, in instant pleased recognition, “Well, Bessie Wright! Hello, Bessie!”

Bessie’s smile blossomed. They’d known each other since high school. She said, “It’s good to see you back.”

“It’s good to be back, Bessie.”

She put her hand on his arm, her face sobered. “Tom, almost nobody around here believes you were guilty.”

“Just the jury.” Benton smiled ruefully. “But I had a fool for a lawyer.”

“That’s what people said. They said that if you hadn’t defended yourself you’d have gotten off.”

“I didn’t think people were all that interested, Bessie.”

“They are. Some are.”

“Did anybody know I’d be back today?”

“I did. Charley Hoskins told me.” Charley was Bessie’s brother-in-law, a deputy sheriff.

“Yes, he’d know, wouldn’t he.”

Bessie went back to her duties and Benton ate his doughnuts and drank his coffee with some pleasure. He’d always liked Bessie and her husband Jack. He and Jack had fished together a lot. It was good to be back, and it would get better now.

At eight-thirty he got up, waved to Bessie, went out, and walked briskly across the street to Harry Moss’s real-estate office, where he helped Harry open his front door for the day. He said, “Hello, Harry,” and Moss’s sleek round face darkened as though caught in some sinful act. But Harry had always been a nervous man, and blushed easily. “Well, Tom — Tom!” he spluttered, but extended no hand.

Inside at his desk, still pink-faced, he showed Benton a folder of records on the ranch — rent and tax receipts, bank-deposit slips, and so forth. Before Benton went off to jail, Harry had urged him to lease the property and it seemed then — and still did — a sensible idea. Not only would it produce useful revenue, Harry had urged, but an empty house deteriorates faster than a lived-in one.

But Harry hadn’t left it at that. Twice during Benton’s sentence he’d appeared at Folsom on visitors’ day with an offer to buy the place, the second offer substantially higher than the first. But Benton had turned both offers down flat. He couldn’t imagine the amount of money it would take to pry him loose from where his heart would always reside. He still couldn’t.

The term of the first two leases Benton had agreed to was one year each. On the third he’d agreed to six months only because he was confident of parole toward the end of that period. And that had happened — twenty-eight days, in fact, before the end of the lease. Now twenty-seven. Tomorrow it would be twenty-six.

Harry cleared his throat, turned pink again, and produced a legal-looking document. Benton recognized it at once — another offer to buy. “No!” he said sharply, reflexively.

“Look at it!” Moss pleaded. “One hundred and fifty thousand bucks, Tom!”

Twenty-five thousand higher than the last offer three months ago, and a lot of money. But it roused only Benton’s curiosity. He said, frowning, “Who are these people, Harry?”

“Your tenants. Same as the last two times.”

“Yes, but who are they, why do they want it?”

“Read it, Tom. The name is McCord. They just like the place, that’s all.”

“Take me out there,” Benton said abruptly. “I want to pick up my truck.” His Ford half-ton, up on blocks, had been left in one of the sheds on the place.

But the request seemed to unnerve Moss. He nearly gasped, “I can’t, I got these calls coming in today.” He fought for more breath. “Tom — listen — I’ll rebate half the commission — another forty-five hundred bucks.”

“Keep your commission, Harry. Just give me a ride out to the place. I want to pick up my truck.”

“Tom — all of it, the whole hundred and fifty grand — it’s yours!”

“No! How come you’re so pushy about it?”

“It’s in your best interest.”

“But not yours, huh? C’mon, Harry — you can be back here in twenty minutes.”

In the still-cool morning air Harry’s round cherubic face glistened with sweat. His fingers drummed the desktop. He wanted a drink desperately and his eyes glanced at the drawer where he kept a bottle. He would rather cut a wrist than take Tom out there, but — they’d told him to, hadn’t they? He watched his front door open and his secretary walk in, late as usual, and he sighed and got to his feet. “Yeah, O.K.,” he said, as though condemned.

Standing in front of his house with a five-gallon can of gas picked up at the Texaco station on the way out, Benton felt a cataract of rage break free and nearly buckle his knees. He’d never known such anger, such grief, not even with Sheila dead in his arms. The house, a plain white-painted clapboard bungalow, looked as though, somehow, it had been lifted up, dipped in filth, and put back down again. Sheila’s beautiful yard was dead — trampled dead, laid waste with evil intent. Nothing lived there any more. Benton, his ears ringing with anger, barely heard Moss’s four-door Lincoln tool rapidly away down the gravel drive.

The slats of the picket fence around the patch of baked front lawn were either askew, broken, or missing, and the gate was hanging on a single hinge. Benton shook himself and blinked his eyes clear enough to stalk stiffly up the walk to the front door and beat hard on the frame of the screen, ripped out where some hand had reached through to undo the hook. His rage was total, black, his eyes dancing with pressure spots as the door edged open and a rail-thin woman peered at him from the inner gloom, a tousle-headed dark-eyed kid clinging to her waist. The word “slattern” leaped into his mind for the first time in his life and he let his rage gather around it like hot magnetized particles of steel. Two other thoughts entered his mind: that he would kill Harry Moss, and that he d better register quickly at the sheriff s office, as they’d told him to do. He had the innocent man’s right to unlimited indignation, but the parolee’s need to behave.

