The New Black Mask (No 8)

Number 8

“John D. MacDonald: An Interview,” “Night Ride” copyright © 1987 by John D. MacDonald Publishing, Inc.

“Dial Axminster 6-400,” copyright © 1987 by James Ellroy.

“Flotsam and Jetsam,” copyright © 1987 by John Lutz.

“Telex,” copyright © 1987 by Martin J. Miller, Jr.

“Skin Deep,” copyright © 1987 by Sara Paretsky.

“Stacked Deck.” copyright © 1987 by Bill Pronzini.

“Family Business,” copyright © 1987 by W. S. Doxey.

“ ’Ead All About It!” copyright © 1987 by Sol Newman.

“Spy for Sale,” copyright © 1987 by Edward D. Hoch.

“Looking for Lauren,” copyright © 1987 by Joseph Lisowski.

“Murder in Store,” copyright © 1985 by Peter Lovesey.

“Shhh Shhh, It’s Christmas,” copyright © 1987 by Carolyn Banks.

“To Florida,” copyright © 1987 by Robert Sampson.

John D. MacDonald: An Interview

John D. MacDonald was born in Pennsylvania and attended the University of Pennsylvania, Syracuse University, and Harvard Graduate School of Business Administration. He served six years in the army in World War II. He is married and has one son and five grandchildren residing in New Zealand. Since he began writing in 1946 and has published seventy-five books and over six hundred short stories, novelettes, and articles. His work has been translated into sixteen languages, and his books have sold over ninety million copies worldwide.

NBM: You began your writing career producing stories for the pulps, a large writers’ market that no longer exists. How important was your pulp-writing apprenticeship, and how has the demise of the pulps affected genre fiction — especially the mystery?

MacDonald: I began my career writing stories for the pulp magazines as well as the so-called slicks, in the first years — 1946 to 1950 — I had stories published in American Magazine, Argosy, Colliers, Cosmopolitan, Story Magazine, Liberty, This Week, and the Toronto Star Weekly, in addition to a wide range of pulp magazines. I do not think that the demise of the pulps has affected the quality of today’s fiction writing as much as has the demise of those slick-paper magazines, which used so many pieces of fiction each year. In the case of The Saturday Evening Post, Collier’s, and Liberty alone, a market for seven hundred pieces of fiction a year at quite good rates disappeared seemingly overnight. Thus in the general field of the novel, in all categories, some very clumsy work is being published. There is no training area. The university courses lean so heavily on subjectivity that the prose becomes muddy and pretentious. I am sent many sets of bound galleys in hopes I will make some useful comment for public purposes. I rarely have to read beyond page ten.

NBM: You were trained as a businessman at Harvard and used your business skills to become one of the most successful novelists of your time. To what degree have the instincts and mindset of the businessman affected your fiction?

MacDonald: I can see only a very remote relationship between my formal education and my writing. I have the instincts of the businessman only when I am involved with the problems of everyday life. I am often shocked at the gullibility of some of the members of my peer group when their innocence in investing in tax shelters is revealed in the press. I do not have the mindset of a businessman. Their scope, like that of doctors and lawyers, is for the most part quite narrow.

NBM: There is a trend now, demonstrated by recent novels of Robert B. Parker and Elmore Leonard, for writers of mysteries to attempt what Parker calls the “Big Book” — the novel that will transcend the bounds of genre fiction and attract attention as a mainstream work. Are you concerned that because of your success as a mystery novelist your works will be neglected over the long haul and categorized by critics as ephemeral?

MacDonald: I think that trying to puff a small story into a big book is a mistake. Books and short pieces of fiction should be permitted to find their own proper length. My most recent novel, Barrier Island, is not long. Knopf expressed dismay that it was not a thicker book. I did the story the way it felt right to me. Puffing it would have upset the rhythm of it. I must confess to being a little distressed by your patronizing tone in categorizing me as a mystery novelist. We Americans feel more comfortable with categories and filing systems, and butterflies pinned to the board in proper order of species, I guess. I am pleased to write novels of mystery and suspense, of course. But at the risk of boring you, here is a list of my published novels which do not fall into that category: Wine of the Dreamers (1951), The Damned (1952), Ballroom of the Skies (1952), Cancel All Our Vows (1953), All These Condemned (1954), Contrary Pleasure (1954), Cry Hard, Cry Fast (1955), A Man of Affairs (1957), The Deceivers (1958), The Executioners (1958), Clemmie (1958), Please Write for Details (1959), The Crossroads (1959), Slam the Big Door (1960), The End of the Night (1960), A Key to the Suite (1962), A Flash of Green (1962), The Girl, The Gold Watch & Everything (1963), I Could Go on Singing (1963), The House Guests (1965), No Deadly Drug (1968), Condominium (1977), Nothing Can Go Wrong (1981), One More Sunday (1984), Barrier Island (June 1986), A Friendship (November 1986).

Insofar as “being neglected over the long haul and categorized by critics as ephemeral,” I could not care less. It has been my personal observation that those members of my peer group who get terribly earnest about their literary immortality are the ones least likely to achieve any. And, of course, any writer who pays attention to critics is an ass. I write because I enjoy the hell out of it, and if I couldn’t ever sell another word, I would keep right on amusing myself with it.

NBM: You are known as a writer with a social conscience, concerned about environmental issues, corporate greed, economic abuses, immorality on a large scale. Do you consider yourself a social evangelist?

MacDonald: What a dreadful phrase that is — “social evangelist!” I would not invite one of those into my kitchen for a beer. Any intelligent person who is indifferent to the environmental issues, indifferent to the corporate greed which pried unearned billions out of NASA and the defense program, indifferent to a lethargic, self-important bureaucracy which spends two dollars on itself out of every five appropriated for social programs — that person is not living in the world. He is not experiencing life. He is as dead upstairs as he soon will be in toto.

NBM: Are you interested in politics as an active participant?

MacDonald: I have supported a few — a very few — politicians I respect. But only with donations. I am not a group person. I like to be alone, work alone, so that both blame and praise are undiluted.

NBM: Writers’ organizations are in the news lately — The American Writers Congress and the PEN conference, for example — largely due to their interest in national and international political matters. As a former president of MWA, do you have any observations on the role of a writers’ group and the matters writers’ organizations ought to address?

MacDonald: Historically, all autocratic governments oppress writers. The dictator does not want to be told he is wearing no clothes. A lot of very good work has come out of such oppressions. I suppose it is reasonable for organizations of writers to complain as loudly as possible about their fellow writers in the gulags, prisons, and asylums. Sometimes it seems to do some good. But I far prefer the sort of activity the Authors’ Guild undertakes when they publish model contracts with publishers and recommend the abolishing of traditional unfair clauses therein. The Screenwriters’ Guild has used the strike weapon successfully to pry loose a share of the income from sale of tapes.

NBM: Early in your career, you wrote science fiction. Why did you stop?

MacDonald: I will probably write some more science fiction some day. I will come upon an idea which cannot be expressed as well in another form. Science fiction is particularly useful in making social comment without being dull.

NBM: A turning point in your career was your introduction of Travis McGee, who has now been the protagonist of some twenty novels. Does the time come when, despite your best intentions, you find that you have exhausted a character’s possibilities and you become bored with him?

MacDonald: Are you serious? How could I know if a time will come when I will become bored with McGee? I am not bored now.

NBM: You will be seventy in July. Have you contemplated retirement?

MacDonald: I haven’t given it a thought. I’d hate to have to pack it in. It’s too much fun.

Night Ride

John D. MacDonald

About “Night Ride,” John D. MacDonald says, “I wrote this story twenty-four years ago. I came upon it last year when I was grubbing around in the old files, looking for something else. I wondered why it had not been published. I cannot remember who thought it needed more work, my agent or I. I suspect that some other project got in the way and it fell through the cracks. So, I gave it a quick polish and sent it in, pleased to find it was not dated.”

The drove swiftly through the night, thinking of that last poker hand. God damn that Dev-Ian, suggesting raising the limit for the last hand. It was as though he knew he was going to get the case ace. It had been a long and very expensive hand. As he drove Harry Varney figured he had dropped four hundred dollars on that last hand. Poker seemed to be getting too rich for his blood lately. The disastrous last hand had left him with almost an eight-hundred-dollar deficit for the evening.

And that was too much. Way too much. He remembered with self-contempt the elaborate casualness with which, as the game broke up and as Dick Winkler was paying off the chip stacks from the bank, he had suggested to Devlan they cut high card for two hundred. Devlan, he knew, had not been deceived. But Devlan, as the big winner, couldn’t very well refuse.

Harry Varney remembered the bright light shining down on the green tabletop. The others were putting their coats on. He remembered his own hand reaching out, taking a thin cut, remembered the good hot feeling as he turned the stack just enough to catch a glimpse of the spade jack. But Devlan, almost contemptuously, had cut the remaining cards and flipped the heart king over. Harry Varney, taking the last four fifties out of his wallet, turned so that Devlan could not see the two remaining bills, a five and a one, left out of the thousand dollars he had taken to the club with such high hopes at eight o’clock.

“Guess you’ve had one of those nights, Harry,” Devlan said.

For a moment Varney was tempted to suggest another cut for two hundred. Devlan wouldn’t know the wallet was nearly empty. But should he lose, betting without a stake, they might bar him from the game. As casually as possible he said, “You boys bruised me a little tonight.”

Bruised, hell! Isobel, when she found out about it, as she inevitably would, was going to be merciless. “Oh, you have to be the big shot! Oh, you have to, don’t you? Swagger and brag and throw your money around. I hope you can remember what we owe.”

Last year he had won with reasonable consistency. Last year, of course, when he didn’t have to win. Now he played with scared money. And it had been damned foolishness to sign for the drinks. Six rounds was it, or seven? Seven by the way the yellow line down the middle of the two-lane highway kept turning into two lines. His vision was better if he kept one eye shut.

Losing the Taylor account had been the first blow’ For years it had accounted for almost half his income. Things seemed to be getting worse and Isobel seemed to become more shrill every day.

There was a slow, thick anger in him at the way things seemed to be closing in. The poker crowd could smell it, winning this year on bluffs he would have called last year — before the money got scared. He remembered what had happened to Stolts, remembered that night when Stolts had been the banker and had dipped into the bank chips so often that at the end of the session he couldn’t pay off all the way around. Stolts had given Devlan a check that bounced. Yes, Varney remembered last year, how he had told Dick and Devlan that if Stolts showed up again, they should tell him he wasn’t welcome.

The club bills were overdue, and the bill this month would be so fat there was a chance he and Isobel would be posted. He felt cold inside when he thought of the way things were going. The check he had cashed for a thousand took the balance down, way down, and he hadn’t dared enter it in the checkbook, not on the joint account with Isobel. He had cashed a counter check.

His face felt thick and sweaty, and the drinks had made him slightly nauseated. He was driving fast. He decided he would open the vent window on the driver’s side and turn it to direct the blast of cold air at his face. It was three in the morning and the commuter highway ahead was empty. He looked away from the road for an instant as he reached for the handle to open the vent. When he looked back at the highway he saw a flicker of motion so startlingly close he did not have time to swerve or hit the brakes before he felt the thick, sick, solid thud of metal hitting flesh at sixty-plus miles an hour. Then the brakes were on, but too late and too hard, so that the big expensive car swerved on the edge of control. He drove off onto the shoulder and stalled the engine. Far ahead, coming toward him, he saw the Christmas tree lights of a truck. With a sudden instinct for secrecy he turned his car lights off and sat in silence and darkness as the truck droned by, the engine sound dwindling in a descending Doppler key, his car rocking slightly in the after draft.

His instinct to drive away, fast, and not look back was almost too strong. But he took the flashlight from the glove compartment, got out of the car slowly. His brain had been shocked into sobriety, but his legs felt drunk and unwieldy.

He stood in the night for a few moments, a big man with a salesman’s face and a soft waistline. He went around in front of the car and listened for traffic sounds. There were none. He heard the faraway metallic honk of a diesel train in the valley. He aimed the light at his right front fender. It was smashed in, almost against the tire tread. The heavy bumper guard was canted back, and the bumper itself was bent inward. The headlight was smashed, chrome rim bent. Two-fifty or three hundred damage, he thought, realizing how incongruous that thought was. Staring closely at the damage, he could see no blood or fabric or hair on the crumpled metal. He straightened up and turned off the flashlight as he heard a car coming. It finally went by at a sedate speed, an old car with big tail fins. They had had one just like it, he remembered. How many cars since that one? Six? Eight? It was essential to keep up appearances. You couldn’t call on an account driving an old heap.

All this was delaying what he knew he had to do. Someone might be back there, bleeding, dying. You had to stop, even if it was just a dog. It was a cold night. The ruts of the soft shoulder were frozen. Shining the light ahead of him, he walked back until he found the shiny spray of broken headlight glass. The twin skid lines began after the point of impact and continued almost all the way back to where his car was pulled off. The road was empty. The shoulder was empty.

He found the body in the shallow ditch beyond the shoulder, half-concealed in the tall dead winter weeds. He focused the light on the dead face and turned it off quickly. When two cars went by he doused the light again and stood with his back to the road. It was the body of an old man. Very obviously dead, clad in layers of ragged sweaters, ancient jeans, broken shoes. Toothless gums in the mouth agape. Over the smell of the liquor in his own system, Harry Varney could detect the alcohol reek of the body.

It wasn’t fair. This old man. This wandering useless alcoholic nobody. Killing this one was practically doing him a favor. He suspected that if he were sober he would have a good chance of carrying it off. “Swear to God he staggered right out in front of me!” It would be difficult, of course, because they could measure the skid marks and approximate his speed. But he was used to dealing with people and he was perfectly aware of his own ability to sell himself. But half-drunk at three in the morning? Exhale into this tube, sir. Walk this chalk line, sir. Close your eyes and touch your nose, sir. It was frightening to be so coldly sober on the inside that he could estimate his chances, yet to be so drunk he kept losing his balance and staggering to catch it again.

When he heard the next car coming he stepped across the ditch and squatted in the field behind the screen of weeds. They had ways of finding out. They had their goddamn microscopes and their spectroanalysis and their chromatography. And this was an old bum, tanked out of his mind, wandering into a public highway. He hated the old man for being dead. It was not fair. Even the minimum penalty, suspension of his license to drive, would be impossible. He had to have a car and be able to use it. Hiding the body would be no good because he couldn’t take the car into any repair garage looking like that, not with the distinctive look of that bashed area.

Still squatting even after the car had gone by, he hit his knee with his fist. Think, Varney. Think, damn you. If you never used your head before, use it now. And to think you were bitching about losing a thousand. You thought life had turned sour. In retrospect, Harry, it was delightful.

Slowly the plan began to take shape in his mind. Then he began to have that good hot feeling in his throat, the same feeling as when he had caught a glimpse of the spade jack. He did not trust his mind after so much alcohol, and so he went over the plan again, checking every portion of it, over and over. It would be difficult to carry out, but it would be a hell of a lot less trouble all the way around.

He went out and, with great care, picked up the glinting little bits of glass. Twice he had to lumber out of sight as cars went by, speeding in the night. When he was certain he had it all, he scuffed the remaining glass dust out of sight with the edge of his shoe. He hurried to his car and placed the glass fragments inside the rim of the broken headlamp. The chrome ring retained them. He backed quickly down the highway and pulled well off onto the shoulder near the body and turned his lights off, and left the motor running.

Touching the body was more difficult than he had imagined it would be. The old man seemed impossibly heavy. He got some stickiness on his hands, but knew that would not matter too much. The plan seemed good. Much better than the infantile idea of reporting the car stolen. They were always suspicious of that, he had heard. He dragged the body to the car, got the passenger door open, and then worked it up onto the seat. It was disconcertingly slack. It toppled over against the steering wheel. He rolled the window down, reached through and pulled it back so that it leaned against the closed door. On sudden inspiration he went over with the flashlight and searched the area of death with care, and was extremely glad he had done so when he found a bulging old suitcase tied with rope and a shapeless felt hat. Starlight was pale on the old broken face and the stained, matted hair. He put the old hat on the head, opened the back door and put the suitcase on the floor.

He got behind the wheel and waited until an oncoming car went by before turning his own lights on and starting out. The body toppled over against him and he pushed it away with a sudden violent panic and anger that made him breathe hard.

As he drove carefully he rehearsed his lines. “It was a cold night and I guess I just felt sorry for the old guy, seeing him there trying to hitch a ride. I was sorry as soon as he got in the car. He was drunk and noisy and out of control. I drove for a while and all of a sudden, no warning, he reached over and grabbed the wheel and yanked it so that he steered us right into that tree, that pole, whatever. Smashed hell out of my car. That’s what I get for trying to be a nice guy. Me? Oh, I had some drinks at the club but I had the car under control until he yanked the wheel like that.”

He drove carefully, totally aware of the body in the seat beside him, never looking over at it. Got to bang the hell out of that front right corner of the car. Smash it complete. Then open the door and tumble the old drunk out and then stop the next car. It would have to be a place where a good solid tree grows close to the road. He peered ahead. A car came into sight rounding a curve. That curve might be a good place, he decided. It would look right. Who would examine a car looking for a trace of two accidents? This impact would conceal the previous one.

He dimmed his lights for the oncoming car and put them back on high when he was by it. As he looked ahead he noticed out of the corner of his eye, in the rearview minor, that the car he had just passed was swinging around in a U-turn.

Harry Varney held tightly to the wheel. Somebody forgot something. Somebody changed their mind. That was all. That had to be all. Nothing to worry about.

The headlights came up behind him and suddenly the string of blue lights on top of the car came on, spinning and flashing, and he heard the warning growl of the siren in low register. He stomped the gas pedal and the big car jumped ahead. He drove with his mouth open, sagging. His lips felt numb. He could not take air into his lungs. The siren lifted into a high sustained scream. The big car rocked with speed and he knew it was time to turn into the trees now lining the road but he could not make himself do it. Not at that speed.

When the patrol car moved up beside him all the nerve went out of Harry Varney and he began to pump the brakes. They stopped ahead of him and put a swivel searchlight in his face. He squinted through the dazzle and saw them coming back, two of them, tall and young, guns drawn.

The one on his side said, opening the door, “Keep your hands in sight. Get out slowly. Slowly. Now brace your hands against the car. Higher. Move your feet back.”

On the other side of the car the other officer said, “You too, Pops. Come on out. Easy does it.”

There was a silence and then the officer on the far side came walking around the car and said, “I’ll watch this one. George, you go around and take a good look at the other one.”

Harry kept his eyes shut but the spotlight shone pink through his eyelids. He heard George whistle. He felt sick again. His arms were getting tired.

“Why did you come after me?” he asked. “Why?” His voice was sharp and thin and high-pitched. Like Isohel’s.

“We were going to warn you, mister. We were going to tell you one of your headlights is out.”

Dial Axminster 6-400

James Ellroy

James Ellroy’s second story for NBM features Lee Blanchard, a main character in Mr. Ellroy’s forthcoming novel. The Black Dahlia, which will he published by the Mysterious Press in Fall 1987. A Los Angeles native, Mr. Ellroy has long been obsessed with his hometowns dark past, which he feels is epitomized by the 1947 murder on which the book is based. Commenting on “Dial Axminster 6-400,” Mr. Ellroy says it features two of his three loves — vintage cars and volatile women. Boxing, the third of his obsessions, will be the subject of a future story.

Ellis Loew rapped on the pebbled glass door that separated LAPD Warrants from the Office of the District Attorney. Davis Evans, dozing in his chair, muttered “Mother dog.” I said, “That’s his college-ring knock. It’s a personal favor or a reprimand.”

Davis nodded and got to his feet slowly, befitting a man with twenty years and two days on the job — and an ironclad civil-service pension as soon as he said the words, “Fuck you, Ellis. I retire.” He smoothed his plaid shirt, adjusted the knot in his Hawaiian tie, hitched up the waistband of his shiny black pants, and patted the lapels of the camel’s hair jacket he stole from a black pimp at the Lincoln Heights drunk tank. “That boy wants a favor, he gonna pay like a mother dog.”

“Blanchard! Evans! I’m waiting!”

We walked into the Deputy D.A.’s office and found him smiling, which meant that he was either practicing for the press or getting ready to kiss some ass. Davis nudged me as we took seats, then said, “Hey, Mr. Loew. What did the leper say to the prostitute?”

Loew’s smile stayed glued on; it was obviously a big favor he wanted. “I don’t know, Sergeant. What?”

“Keep the tip. Ain’t that a mother dog?”

Loew put out his hail-fellow-well-met chuckle. “Yes, it’s so simple that it has a certain charm. Now, the reason I—”

“What do you call an elephant that moonlights as a prostitute?”

Loew’s smile spread into nasty little facial tics. “I... don’t... know. What?”

“A two-ton pickup that lays for peanuts. Woooo! Mother dog!”

The Ted Mack Amateur Hour had gone far enough. I said, “Did you want something, Boss?”

Davis laughed uproariously, like my question was the real punch line; Loew wiped the smile remnants off his face with a handkerchief. “Yes, I do. Did you know that there was a kidnapping in L.A. four days ago? Monday afternoon on the USC campus?”

Davis kiboshed his stage chuckles; snatch jobs were meat and potatoes to him — the kind of cases he loved to work. I said, “You’ve got Fred Allen’s interest. Keep going.”

Loew twirled his Phi Beta Kappa key as he spoke. “The victim’s name is Jane Mackenzie Viertel. She’s nineteen, a USC frosh. Her father is Redmond Viertel, an oil man with a big string of wells down on Signal Hill. Three men in USC letter jackets grabbed her Monday, about two o’clock. It’s rush week, so all the witnesses thought it was some sort of fraternity stunt. The men called the girl’s father late that night and made their demand: a hundred thousand dollars in fifties. Viertel got the money together, then got frightened and called the FBI. The kidnappers called back and set up a trade for the following day in an irrigation field up near Ventura.

“Two agents from the Ventura office set up a trap, one hiding, one posing as Viertel. The kidnappers showed up, then it all went haywire.”

Davis said, “Wooooo,” and cracked his knuckles; Loew grimaced at the sound and continued. “One of the kidnappers found the agent who was hiding. They were both afraid of disturbing the transaction with gunfire, so they had a little hand-to-hand combat. The kidnapper beat the agent up with a shovel, then hacked off six of his fingers with the blade. The other agent sensed something was wrong and started to act fidgety. He grabbed one of the men and put a gun to his head, and the other man did the same to the girl. A real Mexican standoff, until the fed grabbed the money bag and a windstorm played hell with all that cash. The man with the girl grabbed the bag and took off, and the fed took his captive in. You see what I mean by haywire?”

I said, “So two snatchers and the girl are still at large?”

“Yes. The third man is in custody in Ventura, and the other agent is very angry.”

Davis laced his fingers together and cracked a total of eight knuckles. “Wooooo. These boys got names, Mr. Loew? And what’s this got to do with me and Lee?”

Now Loew’s smile was genuine — that of a fiend who loves his work. Consulting some rap sheets on his desk, he said, “The man in custody is Harwell Jackson Treadwell, white male, age thirty-one. He’s from Gila Bend, Oklahoma; your neck of the woods, Evans. He’s got three strong-arm convictions running back to 1934 and has two outstanding warrants here in L.A. — robbery charges filed in ’44 and ’45. Treadwell also has two charming brothers, Miller and Leroy. Both are registered sex offenders and do not seem to care much about the gender of their conquests. In fact, Leroy rather likes those of the four-footed persuasion. He was arrested for aggravated assault on an animal and served thirty days for it in ’42.”

Davis picked at his teeth with his tie clip. “Any old port in a storm. Miller and Leroy got the girl and part of the money?”

“That’s right.”

“And you want me and Lee to—”

I interrupted, seeing my Friday night go up in smoke. “This is Ventura County’s business. Not ours.”

Loew held up an extradition warrant and carbons of two bench summonses. “The kidnapping took place in Los Angeles, in my judicial district. I would very much like to prosecute Mr. Treadwell along with his brothers when they are apprehended. So I want you two to drive up to Ventura and return Mr. Treadwell to City Jail before the notoriously ill-mannered Ventura sheriffs beat him to death.”

I groaned; Davis Evans made an elaborate show of standing up and smoothing out the various tucks and folds of his outfit. “I’ll be a mother dog, but I was thinkin’ about retiring this afternoon.”

Winking at me, Loew said, “You won’t retire when you hear what the other two brothers escaped in.”

“Wooooo. Keep talkin’, boy.”

“A 1936 Auburn speedster. Two-tone, maroon and forest green. When they get captured, and you know they will, the car will go to City Impound until claimed or bid on. Davis, I expect to send those Okie shitheads to the gas chamber. It’s very hard to claim a vehicle from death row, and the duty officer at the impound is a close friend of mine. Still want to retire?”

Davis exclaimed, “Wooooooo!”, grabbed the warrants and hustled his two-thirty-five toward the door. I was right behind him — reluctantly — the junior partner all the way. With his hand on the knob, the senior man got in a parting shot: “What do you call a gal who’s got the syph, the clap, and the crabs? An incurable romantic! Wooooo! Mother dog!”

We took the Ridge Road north, Davis at the wheel of his showroom-fresh ’47 Buick ragtop, me staring out at the L. A. suburbs dwindling into scrub-covered hills, then farmland worked by Japs out of the relocation camps and transplanted Okies. The Okie sitting beside me never spoke when he drove; he stayed lost in a man-car reverie. I thought about our brief warrants partnership, how our differences made it work.

I was the prototypical athlete-cop the high brass loved, the ex-boxer one L.A. scribe labeled “the Southland’s good but not great white hope.” No one knew the “but not” better than me, and plain “good” meant flash rolls, steak, and nightlife until you were thirty, then permanently scrambled brains. The department was the one safe place where my fight juice could see me through to security — with muted glory along the way — and I went for it like Davis’s mother dog, cultivating all the right people, most notably boxing fanatic Ellis Loew.

Davis Evans was another opportunist, out for plain loot, out to shut down Norman, Oklahoma, fourteen siblings, family inbreeding, the proximity to oil money you could breathe but never quite touch. He took what he could and reveled in it, and he made up for being on the take by exercising the best set of cop faces I had ever seen — Mr. Courtly to those who deserved it, Mr. Grief to the bad ones, Mr. Civil to whoever was left over. That a man could be so self-seeking and lacking in mean-spiritedness astonished me, and I deferred to him on the job — senior man aside — because I knew my own selfishness ran twice as deep as his did. And I realized that the hard-nosed buffoon probably would retire soon, leaving me to break in a replacement cut out of my own cloth: young, edgy, eager for the glory the assignment offered. And that made me sad.

Warrants was plainclothes LAPD under the aegis of the Criminal Division, District Attorney’s Office. Two detectives to every Superior Court judiciary. We went after the bad guys the felony D.A.s were drooling to prosecute. If things were slow, there was money to be made serving summonses for the downtown shysters, and — Davis Evans’s raison d’etre — repossessions.

Davis lived, ate, drank, yearned, and breathed for beautiful cars. His Warrants cubicle was wallpapered with pictures of Duesenbergs and Pierce Arrows and Cords, Caddys, and Packards, and sleek foreign jobs. Since he stole all his clothes from arrestees, shook down hookers for free poon, ate on the cuff, and lived in the spare room of a county boarding house for recently paroled convicts, he had plenty of money to spend on them. The storage garage he rented held a ’39 Packard cabriolet, a Mercedes rumored to have once been driven by Hitler, a purple Lincoln convertible that Davis called his “Jig Rig,” and a sapphire blue Model T dubbed the “Li’l Shitpeeler.”

He acquired all of them through repos. There was a twenty-four-hour-a-day phone number issuing recorded information on delinquent cars, and every greedy L.A. cop had it memorized. All you had to do was dial Ax-minster 6-400 to get the dope on wanteds — who they belonged to, what dealer or credit agency was paying what amount of money for their return. Davis only moved on cars that he craved, and only on delinquent owners with outstanding warrants. It was a parlay that frequently occurred, on-the-lam punks not being known for sending in their monthly auto payments. Once the warrantee was arrested, Davis would locate the car, let it molder in his garage, do some minor defacing of it, then report to the dealer that the mother dog was in bad, bad shape. The dealer would believe him; being a soft-hearted misanthrope, Davis would offer a decent amount to keep the vehicle. The dealer would agree, thinking he’d taken advantage of a dust-bowl refugee with a leaky seabag — and Sergeant Davis Evans would have himself another true love.

We were cruising through truck-farm country now — flat acres of furrowed land that looked dry, used up, like this was brutal August, not mild October. All the farmers were the sunburned poor-white prototype that Davis narrowly escaped being one of. Off to our right, nestled at the edge of a scrub valley, was Wayside Honor Rancho — a new county facility to house misdemeanor offenders. It had housed Japs during the war, Okie farmers their keepers on the temporary War Relocation Board payroll. But now the war was over — and it was back to dry dirt.

I nudged Davis and pointed to a group of farmers uprooting cabbages. “There but for the grace of God go you, partner.”

Davis saluted the assembly, then flipped them his middle finger. “You can lead a dog to gravy, but you can’t make him a tapper.”

It was shortly past noon when we pulled up in front of the Ventura courthouse-jail. For a hick-town county seat, the joint had aspirations to class, all of them low — Greek pillars, a Tudor roof, and Spanish-style canvas awnings came togther to produce a building that gave you the feeling of d.t.’s without the benefit of booze. Davis groaned as we pushed open a door etched with Egyptian hieroglyphics; I said, “Be grateful it goes with your clothes.”

The interior was divided into two wings, and bars at the far end of the left corridor showed us where to go. There was a deputy seated just outside the enclosure, a fat youth done up in khaki that enclosed his blubbery body like a sausage casing. Looking up from his comic book, he said, “Ah... yessirs?”