“Mrs. McCord?” he managed to say, and the lank-haired slattern’s head bobbed. A low-keyed acidic stench reached his nose from the house. “I’m Tom Benton. I’ve come to pick up my truck.”

“Go ahead,” she said and the door began to close. “They thought you would.”

He turned, rigid, emotionally back in Folsom, his eyes level and unfocused as he walked by rote around the house to the complex of buildings out back, seeing, but screening from his mind, the clutter, the savage unkemptness of the place. He aimed for the shed, the leftmost building.

One of the codicils of the lease provided for the truck, padlocked in the shed, but his mind, turned sullen and paranoid, knew before he saw the broken hasp where the padlock had hung that that would mean nothing to these people. The two plank doors were swinging loosely ajar. He threw them wide and was surprised more than pleased to see the truck was still there. But it wasn’t on blocks, it was on its tires, and that leavened the surprise. The McCords were trash, as lawless as they were unclean. He would absolutely kill Harry Moss; this was like dumping garbage on Sheila’s grave.

He circled the truck in the gloom of the windowless shed, fearful of damage. But it hadn’t been unmarked when he’d locked it up here. In the mountain country he and Sheila used to explore, a truck got used hard. The driver’s-side fender had had a bad dent, and still had, but no more than that. And the passenger side, scraped its whole length once against a ponderosa’s platelike bark, had sustained no further damage that he could see. But he was thinking about Moss — what he would like to do to Moss, but couldn’t.

“Hello,” a voice said, and Benton saw the silhouette of a man standing in the sun-bright door. “I’m Ben McCord.”

Benton walked up to him, a firm leash on his anger now; he was a parolee, his freedom conditional. But there was a harsh edge to his voice when he said, “How come this truck’s been used? The lease—”

“Well, hell, Mr. Benton, we couldn’ta put more’n twenty-thirty miles on er. Ours busted down last week and we needed it to make a couple trips to town.” He gestured at the can of gas still clutched in Benton’s hand. “You won’t need that,” he said. “She’s got maybe a half a tank.”

“You hot-wired it.”

“Well, hell, Mr. Benton, there ain’t nothin’ to that.”

“Except it’s against the law.” Benton swung the gas can up to the bed of the truck, braced it against the tailgate, and turned back to McCord. He was young, twenty-one, twenty-two, probably the slattern’s son. A wispy blond moustache grew patchily on his upper lip and crescents of blackheads traced the nares of his nose in the bright sunlight. He was wearing a stained cowboy hat, a short denim jacket unbuttoned over a flat, tanned chest and belly, blue jeans, and oil-black, flat-heeled boots. And the family smell.

Benton had much more to say to him — about damages done and trashy ways of life in general — but he kept his mouth shut. He couldn’t afford to feed his languishing pride, and, besides, what good would it do? He got in the truck, started it, and backed out of the shed with a teenager’s flourish. When he wheeled around and aimed for the road, McCord bent over and picked up a rock and jounced it a couple times in his hand, grinning.

Benton stopped first at Moss’s office to offload his rage. But of course Harry wasn’t there, and his girl, not unexpectedly, said she didn’t know when he’d be back. Harry was in hiding.

But Benton had himself under better control now. He was profoundly frightened of precipitating anything that might land him back in the can, and for the next couple of years he’d have to be as inoffensive as a nun. From Harry’s he went to the sheriff’s substation and dutifully registered as a parolee; then he went back to the motel and took a long, needle-sharp shower, letting it almost hurt. Then he put on fresh clothes. It was eleven-thirty and, surprisingly, he was hungry.

He decided to walk the half-dozen blocks to the ABC Cafe, where Bessie worked, and on the way, his mind more orderly now, he wondered how come the Ford, a congenital slow-starter, had fired up that morning on the first turn of the key. It never did that unless it was warm. And then he wondered if what he’d seen tucked under Ben McCord’s belt when he’d bent over to pick up the rock was a gun. He shook the thought away; they’d told him at Folsom that he’d suffer all kinds of delusions for a while, large and small.

Bessie had been working for five hours, since seven, but still looked fresh and cheerful. She was what Benton needed just then, a friendly, wholesome, unambiguous face.

She brought him coffee and when he asked her how Jack was, she told him straightforwardly that he had died of a heart attack eighteen months ago. She made no big point of it — her pain was a private thing, as his had been. Benton, watching as the lunch crowd worked her up to top speed, felt a growing admiration. There were still proud, honest people left in the world; not all were like his recent associates at Folsom, and the McCords, and that butterball fink across the street — to various degrees, felons. From the counter where he sat, he kept a watchful eye on Moss’s office — “Buy A Piece of the Good Earth” emblazoned across the front window — but there was no sign of the man.