Davis whipped out our three warrants and held them up for the kid to scrutinize. “LAPD, son. We’ve got an extradition warrant for Harwell Treadwell, plus two others on old beefs of his. You wanna go get him for us?”

The kid thumbed through the papers, probably looking for the pictures. When he couldn’t figure the words out, he unlocked the barred door and led us down a long hallway inset with cells on both sides. Nearing the end, I heard muffled obscenities and thudding sounds. The deputy announced our presence by clearing his throat and saying, “Ah... Sheriff? I got two men here need to talk to you.”

I stepped in front of the open cell door and looked in. A tall, beefy man in a ribbon-festooned version of the deputy’s getup was standing next to an even taller guy dressed like the archetypal G-man: gray suit, gray tie, gray hair, gray expression on his face. Handcuffed to a chair was our warrantee — white-trash defiance with a duck’s-ass haircut, purple and puke green bruises covering his face, brass-knuck marks dotting his bare torso.

The kid took off before the two hardcases could reprimand him for disturbing their third degree; Davis flashed our papers. The sheriff looked at them silently, and the fed buttoned his jacket over the knuckle dusters sticking out of his waistband. “I’m Special Agent Stensland.” he said. “Ventura Office, FBI. What—”

Harwell Treadwell laughed and spat blood on the floor. I said, “We’re taking him back to L.A. Did he cough up any dope on the other two?”

The sheriff shoved the papers at Davis. “He might have, you didn’t interrupt our interrogation.”

“You’ve had him for three days,” I said. “He should have blabbed by now.”

Treadwell spat blood on the sheriffs spit-shined cowboy boots; when the man balled his fists to retaliate, Davis stationed himself between the two. “He’s my prisoner now. Signed, sealed, and deeeelivered.”

Stensland said, “This won’t wash. Treadwell’s a federal prisoner.”

I shook my head. “He’s got city warrants predating the extradition one, and the extradition warrant is countersigned by a federal judge. He’s ours.”

Stensland bored in on me with beady gray eyes. I stood there, deadpan, and he tried a smile and cop-to-cop empathy. “Listen, Officer—”

“It’s Sergeant.”

“All right, Sergeant, listen: the Viertel girl and the other two men are still at large, and this filth was responsible for one of my agents losing six fingers. Don’t you want to go back to Los Angeles with a confession? Don’t you want his filthy brothers captured? Don’t you want to let us try it our way just a little bit longer?”

Davis said, “Your way don’t work, so we try mine,” walked over, and unlocked Harwell Treadwell’s cuffs. Standing up, the Okie snatch artist almost collapsed, and bile crept from the corners of his mouth. Davis eased him out to the catwalk, and I said to Stensland, “That warrant has an evidence clause. I need everything you found at the crime scene, including the ransom money you recovered.”

The fed flinched, then shook his head. “Not until Monday. It’s locked up in a safe at the courthouse, and the courthouse is closed until then.”

“How much was there?”

“Twenty-one hundred something.”

I said, “Send it down with an itemized receipt,” and walked out of the cell with the two minions of the law staring razor blades at me. I caught up with Davis and Treadwell at the barred enclosure, and the deputy snickered at the doubled-over prisoner. Treadwell shot a blood cocktail onto his shirtfront, and when fat boy stood up, shot him a pointy-toe boot to the balls. Davis whooped, “You a mother dog!” and the deputy nosedived onto his well-thumbed issue of Batman.

Davis’s “way” consisted of our taking Harwell Treadwell to a jig joint on Ventura’s south side and plying him with fried chicken, gravy-drenched biscuits, and yams while I held my gun on him and my car-crazed partner fired questions about the ’36 Auburn speedster. Treadwell obliged between wolfish mouthfuls, and Davis expressed worry that the Auburn would get shot up when the remaining Treadwell brothers got taken down by the law. “You worry about that girl,” Harwell told us over and over. “Them partners of mine got hound blood.” Then I interjected, “You mean your brothers?” and Treadwell always countered with, “I ain’t no snitch, son.”

It was midaftemoon when we finally headed south on Pacific Coast Highway, me at the wheel, Davis and the extraditee in the backseat, Treadwell’s wrists cuffed behind his back, ankles manacled to the front-seat housing. The ragtop was down and sunlight and seabreeze had me thinking that this wasn’t such a bad assignment after all. Behind me, the two Okies jawed, sparred, rattled each other’s cages.

“Who’s got the pink slip on the speedster, boy?”

“Who’s your haberdasher? I never seen so many divergent angles on a set of threads in my life.”

“I got Hollywood in me, boy.”

“Nigger blood more like it. Where you from in Oklahoma?”

“Outside Norman. You from Gila Bend?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s to do there?”

“Set dog’s tails on fire and watch flies fuck, drink, fight, and chase your sister.”

“I heard your brothers go for anything white and on the hoof.”

“Plain anything, boss. If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

“You think they’ll hurt the Viertel girl?”

“That girl can take care of herself, and I ain’t sayin’ my brothers got her.”

“How’d you find out about her?”

“Miller read the society page and fell in love.”

“I thought you said your brothers weren’t in on this.”

“I ain’t sayin’ they are, I ain’t sayin’ they isn’t.”

“Kidnappin’s Oklahoma stuff from way back. The Barkers, Pretty Boy. How you account for that?”

“Well... I think maybe fellas comin’ from hunger are real curious about the ante on loved ones. How high can you go before they say, ‘No sir, you keep the son of a bitch’?”

“Let’s get back to the Auburn, boy.”

“Let’s not. I need somethin’ to keep you tantalized with.”

“Tantalize me now.”

“How’s this: tan leather upholstery that Miller spilled liquor on, radio that picks up the San Dago stations real good, a little grind on the gearbox when you go into third. Hey!”

I saw it then, too: an overturned motorcycle on fire smack in the middle of the highway. No cops were at the scene, but a sawhorse detour sign had been placed in the middle lane, directing southbound traffic to a road running inland. Reflexively, I hung a hard left turn onto it, the flames lapping at the car’s rear bumper.

Davis whooped, “Whooo! Mother dog.” Harwell Treadwell laughed like a white-trash hyena. The two-lane blacktop took us up and over a series of short slopes, then down into a box canyon closed in by scrub-covered hills that pressed right up against the roadside. I cursed the hour or so the detour was going to cost us, then a loud “Ka-raaack” sounded, and the windshield exploded in front of me.

Glass shrapnel filled the air; I shut my eyes and felt slashes on my cheeks and my hands gripping the steering wheel. Davis screeched “MOTHERFUCK!” and started firing at the hill to the left of us. Opening my eyes and looking over, I saw nothing but greenery, then three more shots hit the side of the car, richocheting ding-ding-ding.

I floored the gas; Davis fired at the muzzle bursts on the hillside; Harwell Treadwell made strange noises — like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or weep. Head on the wheel, I kept one eye on the rearview, and through it I saw Davis haul Treadwell off the seat to use as a bulletproof vest, his .38 in Treadwell’s mouth as added insurance.

Ka-raack! Ka-raack! Ka-raack!

The last shot hit the radiator; steam covered my entire field of vision. I drove blind, picking up speed on a downslope, then there was another shot; the left front tire buckled, and the car fishtailed. I decelerated and aimed at the roadside shoulder away from the gunfire, sightless, trying to bank us in just right. Scrub bushes, green and huge, jumped out of nowhere, and then everything went topsy-turvy — and I was eating blacktop and steam.

More “ka-raacks” pulsated through me — and I didn’t know if they were gunshots or parts of my brains going blooey. Enveloped by dust and vapor fumes, I heard, “Legs’ Legs, boy! Run!” I obeyed, stumble-running full-out.

The vapor dissipated, and I saw that I was sprinting toward a patch of furrowed farm dirt. Davis was running in front of me, half hauling, half shoving Harwell Treadwell, gun at his head. I caught up with them, realizing the shots had ended — and at the far side of the dirt patch I saw trees and buildings — maybe a sharecropper shantytown.

We ran toward it — two cops and the kidnapper in handcuffs who was our bulletproof vest, life insurance and hole card, kicking dried-up cabbages and carrots and bean stalks out of the ground as we speedballed for sanctuary. Nearing the town, I saw that it was composed of one street with ramshackle wood structures on either side, a packed dirt road the only throughway. Slowing to a trot, I grabbed Davis’s arm and gasped, “We can’t risk taking a car out. We’ve gotta call the Ventura bulls.”

Davis jerked Treadwell’s bracelet chain, sending him face first to the ground. Catching his breath, he kicked him hard in the ass. “That’s for my car and in case I die.” Wiping dusty sweat off his brow, he pointed his .38 at the hick-town main street like he was imploring me to feast my eyes. I did, and a second later I saw what he was getting at: the phone lines were crumpled in a heap beside the base of the terminal pole that stood just inside the edge of the town proper.

I looked back at hardscrabble land and the roadway that held the remains of my partner’s car; I looked ahead at Tobacco Road, California style. “Let’s go.”

We entered the town, and I gave it a long eyeballing while Davis walked in a side-by-side drape with Harwell Treadwell, 38 snub dangling by a thumb and forefinger, business end aimed at his cojones. The left-hand side of the street featured a grain store, a market, the front window filled with stacks of Tokay and muscatel short dogs, and a clapboard farm-machinery repair shop with rusted parts strewn in front of it. On the right, the facades were all boarded up, with a string of prewar jalopies parked up against them, including a strange looking Model T hybrid that seemed made out of mismatched parts. The only strollers about were a couple of grizzled men dressed in sun-faded War Relocation Authority khakis — and they shot us a cursory fish-eye and kept on walking.

When we reached the end of the street, Davis spotted a flimsy-looking unboarded door, kicked it in, and shoved Treadwell inside. Turning to face me, he said, “We got what them boys want. You run into them you tell them Harwell is chewing on the end of my .38, and the first shot I hear he gets a hot lead cocktail. And you get us a car, boy.”

I nodded, then backtracked to the stand of heaps, looking for a likely one to commandeer. All six of them had at least one dead tire, and I started wondering about the lack of people, and why the two I’d seen so far didn’t seem alarmed at raggedy-assed armed strangers in their midst. Noticing a bolted-on fire ladder attached to the grain building across the street, I made for it, hoisting myself up the rungs.

At the top, I had a good view of the surrounding area. Shacks were nestled in little green pockets bordered by fenced-off crop acreage, with dirt access roads connecting them to each other and the town. No one seemed to be working in the fields, but there were a few people taking the breeze in front of their cribs, which struck me as eerie.

I descended the ladder, and when I was halfway down, saw an old man on one of the roads staring at me. I pretended not to notice, and he turned his back and ran — flat out — to the biggest shack in the community, a corrugated metal job with a white wood barn attached.

I hopped off the ladder and pursued, taking foot roads out of town and over an eighth of a mile or so to a stand of sycamore trees that formed a perimeter a few yards from the barn. The man was nowhere in sight, but the sliding barn door was open just a crack. I drew my .38 and sprinted over and in.

Sunlight through a side window illuminated a big empty space, and the smell of hay plus something medicinal hit my nostrils. In the center of the barn, the acid stench got stronger, and somehow familiar. I noticed a table covered with a tarpaulin wedged into a corner near the connecting door to the shack and saw dry ice hissing out of rips in the canvas. The shape underneath took form, and I pulled the tarp off.

A buck-naked dead man was lying on top of dry ice blocks, sachets oozing formaldehyde placed strategically on his body. He was a stone ringer for Harwell Treadwell, and you didn’t have to be a medical examiner to figure the cause of death — his crotch was blown to bits, torn, blooded flesh laced with buckshot all that remained.

I redraped the stiff, then eased the connecting door into a test jiggle. It gave, and I very slowly pulled it open, just a tiny fraction of an inch, in order to look in. Then it flew open all the way, and a big double-barreled shotgun was sighting down, and I shoved both my hands at midpoint on the stock and pushed up.

A huge “Ka-boom!” went off; the tin roof lurched under the force of the blast; pellets ricocheted. I threw myself at the shotgun wielder just as he tried to slam me with the butt of his weapon, wrestled it away from him, then chopped down at his head with the flat side of my .38 — one blow, two blows, three. Finally the man went limp. I kicked the shotgun out of harm’s way, then weaved on shaky, shaky legs.

It was the old man who’d rabbited when he saw me on the ladder. I looked around the room, saw a pail of water on the cracked wood floor by the front door, picked it up, and dumped it on my assailant. He stirred, then started sputtering, and I knelt down and placed my gun on his nose so he could get the picture up close. “You admit you killed that man back there or you convince me somebody else did, and you live. You tell me where the other Treadwell brother is and I don’t arrest you for assault on a police officer. You dick me around, you die.”

The geezer took it all in, his eyes getting clearer by the second, exhibiting the remarkable recuperative powers of the seasoned shat-upon. When he curled his lips to spit invective, I said, “No banter, no wisecracks, no shit,” and cocked the hammer.

Now pops got the whole picture, in Technicolor. “I ain’t no killer,” he said with a midwestern twang. “I’m a truck farmer likes to dabble in the medical arts, but I sure ain’t no killer.”

“I am. So you keep going and keep my interest, because I get bored easy, and when I get bored I get mad.”

Pops gulped, then spoke rapid-fire. “People here put up Miller and Leroy, ’long with the girl, when they had that trouble up in Ventura. They—”

I interrupted. “Did they pay you for it?”

Pops cackled. “Where you think everbody is? Miller and Leroy got cousins up the wazoo here, they spread the money around, everbody went up to Oxnard and Big V to spend it. Like to put Miller and Leroy broke they spent so—”

“What?”

“ ’Fore he died, Leroy told me they spent eight, nine thousand dollars, said this town of ours had hospitality like Hot Springs in the old days.”

I said, “Mister, the ransom money came to a hundred thousand.”

Pops snorted. “Big commotion back where it went bad. Police got most of it, Miller and Leroy got the dregs.”

My first thought was of the Ventura sheriffs holding back big. “Keep going.”

“Well, everbody got happy here, and Miller and Leroy and the cooze holed up, and Miller and Leroy started schemin’ another trade, and they started arguin’ and feudin’ over the girl, and she took to Miller ’cause Leroy was so nasty to her. Then Leroy tried to do her what you might call against her will, and she talked Miller into payin’ back her virtue.”

“Miller killed his own brother?”

“That’s right. And he felt so bad about it he paid me just about his last two hundred dollars to fix that boy up for burial, then put him in the ground when all the cousins got back after spendin’ their money.”

“Then Miller and the girl took off?”

“That’s right. Headed south, brand new black paint on that pretty car of Harwell’s.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. ’Bout noon.”

“Did they cut the phone lines before they went?”

Pops shrugged. “Don’t think so. Seems to me they was up this mornin’.”

I got the pins and needles tingling up the spine I always got when something was real wrong. Stensland the fed had said that there was “twenty-one hundred something” locked up as evidence, and Miller and Leroy dished out “eight or nine” grand for shelter. That left almost ninety thousand missing. Figure a few thousand blown away during the Mexican standoff — and the rest sucked up — probably by the feds and/or the Ventura sheriffs. And the scary part: if Miller Treadwell took off with Jane Viertel yesterday, it was the law that ambushed us — to make sure Harwell Treadwell didn’t squawk about his brother’s whereabouts — so they couldn’t tell us about their paltry take of the ransom pie.

I put my gun away, said “Bury the degenerate bastard,” and walked out the front door mad — like I’d been sucker punched.

When I got back to the dump where I’d left Davis and our prisoner, they were gone. A fresh wave of panic hit me; then I heard grunts and metal on metal noises coming from the other side of the building. I walked around, and there was Harwell Treadwell chained to a fence and my forty-six-year-old partner embarking on a new career as a hot-rod engineer.

He was working on the jerry-built heap I’d noticed earlier, which now resembled a cross between Buck Rogers’s spaceship and a collection of spare parts some trashcan dog dragged in. It was a Model T chassis with two motorcycle tires on the front, two tractor tires on the back, what looked like a half-dozen hooked-together lawnmower engines, and an undercarriage made up of chicken wire and friction tape. The man himself was on the ground toiling on the drive shaft, and when I reached into the driver’s seat and beeped the horn, he came up gun first, laughing when he saw who it was.

“Woooo, boy! You almost died!”

I walked over and whispered in Davis’s ear. “Miller killed Leroy and took off with the girl in the Auburn yesterday. The Ventura bulls are holding back on the ransom money, and I think it was them shooting at us. Let’s roll now. On foot if this thing won’t go.”

Davis smiled. “She’s got a name, boy. ‘Li’l Assdragger.’ And she’ll fly.”

I heard engines in the distance and stood on the contraption’s running board to grab a look. A three-vehicle caravan was thumping across the hardscrabble that bordered the town, sending up clouds of dust. Squinting hard, I saw black-and-white paint on one car, cherry lights on another.

Davis said, “Them?” I nodded. Suddenly he was a nut-tightening, screw-fastening, wire-connecting dervish, and Harwell Treadwell was shouting, “Come to big brother! Home cookin’ tonight! Come and get me!”

I ran over and fumbled at Treadwell’s bracelets with my handcuff key. I’d just gotten the left one off when he shot me a short right uppercut. Stunned, I started to duck into a crouch; then the free cuff lashed my face, the open ratchet ripping loose a chunk of my brows, blood in my eyes blinding me.

The black-and-white noise drew closer; I heard Davis frantically trying to start Li’l Assdragger. I wiped the blood from my eyes and got my balance just in time to see Harwell Treadwell hotfoot it around the edge of the building. I started to run after him, then the Okie jalopy lurched forward, cutting me off. Davis yelled, “I can’t brake too good. Jump in!”

I did. Davis popped the two foot pedals simultaneously, and the thing crept forward. I shouted “Treadwell!” above the engine noise. Davis shouted “He’ll pay!” twice as loud. On the street, I turned around and looked back, and there was our extraditee running headlong into the three-car dust storm, whooping and waving his arms. A second later I heard shotgun blasts and machine-gun fire, and parts of Treadwell flew in all directions before the storm clouds ate him up. Then I just held on.

We lurched, we bumped, we hit potholes and jumped three feet off the ground. We brodied through dirt and skidded over the connecting roads that led out of town. We fishtailed when we hit gravel, and we turned doughnuts when we hit wet spots. Davis leadfooted, double and triple clutched, honked stray dogs out of our way, and did everything else but hit the brakes. Dusk started coming on, and then we were on the big, broad Ridge Road southbound, blacktop under our mismatched wheels, a skinny yellow line separating us from collisions with real, live, normal cars. Davis hooted, “Ain’t got no lights!” and a moment later I saw the Wayside Honor Rancho turnoff sign. Davis saw it too, decelerated, pumped the floorboard and hooted “Ain’t got no brakes!” I shut my eyes and felt Li’l Assdragger shimmy. Then it was a triple fishtail-doughnut combo, and we were stone-cold still in the northbound lane, staring down the headlights of death.

We got out and ran. Tire screeches and thud-crunch-cracks behind us told me that Li’l Assdragger was fond recent history. Hugging the shoulder, we trudged over to the turnoff and up a road to the barbed-wire-enclosed guard hut that separated square-john citizens from county inmates. A light flashed on as we approached; I had my badge out and the word Peace on my lips. Then my legs turned to Jell-o, and I passed out thinking I should have more wind than a fat Okie fifteen years my senior.

I woke up to see that fat Okie standing over me in a clean white shirt and sedate print necktie. My first thought was that we had to be dead — Davis Evans would never dress that square unless God himself forced him to.

“Wake up, boy. I been doin’ police work while you been beauty sleepin’.”

In a split second it all came back. I groaned, felt the cot beneath me and looked around at the cramped interior of the guard hut. “Oh shit.”

Davis handed me a wet towel. “On a stick. I made me some phone calls. Pal of mine at the Ventura courthouse said he logged twenty-one hundred sixty-six beans of the ransom money into the evidence locker. What you think of that?”

I stood up and tried my legs. They wobbled, but held. “Miller and Leroy spread eight or nine grand around the town,” I said. “Leaving close to ninety out there. It’s got to be the Ventura cops.”

Davis shook his head. “Uh-uh. That was a legit dispatch that came into town and shot down Harwell. They saw that wreck of ours on the detour road and came lookin’ for survivors. See, I called R & I and Robbery for a list of Miller’s known associates from his old rousts. Got six names from his jacket, and the records clerk told me a Ventura fed called in a few hours before, got the same information. You think that ain’t sweet?”

I thought of Stensland, the all-gray federal man with the big tax-free pension — if he could kibosh the fact that the snatchers glommed only chump change. “Let’s go get him.”

“That mother dog gonna pay for hurtin’ my Buick.”

“Get a car from the duty officer. And this time I’ll drive.”

Back in familiar, if not safe-and-sane L.A., we formed an itinerary out of the six names and last-known addresses from Miller Treadwell’s K.A. file. Davis took the wheel again, and I picked and poked at my various cuts, lacerations, and bruises as we prowled the south-central part of the city — home to our first three possibles.

Number one’s wife told us her husband was back in Quentin; the apartment house of the number two man had been tom down and was now an amusement arcade frequented by Mexican youths wearing zoot suits; number three had gotten religion and praised Jesus as we searched his pad. He told us he hadn’t seen Miller Treadwell since their last job together in ’41, damned him as a fornicating whoremonger, and handed us leaflets that cogently explained that Jesus Christ was an Aryan, not a Jew, and that Mein Kampf was the lost book of the Bible. Davis’s response to the man was the longest “Wooooooo” I’d ever heard him emit, and we drove across town to Hollywood and K.A. number four, debating the pros and cons of parole violation on grounds of mental bankruptcy.

Number four — “Jungle” John Lembeck, white male, age thirty-four, two-time convicted strong-arm heister, lived in a bungalow court on Serrano just off the Boulevard. Giving the address a rolling once-over, Davis and I said “Bingo” simultaneously, and I added, “The Auburn with a bad black paint-job. Right by that streetlight.”

Davis blurted, “What?” slowed the car, and squinted out at the dark street. Noticing the dream-mobile, he said, “Double bingo. There’s a fed sled three cars down. If it’s got Ventura tags, this is grief.”

I got out and walked back to check; Davis continued on to the corner and parked. Squatting down, I squinted at the steel gray Plymouth’s rear license plate. Triple bingo: five-digit federal vehicle designation, 1945 Ventura County tags. Grief on a popsicle stick.

Davis trotted over, and we circled the bungalows in a flanking movement. They were individual stucco huts arranged around a cement courtyard, and John Lembeck’s file placed him in unit three. Alleys separated the court from the adjoining apartment buildings, and I took the one on the left.

The night was deep blue and cloudless, and I crept through the alleyway helped by light from apartment windows. The first two huts had drawn curtains, but the third one back was cracked for air, the Venetian blinds down to just above the narrow open space. I drew my gun, put my eyes to the slice of light, and looked in.

Quadruple bingo — and then some.

The man who had to be Miller Treadwell was sitting in an overstuffed chair, his pants down, moaning, “Guddamn, guddamn.” I could see a woman’s left hand bracing the chair arm, but nothing more of the woman herself. Agent Stensland was trussed up, lying on his side on the floor, next to the entranceway into the front room. He was working his wrist bonds against a wall grate, his breath expanding and contracting against the fabric tape crisscrossing his mouth.

Miller moaned with his eyes shut, then a pretty blonde head popped up and spoke to him: “Sugar, let me talk to you for a sec.”

“Guddamn, girl, don’t stop.”

“Miller, you have to make him tell you where he put the money.”

“We got ours, girl. He ain’t gonna tell us; he knows I’ll kill him if he does. We got ours, and we can trade you again.”

“Daddy’s too cheap to pay more. We could have twice as much, Sugar. We could go away and be together and just forget about Daddy.”

“Sugar, don’t talk nonsense. We got plenty, your papa’s got plenty more, and I ain’t able to talk so good in this state you got me in. You wanta...”

The head disappeared again; Miller went back to moaning. I wondered where Evans was and watched Stensland move his bound wrists against the grate. The kidnapper-killer’s ecstacy was reaching a crescendo when I saw my partner, inside the pad, tiptoeing over to the entranceway. He was just a few feet in back of Stensland when the G-man got his hands free and ripped the tape from his mouth. He went flush at the pain, and I followed his eyes to a .45 automatic on the armrest beside Miller’s right hand.

Pawing at his leg restraints, racing against the Okie’s release, Stensland banged his elbow on the grate. Miller jerked out of heaven and aimed the .45 at him just as I wedged my gun through the window crack. He fired at the fed; I fired at him; Davis emptied his piece at the chair. There must have been a dozen explosions, and then it was all over except for Jane Mackenzie Viatel’s record-length scream.

A shitload of Hollywood division black-and-whites showed up, and the meat wagon removed Miller Treadwell and Special Agent Norris Stensland, D.O.A. A detective lieutenant told Davis and me he wanted a full report before he contacted the feds. We kept the Viertel girl in handcuffs on genera! principles, and when the commotion wound down and the crowd of rubberneckers dispersed, we braced her on the front lawn of the courtyard.

Unlocking her cuffs, I said, “Come clean on the money. What happened? Where’s the dough Miller was talking about?”

Jane Viertel, backlighted by a street lamp, rubbed her wrists. “The money was in two packages. When it got crazy, they were dropped. Miller and Leroy got one, and it ripped open. The FBI man dropped his and Leroy ran with me, then Miller took off. The FBI man took Harwell to his car, then came back and grabbed the last package so Harwell wouldn’t know he had it. But Miller saw him. He had some loose bills he picked up, and he hid the rest of the money from Leroy. Miller and Leroy gave the loose money to these dreadful slobs to hide us out, and Leroy thought that was all there was. Then Miller and I got cozy, and he told me there was forty thousand for us.”

I looked at the girl, nineteen-year-old pulchritude with whorehouse smarts. “Where’s Miller’s money?”

Jane watched Davis lovingly eye the Auburn speedster. “Why should I tell you? You’d just give it back to that cheapskate father of mine.”

“He paid a hundred grand to save your life.”

The girl shrugged and lit a cigarette. “He probably used the interest from Mother’s trust fund. What’s wrong with fatso? Is he queer for cars or something?”

Davis walked over to us. “She needs a complete paint strip, new paint job, new upholstery and some whitewalls. Then she’s a peach.” Winking at Jane Viertel, he said, “What’s your goal in life, Sweetheart? Pussywhipping killers?”

Jane smiled, walked to the car, and unscrewed the gas cap. She dropped in her cigarette and started running. Davis and I hit the ground and ate grass. The gas tank exploded and the car went up in flames. The girl stood up and curtsied, then walked to us and said, “Miller’s money was in the trunk. Too had. Daddy. Maybe you can tell Mother it’s a tax write-off.”

I recuffed Jane Viertel; the flames sent flickers of light over Davis Evans’s bereaved face. He stuck his hands in his pockets, pulled them out empty, and said to me, “You got a couple dimes, partner? AX6-400’s a toll call. I need me a peach like a mother dog.”

Flotsam and Jetsam

John Lutz

John Lutz is the winner of the 1985 Edgar Award for the best short story of the year. He has published some two hundred stories in his twenty years as a professional writer and eight novels, the most recent of which is Tropical Heat (Henry Holt and Company, 1986).

Commenting on “Flotsam and Jetsam,” Mr. Lutz says he has long been intrigued by alcoholism as a subject for fiction, and he believes that the illness alcoholics suffer would be better understood if it were more often explored by creative writers. He is intrigued by the way alcohol affects memory, as he demonstrates in the following story.

When a customer hefted a grease-spotted box of glazed-to-go and cracked, “You’d make more money selling these by the pound,” Danny didn’t smile his customary good-business grimace to hide the hurt.

After the customer had left and Nudger was the only one other than Danny in Danny’s Donuts, Nudger sipped his horrendous coffee and studied Danny over the stained rim of the Styrofoam cup. Danny, who resembled a scrawny basset hound, had larger, deeper, and darker circles than usual beneath his sad brown eyes, and the lines on his drooping features appeared longer and more defined. Something was gnawing on him. If this kept up, he would go from basset hound to bloodhound, a less lovable breed.

“What’s bothering you, Danny?” Nudger asked, partly to make conversation, partly to divert Danny’s attention from the fact that he hadn’t been able to get down more than half of the Dunker Delite Danny had bestowed upon him for breakfast.

Danny sighed, then removed the grayish towel he kept tucked in his belt and flicked some crumbs off the stainless steel counter. “Friend of mine died,” he said.

Nudger grunted and nodded, surreptitiously folding his napkin to conceal the half-carcass of the doughnut before him when Danny glanced away. “Natural death or accidental?”

“He died in a fall,” Danny said, “off a wagon.”

“Old friend?”

Danny tucked the towel back beneath his belt and nodded. “We went back over twenty years. Then we wound up in AA together.”

“That kind of wagon,” Nudger said. He knew that Danny had been a member of Alcoholics Anonymous for the past seven years, and in that time hadn’t touched alcohol. The organization had convinced Danny, finally and forever, that he would always be an alcoholic and the best he could do was to be one who never drank alcohol. If Danny had a religion, it was AA. And the organization had done more for him than religion had done for most people.

“Artie Akron hadn’t touched a drop of liquor for five years, Nudge,” Danny said, leaning on the counter with both elbows. “Then they find him last night down on North Broadway with his head bashed in and his wallet missing. They say he had a point twenty-eight alcohol content in what was left of his blood.”

“It happens that way sometimes,” Nudger said. “Some punk probably rolled him for his money and hit him too hard.” He wondered, was Danny only mourning his old friend, or was he also considering that the same kind of fate might someday be his own? It was a tough life for those who’d inherited the wrong genes and a thirst for alcohol. “You’ll make it okay, Danny,” Nudger said.

Danny glanced over at him and smiled sadly; he knew what Nudger had been thinking and appreciated the concern. “You want another doughnut, Nudge?”

“Er, no, thanks, I’m full, I’d better get upstairs and do some work.” Nudger’s office was on the second floor of the old brick building, directly above the doughnut shop.

Danny picked up Nudger’s cup and ran some more gritty dark coffee into it from the big steel urn. “One for the road, Nudge.”

Nudger thanked him, carefully picked up his wadded napkin as if it were empty, and tossed it into the plastic-lined trash can by the window counter on his way out. The napkin-wrapped doughnut struck the can’s bottom like a piece of stone sculpture.

The morning was already heating up; a typical St. Louis July day. It would also be typical of St. Louis weather if it were sixty degrees and hailing by nightfall. The only thing that changed rapidly in this city was the weather.

Nudger quickly entered a door next-door to Danny’s Donuts and climbed a narrow wooden stairway to his office. He picked up the morning mail from where it lay on the landing, then unlocked the office door and pushed inside.

Warm, stifling, stale. The small office still seemed to contain heat from yesterday’s record-breaking temperature, as well as the sweet, cloying scent from the doughnut shop below. It was the kind of scent that permeated everything: furniture, drapes, clothes, even flesh. Wherever Nudger went, he gave off the faint scent of a Dunker Delite. It didn’t drive women wild.

He switched on the window air conditioner, then sat down in his squealing swivel chair and did nothing until the cool breeze from the humming, gurgling window unit had made the office air more breathable. Finally, he picked up the stack of mail from where he’d tossed it on the desk and leafed through it.

The usual: a mail-order catalog from International Investigators Supply Company, featuring an inflatable boat that would fit into a shirt pocket when deflated; a letter from his former wife Eileen, no doubt threatening stark horror unless alimony money showed up via return mail; an enticement to join a home-video club specializing in X-rated movies full of snickering adolescent sex, for adults only; an envelope from the electric company that looked disturbingly like a bill. Nudger tossed the entire mess into the wastebasket.

Then he glanced at his watch, made sure his phone-answering machine was on Record, and left the office. He had to follow a cigarette delivery-truck on its route, to discover if the driver had anything to do with why certain figures didn’t coincide.

A week later, when the cigarette pilfering case had ended (the supervisor — the man who had hired Nudger — turned out to be the thief; there was some debate over paying Nudger’s fee), Nudger was sitting at his desk wondering what next when there was a knock on the door.

Client! Nudger thought hopefully. He leaned forward, his swivel chair squealing at the same time he called for the visitor to enter.

The door opened and Danny walked in.

“You don’t seem glad to see me, Nudge,” Danny said.

“It’s not that,” Nudger said. “I was expecting someone else.”

“I think I need to talk to somebody, Nudge. You know how it is, I got no family, nobody.”

“Sit down,” Nudger said. “Talk.”

Danny sat in the chair by the window, aging ten years in the harsh morning light. “Another friend of mine died last night,” he said. “Found on the north side in a rough neighborhood, shot in the back of the head. Robbery again.”

“Who was this one?” Nudger asked.

“Mack Perry, another member of my AA chapter, another old shipmate.”

“Shipmate?”

“Yeah. Perry, Akron, and I served on the USS Kelso during the Vietnam War. This was in the midsixties, before the war heated up, when the Navy got young guys to join by promising them they’d go through training and service together. We were in a St. Louis unit. Lots of guys on the Kelso were from St. Louis, until after it was hit and recommissioned later as a minesweeper.”

“Hit?”

“By a North Vietnamese torpedo boat. The ship didn’t sink, but we limped back to port with two dead, including the captain, and fifteen wounded. They dug metal out of us and pinned medals on us and took the Kelso out of service for repairs.”

“I didn’t know you were a war hero, Danny.”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Danny said simply. “And me and a few others were just drunk enough to be brave.”

Nudger could see he didn’t want to talk about the violent years, so he concentrated on violent yesterday. “You said Perry was another old shipmate, Danny. Was the other fellow who was killed, Artie Akron, on the Kelso, too?”

Danny nodded, “Yeah. That’s when the three of us really started drinking hard, in Honolulu after the Kelso got hit and we were in the last stages of our recuperation. Of course, lots of other guys were drinking hard then, too, and didn’t go on to let it ruin their lives.”

Nudger sat staring out the window beyond Danny, at the pigeons strutting along a stained ledge of the building across the street. He really didn’t like pigeons — messy birds. “Are any other old shipmates in your AA chapter?” he asked.

“Nope,” Danny said. “But there’s a lot more of them around town, I told you we were mostly recruited together here and formed a kind of unit throughout training and part of our service.”

“Kind of odd,” Nudger said, “two old Kelso crewmen being murdered within a week of each other.”

Danny’s furrowed forehead lowered in a frown. “You figure it could be part of a pattern, Nudge?”

“Can you think of any reason there might be a pattern?”

Danny sat silently for a moment, then shook his head. “No, there was nothing between Akron and Perry except that they served on the Kelso and were alcoholics.”

“You know anybody else fits that description, Danny?”

“No, not really.” Danny’s somber brown eyes suddenly widened. Fear gleamed in them briefly like a signal light: a call for help. “Jeez, Nudge, you don’t think somebody might try snuffing me, do you?”

“I wish I could tell you, Danny. I guess I’d better try to find out more about what’s going on.”

Danny looked embarrassed. “I can’t pay you for this right away, Nudge, but I will eventually. And you’ve got free doughnuts forever.”

Nudger tried to mask the distress on his face, but he was sure Danny caught it. The man was sensitive about his doughnuts. Nudger would have to make amends.

“And coffee?” he said, bargaining hard.

Danny smiled. “Coffee, too, Nudge.”

It was laborious but sure, the process of getting a list of the Kelso’s crew members in 1965. Naval Records even supplied a list of the crew’s hometown addresses. Thorough, was the military. We should all learn.

Fifteen of the Kelso’s crew had been from St. Louis. Nudger sat down with his crew list and the phone directory and matched five names besides Danny’s, Akron’s, and Perry’s. He began phoning, setting up appointments. When told that the subject of their conversation would be the Kelso, the four crew members he was able to contact eagerly agreed to talk with Nudger.

The first Kelso crewman Nudger met with was Edward Waite, who took time out from his job as some sort of technician at a chemical plant to sit in a corner of the employees’ lounge with Nudger over coffee. The place was empty except for them; a long, narrow room with plastic chairs, Formica tables, and a bank of vending machines displaying questionable food.

Waite was a large, muscular man with a florid face, powerful and immaculately manicured hands, and a clown like fringe of reddish unruly hair around his ears, grown long as if to compensate for his bald pate. He squinted at Nudger with his small blue eyes, as if he needed glasses, and said, “Sure, I was below deck when the Kelso took the torpedo. The concussion rolled me out of my bunk. I heard valves exploding, steam hissing, shipmates yelling. None of us near the bow were in any real danger, though; the torpedo hit amidships. But I can tell you I wanted to see the sky worse than anything when I managed to stand up. I could smell the sea and hear water rushing and figured we might be going down.”

“You lost two crewmen,” Nudger said.

Waite nodded, gazing down at the Styrofoam coffee cup that was barely visible steaming in his huge hand. “Yeah, a signalman name of Hopper, and Captain Stevenson. They were on the bridge when the Kelso got hit; damage was heavy there. Artie Akron tried to pull the captain out of the flames, but he was already dead. That’s how Akron got wounded, going onto the burning part of the bridge after the captain. Won himself a Navy Cross, and now he got himself drunk and killed in a bad part of town. Hard to figure.”

“It is that,” Nudger agreed. “Did Akron do much drinking on board the Kelso?”

Waite thought about that, looking beyond Nudger at the sandwich machine. “No more than any of us, as far as I can remember.”

“Who did Akron pal around with who might know more about him?”

“Nobody in particular on the Kelso, but when we were laid up in Honolulu he did a lot of bumming around with Mack Perry. A lot of serious drinking, come to think of it. I guess they both got too far into the bottle there. Maybe that’s what led to their alcohol problem. Odd, though, them both getting rolled and killed within a week of each other.”

“How come Akron and Perry all of a sudden became buddies on shore, but hadn’t been on board ship?” Nudger asked.

Waite shrugged. “Hell, who knows? Maybe they were bunked next to each other in the hospital there. Perry was on the bridge, too, when the Kelso and that torpedo met. He picked up some shrapnel and got burned some. It makes sense that he and Artie Akron were in the hospital bum unit together.”

“Makes sense,” Nudger agreed. “Did anyone else from St. Louis get wounded in the torpedo attack?”

“Jack Mays, Danny Evers, Milt Wile, maybe a few others. None of them got badly hurt, though. Just enough to earn some medals and some hospital leave. I got injured myself, in the stampede to get up on deck after the ship got hit. All hell erupts when a little ship like a destroyer takes a hit, Nudger. For a few minutes there’s terror and panic. It’s nothing like in the movies.”

“Not much is,” Nudger said. He checked his list. Milt Wile had died in an auto accident four years ago. Running his forefinger down the list, Nudger said, “Jack Mays is one of the ten crewmen who moved away from St. Louis.”

“Yeah. I saw him at our five- and ten-year reunions, but he wasn’t at the fifteen-year get-together.” Waite sipped his coffee. “He’s in prison somewhere, I heard, mixed up in narcotics trafficking.”

“Do you know the whereabouts of the other crew members who moved from the city?”

“Most of them. I talked to them at the last reunion, five years ago. We decided not to have a twenty-year reunion, though. You know how it is, other interests, lives gone in different directions. Only eight of us showed up at the fifteen-year reunion.”

Waite told Nudger about the other crew members. Two more of them had died within the past five years. Now Artie Akron and Mack Perry were dead. Nudger could see that Waite was depressed just talking about it. Time did that to people who went to reunions. Another Kelso crewman, Ralph Angenero, had done seven years for extortion before being released from the state prison in Jefferson City two years ago. Other than Mays and Angenero, the crewmen had, as far as Waite knew, stayed on the sunny side of the law.

Nudger spent the rest of that day and part of the next talking to the Kelso crew members still in the city. They all more or less substantiated what Waite had said. The series of interviews hadn’t given Nudger anything to work with; no new insights, no new direction. He was still at sea.

From time to time in that situation, Police Lieutenant Jack Hammersmith had tossed Nudger a life preserver. Though it would be difficult to discern from their conversation, the two men had a deep respect and affection for each other that went back over ten years to when they shared a two-man patrol car. Nudger had saved Hammersmith’s life; Hammersmith never forgot or considered the scales even. His sense of obligation hadn’t flagged even after Nudger’s nervous stomach had caused him to quit the force and go private.

Nudger sat now in one of the torturous straight-backed oak chairs in front of Hammersmith’s desk at the Third District. He watched with trepidation as Hammersmith’s smooth, pudgy hand fondled the greenish cigar in his shirt pocket then absently withdrew. Close. Smoke from Hammersmith’s cigars had the capacity to kill insects and small animals. Even secondhand, it was more than mildly toxic to humans.

“Who are these people?” Hammersmith asked, studying the list of names that Nudger had handed him. “Is this the infield of the Minnesota Twins?”

“They’re former crewmen of a destroyer in the Vietnam War,” Nudger said. “As were Artie Akron and Mack Perry. All presently St. Louisans.”

“Those last two names strike a chord. Murder victims, right? A couple of alkies who got themselves rolled and killed.”

“Making any progress on those cases?” Nudger asked, with an edge of sarcasm.

Hammersmith’s pale blue eyes glared at Nudger from his smooth, flesh-padded features. He sure had put on weight during the past ten years. “You know there actually are no cases, Nudge. It’s not unusual to find alkies rolled and dead in this city or any big city. It’s virtually impossible to find a suspect. Maybe some bum or small-timer we pick up on another charge will confess to one of the killings, but probably not. The risk of dying comes with the territory for alcoholics. It’s an American tradition.”

“These two men were members of the same Alcoholics Anonymous chapter,” Nudger said. “They hadn’t consumed any alcohol for months, maybe years, before they were found dead.”

“Maybe. Anyway, that’s when an alkie really goes on a big bender, Nudge, coming off a long dry spell.” He shook the paper in his hand. “What do you want me to do with this list?”

“Check with Records and see if you have anything on the names.”

“That’s what I thought you wanted,” Hammersmith said. “Unauthorized use of police files.” He drew the cigar from his pocket, methodically unwrapped it, and lit it. Greenish smoke billowed. Nudger’s remaining time in the office was very limited. Hammersmith intended it to be that way. He was a busy man; crimefighting was a demanding profession.

After Hammersmith had phoned Records and given them his request, he leaned his corpulent self back in his padded desk chair and puffed on the cigar with a rhythmic wheezing sound, fouling the room with a greenish haze. Nudger was going to earn this information.

“You’re going to kill yourself with those poisonous things,” Nudger said, to fill the silence in the hazy office.

“You’ll probably get to me first,” Hammersmith said. “You and your pestiness.”

Nudger was sure there was no such word as pestiness, but he thought it best not to correct Hammersmith’s diction. Anyway, the message was clear. He sat quietly until a young clerk who knew better than to mention the smoke in the office came in and laid some computer print-out paper on Hammersmith’s desk.

“Not very interesting,” Hammersmith said around his cigar, even before the pale clerk had gone. He removed the cigar and placed it in an ashtray, carefully propping it at an angle so it wouldn’t go out. “Nobody here has anything on this sheet more serious than a traffic violation. Well, here’s a five-year-old assault charge against one Edward Waite. Disturbance at a tavern. Other than that, not a black hat in the bunch. Your two deceased drunks, however, had a string of alcohol-related offenses until about six years ago. They’ve been clean since then. I checked last week, Nudge. Your police department does care when a corpus delicti is noticed at the curb.”

“Reassuring,” Nudger said, standing up from the uncomfortable chair. The smoke was thicker nearer the ceiling; he stifled a cough. “Thanks for your help, Jack.” He moved toward the door and fresh air.

Hammersmith’s voice stopped him. “Keep me tapped in on this one, Nudge. If there’s a chance to collar whoever killed either of those alkies, I want to know.”

“You’ll be the first I’ll tell,” Nudger promised.

Hammersmith smiled and exhaled a greenish thundercloud. “You feel okay? You look a little sickly.”

“Oh, that’s probably because my lungs are collapsing,” Nudger said, opening the door and pointing his nose toward the sweet, breathable air of the booking area.

“So who invited you here?” Hammersmith said behind him.

Nudger didn’t recall inviting anyone to drop by at four A.M. at his apartment on Sutton, but there seemed to be someone in the hall, pounding on his door with a sledgehammer. He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, trying to convince himself this was a dream and he wouldn’t have to cope and could go back to sleep.

The pounding continued. Even the walls were shaking.

“Nudge?...”

Nudger recognized the voice filtering in through the locked door. Danny.

“Hey, Nudge!”

Nudger’s stomach came belatedly awake and gave him a swift mulelike kick that helped to propel him out of bed. Soon the neighbors would be on the phone, in the hall, shouting, threatening to call the landlord or the police, meaning it all. The muscle-bound drug-head down the hall in 4-C might get violent; he’d almost killed a meter reader last month.

“Damn!” Nudger stubbed his toe on the nightstand. He managed to switch on the reading lamp, which provided enough light for him to find his way out of the bedroom and into the living room. Switching on another lamp, he made it to the door and unlocked it.

It was like opening the door to a distillery. Danny was slouched against the wall in the hall. He staggered back with a dumb grin on his long face, almost losing his balance, and stared at Nudger. “You ain’t got nothin’ on, Nudge. You’re naked.”

Which was true, Nudger suddenly realized, coming one hundred percent awake just in time to see the door across the hall open and old Mrs. Hobson peer out above her gold-rimmed spectacles. The Hobson door quickly closed, then opened again a fraction of an inch.

“Shut up down there or let me join the party!” a deep voice yelled from the landing upstairs.

Nudger quickly grabbed Danny and yanked him inside, then shut and relocked the door. He went back into the bedroom and put on a robe and the leather slippers his true love Claudia Bettencourt had given him on an expensive whim, then he returned to the living room. Danny was now slumped in Nudger’s favorite armchair, his head lolling. He had vomited on the chair and on the carpet. He looked as pale and sick as Nudger had ever seen him.

“What happened, Danny?” But Nudger knew what had happened.

“Smallish drink,” Danny said, his voice slurred.

“How many?” Nudger asked.

“Thousands.”

“Stay there,” Nudger said. He went into the kitchen and got Mr. Coffee going. When he came back, he saw that Danny had passed out.

“The hell with this,” Nudger said. He would let Danny sleep. He got some wet towels, cleaned up Danny, cleaned the armchair and the carpet. Then he wrestled the limp Danny until he’d removed his shirt and shoes and dumped him onto the sofa.

“Doughnuts,” Danny said, snuggling in.

“What?”

“Remember when you caught that old guy in my shop and chased him, thought he had a bag of the day’s receipts. But all he had was doughnuts. He was hungry, was all. Two dozen glazed doughnuts. His name was Masterson, gray guy about ninety years old. Bum with a hole in his shoe with newspaper sticking out of it. Hell, we let him have the doughnuts. What did I care; I was drunk at the time. That’s when I was drinkin’ heavy, Nudge.”

Nudger thought back. “That’s been over seven years ago, Danny.”

“Eight at least,” Danny said, his voice still thick.

“How come you remembered that?” Nudger asked.

Danny ignored him. “He’d have got sick if he’d eaten all them doughnuts,” he said. He would never have said that if he’d been sober. Fiercely proud of his weighty cuisine, was Danny. Soft snoring began to drift up from the sofa.

Nudger poured himself a cup of coffee and let Danny sleep.

He sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and thinking, until almost dawn. Then he went back to bed and tried to sleep for a while, but that didn’t work. At eight in the morning, he felt almost as bad as Danny looked.

Danny probably felt even worse than he looked. He sat on the edge of the sofa, holding his head with both hands as if it were fragile crystal. “Fell off the wagon,” he said sheepishly, when he’d managed to free his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“Why?” Nudger asked.

Danny shrugged, wincing. “Got to thinking about Akron and Perry. It ain’t right, how they stayed dry so long and then wound up booze-soaked and dead. It ain’t fair.”

“Life isn’t renowned for its evenhandedness.”

“Don’t I know it, Nudge.” Danny brought off a smile. Brave man, risking having his cheeks shatter. “You know it, too, what with people pounding on your door in the middle of the night.”

“What made you think of the old bum with the doughnuts?” Nudger asked.

Danny looked bewildered. “Huh? What old bum?”

“Take a shower,” Nudger said. “I’ll get us some breakfast.”

“Nothing to eat for me, Nudge,” Danny said, making it to his feet. “Just black coffee and a gallon of orange juice.” He stumbled bleary-eyed into the bathroom. Nudger listened to the tap water run as Danny drank glass after glass of water from the washbasin faucet before climbing into the shower.

Over his third glass of orange juice, Danny said, “I ain’t been that far gone in over six years, Nudge, except for when Uncle Benj died and didn’t leave me any money. He got to be a mean old bastard, a dry drunk who wouldn’t drink or admit his problem. They’re the worst kind of alcoholic.”

Maybe, Nudger thought, but Uncle Benj’s liver might have disagreed.

After breakfast, Danny looked, and seemed to feel, reasonably human. While Nudger listened, he phoned someone named Ernie, an AA buddy and confidant who promised to meet him that morning. Then, assuring Nudger that he was all right and would stay sober, he left to open the doughnut shop.

Nudger picked up the phone and made a ten o’clock appointment with Dr. Abe Addleman, a reformed alcoholic and the head physician at the Pickering Alcoholic Rehabilitation Center, who knew more about alcoholism firsthand and textbook than anyone else in the city.

Mays was still in town, registered under his own name at the Mayfair, a classy old downtown hotel with acres of carpeting and wood paneling. Hammersmith’s check of major hotels had located him within an hour. The age of the computer. Nudger elevatored to the hotel’s fifth floor, chomping antacid tablets as he rose. In the hall, he adjusted his clothing and buttoned his sport coat.

He knocked on Mays’s door, heard movement inside the room, and within a few seconds the door opened. Jack Mays, older and heavier than the grinning, towheaded sailor Danny had pointed out in the Kelso crew photograph, stood staring blankly at Nudger.

“I was expecting Room Service.”

“Sorry,” Nudger said. “I’m a friend of a friend of Artie Akron and Mack Perry. Can I come in so we can talk?”

“Talk about what?”

“Old times. I’ll talk, and you interrupt me if I’m wrong about something. Though I suspect I’ve got everything pretty well figured out.”

Wariness glimmered for a moment in Mays’s flat gray eyes. Desperation crossed his face like a shadow, and he ran a hand through his thinning blond hair. He had his white shirtsleeves rolled up; when he raised an arm to lean on the doorjamb, Nudger glimpsed a faded blue anchor tattoo high on his forearm. “This a shakedown?” he asked.

Nudger didn’t answer. Mays stepped back to let him in, then closed the door and walked to the window. He stared down at the traffic on St. Charles, studiously not looking at Nudger. Nudger could almost hear the gears in Mays’s mind whirring.

“You got out of Raiford Prison in Florida last month,” Nudger said, “after serving seven years on a narcotics charge.”

Mays snorted. “Those aren’t old times.”

“But they pertain to old times on the Kelso. You peddled drugs and bootleg liquor on board ship back then, didn’t you?”

“Sure. No big deal. Half the guys in Nam used one thing or another. It was a bad war.”

“Especially for you, Mays. The Kelso’s captain found out about your drug-dealing and was going to have you court-martialed. There was a confrontation on the bridge, when the two of you were alone for a few minutes. That’s when the North Vietnamese attack occurred and the ship was hit. You used the opportunity to kill the captain so he couldn’t make good on his court-martial threat. When Artie Akron and Danny Evers got to their feet after the explosion, they saw the captain still standing. After the bridge had burned, his body was found in the debris.”

“They were mistaken about Captain Stevenson,” Mays said, looking at Nudger now. “They were disoriented. He was killed in the explosion on the bridge. Akron knew they’d been wrong about seeing the captain on his feet; five minutes after they thought they saw him, Akron was trying to pull him from the flames — got a medal for it even though he couldn’t reach Stevenson. It didn’t matter, though, because Captain Stevenson was already dead. He was killed almost instantly when the torpedo hit.”

“That’s what they thought all these years. But that’s not what you admitted to them in Honolulu, when the three of you were drunk.”

Mays smiled a mean smile. “You got to Danny Evers.”

“Sure. Danny and I are old friends. I did what you planned to do, what you were hanging around town waiting for the opportunity to do when enough time had passed after Mack Perry’s death. I got Danny drunk this afternoon. Only I did it with his permission, and in the presence of a doctor. And a stenographer.”

Mays took a step toward Nudger, then stood still, poised. Dangerous. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. His eyes were the color of a flat gray-green sea where sharks swam. Nudger’s stomach turned over, but he talked on despite his fear.

“You, Akron, and Danny were falling-down-drunk in Honolulu when you admitted having killed the captain and told how you did it. Then you tried to make amends for your slip of the tongue and your booze-affected judgment by saying you were only joking. But you all knew it hadn’t been a joke. The next morning, Akron and Danny didn’t remember any of the conversation, or didn’t seem to. And you weren’t about to bring it up. But you watched them, and whenever there was a Kelso St. Louis crew reunion, you showed up and reassured yourself that they still didn’t recall the drunken conversation in Hawaii so many years ago. When you got out of prison, you came here for the twentieth reunion, found out there wasn’t going to be one, and also discovered that Akron, Danny, and Mack Perry were attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. You didn’t know they’d become problem drinkers, but you knew what I confirmed this afternoon: When something happens to someone while very drunk, he tends to forget it when sober, but he might just remember it when he’s drunk again, even years later. Some doctors even say that’s the reason alcoholics drink, to try, usually futilely, to get in touch with the part of their lives they can only recall when extremely drunk; it’s as if a piece of their past is missing. You were afraid Akron or Danny would fall off the wagon, get blind drunk, and happen to remember the Honolulu conversation and mention it to the wrong party. But why did you kill Mack Perry?”

“He was going to AA meetings with Artie Akron and Danny. When alkies get into the bottle they sometimes spill their guts to a fellow AA member, especially if he’s an old friend and shipmate. If they’d just been social drinkers, I could have let them live. Perry always had a drinking problem, but how do you figure the other two, Danny and Akron, becoming alcoholics?”

“Maybe you gave them their reason to drink,” Nudger said. “One that was buried in their subconscious minds.”

“Freud stuff,” Mays said, grinning. He shrugged. “They couldn’t prove anything, not after all those years.”

“Sure they could. You told them you shot the Kelso’s captain with a pistol you stole from ordnance. If his body was exhumed, even now the bullet might be there in the coffin with him.”

“Might,” Mays said. “The bullet might have passed through him when I shot him. Or even fallen out of his body; he was burned almost to a cinder.”

“It’s a big might,” Nudger told him. “Too big not to act on if a murder charge is at stake. You could take a chance on your old shipmates not remembering, until you found out they were problem drinkers, alcoholics. Enough deep drunks, if any of them started drinking again, and the secret might unexpectedly pop out of the past. The only sure way to prevent that from happening was to kill them. But first you got them drunk, to make sure they were capable of falling off the wagon and might repeat what was said in Honolulu, to somehow justify the murders as well as to provide a cover for the deaths. You knew the police wouldn’t make a connection or look too closely into the street murders of a few middle-aged drunks, killed and rolled for their wallets. The thing about your old shipmates that frightened you, their alcoholism, was what provided a safe means of getting rid of them.”

A gradual change came over Mays, a darkening of his complexion and a hardening of his broad features. It was as if something in a far, shadowed corner of his mind had been flushed out of hiding. “I could live knowing they might have a few too many now and then,” he said. “It was unlikely they’d remember what I said all those years ago. But to a gut-deep, genuine alcoholic, time means nothing. Anything might surface. Twenty years ago is like twenty minutes ago. You’re right. I couldn’t take the chance anymore that they might talk.” He moved around so he was between Nudger and the door. “And I can’t take the chance that you might talk, no matter how much you shake me down for.” He scooped up a heavy glass ashtray and sprang at Nudger.

Nudger yelled in surprise, tried to back away, and lost his footing. It was a good thing; as he fell backward onto the carpet, he felt a swish of air and glimpsed the bulky ashtray arc past his head. Mays lost his grip on the ashtray at the end of his swing. It went skipping across the room and broke against the far wall. Snarling, he lunged at Nudger just as Nudger had gotten up on one knee.

They went down together, rolling on the floor and seeking handholds on each other. Nudger shoved the palm of his hand against Mays’s perspiring face; it slipped off, and he had the brief satisfaction of feeling his elbow crack into Mays’s cheekbone. He tried to grasp Mays’s hair, but there wasn’t enough of it to grip, and Nudger’s hand shot away with a few blond strands between the fingers of his clenched fist. Mays had one hand against Nudger’s chest, pressing him to the floor. His other hand found Nudger’s eyes and tried to gouge them out. Nudger twisted his neck, turning his face to the carpet. He could smell something garlicky Mays had had for lunch. He could hear Mays’s labored, rasping breathing. Or was that his own rasping struggle for air? Two middle-aged guys out of shape and fighting for their lives.

Then Mays was sitting up, one hand beneath Nudger’s shirt. There was amazement and rage in his contorted features. “You bastard! You’re wired! Everything we said’s been recorded!”

With strength exploding from this fresh infusion of rage, he lunged again at Nudger, trying for a chokehold. This time Nudger managed to bend his knee and place a foot against Mays’s soft midsection. He shoved hard and Mays grunted and lurched backward into a crouch, slamming into the wall and hitting his head hard. He glared at Nudger and felt around on the floor for one of the jagged pieces of the broken ashtray.

“Lose a contact lens?” Hammersmith asked. His bulk suddenly loomed over Mays. Two blue uniforms flanked him, behind Police Special revolvers aimed steady and ready at Mays.

“Did you get enough of that on tape?” Nudger asked, peeling adhesive strips and transmitter from his bare chest, wincing with pain.

“Every incriminating word,” Hammersmith said. He began reading Mays his rights as two more uniforms came in and jerked Mays to his feet, frisked him, and handcuffed his wrists behind his back.

“I didn’t have any choice about what I did,” Mays was saying, looking at Nudger now as if pleading for understanding and pity. “They knew about me, even if they didn’t realize it. The knowledge was out there, floating around like something rotten in their memories. It could have washed ashore on alcohol anytime, with any unexpected change in the current. I couldn’t live knowing that, so the three of them had to die.”

“Two out of three isn’t bad,” Hammersmith told him. “It might win you the gas chamber.”

Telex

Martin J. Miller, Jr

Martin J. Miller, Jr. is a private investigator in southern California. He has been in the field for over twenty years, and his company specializes in internal business crime. About “Telex” he writes, “This is my first serious attempt at fiction, although I have had numerous articles published in the field of military and ordnance history. Contacts within the banking industry assure me that the crime described in ‘Telex’ is theoretically possible. The second adventure of Mike McDermott and Quad Investigations is in the word processor.”

International Merchants Bank was head-quartered in the heart of downtown L.A., a thirty-story black glass box in the midst of a herd of glass boxes with little logos plastered around their tops. I met Robin Hendricks in the lobby as we had arranged on Friday at 2 P.M.

I had first met Robin three years ago. She was setting up a computer program for a client and I was doing the security survey for Quad Investigations. I’m one of four partners in a private-investigation firm specializing in business crime. We worked together on security for the computer system. Robin was employed by a local systems-analysis firm, Laidlaw. Our relationship now extended beyond business hours.

“Hi, Robin. Where’s this guy we’re supposed to see?”

“Our man’s on the twenty-seventh floor, Mike. Let’s go on up.”

In naval parlance, we were heading for officer country. If the twenty-seventh floor had been on an aircraft carrier, we would have just stepped onto the flag bridge and the admiral’s office would be straight ahead. Of course, I’d never seen a navy ship with plush pile carpet and real wood paneling. The admiral’s secretary was waiting for us at the receptionist’s desk.