Bessie brought his after-lunch coffee and he said impulsively, “I just got my wheels back a while ago. How about taking in a film at the drive-in tonight?” He wasn’t normally an impulsive man and he surprised himself, but he was pleased when she actually paused a moment before saying, with old-time modesty, that she’d be happy to.

He arranged to pick her up at seven-thirty and lingered on until he saw Moss’s Lincoln move cautiously up the street and into the alley that served the back of his office block.

He’d known Harry Moss most of his life — and known of him. A short round man, he’d been the natural butt of jokes since his school days, an object of fun. And of rumor. Benton thought he understood him — that the sometimes shady, sometimes quick-handed deals he made were a way of getting back at the world. Napoleon had the same problem. But Moss was a good realtor, or so it was said — a producer, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, Rotary, etc. When you wanted something done, you saw ole Harry. For instance, when you wanted your house wrecked.

His show of nerves that morning, his reluctance to take him out to the place, and the speed of his retreat were explained. But he seemed now about to faint when he looked up from his desk and saw Benton standing five feet away. His girl, late back from lunch, hadn’t been there to fend him off or announce him.

His wretchedness pleased Benton and he just stared at him a while, testing a tactic in intimidation he’d picked up in jail: say nothing, let the other guy prepare his surrender before you fire your first shot. A counselor at Folsom was master of the technique. He let another fifteen seconds tick away before he sat down and said, “Offhand, Harry, I’d say about two thousand bucks’ worth of damage. Further inspection will no doubt reveal more. The picket fence, the house, the outbuildings — and God knows what your clients have done to the insides of the place. I’ll take your preliminary check for two grand as earnest money, or whatever you guys call it.”

“Tom—”

“I gave you a power of attorney to lease the place to responsible people. You put a family of subhumans in there.”

Moss had gotten a little more breath back. “I had no ch—” He shook his head, warding off panic. Nothing was working out for him, and now nothing would. It was too late.

“You had no what? No choice? How come you had no choice?”

“Hamp—”

“Hamp? Hamp Carswell?”

Benton considered the unexpected name. Carswell had to do with Sheila’s death — and the young man’s. Carswell was the symbol of death implanted in Benton’s mind; not of leases, tenants. What had he to do with this?

Still the cool interrogator, Benton asked, “What about him, Harry?”

Moss was plainly terrified. “They were friends of his. He asked me to—”

“Asked — or told?” Some old scuttlebutt surfaced in Benton’s mind — that Carswell owned Hildy’s Place and Moss had traded his commission on the deal for a piece of the action. He could easily see Carswell in the role of master pimp, a little less so Moss; but it would outrage the moral precepts of neither.

Carswell had been a shadowy figure in town for years, always a lot of money, but the sources of it obscure. A big car. No wife or family, a mixed bag of friends — mostly low, some bought outright, like the bodyguard Benton had killed. But it all made no sense. He repeated his question less acerbically, genuinely curious.

Moss, sensing reprieve, gushed, “He told me to, Tom. I mean, I really had no choice.”

Another Carswell hireling, Benton thought; Hamp’s man on the Chamber of Commerce. But it explained nothing.

“Why did he tell you to?”

Moss pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped sweat from around his eyes. For a moment he seemed to think he was alone and got out the bottle of booze, his guilty eyes darting around. Then he squirreled it back in the drawer, blinking at himself. There was far more on his mind than a bad set of tenants and a couple of thousand dollars’ loss.

Benton, seeing this, waited for an answer; and then, suddenly illuminated, knew what it would be. “Because he hates my guts, doesn’t he?” he asked, and thought, Of course, of course, pleased with his sense of revelation.

Moss nodded and smiled damply and got out the bottle again.

“Because he wants to hurt me, huh, Harry?” Benton said abstractedly, the picture clearing further. “Because he knows that I know he killed my wife.” And also, he thought, the young man he helped me kill. “So he strikes out at me the only way he can — he puts a family of vandals in my house.”

Moss nodded again, looked at the bottle in surprise, and put it back in the drawer.

Benton was ruminating darkly now, but the clearing picture still made no sense. He said, “Harry, how come these offers to buy the place? If what he wanted to do was wreck it, how come the offers to buy?”

Moss had regained some control. “Those were from the McCords.”

“A hundred and fifty thousand bucks! Are you telling me they’ve got that kind of money?”

“I guess they do, Tom. I’ve got a five-thousand-dollar check accompanying the offer.”

“Have you deposited it?”

“I just got it yesterday. It’s in my desk.”

“Just for fun take it over and deposit it, see what happens. Aren’t you supposed to do that anyway?”

“Not until the seller signs the acceptance.” Moss’s voice had gained strength; this was good old real-estate talk. “Sign it and I’ll take it over right now.” A smile quivered across his lips.

Unexpectedly, Benton was tempted. The thought of the desecrated house sickened him. The thought of what that slattern probably had done to Sheila’s beautiful kitchen was more than he could bear. Stiffening, he rejected the temptation, but it had brought him full circle. “Harry,” he said, “I’m gonna want you to repair the damages. I’m gonna want the place put back the way it was.”

Moss’s smile brightened. “Sure,” he said. “No problem.” He got out the bottle again, as though for the first time, and went over to his water cooler for paper cups. “Let’s have a drink on it.”

Benton studied him coldly, saw the shake in his hands, the glisten of returning sweat on his brow. There was a lot more here than Moss had revealed, more than a few bucks’ loss and a touch of proper chagrin. Moss had been a realtor in a growing town for twenty-five years; he had the money and was probably used to the shame. Benton stood up and said no. The terms of his parole didn’t allow him to drink, but that wasn’t it. Moss was morally wounded. He stank of it. It was, in part, a prison smell, and Benton had had enough of that.

He left Moss unscrewing the cap of the bottle and walked out. Moss’s girl still hadn’t come back from lunch and Benton wondered in passing if she had something on him too. Probably a lot of people did.

Outside, he looked across the street at the ABC Cafe and thought lugubriously, My God, I’ve got a date for tonight. He smiled quickly, a pleasant relief for his face. She got off at two, she’d told him, and it was quarter to now. He was tempted to wait and walk her home, like a schoolboy and his girl, but he needed to deal first with the growing mass of worry in his mind. In twenty-seven more days they could ruin the place forever.

Sheldon High School was on the north border of town, not far from the Mountain View Motel. The football field had been cut out of the wilderness that still surrounded the school grounds, a noble stand of ponderosas backdrop to the scoreboard.

In his student days Benton walked to school through the woods from the ranch, a distance of three miles, entering and leaving through a gate under the scoreboard. Occasionally he’d take the school bus for the five-mile trip back home by road, but he’d come to love the early-morning walk through the cool and silent trees.

The old path was still there, less distinct than it once was but still negotiable. It would bring him out on the southeast corner of his nearly square hundred acres. His house was on the southwest corner of the property, a short half mile away. Between the two points a thick belt of pines curved north and west until, a few miles farther on, it embowered Hildy’s Place in fraudulent charm. Between the trees and the house Benton’s father had cleared forty acres of nearly level land for pasturage. Benton and Sheila had run their one cow and three horses there — all sold before he went to jail.

East of the trees the ground fell away gradually to Timberslide Creek, winding and dancing through the National Forest that adjoined Benton’s eastern line. The ground there was stony, the topsoil thin and patchy, host to manzanita, wild azalea, and other small tenacious growth. Once, eons ago, the river, or a river, had run the full length of the eastern border, building and leaving behind a thick stratum of sand, gravel, and rock but, unlike most ancient river beds in the Sierra, little or no gold. Benton’s father had spent a lot of time and money proving that.

Benton had no inkling of what he’d find when he emerged onto the property east of the trees. He had intended going straight on to the house, approaching from the blind side. He had noticed that morning with his rage-dimmed eyes a long stack of cut and split pine, a dozen cords at least, four or five years’ supply for the house fireplace. And he had noticed too the imprint of heavy-duty equipment tires crossing the dusty compound in front of the shed. The impressions had trickled upward into his consciousness through the middle hours of the day and were clear now. Something was going on, something illicit and damaging to his land. He had to learn what it was and stop it.

If any of the machines had been running that afternoon he’d have heard them before he saw them. As it was, he emerged onto a clear gravelly ledge in full view of the operation, retreating reflexively into the brush until he saw that no one was there. Anger surged through him again, enhanced this time by a foot soldier’s fear. He’d stumbled unexpectedly onto an enemy camp, and he understood then and believed in McCord’s gun. They were mining the ancient river bed — five, six hundred yards of it ripped open like a wound. It was awesome and brutal.

Still partly hidden, he surveyed the scene like a scout. A skip-loader/backhoe rig lay resting in the shade of one of the long deep cuts it had made in the land. It was a placer operation. It took more back than brains, but the skip-loader would do the work of ten men. Benton could see a length of plastic pipe snaking through the brush from Timberslide Creek below. They pumped their water up from there to feed the long, gently graded sluice box, big as a launching ramp.

The skip-loader had chopped raggedly into the higher ground along the western edge of the working zone, had scalloped into the stand of trees. Three tall ponderosas were down; others had fallen before, their grotesque uprooted stumps drying in the sun, their trunks no doubt cut, split, and stacked back at the house. The earth along the cut was eroding rapidly, a process that would be hard to stop, a fatal cancer on the land.

Benton had seen enough, too much. He turned away, fighting tears of helpless rage.

They’d ruined his house, and they’d ruined his land.

It was quarter after six and Moss was preparing to leave when Benton drove his truck up Moss’s drive and trapped the Lincoln in its lair. The trunk of the Lincoln was open, one suitcase already stowed away. Moss wasn’t going to hide out for a few hours this time, he was going to run.