“Miss Hendricks, Mr. McDermott? Mr. Naughton will see you now. Please follow me.” The admiral turned out to be Daniel J. Naughton, chief executive officer of International Merchants Bank. We weren’t going to see a mere task force commander; we were going to see the man who ran the whole bloody navy.

The only person in Naughton’s office was Daniel J. Naughton. I had seen pictures of Naughton in the business pages and occasionally in the “View” section of the L.A. Times at some function or charity ball. He looked more impressive in person. He was fifty-five to sixty and looked it, but he was in good shape. Gray hair, steel-rim glasses, six feet, maybe 220 pounds. His stomach didn’t sag. His eyes were clear, hard, penetrating. I didn’t think one could fool around with Daniel J. Naughton, at least for very long. One thing you learn as a cop or P.I. is to look at the eyes. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the eyes will tell you what’s going on inside.

Naughton shook hands and asked us to sit down. “Has Miss Hendricks explained the situation to you, Mr. McDermott?”

“No sir, only that it involves computer theft of some kind.”

“Good. I wanted to brief you myself. Miss Hendricks says that you and your firm are the best in your line of work. I checked on my own, she’s right. Quad Investigations has a good reputation. So do you. I know Miss Hendricks is good; her company charges me a thousand dollars a day for her and she’s worth every dime. She tracked down our problem in three weeks. We’d spent two months on it and had got nowhere.”

Naughton continued the briefing. Three months ago the Fed had pulled a major audit of the bank’s accounts. This happened when Congress started beating its gums about the latest headline, in this case a bank failure in Idaho. Naughton’s opinion of Congress wasn’t very high. I was beginning to like the man.

The audit had turned up a shortage of five million three. The bank rechecked, the Fed rechecked, and the shortage grew to five million seven. The bank examiners were not amused. Naughton was not amused. The audit department started over, still short. The head of the automated data processing department had left several weeks before the audit began, and the new man hadn’t had time to really get into the system.

Laidlaw was called. They had helped to install and set up the bank’s whole computer system several years before. Laidlaw sent Robin. Robin assumed that the simple answer was probably the correct one: if five million seven was missing, someone had taken it.

She started with the program. At the end of the first week she had determined that it had been tampered with. The bank had assumed it was an accounting error. Score one for Robin. At the end of the second week she knew how it had been done. More study of the computer system, some good old-fashioned gumshoe legwork, and a lucky break in the communication center had turned up the answer.

Over the years I had learned a lot about banking from Bob Johnson, one of my partners in Quad and a C.P.A. — things the average citizen never thinks about. Banks have very impressive vaults to store their money in. But that’s only for the green stuff. Most of a bank’s money doesn’t exist as actual dollars. It exists only in the ledgers. And in today’s world it really exists only in some computer memory-storage system. Banks whisk this money all around the country and around the world — thousands, millions, billions by data-transmission lines, microwave relay, communications satellites, computer to computer.

The banks keep a big pile of this “paper money” to handle all the transactions that occur each day. It’s called the “float.” Bank floats take in and put out whole bunches of money. Millions, billions if you count up all the different banks. Essentially, the banks have no immediate control over this float. So somewhere later on, float transactions are reconciled, and everything should balance. Sometimes they don’t. Think of your own checkbook. If people really knew how vulnerable their money was in the bank, they’d put it in a tin can and bury it in the backyard.

But while it isn’t hard to steal from the bank’s float, eventually the auditors will find out and begin to backtrack until they find where it went. If you are going to steal, you have to keep the bank from finding out or, if they do, from finding out where the money went. Then, you have to devise a way for your audit trail to get lost so you can actually turn that paper money into real dollars, green stuff.

Someone at International Merchants Bank had figured out a way. The only thing he hadn’t figured on was Robin Hendricks and the lucky break. The lucky break was Harold Chu, a fourth-generation Chinese-American, who worked in the communications section of the bank handling the night traffic.

Besides checking the computer program and procedures, Robin had gone around to the various departments and asked the employees if they remembered anything unusual happening in the last few months, anything out of the ordinary — anything, no matter how trivial or insignificant. She got several dozen responses. They didn’t pan out. Then Harold Chu knocked on her door.

Harold was bright, in his twenties, and had an insatiable curiosity about everything. The night shift in communications handled routine transactions. The branches and regional clearing houses fed all the day’s checks, deposits, and withdrawals information through the computers at night. Pretty dry stuff, virtually all automated. Harold just had to see that the data-transmission lines kept working and that all this mass of data was going to the right places.

But a couple of months ago that routine had been broken several times during the course of two weeks. He got instructions to send domestic money transfers to various other banks to be deposited to a number of different companies. That was unusual. Generally that kind of traffic was handled directly during banking hours by the operations officers upstairs. Harold had never handled anything like that before. He had to transfer the information over the telex to the various banks.

All the proper clearances and codes were in the transmittal orders, which came in over the bank’s own computer, so Harold didn’t see anything wrong, but he was curious. Harold wrote down the dates, names of the companies and the banks where the transfers were going, and the account of the major corporate customer they were drawn against. He thought he would check out these companies sometime, see what they did. They had names like Global Transport, QRB Corporation, Toltec Import-Export, Cal-Farm Commodities, Ltd.

He put the list in his desk. When Robin made her request for odd information Harold remembered the list. He showed it to her. She showed it to Naughton. Naughton began to get that funny feeling that tells you something is really out of whack.

“We checked these companies with the other banks, Mr. McDermott,” Naughton said. “The accounts had all been opened recently, within the last four months. All were checking accounts for three to four thousand dollars. There had been no activity until these domestic money transfers were deposited.”

Naughton went on to say that the next day after each of these transactions took place a telex message was received by these banks to transfer the funds by international wire to a bank in Zurich. They all went to a company called International Outfitters, S.A., of Panama. Naughton’s staff queried Panama — no such company. They checked their corporate account — the right name, but there was no account for the number used. They queried the Swiss bank, where a tight-lipped bank officer said only that the International Outfitters, S.A., account had been dosed out, end conversation.

Now that they knew the money had been stolen, Robin reasoned out how it had probably been done. “Actually, Mr. McDermott, it was relatively simple for someone having an intimate knowledge of the computer program here at the bank. It had to be someone in the bank with access to the computer itself. The security for the system precludes any outside tampering.”

“Our thief had to program the computer to instruct Harold Chu to telex these domestic money transfers to the various accounts he had established at the other banks. Once that was done he had to erase the memory of those transactions from the computer. The second part was to hide the source of the money. The audit department found that the float accounts at the other branches are short the five point seven million. The float here at the main branch balances, so we believe our thief transferred the money in from the other branches to the dummy corporate account he set up and then sent it out as domestic money transfers from the main branch. He did a good job of it. There are no records of withdrawals from the branch floats, deposits to the corporate account, or of the domestic money transfers on Harold Chu’s list. Without that list we wouldn’t have the faintest idea what had happened to the money.”

Naughton broke in, “Miss Hendricks is quite right, McDermott. There is absolutely no record of any of these transactions anywhere. We know the money was stolen and we know how it was done.”

I asked the sixty-four-dollar question, “OK, the money’s gone. Do you have a suspect?”

“We have a good idea,” said Naughton. “F. Terrance Boynton was our head of data processing. He was here when we put in the new computer system. He helped put it in and he left over two months ago.”

Robin added, “I talked to Laidlaw and they said Boynton was totally familiar with the system and the program. He has the knowledge and the ability to get past the security blocks and change the program.”

Naughton sounded angry, “When Miss Hendricks told us that the computer was tampered with we phoned Boynton. He’d already left town. There’s no forwarding address.”

“So what do you want Quad to do, Mr. Naughton?”

“I think it’s a good bet that Boynton stole the money. But that’s just a hunch. I want you to find where he’s gone. Check the companies that got the money. See if there’s a connection. Mr. McDermott, I want you to find the bank’s five million, seven hundred thousand dollars.”

Robin and I had two rules: no familiarity during working hours and no business during off hours. We spent a quiet weekend at her place. On Sunday we went over to Art and Rosa’s for a barbecue with their kids. Art Tones was another of the partners in Quad. He was a lawyer and had been with the D.A.’s office until he couldn’t take the legal games any longer. So twelve years ago he and I, Bob Johnson, and Charlie Schwartz had formed Quad Investigations.

On Monday morning I headed for the office. Quad was going hunting for F. Terrance Boynton. Our office was in West L. A., off Sepulveda. We had bought an old machine shop and fixed up the inside. The outside still looked like a machine shop.

Charlie Schwartz, our only partner with a police background, twenty-three years on the Chicago PD, was going to tackle Boynton’s old neighbors, while Art and Bob were going to see if there were records of a condo sale, DMV, post office, etc. I went back to the bank.

This time I didn’t head for the twenty-seventh floor. The elevator took me down two flights to the security office. Most big operations have their employees sign in and out at the security desk after regular hours. The time sheets showed that Boynton had been in the computer room at the times and dates on Chu’s list. He had also spent a few nights a week in the computer room for several months previous to the thefts. I figured that was when he worked out the programming for the theft. Before that he very seldom came in after hours. Boynton was looking more and more like a good suspect.

By Tuesday afternoon we knew Boynton was really gone — vanished into the woodwork. He had sold his condominium, furniture, and car, closed out his bank accounts, paid all his bills. Even with all the computers, credit cards, I.D.s, and government agencies, if someone wants to disappear it’s simple. There was no record of Boynton having a passport, so it was a cinch he had established a phony identity. We already knew of two that he had used for setting up the fake bank accounts — he would have others, one for the Swiss bank and one or more for his final disappearance.

If you want to get a fake I.D., it’s easy, especially if it won’t have to hold up for years. Visit the hall of records, check on someone who died a long time ago, someone who was born about the same time you were. Check the birth records, get a copy of the birth certificate. If they ask, tell them you lost the original. If you really want to be safe, make sure that the person was born or died in a different county or state. But it’s not crucial — no jurisdiction compares birth and death records. Take the birth certificate to your local motor-vehicle office, and you can walk out with a driver’s license; most states don’t even insist on the birth certificate.

To get a passport, you now have the two necessary documents. A private mailbox gets you an address; no one is going to check. For the bank accounts, Boynton just had to give phony social security and federal employer I.D. numbers he made up. By the time they got around to checking, filing tax information and such, he would be long gone.

In fact, it isn’t even illegal to set up another identity as long as there is no intent to defraud or commit an illegal act. Pay your taxes and stay out of trouble and no one really cares.

There didn’t seem to be much we could do about finding Boynton. He hadn’t left a trail and it was virtually certain he had left the country, at least long enough to empty the Swiss bank account. It would take the resources of the FBI and the State Department to track him down.

Charlie Schwartz rolled into the office late Tuesday, smiling from ear to ear. He had a lead. F. Terrance had a girlfriend. Charlie had spent his time talking to the neighbors in Boynton’s condo.

As Charlie told it. “I was getting pretty discouraged. I had talked to seventeen of Boynton’s neighbors. Most hadn’t even known him, a few knew him by sight, two had talked to him occasionally. Our Mr. Boynton kept to himself, didn’t socialize with his neighbors, and didn’t attend the owners’ meetings.

“Then I knocked on Samuel Dobbins’s door. Even he really didn’t know Boynton, other than to say hello. But he remembered Boynton’s girlfriend. And he remembered her only by a fluke. She was a good-looking girl, late twenties, blond, but what he really remembered was her car.”

Charlie paced up and down the office, gesturing with his hands, bubbling on. “She drove a red Triumph TR-6 and the reason Dobbins remembers her is because she parked in his spot — they all have assigned parking spaces — and he had to get her to move it a few times. But the best part, the really great part, is that he remembers the license number. It’s one of those personalized lobbies: FUNGIRL.”

A check with the DMV in Sacramento the next day gave us an address in the Valley. Charlie and I headed over the 405 freeway. The address was near the Van Nuys Airport in a large apartment complex — one for swinging singles, or so they advertised.

Kristi Mayhew didn’t live there anymore. She had moved out at the end of September. No forwarding address. Maybe she was moving in with her boyfriend. Maybe they were leaving town. Kristi had been happy. We got all this from the manager. We told him we were insurance investigators, that the girl had been a witness to an accident, and the lawyers needed her for a deposition. He gave us the address of her former employer, a beauty salon on Ventura Boulevard in Encino.

I left Charlie to pound on the neighbors’ doors and headed for Ten Snips — Salon for Beautiful Women. The manager wasn’t helpful.

“Well now, darling! She left weeks ago! And she was my best stylist! It was such a bitch replacing her!”

I didn’t like the guy. The gold chains and rings were bad enough, but the two-tone yellow-and-black hair left me cold. He did say that Kristi’s best friend, Paula, worked at the salon, but she was off today.

I went back for Charlie. He hadn’t had much better luck. Only one person had any answers. The guy next door to Kristi said she was talking about leaving the country, for someplace sunny and warm — exotic and out of the way. That left out Siberia and Antarctica, but the world is still a large place and a lot of it’s sunny and warm. Exotic and out of the way wasn’t going to help much either.

I didn’t think we would have much luck taking Paula White on straight if her boss was any indication of the state of the world at Ten Snips. The next morning I called in Susan Emerson, one of our operatives. Susan was forty, passed for thirty, blonde, petite, and dressed smartly. I told her she needed her hair done.

Paula couldn’t book Susan for an appointment until Friday afternoon. I worked on another case. Peterson Trucking was losing appliances off their loading dock. They were in Riverside, and it was late Friday before I got back. Susan had left a message: “Have a good lead, will follow up Saturday, report in Monday.”

I was getting the anxious itchy feeling. I wanted to press ahead, but you can’t rush these things. I phoned Robin instead. We went to Solvang, a Dutch-style village north of Santa Barbara. The weekend was uneventful and filled with too much good food, clean air, and beautiful scenery.

Susan was waiting for me Monday in my office.

“Paula White is your basic scatterbrained, twenty-five-year-old teenybopper, if there is such a thing. But she’s a pretty good hairdresser. I worked her around to Kristi Mayhew. I told her what a good job Kristi had done on me before, was sorry to hear she had left, and did she know where she had gone.”

Charlie wandered in and Susan continued, “Paula said Kristi went off with her boyfriend. She mentioned Boynton’s name, that he had retired and had some money. They were going to travel out of the country for a while. She said Kristi was really excited. She had mentioned some secret she couldn’t talk about.”

Susan asked if she knew where they were going to start the “grand tour.” Paula said that Boynton had gone ahead, and Kristi would meet him someplace. Kristi had brought in a lot of travel brochures one day, mostly about the Caribbean.

“I said that must have been exciting, that my husband and I were thinking about a Caribbean cruise. Did Kristi go to a travel agent? Paula said yes and she happened to remember the name because they were stamped on some of the brochures, a place called Travel for Pleasure in Sherman Oaks.”

On Saturday Susan went to Travel for Pleasure to see about Caribbean tours. She told the man that her hairdresser, Kristi Mayhew, had used the agency and raved about how helpful they had been. Did he remember Kristi? She described her. The man said yes, but the name didn’t ring a bell. By the time Susan was through with Henry Smith, travel agent, she had a good idea where Boynton or, at any rate, where Kristi had gone.

“She used the name Kristi Callander. I said that must be her married name now. She booked flights from here to Houston and then to Georgetown, Cayman Islands. Smith said that she talked about living in the Caribbean and took folders on all the different islands, places to see.”

Boynton had made a mistake, he should have bought Kristi’s tickets himself. We now had a sunny, warm, exotic, and out-of-the-way place to go look for F. Terrance Boynton. It was time to see our client, Daniel Naughton.

Instead of downtown, Naughton wanted to meet for breakfast. There’s a good buffet style restaurant on Ocean Boulevard facing the Pacific with a great view of the Santa Monica Pier and the bay. It was nice enough to eat outside on the terrace.

I brought Naughton up to date on the investigation, “It’s likely that Boynton and the girl are in the Cayman Islands, or were not too long ago. Art Torres knows someone at the State Department; he’s checking to see if the girl used the Callander name for a passport. Either way I think I should go down there and look around. The islands are small and there are fewer than twenty thousand people. But we’re starting to talk serious expenses. How far do you want to go on this?”

“I’ve been thinking about this the last week, McDermott. I checked with the district attorney. He doesn’t think there’s enough evidence to prosecute, even if Boynton has the money.”

Naughton stopped while the waitress refilled our coffee cups. “Boynton’s played this pretty smart so far, except for this girl, Kristi Mayhew. He couldn’t have known about Chu’s list. And going to the Cayman Islands is a good choice. The place is a British Crown Colony, but they have their own local laws. For a tiny place they have quite a few banks — over four hundred. Their banks are like Swiss banks, but more so. They allow private, numbered bank accounts and the government won’t touch them. It’s a good source of income for the place and it also attracts a lot of people who spend money. It’s reported that drug and mob money goes there very quietly. Go see if Boynton’s down there; see if the money’s there. Then we’ll decide what to do.”

The last thing Naughton said as we left was, “The bank can stand the loss, McDermott... Mike. But I don’t want Boynton to get away with it. I want the money back.”

I had never been to the Caribbean, so I was going to need some help. Cuban-born Olivia Campanas had walked into our office about five years ago. She was a private investigator from Miami and worked cases there and all through the islands. She had been looking for someone in the L.A. Cuban community, and we helped her out. Since then we had kept in touch, traded a little business.

“Olivia? Mike in L. A. I’m going to the Cayman Islands and I need a local man. I’m looking for two Americans, a man and a woman; they have bucks. Any ideas?”

“Sure, Mike. I got a man in Georgetown. Used him there a few times, and also in Jamaica. He runs a sport fisher. Name’s Robert de Montigue. That OK?”

“Perfect, Olivia. Next time I’ll ask for something difficult.”

“Stop in and see me on your way through. You can connect here to get to Georgetown.”

Miami, even at midnight, was hot and muggy. Olivia met me at the airport. The plane to Georgetown wasn’t due to take off until 10:43 A.M. I got a room at a nearby hotel. Olivia filled me in on Robert de Montigue. He was in his early forties, black polyglot stock, very outgoing. A wheeler and a dealer. He had made a few trips to Cuba over the years, don’t ask what about.

“He’s good people, Mike. If your couple is in the Caymans, or was there, Robert can find out. I talked to him; he’ll meet you at the airport. If he likes you, he will do anything you want, otherwise you’re in the swamp with the alligators. I told him you are my compadre. He may not hold that against you.”

The Cayman Airways made a leisurely left-hand bank as it descended to the Georgetown airport. I had a good look at Grand Cayman Island as we came in. The water was crystal clear; you could see the sandy bottom just like in all the tourist brochures. The Cayman Islands would make more than an adequate substitute for paradise. White sand beaches, tropical vegetation, hotels, and villas were scattered up and down Seven Mile Beach. Georgetown itself was low-lying white buildings, quiet tree-lined streets, clean. It was hard to imagine that there were over four hundred banks down there.

Midday in early November was cool, breezy, and bright. Robert de Montigue was waiting in the airport lobby.

“Mister McDermott? I am Robert. I take the bags. I have hired a car and driver while you are here. And I have arranged accommodations at my Aunt Tilly’s. She run a guest house with a few rooms. It will be more quiet and very private. That be OK?”

Robert’s smile was mostly a set of dazzlingly white teeth. He was a good operative. The car was nondescript, about five years old, obviously a local one, not a Hertz or Avis rental. The car was driven by Robert’s “cousin,” Thomas. Thomas was in his early twenties and as light as Robert was dark.

Aunt Tilly was in her sixties, heavyset, Scotch-African, laughed all the time, kept a spotless home, and could cook like no one I had ever met. She also did not ask questions. Most everyone I met was “related” or connected to Robert.

That night I told him about Boynton and the five point seven million dollars. I showed him a photo of Boynton and one of Kristi Mayhew; she hadn’t used the Callander name for a passport.

“Where you get the pictures, man?”

“The one of Boynton came from his personnel file at the bank. The girl’s was more difficult.”

I told Robert about Susan Emerson and her trip to Ten Snips. All the employees had their photos mounted on the wall. Susan had noticed Kristi’s down behind the reception desk and had unobtrusively appropriated it before she left.

The next morning I told him that we would have to be very careful looking for Boynton. We didn’t want to scare him into running, or let him know that we were looking for him.

“Don’t worry, man. It be OK. This feller never know we look for him. We be real circumspect.” Robert was infatuated with crossword puzzles.

We visited stores, hotels, restaurants, beaches, docks, and homes the rest of the day. At each Robert would “confer” with another relative. If Boynton and Kristi were in the Cayman Islands I didn’t think it would be long until we found them.

The second and third days we spent driving around the island checking on the outlying hotels and clubs. No luck, but this business is mostly foot slogging, eliminating possibilities until only one remains. Robert wasn’t anxious either, “It OK, man. Not to worry. We find them pretty soon.”

The morning of the fourth day Robert and I were sitting on Aunt Tilly’s veranda drinking iced coffee when this skinny little kid came up to the bottom of the steps. She looked about twelve or thirteen, dusky, curly hair, and very shy. She kept her head down and sort of beckoned to Robert. He went down the steps and squatted to her level.

“She say her name Michelle. Her mama work in one of the private villas near Old Robin Point on the north side. The house is owned by an Englishman who comes a few times a year. The rest of the time he rent the place. Mister Boynton and his lady friend have been there about a month.” Robert’s “family” intelligence network had come through.

The next few days we spent dogging the couple. Terrance and Kristi, now known as William and Patricia Goldman from New Zealand, sunbathed on their private beach, went scuba diving, shopping, dancing, and dining at the local hotels and clubs. They were the perfect picture of a married couple on an extended holiday.

This was the first time I had seen Boynton in the flesh. He was forty-two, six foot, a hundred-eighty-five pounds, brown hair, mustache, worked at staying in shape. Kristi had good taste, both as regards looks and bank accounts.

On Friday morning Boynton left the villa alone. “Cousin” Thomas and I followed him into Georgetown. He parked his car and walked into the Inter-Island Overseas Bank, Ltd., on Edward Street. I was right behind him. The teller passed over a green form and Boynton filled it out. The teller made an entry in his computer terminal, waited for the answer, smiled at Boynton, and excused himself. He came back in a few minutes and counted out a large amount of cash, maybe one or two thousand dollars. After Boynton left, I was able to check the type of form he used. It was a withdrawal slip for a private numbered account.

It was time to see Naughton again and get reinforcements. A plan was beginning to form. I worked it out in more detail on the flight back to L.A. A lot of it would have to be played by ear, but the outline was there. I dubbed it Operation Just Desserts.

Naughton was in New York. His secretary forwarded my message and he called back Sunday night. “Did you find Boynton, Mike? How about the money?”

“Yes, sir, and I think so. Look... how bad do you want the money back? Are you willing to invest some more money on the chance we can get back all or part of the five point seven million?”

“Yes! This thing is really getting to me. What do you want to do, Mike?”

“Mr. Naughton, it’ll be better if you don’t know. But you can do a few things for me...”

Robin was in the bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed, “How would you like to go to the Caribbean for a week or two and get a gorgeous tan?”

What I had planned was going to require technical assistance. Glenn Monk was an old army master-sergeant when I knew him at intelligence school; my army career had ended with a grenade in Vietnam.

Glenn had been an instructor in electronic surveillance, telephone tapping and bugging, both offensive and defensive. When he retired he came to Los Angeles and moved to one of the beach towns and went to work for defense contractors debugging their facilities. Quad uses him whenever we have a client with that type of problem. I explained what I wanted him to do, that there was a certain degree of danger, and that it was obviously illegal.

“Hey. When do we leave on this Caribbean vacation, Mike?” was his answer.

The view of Georgetown the second time around was just as spectacular as the first. Robert was at the gate to greet us. I had briefed him by phone a few days before. Glenn would have no trouble getting his gear through customs. Aunt Tilly’s nephew’s cousin worked for customs.

Later I outlined the plan to my assembled troops: Robin, Glenn, and Robert.

“All right. Step one. We have to keep Boynton and Kristi under continuous surveillance. We have to know where they’re going to be at any given moment.”

The next day we staked out the villa. Robert told us that the housekeeper had the afternoon off and that Boynton and the girl would probably go out to dinner. The housekeeper left at one. We got lucky. At two, Boynton and Kristi drove off in their car. They looked to be gone for the rest of the day; they took extra clothes.

Robert watched the road and the house. Glenn and I went in. We bugged the place from top to bottom — the phone, bedroom, living room, kitchen, and den, even the veranda. Glenn was an expert and it would take another expert to tell it had been done.

We hid the small van Robert had rented about two hundred yards from the house, across the road in heavy cover. We would take shifts monitoring. Glenn had even tapped into the phone line so he could reach us at Aunt Tilly’s or anywhere else on the island.

Robert and I went off to check on step two. We needed an office in Georgetown, out of the way, but with access to international telephone and telex lines. Thomas found one on the second floor over a grocery store. There was a back entrance off the alley.

The next day I visited the offices of the Inter-Island Overseas Bank. Step three. I asked for the manager.

“May I be of assistance, sir? I am the managing director, Mr. Griffin.”

“Mr. Griffin. I’m Paul Stephens, I represent the Trans-Oceanic Commodities Service, Gmbh. We wish to open a private numbered account with your bank.” More than one could play the fake I.D. game. I handed Mr. Griffin one of my business cards.

Naughton had advanced us a hundred thousand as working capital. I put thirty into my new account. Later that morning I walked out knowing in precise detail how the private numbered account system worked. Mr. Griffin had been very helpful. One thing I had checked very carefully was that Inter-Island Overseas Bank, Ltd., was quite up to date and used the latest in telex equipment. They could transmit any type of banking document worldwide. “We here at the bank, Mr. Stephens, can handle your every banking need.”

I walked over to our new offices. They were only two blocks away. Glenn was setting up equipment.

“Hiya, Mike. This place will be just about right. There’s plenty of juice and there’s a big phone junction box next door for the six banks in that building. I’ve never seen so many ruddy banks! I’ll be operational by tonight.”

Glenn was working away unloading the crates of “spare engine parts” that flew in with us. “Here, I’ll go over this stuff. First, the portable telex. We can message to any other telex on or off the island. Next, we got the scrambler for voice transmission. Bob Johnson has an identical unit back in L.A. There’s no way anyone will ever know what you two talk about on the phone.”

He rummaged around in an old army musette bag and came up with a handi-talkie. “I bought six of these FM units. They got a five-mile range and four channels, also extra battery packs. I thought they might be useful.”

I went back to pick up Robin at Aunt Tilly’s. There were happy sounds and good smells coming from the kitchen. We drove out to see how Robert was doing at the “listening post.”

“Afternoon, Miss Hendricks. Mike. Nothing transpiring. No phone calls. They be pretty quiet. I think they on the beach now.”

Robin and I settled in. Robert went back in the car, saying he would send Thomas out after dinner to relieve us. I went over with Robin what she had to do in the next couple of days. “You’re the key to this whole thing, hon.”

Wednesday dawned overcast and cool. They said there was a chance of rain later in the day. At 10:34 A.M. Mr. and Mrs. Paul Stephens entered the Inter-Island Overseas Bank, Ltd. Mr. Hamilton, an account representative, was most gracious. He asked if we would like coffee, perhaps tea. Yes, tea, that would be most kind. And how could Mr. Hamilton be of assistance?

Mr. Stephens would like to transfer five thousand dollars from his private numbered account to an account in Miami. Of course, that would be no problem. Robin’s cue.

“Oh, Mr. Hamilton, do you handle all these transactions from this computer terminal on your desk?”

“Yes, Mrs. Stephens. Everything can be handled from here.”

“Would it be all right if I watched how you do that? I’m just learning how to use my new personal computer. It’s all so fascinating.”

Would Mr. Stephens mind? No, Mr. Stephens would not mind. It would be a good learning experience for his wife. Mr. Hamilton showed Robin how he checked the account status. He entered my account number and the primary code word, and also the secondary code word which changed for each transaction. The codes were random five-letter groups.

“But, Mr. Hamilton. How do you know what the code words are supposed to be?”

“Well, Mrs. Stephens, each account holder is given a code booklet. It has his account number, primary code word, and also a list of the changing code words. There are several hundred in the list, and every account has different code words. When a customer gives me his account number and the code words, I check them by entering them in the computer. Like this. And then after entering this command I can bring up all the code words listed in your husband’s account. See?”

“Oh, yes. That’s very clever.”

Mr. Hamilton didn’t know it, but he had just put the whole bank in jeopardy. Given a little uninterrupted time with Mr. Hamilton’s terminal, Robin could now loot any of the bank’s accounts. But there was only one account we were interested in.

Our next problem was two-pronged. We had to determine how much of the five million seven was in Boynton’s private numbered account. And second, or actually first, find out what the account number and code words were. The only way I could see to do that was to get a look at Boynton’s bank booklet, and it had to be in such a way that he wouldn’t suspect it had been done.

There were two possibilities. The first was to get back in the villa while everyone was out and do a full search. I didn’t think this way was too promising. One, he might take the booklet with him; two, we could miss it if he had hidden it; and three, there was a good chance Boynton would notice the house had been searched no matter how careful we were.

No, the second way was the only one that would work. We had to get a look at the booklet while we knew he had it with him. And the only time we could be sure of that was when Boynton went to the bank. I explained the next step.

“We’re going to pull a classic ‘bump and dip’ maneuver, with one variation. Timing will be everything. I figure we’ll have thirty seconds.”

Now we had to wait again. We took turns monitoring the bugs at the villa. I hoped we’d get some warning when Boynton decided to visit the bank. It took three days. The waiting was hard on the others, except for Glenn and me. We were the only ones with an acquired sense of patience. I was at Aunt Tilly’s when the phone rang. She answered.

“Mr. Mike! It’s Mr. Glenn.”