Benton was hot from the long hike through the woods, and from the fires that burned within. He got out of his truck, picked up at the motel, and walked through the open side door of the house. Moss had seen him, was waiting in the kitchen, wavering on his feet, drunk. Mrs. Moss was a floral-print dress and a greying thatch of hair retreating through a door. She too had probably had enough of her husband.

Benton had no sophisticated plan of attack this time. He said right off, angrily, “Harry, it’s gonna cost you a hell of a lot more than two grand to put things right out there. Sit down and start talking. I want to know everything that’s going on, all of it, nothing held back!”

Moss had within him that special engine that functions best on booze; and sometimes only. He sat down docilely at the kitchen table, drank deeply from a glass already half empty, and said, almost eagerly, “It’s Hamp, Tom. It’s been Hamp from the start. He put the McCords up to wrecking your house — he knew they’d do it just naturally.”

“Who the hell are they anyway?”

“People he’s known for years. They were squatting on some land he owns in the valley. He’s rich, Tom, very very rich.”

He poured more from a bottle into his glass and raised it shakily to his mouth.

“Tell me again about these offers to buy the place,” Benton said. “And don’t gimme no garbage about it being the McCords. How come Carswell wants to buy what he’s wrecking?”

Harry waved a hand. “But it was the McCords, it is the McCords, Tom. They want to buy it.”

“Using what? Carswell’s money?”

“Yes. They don t have a dime.”

“So why?” Benton sat down at the table and took command of the bottle, his hand wrapped around the base. He didn’t want Moss to curl up inside the thing, not just yet. From the front part of the house, music had started, loud — Mrs. Moss was insulating herself from her husband’s world.

“God!” Moss said. “It’s a long, dumb story.”

“Tell it to me.”

“Hamp salted that old river bed your dad tried to work once. He wanted the McCords to work it, to tear the whole thing up. He knew it would start an erosion process that wouldn’t quit, that would work into the trees—”

“Salted it? You mean he planted gold in it?”

“Yeah — dust, and a few nuggets. He’s kept it up for two full years now. He salted it as they worked — like dangling a carrot in front of a mule. Hidden out there, nobody but them knew it was going on.”

“And you.”

“All right, and me — but not at first, Tom.”

“You could have stopped it.”

“No, I couldn’t! I didn’t have the guts. You don’t know those people.”

Benton paused, assessing Harry’s fear and feeling obliquely awed by Carswell’s fixation, or compulsion, or whatever it was. He went on, almost intoning, “And Carswell bought all that equipment, piped the water up from the creek, provided the gold for salt—”

“That’s what he did, and it’s cost him a bundle. But he didn’t give a damn about that. I’m not sure why, Tom, but he truly hates your guts.”

“So the McCords talked him into buying the place — or trying to — before I got out of Folsom.”

“Yeah. But that didn’t bother him either. He knew you wouldn’t sell, not in a million years.”

Benton leaned back, still puzzled, the anger still a painful knot in his chest; and not so sure any more that he wouldn’t sell. Moss emptied his glass and looked lovingly at the bottle in Benton’s grip. “Later,” Benton said. And then he said, “They must have forced him to make the offers to buy. They must’ve got gold fever bad — and Carswell was too chicken to admit the truth.”

“That’s what happened — at first anyway.”

“And you, Harry?”

“Me?”

“You. Where do you fit in? How come you know all this?”

“Hamp told me. We used to be in business together.”

“Yeah, I know — Hildy’s Place, the whorehouse.”

“That’s been — we closed it down. Hamp lives there now. He comes over from there at night to salt the — er, mine.”

“Harry, tell me — did the McCords sign the offers, or did you forge their signatures? What I mean is — can they write?”

“They can write. They signed.”

“In your office?”

“What difference does it make? Listen Tom, how about a drink?”

“Later. So you know them, you’ve dealt with them, it wasn’t all done through Carswell. They signed the leases too — right?”

“Right.”

“And you’re just as scared of them as Carswell is.”

“More so — you’ve got no idea.” His eyes were fixed on the bottle.

“How many of them are there? I saw three.”

“Five. Mama, two grown boys, a kid, and the old man. Each one worse than the other. Tom, listen—”

“Later. Harry, I want them out of there. What do I have to do to get them out right now?”

“Oh, no, not that!” Moss wasn’t drunk enough not to blanch. “Oh, no, Tom!”

“What do I have to do? What do you have to do as my agent?”

“Tom, for God’s sake, let them Jive put the lease!”

“The sheriff — right? The sheriff has to throw them out.” Benton paused, tasting his own words, like salt, like bile. “The sheriff.” He a parolee, barely twenty-four hours back in the world and hollering cop. He sighed gloomily. He’d loosened his grip on the bottle and Moss snatched it away at once, didn’t bother with the glass. Music thundered through the house. Benton stood up, frustrated and disgusted. “You stay in town,” he said. “No running away.” A pro forma warning. Moss would run nowhere for a while; when he finished the bottle, he might conceivably be able to crawl to bed.