Glenn was in the van, “Mike, he’s going to the bank, alone. He’s just getting ready to leave.”

“Right... OK! Showtime, everyone!”

We all headed down to the bank and took up the positions I had assigned. Boynton arrived about twenty minutes later. Thomas followed him into the bank while Robin and I window-shopped. We waited another ten minutes. Thomas came on over the handi-talkie, “He put the booklet in the right front cargo pocket of his bush jacket. He is leaving now.”

Boynton came out of the bank and turned right, toward his car. Robin and I fell in close behind him. Robert was waiting with Aunt Tilly just around the corner in the alley. I dropped back a few paces and cued my lapel mike. “OK, Robert, he’s fifty feet from you, get ready.”

Boynton had just reached the alley when Aunt Tilly came barreling around the corner carrying a dozen bunches of tropical flowers in her arms. There was a spectacular and colorful collision. Aunt Tilly went down. Boynton went down. Robin landed on top of them. Robert came up and was jumping around talking like a machine gun gone berserk, being of no help whatsoever and adding to the scene of chaos.

While the injured parties were trying to sort themselves out and get upright, I picked Boynton’s pocket. I turned around, opened the booklet, and photographed the first page with the miniature camera I was carrying. I flipped the page and copied the variable code words, put the camera away, turned around again, and was in time to slip the booklet back into Boynton’s pocket as he stood up. We helped Robin to her feet.

“Dear, are you all right? Is everything OK?”

“Yes, Paul. I’m afraid I wasn’t looking where I was going. I hope this gentleman isn’t hurt.”

Boynton was checking himself over, patting pockets. He looked a trifle confused. “No. I’m fine. That was a pretty good crash though. Are you sure you’re all right, Miss?” to Robin. “You came down awfully hard.”

“Yes, thank you. Oh, I’m Bridget Stephens and this is my husband, Paul.”

“It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Bill Goldman. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.”

Robert had a friend who, he said, operated a photographic emporium. She let us use the darkroom. Two hours later we had our answer to question number one. My shots wouldn’t win any prizes. They were canted, a little out of focus, and the contrast was lousy, but we had Boynton’s account number and code words. We were definitely in business.

Now it was time to hurry things along. We had to get Boynton and Kristi out of the country, preferably for a week to ten days. I checked in with Glenn that afternoon.

“He got back a little after twelve. He told the girl about the accident; he doesn’t sound suspicious. About twenty minutes ago he made reservations for dinner at the Grand Old House for eight-thirty.”

At 8:45 Robin and I walked into the restaurant. Our reservations were for 9:00 P.M. As we walked to the bar I saw Boynton, “Well, well. Mr. Goldman. I hope you are no worse for wear tonight?”

“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Stephens?”

“Stephens, right. Paul and Bridget.”

“And this is my wife, Pat, and I’m Bill. Hey, why don’t you two join us for dinner?”

The dinner was superb. Bill had the lobster, the girls some local fish dish, and I chose the shrimp curry. The wine was excellent. We learned that Bill and Pat had been on the island about six weeks and were enjoying an extended holiday. They were planning to travel around the Caribbean with Grand Cayman as a home base. So far they had been to the Bahamas for a week. Pat really enjoyed the traveling.

That made Robin’s task easy. She told Pat and Bill about our trip to Curasao and Aruba in the Netherlands Antilles and how Willemstad, the capital, was just like an old Dutch town set in the tropics. She enthused over the people, the food, the sights, things to do. By the end of the evening Pat was sold.

Now we had to wait again and hope our sales pitch had taken hold. It took another three days. Robin and I spent our free time on the beaches.

The beaches were the best part. They’re pure white sand, clear blue-green water, warm with a steady breeze. Robin had bought a bathing suit that was all the rage on the French Riviera. It did things for her that shouldn’t be done in public. It also did things to me. I spent a lot of time swimming.

I was coming back from the store when Robin came running down Aunt Tilly’s steps and started dancing around, laughing, “They went for it, Mike! They’re going to Curasao on Tuesday. Robert just called. They made reservations and everything. Oh, Mike! It’s going to work! It’s going to work!”

Tuesday morning started as another perfect, beautiful sunny day in paradise. Mr. and Mrs. Paul Stephens drove down to the Inter-Island Overseas Bank, Ltd., on Edward Street and waited.

“Mike.” The handi-talkie came to life. “This is Robert. Over.”

“Go ahead, Robert. Over.”

“Mike, the plane just took off. Our voyagers are well gone. Over and out.”

A secretary showed us into Mr. Griffin’s office. Good morning. This is my wife, Mrs. Stephens. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Stephens. And how could Mr. Griffin and the bank be of service today? Mr. Stephens’s company was thinking of sending him a sizeable stock of bearer bonds and other negotiable securities. Did the bank offer safe-deposit boxes? Yes. Could he see them? Of course! The vault was in the basement. Would they come this way? Would it be all right if Mrs. Stephens waited in Mr. Griffin’s office? Quite all right.

I hurried Robin into the car, “Did you get it?”

“Yes, you gave me more than enough time. I punched up Boynton’s account on Mr. Griffin’s terminal. I got the balance — five million four hundred thousand, and the next variable code word. I even got a printout. It’s in my purse.”

“That’s beautiful. Did I ever tell you that I love you?”

“Oh, once or twice, I think.”

That afternoon we were in the office over the grocery store. Robin was sitting in front of the telex machine. I looked at everyone. “Are we ready?... OK, Robin, send the first message.”

She typed in the bank’s number and then:

TO: INTER-ISLAND OVERSEAS BANK, LTD., DEBIT ACCT: #37867452-SRBES-TWWON, 305,295.00 US DOLLARS, TRANSFER BY INTL. WIRE TO ACCT. #888742, MID-FLORIDA TRUST CO., MIAMI, FL, USA, TELEX 264–771.

We sent two more messages before the bank closed. Now we waited again. While we had been in the Cayman Islands, Bob Johnson, with Naughton’s help, had opened two accounts in Florida banks, one in the Bahamas, and one in Santo Domingo. He had also opened an account in Basel, Switzerland. Boynton had stolen the money by sending it around the world by telex. We were going to steal it back the same way.

On Wednesday morning I called Bob. He was in Miami.

“Hi, let’s put this on the scrambler.” I plugged the handset into place, punched in the code reference, and picked up the scrambler’s telephone equipment from the case.

“You still there, Bob?”

“Mike, it’s working. Three money wires in yesterday and they’ve been deposited to our accounts. I’ve already verified it. How are things there?”

“Fine, Bob, just fine. We’ve been keeping our fingers crossed since last night. We’ll continue as planned. Talk to you tonight, 7:00 P.M., right?”

Robin began sending more withdrawal messages. At noon we sent the biggest one so far — seven hundred and fifty thousand to the account in Santo Domingo: Western Allied Services Group.

I was beginning to get nervous again. So far we had transferred a little over two million, with more than three to go. Twenty’ minutes later Robert called in from the van.

“Mike. That Mr. Griffin. He call the house. Want to speak with Mr. Goldman. He sound very concerned. Is that the right word — concerned?”

“Yes, go on, Robert.”

“I tell him that I am the houseboy. That Mr. Goldman and his wife they go to the Bahamas. That Mr. Goldman say he have big business deal with someone there. That OK, Mike?”

“Yeah, that’s quick thinking! Let’s hope it works. Keep in touch.”

Robin looked worried as I put down the phone, “Well, what do we do now?”

“Keep to the plan. Send the next message at one forty-five. A few prayers are indicated, I think.”

We sent three more withdrawals. At seven I called Bob.

“Any news yet?”

“I’ve confirmed three transfers. How many have you sent, Mike?”

“Seven today, but the bank manager here called Boynton’s house about noon. Robert told him he was away on business. The big one for seven fifty hasn’t cleared your end; he called after we sent it.”

“Oh, boy. It’s going to be a long night.”

It was. I left Robin with Aunt Tilly, and Glenn, Robert, and I went out to the villa. Robert watched the outside again while Glenn and I went back inside. We removed all the bugs. If Griffin got suspicious and called in the police, I didn’t want anything left around to find. We still had the phone tap hooked up, but that was two hundred yards away with the van. If anyone came snooping we could disconnect and get out quietly.

I saw Glenn and Robert off in his boat at sunrise on Thursday. Robert said they’d go about ten miles to a nice deep spot where Glenn could deep-six all the bugs and anything else that might look questionable.

At ten Robin and I were back in the office. I put a call through to Bob.

“What’s the good word?”

“You guys can relax. The last four transfers are confirmed and deposited. How’d you sleep?”

“We didn’t. We’ll continue as planned.”

Bob laughed, “Right. I’ll start transfering money to the Swiss account. You’ll finish today?”

“Yeah, we’ll finish today.”

“OK, I’m on a flight to Geneva in two hours. Friday I’ll move the money in cash from the Basel bank to Naughton’s account in Geneva and then transfer it to International Merchants Bank in L.A. Any questions?”

“No. Good luck. I’ll talk to you there on Friday as agreed for a progress report.”

Robin kept sending telexes: 150 thousand to Miami, 375 to the Bahamas, 430 to Santo Domingo. Glenn and Robert got back a little before one. Glenn started packing up all the little stuff. At 2:30 we would send the last message, a big one, 630 thousand. We were all edgy, wishing the clock ahead. Glenn was at the window.

“Damn. It’s a phone company repair-truck. He just started down the alley. If he opens the box next door he’ll see the temporary connections I made. Damn.”

We all looked out the window. The repair truck had stopped just up the alley from us. It wasn’t quite two o’clock.

Robin asked, “What’ll we do now, Mike?”

“Send the last message, Robin. Glenn, get down there and be ready to take out our wires if you get a chance.”

Robert broke in, “I’ll stop the phone company!” He grabbed the bottle of scotch Glenn always kept in his tool box, took a quick swig, splashed some on the front of his shirt, and ran out the door.

“What’s he going to do?” Robin asked.

I answered, “Maybe God knows. I don’t.”

A minute later our car came weaving down the alley from the opposite direction. It came to a shuddering halt next to the truck, almost taking its door off. Robert got out, playing the drunk, bottle in hand. A minute later he had the repairman in tow, heading up the alley to the bar across the street.

“Robin, send the last message now! Glenn, when she’s finished, pull everything quick and get back here!”

Inside five minutes we had sent the message and pulled in our wires. It was another twenty before Robert and the repairman came back. Robert slapped him on the back, waved, and came pounding up the stairs.

I greeted him at the door. “That’s terrific, Robert. Quick thinking. It was awful close there for a minute.”

“Yes, was pretty good, man. But was not problem. That phone man, he a cousin of my cousin.” We packed up everything — telex, scrambler, radios, and put it all in the car and headed for Aunt Tilly’s.

We wouldn’t know until the next morning if all the transfers had gone through. Aunt Tilly fixed a fabulous fish dinner for us, but it was a subdued celebration. I wondered if you could hold your breath for twelve hours.

Early Friday morning I put a call in to Bob in Geneva. The rest of the crew sat around the living room waiting, watching me and the phone.

“Bob, Mike. Don’t drag it out, we’re going crazy here.”

“Mission accomplished, Mike. Everything’s arrived here and it’s being sent on. I don’t see any trouble from this end.”

I gave them the thumbs up.

Later we packed all our gear and ourselves into the car and Robert headed for the airport.

I asked Robin, “How much did you leave in Boynton’s account?”

“A little over sixteen hundred. I didn’t think we should be greedy.”

Robert turned onto Edward Street and as we passed the Inter-Island Overseas Bank, a taxi pulled up and Mr. and Mrs. William Goldman of New Zealand got out.

Glenn said, “Hey, looks like our friends got back a little early.”

I put my arm around Robin and looked out the back window, “I hope they had a good time. It looks like they spent all their money in Curaçao.”

Skin Deep

Sara Paretsky

Commenting on “Skin Deep,” which features detective V. I. Warshawski, Miss Paretsky writes, “I got the idea while pursuing my futile but rigorous quest for perfect beauty at a skin-care salon in Chicago. In a small, darkened cubicle, one lies supine in a reclining chair, eyes covered with thick layers of wet cotton, face encased in mud, for perhaps half an hour. As I lay there, alone, I heard the sliding door to my little cubicle open and footsteps approach. The paranoia never far from a mystery fan made me give a gasp of horror. I tore at the swathing on my face. But it was too late: the cosmetologist had returned. And I thought, as one does, if someone wanted to come in here and kill you, it would be so simple. You cant see a thing, and the cosmetologist is painting your face with wet stuff, you don’t know what, and some of it smells a bit unpleasant. So there you’d lie, getting poison painted into your skin without even letting out a yelp.

“I had wanted for some time to do a story with Sal, the owner of V. I.’s favorite bar (the Golden Glow), and this skin-care tale seemed a good place to do a little more with her. Since these beauty salons often don’t employ blacks in other than menial jobs, it seemed like a good place to highlight some of the subcutaneous racism of wealth.”

Sara Paretsky’s most recent novels are Deadlock (Doubleday, 1984) and Killing Orders (Morrow, 1985).

1

The warning bell clangs angrily and the submarine dives sharply. Everyone to battle stations. The Nazis pursuing closely, the bell keeps up its insistent clamor, loud, urgent, filling my head. My hands are wet: I can’t remember what my job is in this cramped, tiny boat. If only someone would turn off the alarm bell. I fumble with some switches, pick up an intercom. The noise mercifully stops.

“Vic! Vic, is that you?”

“What?”

“I know it’s late. I’m sorry to call so late, but I just got home from work. It’s Sal, Sal Barthele.”

“Oh, Sal. Sure.” I looked at the orange clock readout. It was four-thirty. Sal owns the Golden Glow, a bar in the south Loop I patronize.

“It’s my sister, Vic. They’ve arrested her. She didn’t do it. I know she didn’t do it.”

“Of course not, Sal— Didn’t do what?”

“They’re trying to frame her. Maybe the manager... I don’t know.”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “Where are you?”

She was at her mother’s house, 95th and Vincennes. Her sister had been arrested three hours earlier. They needed a lawyer, a good lawyer. And they needed a detective, a good detective. Whatever my fee was, she wanted me to know they could pay my fee.

“I’m sure you can pay the fee, but I don’t know what you want me to do,” I said as patiently as I could.

“She... they think she murdered that man. She didn’t even know him. She was just giving him a facial. And he dies on her.”

“Sal, give me your mother’s address. I’ll be there in forty minutes.”

The little house on Vincennes was filled with neighbors and relatives murmuring encouragement to Mrs. Barthele. Sal is very black, and statuesque. Close to six feet tall, with a majestic carriage, she can break up a crowd in her bar with a look and a gesture. Mrs. Barthele was slight, frail, and light-skinned. It was hard to picture her as Sal’s mother.

Sal dispersed the gathering with characteristic firmness, telling the group that I was here to save Evangeline and that I needed to see her mother alone.

Mrs. Barthele sniffed over every sentence. “Why did they do that to my baby?” she demanded of me. “You know the police, you know their ways. Why did they come and take my baby, who never did a wrong thing in her life?”

As a white woman, I could be expected to understand the machinations of the white man’s law. And to share responsibility for it. After more of this meandering, Sal took the narrative firmly in hand.

Evangeline worked at La Cygnette, a high-prestige beauty salon on North Michigan. In addition to providing facials and their own brand-name cosmetics at an exorbitant cost, they massaged the bodies and feet of their wealthy clients, stuffed them into steam cabinets, ran them through a Bataan-inspired exercise routine, and fed them herbal teas. Signor Giuseppe would style their hair for an additional charge.

Evangeline gave facials. The previous day she had one client booked after lunch, a Mr. Darnell.

“Men go there a lot?” I interrupted.

Sal made a face. “That’s what I asked Evangeline. I guess it’s part of being a Yuppie — go spend a lot of money getting cream rubbed into your face.”

Anyway, Darnell was to have had his hair styled before his facial, but the hairdresser fell behind schedule and asked Evangeline to do the guy’s face first.

Sal struggled to describe how a La Cygnette facial worked — neither of us had ever checked out her sister’s job. You sit in something like a dentist’s chair, lean back, relax — you’re naked from the waist up, lying under a big down comforter. The facial expert — cosmetician was Evangeline’s official title — puts cream on your hands and sticks them into little electrically-heated mitts, so your hands are out of commission if you need to protect yourself. Then she puts stuff on your face, covers your eyes with heavy pads, and goes away for twenty minutes while the face goo sinks into your hidden pores.

Apparently while this Darnell lay back deeply relaxed, someone had rubbed some kind of poison into his skin. “When Evangeline came back in to clean his face, he was sick — heaving, throwing up, it was awful. She screamed for help and started trying to clean his face — it was terrible, he kept vomiting on her. They took him to the hospital, but he died around ten tonight.

“They came to get Baby at midnight — you’ve got to help her, V. I. — even if the guy tried something on her, she never did a thing like that — she’d haul off and slug him, maybe, but rubbing poison into his face? You go help her.”

2

Evangeline Barthele was a younger, darker edition of her mother. At most times, she probably had Sal’s energy — sparks of it flared now and then during our talk — but a night in the holding cells had worn her down.

I brought a clean suit and makeup for her: justice may be blind but her administrators aren’t. We talked while she changed.

“This Darnell — you sure of the name? — had he ever been to the salon before?”

She shook her head. “I never saw him. And I don’t think the other girls knew him either. You know, if a client’s a good tipper or a bad one they’ll comment on it, be glad or whatever that he’s come in. Nobody said anything about this man.”

“Where did he live?”

She shook her head. “I never talked to the guy, V. I.”

“What about the PestFree?” I’d read the arrest report and talked briefly to an old friend in the M.E.’s office. To keep roaches and other vermin out of their posh Michigan Avenue offices, La Cygnette used a potent product containing a wonder chemical called chorpyrifos. My informant had been awe-struck — “Only an operation that didn’t know shit about chemicals would leave chorpyrifos lying around. It’s got a toxicity rating of five — it gets you through the skin — you only need a couple of tablespoons to kill a big man if you know where to put it.”

Whoever killed Darnell had either known a lot of chemistry or been lucky — into his nostrils and mouth, with some rubbed into the face for good measure, the pesticide had made him convulsive so quickly that even if he knew who killed him he’d have been unable to talk, or even reason.

Evangeline said she knew where the poison was kept — everyone who worked there knew, knew it was lethal and not to touch it, but it was easy to get at. Just in a little supply room that wasn’t kept locked.

“So why you? They have to have more of a reason than just that you were there.”

She shrugged bitterly. “I’m the only black professional at La Cygnette — the other blacks working there sweep rooms and haul trash. I’m trying hard not to be paranoid, but I gotta wonder.”

She insisted Darnell hadn’t made a pass at her, or done anything to provoke an attack — she hadn’t hurt the guy. As for anyone else who might have had opportunity, salon employees were always passing through the halls, going in and out of the little cubicles where they treated clients — she’d seen any number of people, all with legitimate business in the halls, but she hadn’t seen anyone emerging from the room where Darnell was sitting.

When we finally got to bond court later that morning, I tried to argue circumstantial evidence — any of La Cygnette’s fifty or so employees could have committed the crime, since all had access and no one had motive. The prosecutor hit me with a very unpleasant surprise: the police had uncovered evidence linking my client to the dead man. He was a furniture buyer from Kansas City who came to Chicago six times a year, and the doorman and the maids at his hotel had identified Evangeline without any trouble as the woman who accompanied him on his visits.

Bail was denied. I had a furious talk with Evangeline in one of the interrogation rooms before she went back to the holding cells.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me? I walked into the courtroom and got blindsided.”

“They’re lying,” she insisted.

“Three people identified you. If you don’t start with the truth right now, you’re going to have to find a new lawyer and a new detective. Your mother may not understand, but for sure Sal will.”

“You can’t tell my mother. You can’t tell Sal!”

“I’m going to have to give them some reason for dropping your case, and knowing Sal it’s going to have to be the truth.”

For the first time she looked really upset. “You’re my lawyer. You should believe my story before you believe a bunch of strangers you never saw before.”

“I’m telling you, Evangeline, I’m going to drop your case. I can’t represent you when I know you’re lying. If you killed Darnell we can work out a defense. Or if you didn’t kill him and knew him we can work something out, and I can try to find the real killer. But when I know you’ve been seen with the guy any number of times, I can’t go into court telling people you never met him before.”

Tears appeared on the ends of her lashes. “The whole reason I didn’t say anything was so Mama wouldn’t know. If I tell you the truth, you’ve got to promise me you aren’t running back to Vincennes Avenue talking to her.”

I agreed. Whatever the story was, I couldn’t believe Mrs. Barthele hadn’t heard hundreds like it before. But we each make our own separate peace with our mothers.

Evangeline met Darnell at a party two years earlier. She liked him, he liked her — not the romance of the century, but they enjoyed spending time together. She’d gone on a two-week trip to Europe with him last year, telling her mother she was going with a girlfriend.

“First of all, she has very strict morals. No sex outside marriage. I’m thirty, mind you, but that doesn’t count with her. Second, he’s white, and she’d murder me. She really would. I think that’s why I never fell in love with him — if we wanted to get married I’d never be able to explain it to Mama.”

This latest trip to Chicago, Darnell thought it would be fun to see what Evangeline did for a living, so he booked an appointment at La Cygnette. She hadn’t told anyone there she knew him. And when she found him sick and dying she’d panicked and lied.

“And if you tell my mother of this, V. I. — I’ll put a curse on you. My father was from Haiti and he knew a lot of good ones.”

“I won’t tell your mother. But unless they nuked Lebanon this morning or murdered the mayor, you’re going to get a lot of lines in the paper. It’s bound to be in print.”

She wept at that, wringing her hands. So after watching her go off with the sheriff’s deputies, I called Murray Ryerson at the Herald-Star to plead with him not to put Evangeline’s liaison in the paper. “If you do she’ll wither your testicles. Honest.”

“I don’t know, Vic. You know the Sun-Times is bound to have some kind of screamer headline like DEAD MAN FOUND IN FACE-LICKING SEX ORGY. I can’t sit on a story like this when all the other papers are running it.”

I knew he was right, so I didn’t push my case very hard.

He surprised me by saying, “Tell you what: you find the real killer before my deadline for tomorrow’s morning edition and I’ll keep your client’s personal life out of it. The sex scoop came in too late for today’s paper. The Trib prints on our schedule and they don’t have it, and the Sun-Times runs older, slower presses, so they have to print earlier.”

I reckoned I had about eighteen hours. Sherlock Holmes had solved tougher problems in less time.

3

Roland Darnell had been the chief buyer of living-room furnishings for Alexander Dumas, a high-class Kansas City department store. He used to own his own furniture store in the nearby town of Lawrence, but lost both it and his wife when he was arrested for drug smuggling ten years earlier. Because of some confusion about his guilt — he claimed his partner, who disappeared the night he was arrested, was really responsible — he’d only served two years. When he got out, he moved to Kansas City to start a new life.

I learned this much from my friends at the Chicago police. At least, my acquaintances. I wondered how much of the story Evangeline had known. Or her mother. If her mother didn’t want her child having a white lover, how about a white ex-con, ex- (presumably) drug-smuggling lover?

I sat biting my knuckles for a minute. It was eleven now. Say they started printing the morning edition at two the next morning, I’d have to have my story by one at the latest. I could follow one line, and one line only — I couldn’t afford to speculate about Mrs. Barthele — and anyway, doing so would only get me killed. By Sal. So I looked up the area code for Lawrence, Kansas, and found their daily newspaper.

The Lawrence Daily Journal-World had set up a special number for handling press inquiries. A friendly woman with a strong drawl told me Darnell’s age (forty-four); place of birth (Eudora, Kansas); ex-wife’s name (Ronna Perkins); and ex-partner’s name (John Crenshaw). Ronna Perkins was living elsewhere in the country and the Journal-World was protecting her privacy. John Crenshaw had disappeared when the police arrested Darnell.

Crenshaw had done an army stint in Southeast Asia in the late sixties. Since much of the bamboo furniture the store specialized in came from the Far East, some people speculated that Crenshaw had set up the smuggling route when he was out there in the service. Especially since Kansas City immigration officials discovered heroin in the hollow tubes making up chair backs. If Darnell knew anything about the smuggling, he had never revealed it.

“That’s all we know here, honey. Of course, you could come on down and try to talk to some people. And we can wire you photos if you want.”

I thanked her politely — my paper didn’t run too many photographs. Or even have wire equipment to accept them. A pity — I could have used a look at Crenshaw and Ronna Perkins.

La Cygnette was on an upper floor of one of the new marble skyscrapers at the top end of the Magnificent Mile. Tall, white doors opened onto a hushed waiting room reminiscent of a high-class funeral parlor. The undertaker, a middle-aged highly made-up woman seated at a table that was supposed to be French provincial, smiled at me condescendingly.

“What can we do for you?”

“I’d like to see Angela Carlson. I’m a detective.”

She looked nervously at two clients seated in a far corner. I lowered my voice. “I’ve come about the murder.”

“But... but they made an arrest.”

I smiled enigmatically. At least I hoped it looked enigmatic. “The police never close the door on all options until after the trial.” If she knew anything about the police she’d know that was a lie — once they’ve made an arrest you have to get a presidential order to get them to look at new evidence.

The undertaker nodded nervously and called Angela Carlson in a whisper on the house phone. Evangeline had given me the names of the key players at La Cygnette; Carlson was the manager.

She met me in the doorway leading from the reception area into the main body of the salon. We walked on thick, silver pile through a white maze with little doors opening onto it. Every now and then we’d pass a white-coated attendant who gave the manager a subdued hello. When we went by a door with a police order slapped to it, Carlson winced nervously.

“When can we take that off? Everybody’s on edge and that sealed door doesn’t help. Our bookings are down as it is.”

“I’m not on the evidence team, Ms. Carlson. You’ll have to ask the lieutenant in charge when they’ve got what they need.”

I poked into a neighboring cubicle. It contained a large white dentist’s chair and a tray covered with crimson pots and bottles, all with the cutaway swans which were the salon’s trademark. While the manager fidgeted angrily I looked into a tiny closet where clients changed — it held a tiny sink and a few coat hangers.

Finally she burst out, “Didn’t your people get enough of this yesterday? Don’t you read your own reports?”

“I like to form my own impressions, Ms. Carlson. Sorry to have to take your time, but the sooner we get everything cleared up, the faster your customers will forget this ugly episode.”

She sighed audibly and led me on angry heels to her office, although the thick carpeting took the intended ferocity out of her stride. The office was another of the small treatment rooms with a desk and a menacing phone console. Photographs of a youthful Mme. de Leon, founder of La Cygnette, covered the walls.

Ms. Carlson looked through a stack of pink phone messages. “I have an incredibly busy schedule, Officer. So if you could get to the point...”

“I want to talk to everyone with whom Darnell had an appointment yesterday. Also the receptionist on duty. And before I do that I want to see their personnel files.”

“Really! All these people were interviewed yesterday.” Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “Are you really with the police? You’re not, are you? You’re a reporter. I want you out of here now. Or I’ll call the real police.”

I took my license photostat from my wallet. “I’m a detective. That’s what I told your receptionist. I’ve been retained by the Barthele family. Ms. Barthele is not the murderer and I want to find out who the real culprit is as fast as possible.”

She didn’t bother to look at the license. “I can barely tolerate answering police questions. I’m certainly not letting some snoop for hire take up my time. The police have made an arrest on extremely good evidence. I suppose you think you can drum up a fee by getting Evangeline’s family excited about her innocence, but you’ll have to look elsewhere for your money.”

I tried an appeal to her compassionate side, using half-forgotten arguments from my court appearances as a public defender. (Outstanding employee, widowed mother, sole support, intense family pride, no prior arrests, no motive.) No sale.

“Ms. Carlson, you the owner or the manager here?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious about your stake in the success of the place and your responsibility for decisions. It’s like this: you’ve got a lot of foreigners working here. The immigration people will want to come by and check out their papers.

“You’ve got lots and lots of tiny little rooms. Are they sprinklered? Do you have emergency exits? The fire department can make a decision on that.

“And how come your only black professional employee was just arrested and you’re not moving an inch to help her out? There are lots of lawyers around who’d be glad to look at a discrimination suit against La Cygnette.

“Now if we could clear up Evangeline’s involvement fast, we could avoid having all these regulatory people trampling around upsetting your staff and your customers. How about it?”

She sat in indecisive rage for several minutes: how much authority did I have, really? Could I offset the munificent fees the salon and the building owners paid to various public officials just to avoid such investigations? Should she call headquarters for instruction? Or her lawyer? She finally decided that even if I didn’t have a lot of power I could be enough of a nuisance to affect business. Her expression compounded of rage and defeat, she gave me the files I wanted.

Darnell had been scheduled with a masseuse, the hair expert Signor Giuseppe, and with Evangeline. I read their personnel files, along with that of the receptionist who had welcomed him to La Cygnette, to see if any of them might have hailed from Kansas City or had any unusual traits, such as an arrest record for heroin smuggling. The files were very sparce. Signor Giuseppe Fruttero hailed from Milan. He had no next-of-kin to be notified in the event of an accident. Not even a good friend. Bruna, the masseuse, was Lithuanian, unmarried, living with her mother. Other than the fact that the receptionist had been born as Jean Evans in Hammond but referred to herself as Monique from New Orleans, I saw no evidence of any kind of cover-up.

Angela Carlson denied knowing either Ronna Perkins or John Crenshaw or having any employees by either of those names. She had never been near Lawrence herself. She grew up in Evansville, Indiana, came to Chicago to be a model in 1978, couldn’t cut it, and got into the beauty business. Angrily she gave me the names of her parents in Evansville and summoned the receptionist.

Monique was clearly close to sixty, much too old to be Roland Darnell’s ex-wife. Nor had she heard of Ronna or Crenshaw.

“How many people knew that Darnell was going to be in the salon yesterday?”