The first show started at eight-thirty — a western he’d seen last month in prison. But he didn’t disclose that oddity to Bessie. He’d picked her up at eight, a little later than planned. He’d had to shower again and put on his last set of clean clothes, but he didn’t tell her that either. Instinctively he wouldn’t mix the Moss-Carswell-McCord world with hers. It would be like poisoning a well. He wanted only to relax for a few hours in non-threatening company, to give himself perspective on the next twenty-six days.

They ate popcorn and drank Coke and Benton thought of it as supper. He hadn’t had time to eat. But she, he found again, was good for him, her very presence proof of order, clarity, decency.

There was a lot of bang-bang-bang from the speaker that hung in the cab of the truck. Two groups of horsemen were trading shots on the screen. It was a noisy part of the film, obscuring what was about to happen outside, but he had a flashing premonition. He saw the shadowed figure just beyond his door window and reflexively ducked his head. His right hand, holding a Coke, shot out to hook Bessie’s neck and pull her down. The drink soaked her shoulder and breast; the bullet creased the pad of Benton’s thumb and hit her head. Shards of glass exploded across Benton’s bowed and twisted neck and Bessie slipped heavily from his hold against the door. Popcorn had spilled all over the place.

He didn’t hesitate a heartbeat; shock would come later. He started the truck and roared away, trailing the speaker cord, his bloodied right hand bracing Bessie’s limp body as he made the series of short sharp turns to get out of the place.

At first they said she’d probably live. And then they said she wasn’t badly hurt at all, that luckily the slug had rounded the base of her skull beneath the scalp and emerged above her right ear — it had no doubt given her a concussion, its severity to be determined later, but no fracture. He, in the meantime, with his hand treated and bandaged, could relax in the waiting room or go home.

A deputy sheriff named Michaels had arrived ten minutes after Bessie had been wheeled into the operating room. He’d listened politely to Benton’s angry story and then gone back out to his car. Twenty minutes later, with Benton planted in his chair, hand held high to reduce the throb, Michaels returned, his notebook out and a minatory look in his eye.

He sat down next to Benton and said, “You tell me a guy named Dan McCord fired the shot.”

“I said ‘probably,’ almost certainly. I didn’t get much of a look at him, but he had a cowboy hat on and—”

“Not many guys out here in the wild west wear cowboy hats, huh?”

Benton didn’t like Michaels’ tone of voice. He said, “Meaning what?”

“You just got out of Folsom, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Yesterday. I registered at the station today.”

“How many enemies did you make in Folsom?”

“None. Nor friends. What the hell has that got to do—?”

“Everybody makes enemies in jail.”

“I didn’t. I’m telling you, McCord was—”

“So this enemy of yours gets out a little ahead of you and lays in wait. He gets his chance tonight at the drive-in, and you tell me it’s a guy named McCord. O.K., why do you tell me that? Because you knew the McCords saw you this evening. You figure your best defense against them is a good offense. But it’s not so good, Benton.”

“What are you talking about? Saw me do what?”

“Kill Mr. Hampton Carswell. Run him over the cliff, just like you claim he did your wife.”

Benton stared at him. Their colloquy had been low-keyed, but the room had grown quiet, was watching. Benton thought it was some kind of a trick, cruel as it was clumsy. “You’re kidding,” he said finally. “Is he dead?”

Michaels smiled coldly. “As a doornail. Since about seven o’clock. Three McCord men, including your friend Dan, saw you do it.”

“You’re crazy! They’re crazy!”

“Sure we are, everybody but you.” He stood up. “Come on outside, Benton. Let me show you something you didn’t have time to fix. Pretty cool, I must say, taking your girl friend out to the movies so soon after.”

With his hand in firm custody of Benton’s left elbow, Michaels steered him out through the emergency-room entrance to where he’d parked his truck. There were two other deputies there and two county cars, roof-lights pulsing. One of the two men held a flashlight in his hand, while the other, on his knees at the right front fender of Benton’s truck, was examining, in the concentrated beam of the flash, a variety of damage there. Michaels released Benton’s elbow and bent forward to look. The man on his knees said, “It’s fresh — as of today, I’d say, and white as the driven snow.” He got to his feet. “We’ll send it to the lab tomorrow, but tonight’s book says it’s paint from Carswell’s car. This your man?” He was looking at Benton, his eyes pleased.

“That’s him, Sarge.”

“All that happened three years ago,” Benton protested. “I hit this tree up in the hills.”

“Sure you did — one of those white painted ones.” The sergeant smiled blandly and went to one of the county cars to use the radio.

An ambulance wheeled into the emergency drive and touched its horn, the siren winding down. Benton’s truck was slightly in its path and Michaels got in quickly to move it away.

Benton hacked off a pace, and then another. A car followed the ambulance up the drive and the third cop watched it as Benton turned and went between two parked staff cars and kept going. He figured that if he had a thirty-second lead he might make it, adrenalin pumping through his system like tap water.

Moss’s garage was empty and Benton took it hard, nearly ready to quit, to give it up. He’d come two miles from the hospital, mostly through brush and trees. He looked like what he was, an escapee, scratched, torn, and bleeding. His bandaged hand pulsed with pain.

A light was on in Moss’s kitchen, and even from the foot of the drive he could hear music. He walked up to the side door and found it open. The music was deafening, a full-volume roar. Benton shouted, “Mrs. Moss!” but got no answer.

He went through the kitchen and down a hall, tracking the source of the sound. It was in a den/alcove off the living room, a stereo set-up, a long-playing tape on a reel the size of a bike tire. He switched it off; it would be unbearably ironic if a neighbor called the cops to complain. The silence was sudden and sweet. He called Mrs. Moss’s name again, but got no response. It was after eleven. Cautiously now, a true thief in the night, he crept down a long hall, looking through doors. In the room at the end he saw Moss on his face on the floor. His wife had flown the coop, not the man, but an icy question loomed in Benton’s mind: was he just drunk, or dead? Had the McCords been here already? Benton didn’t really want to know, or even to touch the fat little man, but he had to. Delicately, with the toe of his shoe, he prodded a thigh, and heard the prone figure mumble, “O.K., Emily, O.K.”

Moss was sick in the bathroom, and then demanded a Bloody Mary, said he wouldn’t talk without one, so Benton made him one in the kitchen, brought it back, and watched him empty it in one long swig. The effect was magical — a stagey sigh, a contrite little-boy smile playing around the lips. But it didn’t pick him up on the real world.

“What I want to know,” Benton growled, all his patience gone, “is this: if they set me up for Carswell s murder, how come they tried to kill me?”

Moss belched and smiled proudly — no longer sick, but drunk again. “Kill one, kill two,” he said foolishly, sitting on the john. “You don’t know it, old sock, but you signed a ten-year lease on your property yesterday. Or was it the day before? What time is it?”

“I did what?”

“Well, O.K., I did it for you — free service of Moss Realty, twenty-five years in one location, forgeries a specialty. I’ve lied before.”

Benton saw a glimmer of light. “Harry, you knew they were gonna kill Carswell, didn’t you?”

Moss giggled.

“Listen, they tell you everything. They like you to know exactly what they got in mind, the McCord boys. Special technique they got to scare the hell out of you. Why aren’t I in San Francisco by now?”

“Your wife probably is. She took the car.”

Moss reacted. He might be about to rejoin the real world, sweat marking his return.

“They used my truck to sideswipe Carswell’s car, just enough to leave some paint,” Benton went on. “But you knew that too, didn’t you, Harry?”

“Not for sure. I didn’t wanna believe it. There was a lot of stuff I didn’t wanna believe.”

“Then they ran Carswell s car over the edge with his body in it. Tonight, Harry.”

“Tonight?” Harry’s surprise seemed genuine. “That was dumb,” he said. But he had an overriding interest and thrust out his glass. “ ’Nother.”

“Not now. So yesterday they made you draw a ten-year lease on my place and forge my signature on it.”

“With mineral and timbering rights — Tom, please!”

“So they could continue hunting gold even if I wasn’t back in jail for Carswell’s murder, or even if I was dead — preferably dead. Which you knew too. You knew they planned to kill me when they made you forge the lease—”

“No — not for sure.” For a moment Moss’s round face seemed sober and sincere. “Not even at all. I figured I was next, I knew too much. I was running from them, not you.”

Benton sighed wearily, his hand banging away like a drum. He’d seen only three of the McCords, but he understood Moss’s fear of them and even felt some distant sympathy for the dead Carswell. A dog shouldn’t run with wolves; when they’re hungry they eat him first.

“Hamp told them he’d salted the place,” Moss mumbled, “but they didn’t believe him. He was trying to get rid of them and they knew it. They figured he wanted the gold for himself, so they figured they had to kill him—”

“And figured to pin it on me.”

“Tom, I gotta have another drink!”

“Later, Harry.”

“I should be on a plane for Hawaii by now. You’d make a lousy steward.” Moss was capable of some self-mockery, but not much. His need was primal, the glass held out like a beggar seeking alms.

Benton raised his hand again to reduce the pain. The bandage showed a growing stain of blood. He said, “I’m gonna call the cops now, Harry. I want you to tell them what you’ve told me, plus all the missing details.”

“A drink first, for God’s sake!”

“When you’ve gotten started with them. I don’t trust you, Harry.”

Moss slumped and Benton got up and went to the kitchen to use the phone and make another drink. On his way, the front doorbell rang and he angled across the living room to answer it, switching on the light as he opened the door. A cop stood on the porch, smiling. He said, “We got this call about some loud music—” Then his smile faded, he backed away a pace and drew his gun. “You’re Benton,” he said.