“Nobody knew.” She laughed nervously. “I mean, of course I knew — I made the appointment with him. And Signor Giuseppe knew when I gave him his schedule yesterday. And Bruna, the masseuse, of course, and Evangeline.”

“Well, who else could have seen their schedules?”

She thought frantically, her heavily mascaraed eyes rolling in agitation. With another nervous giggle she finally said, “I suppose anyone could have known. I mean, the other cosmeticians and the makeup artists all come out for their appointments at the same time. I mean, if anyone was curious they could have looked at the other people’s lists.”

Carlson was frowning. So was I. “I’m trying to find a woman who’d be forty now, who doesn’t talk much about her past. She’s been divorced and she won’t have been in the business long. Any candidates?”

Carlson did another mental search, then went to the file cabinets. Her mood was shifting from anger to curiosity and she flipped through the files quickly, pulling five in the end.

“How long has Signor Giuseppe been here?”

“When we opened our Chicago branch in 1980 he came to us from Miranda’s — I guess he’d been there for two years. He says he came to the States from Milan in 1970.”

“He a citizen? Has he got a green card?”

“Oh, yes. His papers are in good shape. We are very careful about that at La Cygnette.” My earlier remark about the immigration department had clearly stung. “And now I really need to get back to my own business. You can look at those files in one of the consulting rooms — Monique, find one that won’t be used today.”

It didn’t take me long to scan the five files, all uninformative. Before returning them to Monique I wandered on through the back of the salon. In the rear a small staircase led to an upper story. At the top was another narrow hall lined with small offices and storerooms. A large mirrored room at the back filled with hanging plants and bright lights housed Signor Giuseppe. A dark-haired man with a pointed beard and a bright smile, he was ministering gaily to a thin, middle-aged woman, talking and laughing while he deftly teased her hair into loose curls.

He looked at me in the minor when I entered. “You are here for the hair, Signora? You have the appointment?”

“No, Signor Giuseppe. Sono qui perchè la sua fama se è sparsa di fronte a lei. Milano è una bella città, non è vero?”

He stopped his work for a moment and held up a deprecating hand. “Signora, it is my policy to speak only English in my adopted country.”

“Una vera stupida e ignorante usanza io direi.” I beamed sympathetically and sat down on a high stool next to an empty customer chair. There were seats for two clients. Since Signor Giuseppe reigned alone, I pictured him spinning at high speed between customers, snipping here, pinning there.

“Signora, if you do not have the appointment, will you please leave? Signora Dotson here, she does not prefer the audience.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Dotson,” I said to the lady’s chin. “I’m a detective. I need to talk to Signor Giuseppe, but I’ll wait.”

I strolled back down the hall and entertained myself by going into one of the storerooms and opening little pots of La Cygnette creams and rubbing them into my skin. I looked in a mirror and could already see an improvement. If I got Evangeline sprung maybe she’d treat me to a facial.

Signor Giuseppe appeared with a plastically groomed Mrs. Dotson. He had shed his barber’s costume and was dressed for the street. I followed them down the stairs. When we got to the bottom I said, “In case you’re thinking of going back to Milan — or even to Kansas — I have a few questions.”

Mrs. Dotson clung to the hairdresser, ready to protect him.

“I need to speak to him alone, Mrs. Dotson. I have to talk to him about bamboo.”

“I’ll get Miss Carlson, Signor Giuseppe,” his guardian offered.

“No, no, Signora. I will deal with this crazed woman myself. A million thanks. Grazie, grazie.”

“Remember, no Italian in your adopted America,” I reminded him nastily.

Mrs. Doston looked at us uncertainly.

“I think you should get Ms. Carlson,” I said. “Also a police escort. Fast.”

She made up her mind to do something, whether to get help or flee I wasn’t sure, but she scurried down the corridor. As soon as she had disappeared, he took me by the arm and led me into one of the consulting rooms.

“Now, who are you and what is this?” His accent had improved substantially.

“I’m V. I. Warshawski. Roland Darnell told me you were quite an expert on fitting drugs into bamboo furniture.”

I wasn’t quite prepared for the speed of his attack. His hands were around my throat. He was squeezing and spots began dancing in front of me. I didn’t try to fight his arms, just kicked sharply at his shin, following with my knee to his stomach. The pressure at my neck eased. I turned in a half circle and jammed my left elbow into his rib cage. He let go.

I backed to the door, keeping my arms up in front of my face and backed into Angela Carlson.

“What on earth are you doing with Signor Giuseppe?” she asked.

“Talking to him about furniture.” I was out of breath. “Get the police and don’t let him leave the salon.”

A small crowd of white-coated cosmeticians had come to the door of the tiny treatment room. I said to them, “This isn’t Giuseppe Fruttero. It’s John Crenshaw. If you don’t believe me, try speaking Italian to him — he doesn’t understand it. He’s probably never been to Milan. But he’s certainly been to Thailand, and he knows an awful lot about heroin.”

4

Sal handed me the bottle of Black Label. “It’s yours, Vic. Kill it tonight or save it for some other time. How did you know he was Roland Darnell’s ex-partner?”

“I didn’t. At least not when I went to La Cygnette. I just knew it had to be someone in the salon who killed him, and it was most likely someone who knew him in Kansas. And that meant either Darnell’s ex-wife or his partner. And Giuseppe was the only man on the professional staff. And then I saw he didn’t know Italian — after praising Milan and telling him he was stupid in the same tone of voice and getting no response it made me wonder.”

“We owe you a lot, Vic. The police would never have dug down to find that. You gotta thank the lady, Mama.”

Mrs. Barthele grudgingly gave me her thin hand. “But how come those police said Evangeline knew that Darnell man? My baby wouldn’t know some convict, some drug smuggler.”

“He wasn’t a drug smuggler, Mama. It was his partner. The police have proved all that now. Roland Darnell never did anything wrong.” Evangeline, chic in red with long earrings that bounced as she spoke, made the point hotly.

Sal gave her sister a measuring look. “All I can say, Evangeline, is it’s a good thing you never had to put your hand on a Bible in court about Mr. Darnell.”

I hastily poured a drink and changed the subject.

Stacked Deck

Bill Pronzini

Bill Pronzini is a prolific writer and editor. Since 1971 he has written over forty novels, including collaborations with Marcia Muller, John Lutz, Barry N. Malzberg, Colin Wilcox, and Jack Anderson. His latest novel, the fifteenth in the “Nameless Detective” series, is Deadfall (St. Martin’s Press, 1986). He has also written some 275 stories and articles and edited over 50 anthologies, most of them in the mystery field. Among Mr. Pronzini’s recent books are: Graveyard Plots: The Best Short Stories of Bill Pronzini (St. Martin’s Press, 1985) and One Thousand and One Midnights, with Marcia Muller (Arbor House, 1986).

1

From where he stood in the shadow of a split-bole Douglas fir, Deighan had a clear view of the cabin down below. Big harvest moon tonight, and only a few streaky clouds scudding past now and then to dim its hard yellow shine. The hard yellow glistened off the surface of Lake Tahoe beyond, softened into a long silverish stripe out toward the middle. The rest of the water shone like polished black metal. All of it was empty as far as he could see, except for the red-and-green running lights of a boat well away to the north, pointed toward the neon shimmer that marked the North Shore gambling casinos.

The cabin was big, made of cut pine logs and redwood shakes. It had a railed redwood deck that overlooked the lake, mostly invisible from where Deighan was. A flat concrete pier jutted out into the moonstruck water, a pair of short wooden floats making a T at its outer end. The boat tied up there was a thirty-foot Chris-Craft with sleeping accommodations for four. Nothing but the finer things for the Shooter.

Deighan watched the cabin. He’d been watching it for three hours now, from this same vantage point. His legs bothered him a little, standing around like this, and his eyes hurt from squinting. Time was, he’d had the night vision of an owl. Not anymore. What he had now, that he hadn’t had when he was younger, was patience. He’d learned that in the last three years, along with a lot of other things — patience most of all.

On all sides the cabin was dark, but that was because they’d put the blackout curtains up. The six of them had been inside for better than two hours now, the same five-man nucleus as on every Thursday night except during the winter months, plus the one newcomer. The Shooter went to Hawaii when it started to snow. Or Florida or the Bahamas — someplace warm. Mannlicher and Brandt stayed home in the winter. Deighan didn’t know what the others did, and he didn’t care.

A match flared in the darkness between the carport, where the Shooter’s Caddy Eldorado was slotted, and the parking area back among the trees. That was the lookout — Mannlicher’s boy. Some lookout: he smoked a cigarette every five minutes, like clockwork, so you always knew where he was. Deighan watched him smoke this one. When he was done, he threw the butt away in a shower of sparks, and then seemed to remember that he was surrounded by dry timber and went after it and stamped it out with his shoe. Some lookout.

Deighan held his watch up close to his eyes, pushed the little button that lighted its dial. Ten-nineteen. Just about time. The lookout was moving again, down toward the lake. Pretty soon he would walk out on the pier and smoke another cigarette and admire the view for a few minutes. He apparently did that at least twice every Thursday night — that had been his pattern on each of the last two — and he hadn’t gone through the ritual yet tonight. He was bored, that was the thing. He’d been at his job a long time and it was always the same; there wasn’t anything for him to do except walk around and smoke cigarettes and look at three hundred square miles of lake. Nothing ever happened. In three years nothing had ever happened.

Tonight something was going to happen.

Deighan took the gun out of the clamshell holster at his belt. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 wadcutter, lightweight, compact — a good piece, one of the best he’d ever owned. He held it in his hand, watching as the lookout performed as if on cue — walked to the pier, stopped, then moved out along its flat surface. When the guy had gone halfway, Deighan came out of the shadows and went down the slope at an angle across the driveway, to the rear of the cabin. His shoes made little sliding sounds on the needled ground, but they weren’t sounds that carried.

He’d been over this ground three times before, dry runs the last two Thursday nights and once during the day when nobody was around; he knew just where and how to go. The lookout was lighting up again, his back to the cabin, when Deighan reached the rear wall. He eased along it to the spare-bedroom window. The sash went up easily, noiselessly. He could hear them then, in the rec room — voices, ice against glass, the click and rattle of the chips. He got the ski mask from his jacket pocket, slipped it over his head, snugged it down. Then he climbed through the window, put his penlight on just long enough to orient himself, went straight across to the door that led into the rec room.

It didn’t make a sound, either, when he opened it. He went in with the revolver extended, elbow locked. Sturgess saw him first. He said, “Jesus Christ!” and his body went as stiff as if he were suffering a stroke. The others turned in their chairs, gawking. The Shooter started up out of his.

Deighan said, fast and hard, “Sit still if you don’t want to die. Hands on the table where I can see them — all of you. Do it!”

They weren’t stupid; they did what they were told. Deighan watched them through a thin haze of tobacco smoke. Six men around the hexagonal poker table, hands flat on its green baize, heads lifted or twisted to stare at him. He knew five of them. Mannlicher, the fat owner of the Nevornia Club at Crystal Bay; he had Family ties, even though he was a Prussian, because he’d once done some favors for an east-coast capo. Brandt, Mannlicher’s cousin and private enforcer, who doubled as the Nevornia’s floor boss. Bellah, the quasi-legitimate real-estate developer and high roller. Sturgess, the bankroll behind the Jackpot Lounge down at South Shore. And the Shooter — hired muscle, hired gun, part-time coke runner, whose real name was Dennis D’Allesandro. The sixth man was the pigeon they’d lured in for this particular game, a lean guy in his fifties with Texas oil money written all over him and his fancy clothes — Donley or Dona van, something like that.

Mannlicher was the bank tonight; the table behind his chair was covered with stacks of dead presidents — fifties and hundreds, mostly. Deighan took out the folded-up flour sack, tossed it on top of the poker chips that littered the baize in front of Mannlicher. “All right. Fill it.”

The fat man didn’t move. He was no pushover; he was hard, tough, mean. And he didn’t like being ripped off. Veins bulged in his neck, throbbed in his temples. The violence in him was close to the surface now, held thinly in check.

“You know who we are?” he said. “Who I am?”

“Fill it.”

“You dumb bastard. You’ll never live to spend it.”

“Fill the sack. Now.”

Deighan’s eyes, more than his gun, made up Mannlicher’s mind for him. He picked up the sack, pushed around in his chair, began to savagely feed in the stacks of bills.

“The rest of you,” Deighan said, “put your wallets, watches, jewelry on the table. Everything of value. Hurry it up.”

The Texan said, “Listen heah—” and Deighan pointed the .38 at his head and said, “One more word, you’re a dead man.” The Texan made an effort to stare him down, but it was just to save face; after two or three seconds he lowered his gaze and began stripping the rings off his fingers.

The rest of them didn’t make any fuss. Bellah was sweating; he kept swiping it out of his eyes, his hands moving in little jerks and twitches. Brandt’s eyes were like dull knives, cutting away at Deighan’s masked face. D’Allesandro showed no emotion of any kind. That was his trademark; he was your original iceman. They might have called him that, maybe, if he’d been like one of those old-timers who used an ice pick or a blade. As it was, with his preferences, the Shooter was the right name for him.

Mannlicher had the sack full now. The platinum ring on his left hand, with its circle of fat diamonds, made little gleams and glints in the shine from the low-hanging droplight. The idea of losing that bothered him even more than losing his money; he kept running the fingers of his other hand over the stones.

“The ring,” Deighan said to him. “Take it off.”

“Go to hell.”

“Take it off or I’ll put a third eye in the middle of your forehead. Your choice.”

Mannlicher hesitated, tried to stare him down, didn’t have any better luck at it than the Texan. There was a tense moment; then, because he didn’t want to die over a piece of jewelry, he yanked the ring off, slammed it down hard in the middle of the table.

Deighan said, “Put it in the sack. The wallets and the rest of the stuff too.”

This time Mannlicher didn’t hesitate. He did as he’d been told.

“All right,” Deighan said. “Now get up and go over by the bar. Lie down on the floor on your belly.”

Mannlicher got up slowly, his jaw set and his teeth clenched as if to keep the violence from spewing out like vomit. He lay down on the floor. Deighan gestured at Brandt, said, “You next. Then the rest of you, one at a time.”

When they were all on the floor he moved to the table, caught up the sack. “Stay where you are for ten minutes,” he told them. “You move before that, or call to the guy outside, I’ll blow the place up. I got a grenade in my pocket, the fragmentation kind. Anybody doubt it?”

None of them said anything.

Deighan backed up into the spare bedroom, leaving the door open so he could watch them all the way to the window. He put his head out, saw no sign of the lookout. Still down by the lake somewhere. The whole thing had taken just a few minutes.

He swung out through the window, hurried away in the shadows — but in the opposite direction from the driveway and the road above. On the far side of the cabin there was a path that angled through the pine forest to the north; he found it, followed it at a trot. Enough moonlight penetrated through the branches overhead to let him see where he was going.

He was almost to the lakefront when the commotion started back there: voices, angry and pulsing in the night, Mannlicher’s the loudest of them. They hadn’t waited the full ten minutes, but then he hadn’t expected them to. It didn’t matter. The Shooter’s cabin was invisible from here, cut off by a wooded finger of land a hundred yards wide. And they wouldn’t be looking for him along the water, anyway. They’d be up on the road, combing that area; they’d figure automatically that his transportation was a car.

The hard yellow-and-black gleam of the lake was just ahead, the rushes and ferns where he’d tied up the rented Beachcraft inboard. He moved across the sandy strip of beach, waded out to his calves, dropped the loaded flour sack into the boat, and then eased the craft free of the rushes before he lifted himself over the gunwale. The engine caught with a quiet rumble the first time he turned the key.

They were still making noise back at the cabin, blundering around like fools, as he eased away into the night.

2

The motel was called the Whispering Pines. It was back off Highway 28 below Crystal Bay, a good half mile from the lake, tucked up in a grove of pines and Douglas fir. Deighan’s cabin was the farthest from the office, detached from its nearest neighbor by thirty feet of open ground.

Inside he sat in darkness except for flickering light from the television. The set was an old one; the picture was riddled with snow and kept jumping every few seconds. But he didn’t care; he wasn’t watching it. Or listening to it he had the sound turned off. It was on only because he didn’t like waiting in the dark.

It had been after midnight when he came in — too late to make the ritual call to Fran, even though he’d felt a compulsion to do so. She went to bed at eleven-thirty; she didn’t like the phone to ring after that. How could he blame her? When he was home and she was away at Sheila’s or her sister’s, he never wanted it to ring that late either.

It was one-ten now. He was tired, but not too tired. The evening was still in his blood, warming him, like liquor or drugs that hadn’t quite worn off yet. Mannlicher’s face... that was an image he’d never forget. The Shooter’s, too, and Brandt’s, but especially Mannlicher’s.

Outside, a car’s headlamps made a sweep of light across the curtained window as it swung in through the motel courtyard. When it stopped nearby and the lights went out, Deighan thought It’s about time.

Footsteps made faint crunching sounds on gravel. Soft knock on the door. Soft voice following: “Prince? You in there?”

“Door’s open.”

A wedge of moonlight widened across the floor, not quite reaching to where Deighan sat in the lone chair with the .38 wadcutter in his hand. The man who stood silhouetted in the opening made a perfect target — just a damned airhead, any way you looked at him.

“Prince?”

“I’m over here. Come on in, shut the door.”

“Why don’t you turn on a light?”

“There’s a switch by the door.”

The man entered, shut the door. There was a click and the ceiling globe came on. Deighan stayed where he was, but reached over with his left hand to turn off the TV.

Bellah stood blinking at him, running his palms along the sides of his expensive cashmere jacket. He said nervously, “For God’s sake, put the gun away. What’s the idea?”

“I’m the cautious type.”

“Well, put it away. I don’t like it.”

Deighan got to his feet, slid the revolver into his belt holster. “How’d it go?”

“Hairy, damned hairy. Mannlicher was like a madman.” Bellah took a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped his forehead. His angular face was pale, shiny-damp. “I didn’t think he’d take it this hard. Christ.”

That’s the trouble with people like you, Deighan thought. You never think. He pinched a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, lit it with the Zippo Fran had given him fifteen years ago. Fifteen years, and it still worked. Like their marriage, even with all the trouble. How long was it now? Twenty-two years in May? Twenty-three?

Bellah said, “He started screaming at D’Allesandro. I thought he was going to choke him.”

“Who? Mannlicher?”

“Yeah. About the window in the spare bedroom.”

“What’d D’Allesandro say?”

“He said he always keeps it locked, you must have jimmied it some way that didn’t leave any traces. Mannlicher didn’t believe him. He thinks D’Allesandro forgot to lock it.”

“Nobody got the idea it was an inside job?”

“No.”

“Okay then. Relax, Mr. Bellah. You’re in the clear.”

Bellah wiped his face again. “Where’s the money?”

“Other side of the bed. On the floor.”

“You count it?”

“No. I figured you’d want to do that.”

Bellah went over there, picked up the flour sack, emptied it on the bed. His eyes were bright and hot as he looked at all the loose green. Then he frowned, gnawed at his lower lip, and poked at Mannlicher’s diamond ring. “What’d you take this for? Mannlicher is more pissed about the ring than anything else. He said his mother gave it to him. It’s worth ten thousand.”

“That’s why I took it,” Deighan said. “Fifteen percent of the cash isn’t a hell of a lot.”

Bellah stiffened. “I set it all up, didn’t I? Why shouldn’t I get the lion’s share?”

“I’m not arguing, Mr. Bellah. We agreed on a price; OK, that’s the way it is. I’m only saying I got a right to a little something extra.”

“All right, all right.” Bellah was looking at the money again. “Must be at least two hundred thousand,” he said. “That Texan, Donley, brought fifty grand alone.”

“Plenty in his wallet too, then.”

“Yeah.”

Deighan smoked and watched Bellah count the loose bills and what was in the wallets and billfolds. There was an expression on the developer’s face like a man has when he’s fondling a naked woman. Greed, pure and simple. Greed was what drove Lawrence Bellah; money was his best friend, his lover, his god. He didn’t have enough ready cash to buy the lakefront property down near Emerald Bay — property he stood to make three or four million on, with a string of condos — and he couldn’t raise it fest enough any legitimate way; so he’d arranged to get it by knocking over his own weekly poker game, even if it meant crossing some hard people. He had balls, you had to give him that. He was stupid as hell, and one of these days he was liable to end up in pieces at the bottom of the lake, but he did have balls.

He was also lucky, at least for the time being, because the man he’d picked to do his strong-arm work was Bob Prince. He had no idea the name was a phony, no idea the whole package on Bob Prince was the result of three years of careful manipulation. All he knew was that Prince had a reputation as dependable, easy to work with, not too smart or money-hungry, and that he was willing to do any kind of muscle work. Bellah didn’t have an inkling of what he’d really done by hiring Bob Prince. If he kept on being lucky, he never would.

Bellah was sweating by the time he finished adding up the take. “Two hundred and thirty-three thousand and change,” he said. “More than we figured on.”

“My cut’s thirty-five thousand,” Deighan said.

“You divide fast.” Bellah counted out two stacks, hundreds and fifties, to one side of the flowered bedspread. Then he said, “Count it? Or do you trust me?”

Deighan grinned. He rubbed out his cigarette, went to the bed, and took his time shuffling through the stacks. “On the nose,” he said when he was done.

Bellah stuffed the rest of the cash back into the flour sack, leaving the watches and jewelry where they lay. He was still nervous, still sweating; he wasn’t going to sleep much tonight, Deighan thought.

“That’s it, then,” Bellah said. “You going back to Chicago tomorrow?”

“Not right away. Thought I’d do a little gambling first.”

“Around here? Christ, Prince...”

“No. Reno, maybe. I might even go down to Vegas.”

“Just get away from Tahoe.”

“Sure,” Deighan said. “First thing in the morning.”

Bellah went to the door. He paused there to tuck the flour sack under his jacket; it made him look as if he had a tumor on his left side. “Don’t do anything with that jewelry in Nevada. Wait until you get back to Chicago.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Bellah.”

“Maybe I’ll need you again sometime,” Bellah said. “You’ll hear from me if I do.”

“Any time. Any old time.”

When Bellah was gone, Deighan put five thousand dollars into his suitcase and the other thirty thousand into a knapsack he’d bought two days before at a South Shore sporting goods store. Mannlicher’s diamond ring went into the knapsack, too, along with the better pieces among the rest of the jewelry. The watches and the other stuff were no good to him; he bundled those up in a hand towel from the bathroom, stuffed the bundle into the pocket of his down jacket. Then he had one more cigarette, set his portable alarm clock for six A.M., double-locked the door, and went to bed on the left side, with the revolver under the pillow near his right hand.

3

In the dawn light the lake was like smoky blue glass, empty except for a few optimistic fishermen anchored close to the eastern shoreline. The morning was cold, autumn-crisp, but there was no wind. The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the sky and its scattered cloud-streaks in pinks and golds. There was old snow on the upper reaches of Mount Tallac, on some of the other Siena peaks that ringed the lake.

Deighan took the Beachcraft out half a mile before he dropped the bundle of watches and worthless jewelry overboard. Then he cut off at a long diagonal to the north that brought him to within a few hundred yards of the Shooter’s cabin. He had his fishing gear out by then, fiddling with the glass rod and tackle — just another angler looking for rainbow, Mackinaw, and cutthroat trout.

There wasn’t anybody out and around at the Shooter’s place. Deighan glided past at two knots, angled into shore a couple of hundred yards beyond, where there were rushes and some heavy brush and trees overhanging the water. From there he had a pretty good view of the cabin, its front entrance, the Shooter’s Caddy parked inside the carport.

It was eight o’clock, and the sun was all the way up, when he switched off the engine and tied up at the bole of a collapsed pine. It was a few minutes past nine-thirty when D’Allesandro came out and walked around to the Caddy. He was alone. No chippies from the casinos this morning, not after what had gone down last night. He might be going to the store for cigarettes, groceries, or to a café somewhere for breakfast. He might be going to see somebody, do some business. The important thing was, how long would he be gone?

Deighan watched him back his Caddy out of the carport, drive it away and out of sight on the road above. He stayed where he was, fishing, waiting. At the end of an hour, when the Shooter still hadn’t come back, he started the boat’s engine and took his time maneuvering around the wooded finger of land to the north and then into the cove where he’d anchored last night. He nosed the boat into the reeds and ferns, swung overboard, and pushed it farther in, out of sight. Then he caught up the knapsack and set off through the woods to the Shooter’s cabin.

He made a slow half circle of the place, keeping to the trees. The carport was still empty. Nothing moved anywhere within the range of his vision. Finally he made his way down to the rear wall, around it and along the side until he reached the front door. He didn’t like standing out here for even a little while because there was no cover; but this door was the only one into the house, except for sliding doors to the terrace and a porch on the other side, and you couldn’t jimmy sliding doors easily and without leaving marks. The same was true of windows. The Shooter would have made sure they were all secure anyway.

Deighan had one pocket of the knapsack open, the pick gun in his hand, when he reached the door. He’d got the pick gun from a housebreaker named Caldwell, an old-timer who was retired now; he’d also got some other tools and lessons in how to use them on the various kinds of locks. The lock on the Shooter’s door was a flush-mounted, five-pin cylinder lock, with a steel lip on the door frame to protect the bolt and strike plate. That meant it was a lock you couldn’t loid with a piece of plastic or a shim. It also meant that with a pick gun you could probably have it open in a couple of minutes.

Bending, squinting, he slid the gun into the lock. Set it, working the little knob on top to adjust the spring tension. Then he pulled the trigger — and all the pins bounced free at once and the door opened under his hand.

He slipped inside, nudged the door shut behind him, put the pick gun away inside the knapsack, and drew on a pair of thin plastic gloves. The place smelled of stale tobacco smoke and stale liquor. They hadn’t been doing all that much drinking last night; maybe the Shooter had nibbled a few too many after the rest of them finally left. He didn’t like losing money and valuables any more than Mannlicher did.

Deighan went through the front room. Somebody’d decorated the place for D’Allesandro: leather furniture, deer and antelope heads on the walls, Indian rugs on the floors, tasteful paintings. Cocaine deals had paid for part of it; contract work, including two hits on greedy Oakland and San Francisco drug dealers, had paid for the rest. But the Shooter was still small-time. He wasn’t bright enough to be anything else. Cards and dice and whores-in-training were all he really cared about.

The front room was no good; Deighan prowled quickly through the other rooms. D’Allesandro wasn’t the kind to have an office or a den, but there was a big old-fashioned rolltop desk in a room with a TV set and one of those big movie-type screens. None of the desk drawers was locked. Deighan pulled out the biggest one, saw that it was loaded with Danish porn magazines, took the magazines out and set them on the floor. He opened the knapsack and transferred the thirty thousand dollars into the back of the drawer. He put Mannlicher’s ring in there, too, along with the other rings and a couple of gold chains the Texan had been wearing. Then he stuffed the porn magazines in at the front and pushed the drawer shut.

On his way back to the front room he rolled the knapsack tight around the pick gun and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. He opened the door, stepped out. He’d just finished resetting the lock when he heard the car approaching on the road above.

He froze for a second, looking up there. He couldn’t see the car because of a screen of trees; but then he heard its automatic transmission gear down as it slowed for the turn into the Shooter’s driveway. He pulled the door shut and ran toward the lake, the only direction he could go. Fifty feet away the log-railed terrace began, raised up off the sloping ground on redwood pillars. Deighan caught one of the railings, hauled himself up and half rolled through the gap between them. The sound of the oncoming car was loud in his ears as he landed, off balance, on the deck.

He went to one knee, came up again. The only way to tell if he’d been seen was to stop and look, but that was a fool’s move. Instead he ran across the deck, climbed through the railing on the other side, dropped down, and tried to keep from making noise as he plunged into the woods. He stopped moving after thirty yards, where fems and a deadfall formed a thick concealing wall. From behind it, with the .38 wadcutter in his hand, he watched the house and the deck, catching his breath, waiting.

Nobody came up or out of the deck. Nobody showed himself anywhere. The car’s engine had been shut off sometime during his flight; it was quiet now, except for birds and the faint hum of a powerboat out on the lake.

Deighan waited ten minutes. When there was still nothing to see or hear, he transcribed a slow curl through the trees to where he could see the front of the cabin. The Shooter’s Caddy was back inside the carport, no sign of haste in the way it had been neatly slotted. The cabin door was shut. The whole area seemed deserted.

But he waited another ten minutes before he was satisfied. Even then, he didn’t holster his weapon until he’d made his way around to the cove where the Beachcraft was hidden. And he didn’t relax until he was well out on the lake, headed back toward North Shore.

4

The Nevornia was one of North Shore’s older clubs, but it had undergone some recent modernizing. Outside, it had been given a glass and gaudy-neon face-lift. Inside, they’d used more glass, some cut crystal, and a wine-red decor that included carpeting, upholstery, and gaming tables.

When Deighan walked in a few minutes before two, the banks of slots and the blackjack tables were getting moderately heavy play. That was because it was Friday; some of the small-time gamblers liked to get a jump on the weekend crowds. The craps and roulette layouts were quiet. The high rollers were like vampires: they couldn’t stand the daylight, so they only came out after dark.

Deighan bought a roll of quarters at one of the change booths. There were a couple of dozen rows of slots in the main casino — flashy new ones, mostly, with a few of the old scrolled nickel-plated jobs mixed in for the sake of nostalgia. He stopped at one of the old quarter machines, fed in three dollars’ worth. Lemons and oranges. He couldn’t even line up two cherries for a three-coin drop. He smiled crookedly to himself, went away from the slots and into the long concourse that connected the main casino with the new, smaller addition at the rear.

There were telephone booths along one side of the concourse. Deighan shut himself inside one of them, put a quarter in the slot, pushed o and then the digits of his home number in San Francisco. When the operator came on he said it was a collect call; that was to save himself the trouble of having to feed in a handful of quarters. He let the circuit make exactly five burrs in his ear before he hung up. If Fran was home, she’d know now that he was all right. If she wasn’t home, then she’d know it later when he made another five-ring call. He always tried to call at least twice a day, at different times, because sometimes she went out shopping or to a movie or to visit with Sheila and the kids.

It’d be easier if she just answered the phone, talked to him, but she never did when he was away. Never. Sheila or anybody else wanted to get hold of her, they had to call one of the neighbors or come over in person. She didn’t want anything to do with him when he was away, didn’t want to know what he was doing or even when he’d be back. “Suppose I picked up the phone and it wasn’t you?” she’d said. “Suppose it was somebody telling me you were dead? I couldn’t stand that.” That part of it didn’t make sense to him. If he were dead, somebody’d come by and tell it to her face; dead was dead, and what difference did it make how she got the news? But he didn’t argue with her. He didn’t like to argue with her, and it didn’t cost him anything to do it her way.

He slotted the quarter again and called the Shooter’s number. Four rings, five, and D’Allesandro’s voice said, “Yeah?”

“Mr. Carson?”

“Who?”

“Isn’t this Paul Carson?”

“No. You got the wrong number.”

“Oh, sorry,” Deighan said, and rang off.

Another quarter in the slot. This time the number he punched out was the Nevornia’s business line. A woman’s voice answered, crisp and professional. He said, “Mr. Mannlicher. Tell him it’s urgent.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Never mind that. Just tell him it’s about what happened last night.”

“Sir, I’m afraid I can’t—”

“Tell him last night’s poker game, damn it. He’ll talk to me.”

There was a click and some canned music began to play in his ear. He lit a cigarette. He was on his fourth drag when the canned music quit and the fat man’s voice said, “Frank Mannlicher. Who’s this?”

“No names. Is it all right to talk on this line?”

“Go ahead, talk.”

“I’m the guy who hit your game last night.”

Silence for four or five seconds. Then Mannlicher said, “Is that so?” in a flat, wary voice.

“Ski mask, Smith & Wesson .38, grenade in my jacket pocket. The take was better than two hundred thousand. I got your ring — platinum with a circle of diamonds.”

Another pause, shorter this time. “So why call me today?”

“How’d you like to get it all back — the money and the ring?”

“How?”

“Go pick it up. I’ll tell you where.”

“Yeah? Why should you do me a favor?”

“I didn’t know who you were last night. I wasn’t told. If I had been, I wouldn’t of gone through with it. I don’t mess with people like you, people with your connections.”

“Somebody hired you, that it?”

“That’s it.”

“Who?”

“D’Allesandro.”

“What?”

“The Shooter. D’Allesandro.”

“...Bullshit.”

“You don’t have to believe me. But I’m telling you — he’s the one. He didn’t tell me who’d be at the game, and now he’s trying to screw me on the money. He says there was less than a hundred and fifty thousand in the sack; I know better.”

“So now you want to screw him.”

“That’s right. Besides, I don’t like the idea of you pushing to find out who I am, maybe sending somebody to pay me a visit someday. I figure if I give you the Shooter, you’ll lose interest in me.”

More silence. “Why’d he do it?” Mannlicher said in a different voice — harder, with that edge of violence it had held last night. “Hit the game like that?”

“He needs big money, fast. He’s into some kind of scam back east; he wouldn’t say what it is.”

“Where’s the money and the rest of the stuff?”

“At his cabin. We had a drop arranged in the woods; I put the sack there last night, he picked it up this morning when nobody was around. The money’s in his desk — the big rolltop. Your ring, too. That’s where it was an hour ago, anyhow, when I walked out.”

Mannlicher said, “In his desk,” as if he were biting the words off something bitter.

“Go out there, see for yourself.”

“If you’re telling this straight, you got nothing to worry about from me. Maybe I’ll fix you up with a reward or something. Where can I get in touch?”

“You can’t,” Deighan said. “I’m long gone as soon as I hang up this phone.”

“I’ll make it five thousand. Just tell me where you—”

Deighan broke the connection.

His cigarette had burned down to the filter; he dropped it on the floor, put his shoe on it before he left the booth. On his way out of the casino he paused long enough to push another quarter into the same slot machine he’d played before. More lemons and oranges. This time he didn’t smile as he moved away.

5

Narrow and twisty, hemmed in by trees, old Lake Road branched off Highway 28 and took two miles to get all the way to the lake. But it wasn’t a dead-end; another road picked it up at the lakefront and looped back out to the highway. There were several nice homes hidden away in the area — it was called Pine Acres — with plenty of space between them. The Shooter’s cabin was a mile and a half from the highway, off an even narrower lane called Little Cove Road. The only other cabin within five hundred yards was a summer place that the owners had already closed up for the year.

Deighan drove past the intersection with Little Cove, went two-tenths of a mile, parked on the turnout at that point. There wasn’t anybody else around when he got out, nothing to see except trees and little winks of blue that marked the nearness of the lake. If anybody came along they wouldn’t pay any attention to the car. For one thing, it was a ’75 Ford Galaxy with nothing distinctive about it except the antenna for the GTE mobile phone. It was his — he’d driven it up from San Francisco — but the papers on it said it belonged to Bob Prince. For another thing, Old Lake Road was only a hundred yards or so from the water here, and there was a path through the trees to a strip of rocky beach. Local kids used it in the summer; he’d found that out from Bellah. Kids might have decided to stop here on a sunny autumn day as well. No reason for anybody to think otherwise.

He found the path, went along it a short way to where it crossed a little creek, dry now and so narrow it was nothing more than a natural drainage ditch. He followed the creek to the north, on a course he’d taken three days ago. It led him to a shelflike overhang topped by two chunks of granite outcrop that leaned against each other like a pair of old drunks. Below the shelf, the land fell away sharply to the Shooter’s driveway some sixty yards distant. Off to the right, where the incline wasn’t so steep and the trees grew in a pack, was the split-bole Douglas fir where he’d stood waiting last night. The trees were fewer and more widely spaced apart between here and the cabin, so that from behind the two outcrops you had a good look at the Shooter’s property, Little Cove Road, the concrete pier, and the lake shimmering under the late-afternoon sun.

The Caddy Eldorado was still slotted inside the carport. It was the only car in sight. Deighan knelt behind where the outcrops came together to form a notch, rubbed tension out of his neck and shoulders while he waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. Less than ten minutes had passed when the car appeared on Little Cove Road, slowed, turned down the Shooter’s driveway. It wasn’t Mannlicher’s fancy limo; it was a two-year-old Chrysler — Brandt’s, maybe. Brandt was driving it: Deighan had a clear view of him through the side window as the Chrysler pulled up and stopped near the cabin’s front door. He could also see that the lone passenger was Mannlicher.

Brandt got out, opened the passenger door for the fat man, and the two of them went to the cabin. It took D’Allesandro ten seconds to answer Brandt’s knock. There was some talk, not much; then Mannlicher and Brandt went in, and the door shut behind them.

All right, Deighan thought. He’d stacked the deck as well as he could; pretty soon he’d know how the hand — and the game — played out.

Nothing happened for maybe five minutes. Then he thought he heard some muffled sounds down there, loud voices that went on for a while, something that might have been a bang, but the distance was too great for him to be sure that he wasn’t imagining them. Another four or five minutes went by. And then the door opened and Brandt came out alone, looked around, called something back inside that Deighan didn’t understand. If there was an answer, it wasn’t audible. Brandt shut the door, hurried down to the lake, went out onto the pier. The Chris-Craft was still tied up there. Brandt climbed on board, disappeared for thirty seconds or so, reappeared carrying a square of something gray and heavy. Tarpaulin, Deighan saw when Brandt came back up the driveway. Big piece of it — big enough for a shroud.

The Shooter’s hand had been folded. That left three of them still in the game.

When Brandt had gone back inside with the tarp, Deighan stood and half ran along the creek and through the trees to where he’d left the Ford. Old Lake Road was deserted. He yanked open the passenger door, leaned in, caught up the mobile phone, and punched out the emergency number for the county sheriff’s office. An efficient-sounding male voice answered.

“Something’s going on on Little Cove Road,” Deighan said, making himself sound excited. “That’s in Pine Acres, you know? It’s the cabin at the end, down on the lake. I heard shots — people shooting at each other down there. It sounds like a war.”

“What’s the address?”

“I don’t know the address, it’s the cabin right on the lake. People shooting at each other. You better get right out there.”

“Your name, sir?”

“I don’t want to get involved. Just hurry, will you?”

Deighan put the receiver down, shut the car door, ran back along the path and along the creek to the shelf. Mannlicher and Brandt were still inside the cabin. He went to one knee again behind the outcrops, drew the .38 wadcutter, held it on his thigh.

It was another two minutes before the door opened down there. Brandt came out, looked around as he had before, went back inside — and then he and Mannlicher both appeared, one at each end of a big, tarp-wrapped bundle. They started to carry it down the driveway toward the lake. Going to put it on the boat, Deighan thought, take it out now or later on, when it’s dark. Lake Tahoe was sixteen hundred feet deep in the middle. The bundle wouldn’t have been the first somebody’d dumped out there.

He let them get clear of the Chrysler, partway down the drive, before he poked the gun into the notch, sighted, and fired twice. The shots went where he’d intended them to, wide by ten feet and into the roadbed so they kicked up gravel. Mannlicher and Brandt froze for an instant, confused. Deighan fired a third round, putting the slug closer this time, and that one panicked them: they let go of the bundle and began scrambling.

There was no cover anywhere close by; they both ran for the Chrysler. Brandt had a gun in his hand when he reached it, and he dropped down behind the rear deck, trying to locate Deighan’s position. Mannlicher kept on scrambling around to the passenger door, pulled it open, pushed himself across the seat inside.

Deighan blew out the Chrysler’s near front tire. Sighted, and blew out the rear tire. Brandt threw an answering shot his way, but it wasn’t even close. The Chrysler was tilting in Deighan’s direction as the tires flattened. Mannlicher pushed himself out of the car, tried to make a run for the cabin door with his arms flailing, his fat Jiggling. Deighan put a bullet into the wall beside the door. Mannlicher reversed himself, fell in his frantic haste, crawled back behind the Chrysler.

Reloading the wadcutter, Deighan could hear the sound of cars coming fast up on Little Cove Road. No sirens, but revolving lights made faint bloodred flashes through the trees.

From behind the Chrysler Brandt fired again, wildly, Beyond him, on the driveway, one corner of the tarp-wrapped bundle had come loose and was flapping in the wind off the lake.

A county sheriff’s cruiser, its roof light slashing the air, made the turn off Little Cove onto the driveway. Another one was right behind it. In his panic, Brandt straightened up when he saw them and fired once, blindly, at the first in line.

Deighan was on his feet by then, hurrying away from the outcrops, holstering his weapon. Behind him he heard brakes squeal, another shot, voices yelling, two more shots. All the sounds faded as he neared the turnout and the Ford. By the time he pulled out onto the deserted road, there was nothing to hear but the sound of his engine, the screeching of a jay somewhere nearby.

Brandt had thrown in his hand by now; so had Mannlicher.

This pot belonged to him.

6

Fran was in the backyard, weeding her garden, when he got home late the following afternoon. He called to her from the doorway, and she glanced around and then got up, unsmiling, and came over to him. She was wearing jeans and one of his old shirts and a pair of gardening gloves, and her hair was tied in a long ponytail. Used to be a light, silky brown, her hair; now it was mostly gray. His fault. She was only forty-six. A woman of forty-six shouldn’t be so gray.

She said, “So you’re back.” She didn’t sound glad to see him, didn’t kiss him or touch him at all. But her eyes were gentle on his face.

“I’m back.”

“You all right? You look tired.”

“Long drive. I’m fine; it was a good trip.”

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to hear about it, not any of it. She just didn’t want to know.

“How about you?” he asked. “Everything been okay?”

“Sheila’s pregnant again.”

“Christ. What’s the matter with her? Why don’t she get herself fixed? Or get Hank fixed?”

“She likes kids.”

“I like kids too, but four’s too many at her age. She’s only twenty-seven.”

“She wants eight.”

“She’s crazy,” Deighan said. “What’s she want to bring all those kids into a world like this for?”

There was an awkward moment. It was always awkward at first when he came back. Then Fran said, “You hungry?”

“You know me. I can always eat.” Fact was, he was starved. He hadn’t eaten much up in Nevada, never did when he was away. And he hadn’t had anything today except an English muffin and some coffee for breakfast in Truckee.

“Come into the kitchen,” Fran said. “I’ll fix you something.”

They went inside. He got a beer out of the refrigerator; she waited and then took out some covered dishes, some vegetables. He wanted to say something to her, talk a little, but he couldn’t think of anything. His mind was blank at times like this. He carried his beer into the living room.

The goddamn trophy case was the first thing he saw. He hated that trophy case; but Fran wouldn’t get rid of it, no matter what he said. For her it was like some kind of shrine to the dead past. All the mementoes of his years on the force — twenty-two years, from beat patrolman in North Beach all the way up to inspector on the narcotics squad. The certificate he’d won in marksmanship competition at the police academy, the two citations from the mayor for bravery, other crap like that. Bones, that’s all they were to him. Pieces of a rotting skeleton. What was the sense in keeping them around, reminding both of them of what he’d been, what he’d lost?

His fault he’d lost it, sure. But it was their fault too, goddamn them. The laws, the lawyers, the judges, the system. No convictions on half of all the arrests he’d ever made — half! Turning the ones like Mannlicher and Brandt and D’Allesandro loose, putting them right back on the street, letting them make their deals and their hits, letting them screw up innocent lives. Sheila’s kids, his grandkids — lives like that. How could they blame him for being bitter? How could they blame him for taking too many drinks now and then?

He sat down on the couch, drank some of his beer, lit a cigarette. Ah Christ, he thought, it’s not them. You know it wasn’t them. It was you, you dumb bastard. They warned you twice about drinking on duty. And you kept on doing it, you were hog-drunk the night you plowed the departmental sedan into that vanload of teenagers. What if one of those kids had died? You were lucky, by God. You got off easy.

Sure, he thought. Sure. But he’d been a good cop, damn it, a cop inside and out; it was all he knew how to be. What was he supposed to do after they threw him off the force? Live on his half-pension? Get a job as a part-time security guard? Forty-four years old, no skills, no friends outside the department — what the hell was he supposed to do?

He’d invented Bob Prince, that was what he’d done. He’d gone into business for himself.

Fran didn’t understand. “You’ll get killed one of these days,” she’d said in the beginning. “It’s vigilante justice,” she’d said. “You think you’re Rambo, is that it?” she’d said. She just didn’t understand. To him it was the same job he’d always done, the only one he was any good at, only now he made up some of the rules. He was no Rambo, one man up against thousands, a mindless killing machine; he hated that kind of phony flag-waving crap. It wasn’t real. What he was doing, that was real. It meant something. But a hero? No. Hell, no. He was a sniper, that was all, picking off a weak or a vulnerable enemy here and there, now and then. Snipers weren’t heroes, for Christ’s sake. Snipers were snipers, just like cops were cops.

He finished his beer and his cigarette, got up, went into Fran’s sewing room. The five thousand he’d held out of the poker-game take was in his pocket — money he felt he was entitled to because his expenses ran high sometimes, and they had to eat, they had to live. He put the roll into her sewing cabinet, where he always put whatever money he made as Bob Prince. She’d spend it when she had to, parcel it out, but she’d never mention it to him or anyone else. She’d told Sheila once that he had a sales job, he got paid in cash a lot, that was why he was away from home for such long periods of time.

When he walked back into the kitchen she was at the sink, peeling potatoes. He went over and touched her shoulder, kissed the top of her head. She didn’t look at him; stood there stiffly until he moved away from her. But she’d be all right in a day or two. She’d be fine until the next time Bob Prince made the right kind of connection.

He wished it didn’t have to be this way. He wished he could roll back the clock three years, do things differently, take the gray out of her hair and the pain out of her eyes. But he couldn’t. It was just too late.

You had to play the cards you were dealt, no matter how lousy they were. The only thing that made it tolerable was that sometimes, on certain hands, you could find ways to stack the damn deck.

Family Business

W. S. Doxey

William Doxey is a professor of English at West Georgia College. He says he got into teaching because he wanted to be a writer and decided he had to “read everything — hence the degrees.” He has five novels in print, of which the most recent are Cousins to the Kudzu (LSU Press, 1985) and Countdown (Dorchester, 1986). He comments: “The Bleekman character in ‘Family Business’ is very real to me. I like him as a person and a detective. ‘Family Business’ is important because it led to a couple of other Bleekman stories and a novel, which I recently completed and which I hope will be the first of a series.”

As I eased my old Chevy into a parking place two doors down from number 171 at the Cobb Parkway Travelodge, I recalled that in days of old people had a nasty habit of killing messengers who brought bad news.

An F-4 jet from the air base down the road screamed in low, its gear down, as though to remind me that we live in modern times. Still, history has a way of repeating itself, and the news I had for Mr. and Mrs. Ovid Johnson wasn’t going to make them happy. So I took my own sweet time walking to the door and mulled over how I was going to break it to them that their nineteen-year-old daughter, Kimberly, preferred life in Atlanta’s fast lane to that on the family farm near Clinton, Tennessee.

This morning I had been on a ladder painting my house in the Virginia Highlands section. When I bought it ten years ago, I told myself that I’d give it a fresh coat every five years, whether it needed it or not. The first time, it started raining the second day of work, so I had to start over. This time the weather wisemen on TV promised four days of sunshine.

But there’s rain and then there’s rain — meaning that I was moving right along, splattering my clothes as well as the house, when a voice behind me said, “Mr. Bleekman, the private investigator?”

I looked down into the face of a lovely young thing — blonde, wearing wraparound sunglasses, designer clothes, and a frown.

“I’m Jack Bleekman,” I said.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

“Well, I’m sort of busy,” I replied, pointing my brush at the house and seeing the paint drip on the azaleas below.

“It’s important, really.”

So I came down from the ladder, wiped my hands, and we sat on the porch.

I offered her a cup of coffee, but she said no, then got down to her business.

Her name was Kimberly Johnson. Six months ago she had left Tennessee for Atlanta. “I found a good job in the entertainment business,” she said.

“Singer?” I asked. I make the rounds so as to stay in touch, but I didn’t recall seeing her.

“I sing some, but dancing’s my thing.”

I nodded, noticing her trim legs and hips.

“My problem is that my parents are, well, old-fashioned. They don’t approve of what I’m doing. I’ve talked to them on the phone and written them, and told them I like what I’m doing. But they won’t leave me alone!”

She took a tissue from her Gucci bag and dabbed beneath the rim of her dark glasses. “This morning they called from a motel. They want to see me.”

“So see them,” I said. “They are your parents.”

“You don’t understand — they’ve threatened to have me kidnapped.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“You’re of legal age.”

“I know, but they think I’m a little girl!”

“But they let you leave home, didn’t they?”

She shook her head. “I ran away. After a few weeks I called them so they wouldn’t worry. They’ve been after me ever since.”

Now I shook my head. “What do you want me to do?”

“Tell them once and for all that I’m not coming home, that I’m okay. Tell them to leave me alone.”

“You think that’ll do any good?”

“Yes. You can let them know that after they calm down and accept me the way I am, I’ll see them when and where I choose.”

I glanced at my half-painted wall, then at her, and said, “I don’t like getting involved in family business.”

“They won’t shoot you or anything.”

That was debatable. People with domestic problems are like house pets — they still have sharp teeth. “It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“Look, moms and dads love their kids, one way or another. You owe it to them to face them.”

“I can’t! They’ll make me go home. I’d rather die!”

And to show that she meant business, she popped open Mr. Gucci’s wide mouth and handed me five one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Why me?” I asked.

“People say you’re reliable and honest.”

“And you believe them?”

She smiled. “You look OK.”

I gave her back three bills, explaining I sell my services for two hundred per diem. She gave me her folks’ address. I asked her what to say.

“That I’m doing fine, to leave me alone, that I’ll contact them when I’m ready.”

I followed her down the walk, asked for a number so I could tell her what happened.

“That’s not necessary,” she said. “Just tell them.”

She drove off in one of those cute little Mazda RX-7s, bright red, with a personalized tag — CANDI.

I checked the car parked in front of 171 — a dusty, three-year-old Ford with a Tennessee tag. Then I went to the door, rapped a couple of times, and stood back a pace, just in case.

A woman of about forty opened the door. Brown hair showing gray. Lines on her otherwise pretty face. A big fellow, balding, wearing a white shirt and no tie stepped up behind her. His face was weather-beaten, his eyes squinting down at me.

“Hello,” she said, her voice small and twangy.

“My name’s Jack Bleekman,” I said, showing them my I.D. “I’m a private investigator. Your daughter, Kim—”

She grabbed my arm. “You’ve seen her?”

“Well, yes. That’s why I’m here.”

The big guy moved in front of her but didn’t touch me. “I’m Ovid Johnson, mister,” he said. “This is my wife, Nancy. What’s this about Kimberly?”

Another jet swooped over as I opened my mouth. He motioned me in and shut the door and leaned against it. I glanced around the room. It looked lived in. The made-up bed was rumpled but the TV wasn’t on. A battered suitcase and some clothes on hangers were in the area by the lavatory. On the dresser were a pair of black socks and a framed photo.

“Where did you see Kimberly?” Mrs. Johnson asked.

“She came by my office an hour ago.”

“Where is she now?” the father asked.

“I don’t know.”

For a man of any size he moved fast. The next thing I knew I was across the bed and he had me for the three-count. “Whoa!” I said. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

“That you will, buddy,” he said, pinning me with his eyes. “Nan, get my gun.”

She opened a dresser drawer and fished out a long barrel .44 magnum. He snatched it and pressed it against my throat and eased off of me. “Now talk, real slow!”

The .25 Beretta strapped to my ankle seemed ten miles away. “Take it easy and let me up and I will,” I said.

He cocked the .44. “You will now!”

God is on the side of the big battalions. Under circumstances such as these, so was I. “Like I told you — she came to my office. Hired me to tell you she was fine.”

“What else?”

“That you should leave her alone.”

He blinked, uncocked the hammer, and looked like he was going to slap the barrel across my nose. But then Mama touched his arm and said, “Let the man go, Ovid. I want to hear everything about Kimberly.”

Ovid grunted and shifted his weight so I could sit up. “Don’t forget I’ve still got this,” he said, waving the magnum.

“How could I?”

“And no smart big-city talk!”

Mama said, “Kimberly doesn’t want to see us?”

“That’s what she told me.”

A tear ran down her cheek. “Then why’d she send us this?”

She showed me a postcard, one of those plain ones with no picture. The address and message were in soft pencil, looping letters like a teenager would write. It said, “Help me.” There was an Atlanta phone number. The postmark was three days ago.

“We called and at first nobody answered. Then a man did and he said he didn’t know anyone named Kimberly and hung up. Since then the phone’s been disconnected.”

“You that guy who answered?” Dad asked.

“Not me. Only time I saw her was an hour ago, at my office.”

“Did she say how she is, what she’s doing?” Mom asked.

“She said she’s a dancer and everything was all right.”

“She studied dancing since she was four. Won a county-wide contest last year. But I just know something’s bad wrong!”

Mr. Johnson laid the pistol on the dresser, within easy reach, put one fence-post arm around his sobbing wife, and said, “There, there, Mother. We’ll find her.”

I glanced beyond the .44 to the photo. A pretty young girl with a fresh smile and shoulder-length brown hair. Wore a sweater with a string of pearls. “Is that Kimberly?” I asked.

Dad nodded. “Was taken last year when she was graduated from the county high school.”

“How tall is she?”

Mom said, “Five-five, why?”

The girl who hired me had different colored hair and wore dark glasses, yet she resembled the girl in the photo, and both were about the same size. But under oath I couldn’t swear she was Kimberly.

Dad reached for the .44, saying, “You better answer my wife’s question.”

It wasn’t the photo that really bothered me; it was the postcard. My Kimberly hadn’t mentioned it. And Mom and Dad weren’t mean. They were upset, which was normal. And there was something else that didn’t add up, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I said, “Did you threaten to kidnap her?”

Mom’s hands flew to her lips. Dad said, “Where we come from, mister, folks don’t snatch their own kids!”

“Let me look around,” I said.

“You’ll help us?” Mom asked.

“I’ll do what I can, but no promises. Atlanta’s a big town.”

“How much you charge?” Dad asked.

“I get two hundred a day plus expenses, usually.”

“Not that we’re poor, but we don’t have that kind of money.”

Mom pulled off her wedding band and said, “I don’t care how much it costs — I want my daughter! Take this.”

“I’ve been paid for one day,” I said. “After that, we’ll see. Did you tell the police she’s missing?”

“Tried to,” said Dad. “But they said since she’s nineteen and left home on her own, there wasn’t much they could do.”

“Have you got another picture?”

He took out a battered wallet and gave me a small, wrinkled photo, a copy of the framed one.

It was thirty minutes back to my office. I used the time going over what I had seen and heard, trying to figure what it was that bothered me. It was possible the girl was Kimberly Johnson, that she’d sent the postcard, then had second thoughts. Her clothes and car indicated she’d found something paying more than minimum wage in the hills of Tennessee. A dancer? My ex-wife Jayleen had been a hoofer. We met in Nam where I was in army intelligence and she was entertaining the troops with a USO group. She was twenty-two, a year out of college, and it was a good gig for her, experience as well as pay. Never mind how we met and fell — all the usual moves — and married when my tour was over. Never mind the rest, either. People fall in love — it stands to reason that some fall out. She’s married to a nice guy now, and they have a kid. Her only dancing these days is to keep her cute shape in shape.

Shape? I visualized the way Jayleen walked — erect, good posture — a dancer’s gait. The Kimberly who hired me hadn’t walked that way — too loose, sort of — her steps lacked measure, rhythm. She was no more a dancer than I, and I have two left feet.

But the Johnsons’ Kimberly had studied dance in school. And what about the tag on the Mazda — CANDI? People change their names for professional and other reasons, sure. But I was willing to bet that if she were a dancer, it wasn’t with the Atlanta ballet.

They say that half of knowledge is knowing where to find it. In my business that means contacts which develop when one hand washes the other. I’ve scrubbed more than one in my time, so I made a few calls, starting with the number on the Johnsons’ postcard.

Sure enough, the computerized voice told me the phone was disconnected. The live operator informed me that the new number was unlisted. What I needed was an address. The telephone company keeps an up-to-date cross-listing by number. It’s not exactly confidential, but they don’t like to give it out to just anyone. An old army buddy named Endicott is a detective captain. He keeps stuff like that in his computer. I gave him a buzz and told him what I needed.

“Sure,” he said, “I’ll punch it in. And listen, what’s the name of that realtor at Hilton Head you rented from last spring?”

I told him and read him his number out of my address book.

“Thanks — okay — your number is for apartment 8-B at 3173 Buckhead Place.”

“What’s the billing name?”

“Langston, J. C. Know it?”

“No. You?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

He was on-line so I asked him to check the CANDI tag.

A moment later he said, “You’ve got a match — car’s registered to same name, same address. So?”

“So thanks.”

“What are friends for, huh? That guy at Hilton Head give me a break if I mention you?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Yeah,” he said, “and truth is more exciting than fiction.”

A cliché, but I knew what he meant. We accept coincidence in real life but reject it in stories. Like the Mazda and the Buckhead address. If the girl really was Kimberly, then she wrote the postcard and knew the apartment and the Langston who rented it. If she wasn’t Kimberly?

I drove over to find out.

Buckhead Place was a fifty-carat diamond’s throw from Phipp’s Plaza, home of opulent shoppes and Saks, which, I recalled from window-shopping with my pal Ellen the psychiatrist, stocked Gucci bags galore.

The apartment building was one of those semiclassy Bauhaus designs — lots of brick and glass, a sort of factory for living fast and efficiently. I pulled into the adjoining parking garage and borrowed a Dr. Jacobi’s spot, figuring he was either earning the rent at the office or blowing it on the golf course.

As I entered the foyer I was confronted by a security guard, a young guy in starched blues with a big gold badge and a radio in his holster instead of a .38. I was wearing my second-best suit and a clean shirt, and I knew where I was going, so I decided to draw on my years of experience as a military bluffer.

I gave him a steady look, eye-to-eye, and walked past him to the elevator and pushed the up button. He said, “Good afternoon, sir.” But he didn’t salute. I nodded and went to the eighth floor.

Number 8-B was left, down a green-carpeted hall hung with a couple of pseudoexpensive abstract prints, more glitter frame than quality.

There was a button with a talk box. I buzzed, but I didn’t talk when a female voice said, “Greg? You’re early — as usual!”

The door opened, and there stood my Kimberly in something black and lacy from Frederick’s. Her painted smile sagged as she said, “You!”

She tried to slam the door, but I caught it, invited myself in, and had a look around.

A dance studio this apartment was not, though there were more than enough mirrors for the cast of A Chorus Line.

“I’m calling the cops!” she said.

“We both know you’re not. And stop frowning — it makes wrinkles.”

“All right, what do you want?”

“I could say I want to tell you I spoke to your parents, which I did, only you’re not Kimberly Johnson. Why the fun and games?”

She took a white satin robe from the sofa and slipped it on, then faced me and said, “It’s for their own good. Kim’s in big trouble.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I can’t!”

“That bad? What will the police say?”

“You’d tell them, wouldn’t you? Men — you’re all alike!”

“So are working girls. So are the guys who own them.”

“All right,” she said, sitting on the sofa and clutching the robe to her neck as though a vestige of little-girl innocence still lingered somewhere in her soul. “Kim lived here with me and, yes, we’re in the business — you know what I mean.”

I nodded. Though I consider myself to be a man in the world rather than of it, I’d been around the block more than once.