Benton nodded tiredly. “I was just about to—”

“Put your hands behind your head,” the cop snarled, “and shut up.”

Charley Hoskins lit a cigarette, sipped at his hot coffee, and watched his wife Eleanor and her sister Bessie begin to clear the table. His eyes reported that they were a good-looking pair of women, but Benton had conceded that long since. He was waiting now for something else, the rest of the story. He said eagerly, “So tell me, Charley.”

Hoskins blew smoke at the ceiling and glanced at the kitchen door. “Well, Monday evening when you got back from Folsom,” he said, “it got complicated. They had Carswell locked up in the house with his hands and feet bound. Moss had been there and gone after writing up that last offer to buy and forging the ten-year lease — and with his instructions to bring you out the next morning.”

“The ten-year lease was their contingency plan.”

“Yeah, sort of. But they had just one basic plan — to get control of the property and get rid of Carswell, hopefully in that order.” Hoskins sipped again at the coffee. Dishes rattled in the kitchen. “They didn’t really plan to kill Carswell until later — just in case you accepted the offer to buy. They’d need his money to complete that — but they’d already planned to hang his killing on you.”

“And when that looked shaky,” Benton said, “their fall-back plan was to kill me and rely on the lease.”

“Yeah,” Hoskins said. “But what really screwed things up for them was Carswell breaking loose early Tuesday morning and damn near getting away, beating up his car in the process and killing himself.”

This is what — among other things — Benton had waited through a long pleasant meal at Hoskins’ house to learn. “How?” he said.

“They had him in the back bedroom — you know the one. He busted out a window and cut the cords that bound him on shards of glass. They had his car — the white Chrysler — parked in the big barn, keys in it, and he got to it before they could stop him. He drove it right out through the barn door and when he wheeled around to head for the road, Ben McCord shot out one of the front tires and Carswell drove it smack into that mountain of cordwood and broke his neck.”

“Jesus—” Benton said.

“And then some.” Hoskins sipped more coffee. “Which ruined phase one of the master plan — buying the place — and badly compromised phase two — framing you for his death.”

“But they tried that anyway.”

“Yeah. They already had your truck back on its tires. They took it out and ran it against the Chrysler to mark it with paint — which they’d figured to do anyway before Moss brought you out to pick it up. But, of course, they didn’t figure on Carswell being dead at the time. They figured — assuming you didn’t accept the offer to buy—”

“Which I damn near did—”

“They figured to do that later in the day with Carswell merely knocked out at the time and then they’d have a ten-year lease, plus you back in the can.”

“But, my God, Charley, they must have known it wouldn’t work!”

“They weren’t sure it wouldn’t, being basically stupid — gold stupid, Tom. But to cinch things for ten years anyway, they sent Ben out to pick his time and knock you off. They gave him a deadline — if you’ll forgive the expression — of eight-thirty.”

“Gold!” Benton said, shaking his head and pondering briefly on the bloody history of the stuff. “How much did Carswell salt the place with?”

“About forty thousand dollars’ worth — that they found.”

“My God!”

“Right. And then to cover themselves for the Carswell death they called our office and claimed they saw you force him over the edge. But it didn’t take us long to see through that frame.”

“Just long enough,” Benton said, smiling, “to scare me to death.” He leaned back in his chair, comfortable in this house, and mused on the matter of retribution in the form of poetic justice. Carswell’s Chrysler had landed no more than ten feet from where Sheila’s Toyota had been found — and the McCords hadn’t known where that was. Coincidence — or some other force we haven’t yet defined, a question for others to answer.

He watched Bessie come in for another load of dishes and smiled at her, pleased that she blushed as she turned back toward the kitchen. It was only three days since she’d been shot, but except for the turban arrangement on her head you’d never know it. His presence seemed to liven her, as hers did him.

“I don’t understand Carswell,” he said to Hoskins. “I thought I had him figured out — on a kind of metaphysical level, a guilt complex attached to me, and even shared by me, but—” He shrugged.

Hoskins stubbed out his first after-dinner cigarette and lit a second. He glanced at the kitchen door, was satisfied with the sounds he heard from there, and said quietly, “We did some research on him, Tom. He used to run dope in San Francisco in the early sixties. Made a pile and never got nailed. But then one day his wife got blown up in a wired car that was meant for him. It broke him up and drove him out of the business.”

Benton had listened carefully. “So—?” he said.

“It may mean nothing,” Hoskins answered. “But her name was Sheila.”

Content

Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 26, No. 6, May 27, 1981

Marti Roch by William Bankier

Combat by Gary Alexander

An Easy Fifty Bucks by Donald Olson

The Swindle by Robert Edward Eckels

The Man Who Flim-Flammed Hiwassee County by William M. Stephens

Spinning the Bottle by Edwin P. Hicks

The Forced Retirement of Elton Pringle by Nancy C. Swoboda

A Cleverly Rearranged Murder by Richard Purtill

The Partnership by David Morrell

Picking Up by Ernest Savage