“It’s the old story,” she said. “Kim wanted out. The people at the top said no way. She tried making a run for it, but they nabbed her. That was day before yesterday. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.”

“So they sent you to me, thinking I’d satisfy her folks?”

“Yes. What went wrong?” Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t see the Johnsons — you followed me for a bigger payoff!”

“Wrong. I met Ovid and Nancy. They’re nice people who happen to love their daughter.”

“So now you’re working for them.”

“Today you’re paying the freight.”

She covered her eyes with one hand, said, “Then drop it! Kim’s a goner, and if you don’t lay off...”

I glanced at the mirrors, the carpet, the sofa, and the flashy bar in the corner. “Nice place you’ve got here. But they say a house isn’t a home. Are you happy?”

She dropped her hand and glared at me, but I saw tears in her eyes. “What’s happy got to do with anything? I’m in too deep to get out except dead!”

I should’ve been touched — maybe I was, a little. Truth is, I’ve known a lot of hookers, and I’ve yet to find the proverbial one with a heart of gold. Most of them are plain lazy — physically or mentally, usually both. But she was young, and she was leveling with me, so I sat down beside her and said, “Look, if you want out, you can get out, but not without Kimberly. Whatever’s happened to her, you’re part of it. So it’s not just you alone, now. The Johnsons are in it. So am I. We’re an extended family, so to speak.”

“You can walk away!” she said. “You can go home and paint your house!”

“Not now. This thing has got to be settled.”

“They’ll kill me!”

“They’re killing you every day you stay here, unless you’re lying. I mean the money’s good.”

She whirled toward me. “It’s not that good! They own me like they own this place and the car!”

“So what are you going to do about it? Maybe you can endure — but the older you get, the worse it will be. Pretty soon you’ll be the Welcome Wagon lady at a migrant labor camp.”

“I don’t know much,” she said.

“OK. Let’s start with your name.”

“I’m Gloria Reeves, from Jackson, Mississippi.”

“Who’s J. C. Langston?”

“My contact. He pays the bills and owns the car, you know. But he works for someone else I’ve never seen.”

“Where can I find him?”

“He’ll kill me!”

“He will anyhow, eventually.”

“He runs the All-Star Escort Service.”

When I reached the lobby a chubby faced guy of about forty wearing a madras jacket and yellow polo shirt was waiting. As we passed he gave me that little-boy-headed-for-the-candy-shop-with-a-new-quarter look. I had the urge to knee him where the sun never shines. But the philosopher side of my nature held me in check, and I went into the parking area reminding myself that we all have our good reasons for everything.

Everything — even getting suckered, which I was, by one of the oldest dummy tricks in the world.

As I started my car, a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt grabbed the back of my neck, and the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed my cheek. Ovid Johnson growled. “Thought you didn’t know where Kimberly is? And you come straight over here like a bee-martin to its gourd.”

I went limp because there wasn’t any way I was slipping that grip short of breaking my neck. He eased off and said, “Yeah, I followed you from the motel. She in that fancy building?”

I told him no, that I didn’t know where she was.

He tapped that hog-leg .44 against my temple. “Think again, mister, while you got time.”

I was thinking. All I needed to get my ticket punched was a wild man shadowing me. Still, Ovid did have his good points. He was big, and he was determined. So I raised both hands and said, “Let’s talk. Put that cannon away.”

“All right. You turn around real slow and lay your hands on the back of the seat, so I can count your fingers.”

They say that truth is the best shield. But it’s never easy telling a man that the woman he loves has been up to something nasty, and I had never heard of honesty being tested by a magnum slug. But Ovid’s concern was righteous, and he seemed decent enough, so I took the chance and told him the truth about his daughter’s occupation.

Rather than pistol-whipping or blasting me, the huge guy sagged. The pistol slipped from his fingers and he buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Under the circumstances I guess I would’ve too.

After a moment, I said, “What we need now is information. I’ve got a plan. Are you willing to help, even if it means going to jail for a couple of hours?”

“Mister,” he said, his head bowed, “just tell me who you want killed.”

“Nobody,” I said. “Are you good with your fists?”

He looked up at me and half-smiled. “I’ve been known to break a few jaws. When I was a kid I even wrestled a bear.”

My plan was one of those calculated to kill two birds with one stone, and I figured if it didn’t work, at least Ovid would be out of my hair for a while.

He followed me to the All-Star Escort Sen ice on Spring Street. The office was a walk-up next to a topless bar, a large room with modern sofa and chairs, presided over by a matronly woman with a blonde beehive and too much makeup. Behind her desk was another room, and through the half-open door I saw a coffee table on which were propped the feet of two men. One wore size twenty quad-E lace-ups, the other a pair of those slick Italian loafers.

Hemming and hawing in my best ah-shucks manner I told Blondie I was in town for an important business conference. There was going to be a cocktail party followed by dinner at the Plaza. What I... well... needed was someone to take to impress my contact. Did she have a suitable lady — should be young, attractive, you know, and also have good manners and dress well. Money was no object.

The lady smiled like the housemother at the dog pound. She opened a photo album for my inspection. As her purple-nailed finger pointed out a really special lovely, Ovid lumbered in and yelled, “I need me a woman!”

Blondie looked up at him and said, “Sir?”

The guy was a pretty convincing actor. “Had me a few drinks,” he declared, “and then I thought about getting me a woman. What you got, honey?”

I said, “Sorry, you’ll have to wait. I was here first.”

“Listen, shorty,” he said, “I don’t wait for nobody, not when it comes to women!”

I had told him not to hit me, and he didn’t. But the shove flung me across the room. I hit the wall and I wasn’t playacting as I slumped to the floor.

Blondie squealed. From out of the back came a guy as big as all outdoors with a scar for a beauty mark. He thundered toward Ovid like a dry elephant smelling water. Ovid’s punch was like a slug from a high-powered rifle. Wham — thud — and the guy back-flipped over Blondie’s desk and didn’t move. A little guy in a silk suit popped out next, waving a blackjack. He started to yell something tough, but when he saw Ovid his mouth fell open and he tried to backpedal. But Ovid was too quick. He grabbed his silk tie and hoisted him over the desk and gave him a couple of short shots that turned the guy’s eyes inside out.

Now I was yelling at Blondie, “Call the cops! He’ll kill us!”

She went for the phone. Ovid got to it first and ripped it out of the wall.

“Run!” I yelled. “Get help!”

She did, as fast as her fat little legs would carry her, ripping her skirt from hem to waist as she went.

“Was that okay?” Ovid asked, with a grin.

I was on my feet, checking my ribs. “Best today,” I grunted. “Now watch these two.”

I went into the back room. The desk and filing cabinets were unlocked. In the bottom drawer I found an address book with coded names and phone numbers. Underneath it was another book with fewer names. I stuck both in my jacket pocket and made for the door, telling Ovid to count to fifty before he left.

I was in my Chevy when a patrol car squealed around the corner, and two beat cops huffed up on foot. As I drove away, something big smashed the office window and fell to the sidewalk. I hoped it was only the sofa, but I didn’t look back to check.

When I got home, I made a cup of black coffee to steady my nerves, and then I took off my shirt and looked for damage. I had a couple welts, nothing more. Tomorrow’s bruises, purple and pink like the sunrise. I was lucky. The two guys at All-Star wouldn’t be back from Ovid’s never-never land for hours.

I sipped the coffee and looked through the books. There were maybe seventy entries in the big one, but the coded names like B/1642 and J/0012 didn’t mean anything till I recalled the army way of I.D.-ing personal effects with an initial and the final four digits of a social security number. But you needed the master list to learn who B and J were. I spotted the phone number of the Buckhead Place apartment though; the old one had been scratched out, the new penciled in. And when I ran down the list again, looking for Ks, I found K/3398 lined up with the old number.

A lot of girls. Whoever was running this show had a sweet thing going.

The smaller book had names and addresses, but I figured they weren’t steady customers because there were only a dozen. Langston’s was included. Since most guys know where they live, the book must not have been his. Under W, I found one I recognized. Roland White, aka Whitefish.

I shut the book and stared at the ceiling. White was boss-dog in the pack the Atlanta papers called the Dixie Mafia, which was about as Johnny Reb as maple syrup. The Cosa Nostra controlled it, like everything else as American as dope, loan sharking, gambling, and girls, not to mention murder for hire.

I felt like a guy on thin ice during a hailstorm. Smart thing would be to send the books to Endicott and fade out, fast.

But that wouldn’t get Kimberly Johnson back, if she was still among the living. By the time the D.A. decided a probable cause, White would be elsewhere and his Harvard lawyers would have him decked out like a choirboy singing counterpoint amens.

I hazarded another look at White’s name. The address was a boat slip at Lake Lanier. You can take the pirate off the open seas, but you can’t take the pirate out of the man. And he probably had enough muscle on board to row the ship to Singapore.

Well, I had muscle too — I had the books. And even the best sailor fears a stormy sea. I could use them to make a few waves, if I played it cool.

I went over to Fred’s Fast Copies, bought a few manila envelopes and made two Xeroxes of each book. Then I put the books in an envelope and wrote a note on the cover to Endicott, telling him the contents pertained to a confidential case and asking him to hold them for me. I addressed another envelope to him, and slid the first one inside and bought stamps from Fred’s machine. I put one copy in another envelope and mailed it to myself. The other I wrote White’s name on and took with me.

Before I drove away from Fred’s, I stashed my Beretta in the trunk next to the Browning I leave there just in case. Like the philosopher says, there’s a time to fight like an animal and a time to fight like a man. I was counting on White to be man enough to hold his gorillas in check when he saw what I had.

Lanier is one of those man-made lakes that was formed years ago by the damming of a river. It spreads for miles, following a contour in and around wooded hills. There’s a lot of open water suitable for sailing and plenty of coves for fishing. I’d wet a line there more than once, so I knew where the docking area was.

Whites slip was M-14. As I came down the dock I spotted it right away. It was more a floating mansion than a houseboat — three decks, lots of teak and brass and, I smiled, a couple of white life-preservers with WHITE STAR in red. The walkway leading to the boarding stair was blocked by a wire gate manned by the twin of Big Boy at All-Star. He was talking to a couple of tanned kids in swim suits who were fooling with a sleek runabout moored to the bow. When I said hi, the joking went out of his voice and he looked down at me and said, “Yeah?”

I gave him the envelope and said, “Mr. White wants to see this.”

He fingered it with one paw and squinted at the name. “He didn’t say anybody was coming by.”

I fished a business card from my wallet. “Show him. He’ll be interested.”

He grunted, then shambled up the boarding stair and went aft.

One of the kids said, “Hey, you know anything about boats?”

“Only that that’s a nice one,” I said.

The kid with him, a cute teenage girl, said, “Yeah, but it won’t start and we want to go skiing.”

“Have you checked the gas?”

They looked at each other. Then they laughed sheepishly and with a paddle eased the craft alongside the dock. As they climbed up, the boy said, “I thought she filled the tank.”

“Brothers!” the girl said.

Bruno the bear-man waved from the deck and said, “Hey — come on!”

So I went, my stomach a little queasy like it gets when I go gulf fishing and forget my seasick pill.

The salon of White’s boat had nine-foot ceilings and a carpet that seemed nine inches thick. He was standing by a baby grand, the contents of my envelope spread out on the shiny black lid. He was maybe fifty but looked forty, trim, tanned, his graying hair nicely styled — a work of art, so to speak, but cheapened by the two gold chains around his neck.

He dismissed Bruno with a careless wave of a hand with too many rings, then gave me a look with eyes that could chill a martini. “So what’s this?”

“First things first,” I said. “I’m Bleekman, a private investigator.”

“I can read. You trying to make a name with me?”

“I’ve already got one — like I said.”

“Yeah, but it won’t make the papers, because there won’t be a body to bury.”

“Nice boat,” I said.

“It’s paid for.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

He put his hand on the Xeroxed copies. “Where’d you get these?”

“From All-Star.”

“There are laws against stealing.”

“Among other things,” I said.

He smiled, showing a lovely set of white-on-white caps. “Give me one good reason why I don’t off you now.”

“Those are copies.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And the originals are in the mail, right?”

“We see the same TV shows.”

He laughed. So did I. Then he said, “So what do you want — money?”

“Not a cent. I want two people.”

“Somebody hurt you? Sue them.”

“I want two of your girls, Kimberly Johnson and Gloria Reeves.”

“Names. I don’t know them.”

“You run them through Langston out of All-Star.”

“Sounds like racehorses.”

“They’re thoroughbreds, all right,” I said. “But they want out of your derby.”

He frowned. “So what’s your interest? You one of those crusaders against the forces of evil?”

“Maybe, but that’s not the point. The girls want out of the business. Kimberly’s missing.”

“They come and they go.”

“Make a call.”

He stroked his chin. “What’s in it for me?”

“I get the girls. You get the books. That’s it.”

“Copies are easy to make.”

“Rules of evidence,” I said. “Xerox is a good investment, but it’s not likely to hold up in court if you have a lawyer worth his salt.”

He sat down on the piano bench and ran his fingers lightly over the keys. “You like music? Believe it or not I’ve been taking lessons. It relaxes me.”

“They say it has charms to soothe the savage breast.”

“My daughter Laurie plays recitals. She’s good.”

“So make the call.”

“Two girls for two books.” He shrugged. “Seems fair.”

“There’s something else.”

He stopped playing and smiled. “There always is. How much?”

I shook my head. “Friend of mine named Ovid Johnson’s in jail for redecorating the All-Star office and giving your boys a workout. Drop the charges.”

“You ask a lot.”

“You’ve got a lot to give.”

He thought for a moment, then, “Yeah, I’m a real Santa Claus. OK — you got it, provided.”

“Provided what?”

“You educate the girls.”

“They won’t talk.”

Now he focused those ice-cube eyes on me and said, “They better not.”

“You got my word.”

He laughed. “I got more than that — I got your name, Bleekman. I know you now.”

“Likewise.”

“You got guts, but—” he tapped his head, “no brains. Those girls will be back on the street in two weeks.”

White made the call.

I was getting the Atlanta Journal from the bushes by the steps where the kid tosses it, when a car stopped at the curb. Two of Bruno s littermates hauled Kimberly out of the back and dropped her on the walk. She was in bad shape, but she was still in one piece, so I didn’t call an ambulance.

I made her comfortable on the sofa and cleaned her face. Her ribs were a mess — guys like Bruno always go for the ribs and even if they don’t crack them, they hurt for weeks. A cigar smoker had ground out a butt on the sole of her left foot. She was wild-eyed with fright, but after a while I calmed her down, told her who I was, that she was home free.

So was Gloria. About seven she drove up in a cab bringing nothing but the clothes she wore, a pair of designer jeans, heels, and a plain white blouse. Dressed like that she reminded me of someone’s daughter from school, which, in a sense, she was.

Ovid and Nancy Johnson showed up later still. And after the usual tearful reunion, the big guy took me aside and gave me a hug that reminded me I had rib trouble of my own. “I’ll pay you for what you did,” he said, “but I don’t have much money.”

“The freight’s paid,” I grunted. “We’re even.”

He shook his head. “I’ll owe you for what you’ve done till the day I die. That’s the way folks are where I come from.”

So I thought about it. He considered it a debt of honor? OK. “You ever paint a house?” I asked.

“A house?” He grinned from ear to ear, and he had wide ears. “Why, I’ve been known to paint a whole barn in three days!”

Actually, it took him four for my house. But that was because while I nursed my ribs, Kimberly nursed hers, and Nancy nursed us both. Gloria went home to Jackson but promised to write. My lady friend Ellen dropped by each evening, and after stuffing ourselves on Nancy’s down-home cooking, we all sat on the porch and sort of played family till long after dark and the neighborhood dogs came out to prowl.

’Ead All About It

Sol Newman

Sol Newman has published stories and poetry in such American and English publications as Esquire, Midstream, Canadian Forum, Wascana, Fiddlehead, and Ambit. His play Picasso’s Mind Was a Junkyard was recently showcased at the Quartz Theatre in Ashland, Oregon.

Mr. Newman comments on “ ’Ead All About It”: “Arnold Rothstein and the Black Sox of 1919 have long been messing around in my mind. Then one wintry day in Charlotte, North Carolina, the line ‘Finkie could fix anything: ballgames, prizefights, horse races, even tennis blurted out of my mouth to my son and his family and shortly thereafter ‘ ’Ead All About It!’ just typed itself down in, say, two hours.”

’Ead all about it!

’ET YUH JOURNAL, WHIRL, TELE, GLOBE, MAIL, SUN

In 1917 on East Broadway the smart money said, “Never mind the army, if the President just send Finkie, in five the kaiser takes a dive.” Because Finkie could fix anything: ballgames, prizefights, horse races, tennis even.

When before the war with the kaiser he is growing up, Finkie, in ribbed stockings from start to finish and redamed and patched-up pants nobbled just below the knee, losing himself in a clutch of white bewhiskered elders sawing the air in vehement disputation, filched supper from the vegetable and fruit stands and peddler carts, movie and cigarette money from the newstands; then, like Atalanta her golden apples, the elders one by one he dropped in the path of pursuers. For such a goniff the High Holy days were especially rewarding: with everyone in the Synagogue he had time to pick and choose; being everyone’s Shabbas candlelighter he would know where the valuables were.

If nervous old ladies spat when he passed, so ishka-bibble; if no madel would look at him twice, so couldn’t he lay out like for the undertaker their Charlie Ray, Wallie Reid movie heroes one after the other with the left hook had everyone calling him the new Abe Attell who was the featherweight champ? Already he had offers. A second Benny Leonard for sure, said people knew what they were talking about; but why should such a brainy kid such as himself get knocked punchy like sooner or later happens to the best when just sitting on his toches he would make so fast that he couldn’t keep track?

To the day she died Mrs. Finkelstein complaining Finkie in such a hurry that he sucked every drop of milk out before even one of her always so painful teats she could shake loose. Finkie dropping first, Mrs. Finkelstein claimed, meant not a drop of blood left for poor Julius. Out from her belly how could God in heaven have ripped out such a Cossack?

When not spitting blood, the father of Finkie and Julius sat like the gravestone he soon would be under reading his Yiddish newspaper. In season ten hours seven days a week in the cloak factory, any wonder he was not one for idle chatter? “America the Promised Land!” he said each time Mrs. Finkelstein smacked and whipped Finkie and for what? That he should like his father before him kiss the boss’s potz for a job in his consumption factory? Finkie’s in a hurry? So hurrah for Finkie, for anybody smart and strong enough to spring himself from this clapped-up consumptive garbage and dreck from the windows plopping on the stinking boulevard was Jewry’s Main Street, off which in alleys and hallways right under the snot-dripping noses of the pious elders if by thirteen years old your daughter don’t get the syph and knocked up in the bargain it was because she was cross-eyed.

That this did not happen to Julius’s Rosala could only mean that Yahveh watched out. To save her for himself like Jove-Jupiter-Zeus? Always her head in the air when home from school she danced and that she never once into the house brings on her shoes the dog dreck from the street doesn’t prove who was watching out? How dreamily she listens to Julius spell out how joyous their life when he is the doctor and she his good wife-nurse, dear God should only speed the day. All his life, Julius promised his Rosala, never to look at another madel as upon her he looks; and who could blame him when like his Rosala, if you could believe all the grandmothers from East Broadway to Delancey Street, they looked each one of them when back in the old country they ate only borscht and peaches and sour cream?

While on her feet ten hours waiting on Woolworth’s customers, besides of her joyous life with Julius when at last he hangs out the shingle, what does his Rosala dream? When too foul the weather for Central Park or Coney Island or even walking, you went on Sunday afternoons to the nickleodeon, during the week after supper to the library, didn’t Mama, Papa complain she was reading herself blind, so what doctor, lawyer would look at her then? Doctors or lawyers being what good girls on East Broadway aspired to; or rather their mothers for them: catch a doctor quick before the nurses turn his head, Mama admonished Rosala from the first time she opened her big blue eyes; if not then a lawyer who could afford an apartment without bedbugs, cockroaches on Seventh Avenue where already lives Benny Leonard the great prizefighter. Rebecca of Ivanhoe’s Sunnybrook Farm she was; Mary Pickford, Julius being Mary’s brother Jack until the last reel when Julius it turns out is not so they could marry; poor Julius who legs tucked under him in a tailor shop sews, all night goes to school and around the clock studies, a textbook under his arm even Sundays in Central Park or at Coney Island with his Rosala-Rebecca from Ivanhoe’s Sunnybrook Farm.

Even upstairs in their dismal two rooms on Hester Street Rosala’s mother and father had to watch their step because always underfoot a young reb or a widowed butcher or a college boy from uptown begging they should please make him already their son-in-law; and God knows day and night they urged now this suitor now that one on Rosala who hands clasped over ears, eyes flashing, rebuked them for their disloyalty to her Julius. Did she mean to wait forever? her father asked. “Look in the mirror, already the bloom is departing.” Papa despaired. Flesh and blood she wasn’t. He and Mama! Before fifteen! They had to marry! Even a reb was not good enough for this nose-in-the-air tochter who waits all her life for a doctor who all his life don’t make what the butcher came last night takes in in one day.

How on East Broadway two innocents like Rosala and Julius could walk and talk the clock around and no dreck adhere? wondered Rosala’s mother — not a sign from heaven? What an idle thought from a woman who when she was Rosala’s age — no before thirteen yet, dear God, how she danced and kissed and pinched and hugged in the corners, barns, on the stairs, in the fields, so all the time black-and-blue from foot to head “from being so nearsighted bumping into everything,” she swears to her father who smacked her and cracked her and what good did it do?

The day Rosala said, “Enough already!” Julius asked should he take her temperature? Rectal? From medical school Julius was graduated but, as the head nurse was so kind to point out to the new student nurse, intern he now has to and, being so keen with the knife, why shouldn’t he be a surgeon? If instantly Rosala doesn’t marry her doctor, then the other interns, doctors, horny patients wouldn’t stop feeling, pinching, even then. But if the sweet child that Rosala was wanted it, not only would the head nurse safeguard her from the vultures here, but likewise keep from sneaking inside her the dybbuk, even Lilith always so creepy-crawling into children like Rosala. Being there was something so creepy-crawly about the head nurse, Rosala said the head nurse was too kind but she wouldn’t take advantage. By living on eight bananas for a nickel and yesterday’s bread Rosala had saved up enough to quit Woolworth’s.

“Listen to me, foolish child,” said the head nurse, “you don’t find your Julius and marry him this very day some rich bitch just loves surgeons grabs him right out from on top of you. I seen it happen every time.”

“My Julius would never!” Big and round as honeydew melons were Rosala’s blue eyes. Yet could you argue with the voice of experience?

“Right this minute?” asked Julius inside whom never once raised lust its head yet, never once does he dream of possessing his Rosala who never once did he touch yet where good boys never; even when he examines ladies, young women, he could be a horse doctor for all the emotion he is feeling. For him it was enough just being with his Rosala, smelling her, making her laugh and laughing along, watching her listen, react to the jumble of words spouting from him like she turns on the hydrant on the street corner just by her presence, holding hands in the movies, laying on the beach alongside, in Central Park.

“The head nurse told me.”

“The head nurse?”

“Would I insist if not?”

Julius was dumbfounded. It would never have occurred to him that the head nurse knew they were alive; no more than Rosala would he contradict so august a personage. “We need two witnesses. Mama wouldn’t hear of us getting married at City Hall. We would have to wait for Aunt Celia who still waits in Minsk to save up the steerage money.”

“Perhaps your brother, Finkie, might lend us two of his friends if he could not come himself?”

“What an inspired thought!” Then Julius wasn’t so sure. “You wouldn’t mind gamblers, even worse, being God only knows what Finkie is running by this time.”

“What difference does that make? Do you want to get married or don’t you? There’s the Broadway streetcar, run, will you, dear? If he can’t come maybe who works for him.”

Finkie was fascinated. Last time he seen the kids Julius was still in short pants and Rosala’s braids she could wipe her asshole with.

“You really gonna marry... himmmm?”

Rosala’s yes was so hard to hear that Julius was upset. Finkie standing next to his big desk in his expensive suit was indeed something for Rosala to look at. It struck Julius that facing him now was not the same girl always her nose in a book when she was not riveted by him; something happened, if only he could put his finger on what. Rosala, who before being touched and pinched right and left in the hospital, other than Julius didn’t know another boy existed; not even in the subway where reading her book not even a fire would she have noticed, looked out the window, anyplace where wasn’t Julius, Finkie. She realized she was red all over: of the sweat between her breasts and thighs did she ever take any notice before? Loyalty! she thought, clutching it to her breast as she would have her sanity. Kipling’s Kim would never go back on his word, would he? Movies unreeled before her eyes: heroes shot because they would never give in, divulge the code, turn their coats; plays at the Yiddish Theatre on Second Avenue, everybody sticking together, defying the Cossacks no matter what.

Rosala’s flushed face and throat, sweat, smell excited Finkie almost more than persuading Shoeless Joe Jackson to take third strikes, great shineball pitcher Eddie Cicotte to lay it in there so baby fat that Finkie hisself with only one hand could knock it out of Comiskey Park. Listen, he said, trying unsuccessfully to unscrew his eyes from Rosala’s heaving teats. Couldn’t dopey Julius see she wants him, Finkie, bad as Finkie her, so why don’t the shmo blow?

“Sure, kids, Becky my secretary and her boyfriend glad to witness. At the same time you could do me a favor too.” From Finkie’s back pocket came a roll of bills could have choked five of Julius’s throats. “For waiting for you so long, Julius, shouldn’t your poor Rosala be rewarded with something better than a doctor on even Delancey Street? You do me this favor and you could open up on West End Avenue. To start you off right how does a honeymoon in Chi’ and Cincy strike you?”

“Who do you want us to shoot?”

“Ha ha, a sensayuma your right away quick husband has, Rosala.” Finkie spun about to open the wall safe over which hung a framed photograph of Jack Dempsey shaking Finkie’s hand. “Deliver these nice fat envelopes where I tell you, Julius, and I’ll give you five Cs, each game you could shoot the works. For now, Rosala, you take charge the envelopes, for arithmetic from working in Woolworth’s you got such a good head Mama tells me.” Down her teats should he put them? “Rosala!” The hand she tentatively put out he clasped with both of his, having first dropped the envelopes on the desk behind him. “Sweeter than Blanche Sweet you are, baby. Really, I ain’t kidding. Such a lucky dog, Julius, who could have figured?” Finkie stroked Rosala’s arm. Outside being Indian summer, today she could still wear a summer dress. “You seen a picture Mary Picklefeet loves a shlepper but the duke—”

“Droit de Seigneur!” burst from Rosala who likewise was reading Sir Walter Scott. Her tongue she should rip from her throat, at the very least bite off. God she begged to strike her dead like in the play The Dybbuk, could even her mother imagine how inside everything tummeling? Even Julius could realize that she was out of her mind; that much she saw out of the corner of her eye.

“Toit duh see her?” That was another good one, laughed Finkie. “Listen careful now, Julius. To City Hall where who don’t I know, I myself personally takes you down. After the cherrymoney, ha ha, we put you on the Century with the envelopes you will deliver in Chi’ and when the Series all done, Rosala — why do you look so worried, Julius? If she seen with you or wisewersa then you might just as well blab here and save me carfare. You ain’t got a worry in the world, on my word of honor. Every night Rosala telephones you at a special number so you should know each day who to bet on at what odds, you capish, Julius?”

Julius capished so good that if he don’t keep both hands pressed over his chest his heart would jump right out the open window down to where the kids ask the cops could they turn on the hydrant. Julius knew what he must do, what he must say, but for a while his Adam’s apple was an adagio dancer, his tongue cleaved, his jaw clamped and all he had in his legs were cramps. Happening to look at Rosala, how she scrutinized him, like under the microscope, spun him to the desk which he banged with his fist, even managed to gasp where Finkie could shove his filthy lucre; that when Papa dies of the consumption such a good son Finkie proved buying for Mama the newsstand from whose receipts she must buy sweaters enough not to freeze in winters worse than Moscow’s.

Finkie lighting up a Havana cigar at Rosala gazed through the flame of his five-dollar lighter. “What about you, baby? For you also out the shiny office on West End Avenue? You like so much changing the crappy diapers on East Broadway?”

“Come, Rosala.”

Julius pulled but he could not move her. Paralyzed by that snake was she? “Finkie was no good from the first day he was born; Papa he drove into an early grave. We don’t need his dirty money. What’s the matter with you today, Rosala? Don’t you hear me? This is your Julius talking to you.”

She heard him all right and if only God would wipe out what happens at the hospital, if only she never leaves Woolworth’s, if only they never come here; if only if only if only. Loyalty! now there was a word to press between her breasts where in the movies always the heroine hiding the secret letter she must deliver from her sweetheart to the king without the jealous cardinal suspecting. Loyalty! You make your bed you better sleep in it. But when she turned to follow Julius out Finkie’s laughter might have frozen the blood of the dybbuk himself.

“Do you suppose you could walk out just like that to tell the whole goddamn whirl that Finkie fixes the Whirl Series? I tell you because who else in the whole whirl could I trust?”

Julius, who had damaged his fist banging on the desk, suffered even more grievously wrestling with the knob of the door to the outer office. “We don’t know nothing from baseball. What kind of gibberish is that?”

Finkie walked out from behind his desk in his twenty-five-dollar nonsqueak oxford shoes with elevated heels and put his arm around Rosala who in her mind entertained hot thoughts about Julius who looked back at her like already she was working in the kind of flat on East Broadway that more and more Mama predicting Rosala sure to wind up, so sick was Mama of the Rosala-Julius engagement.

“You! You take your lousy hands off her. How dare you touch her?” Julius meant to stamp his feet, clinch his eyes, clench fists all at one and the same time but only succeeded in crying because in shoes cost two dollars second-hand and so long ago how could you even on such an expensive carpet stamp? If bunions and corns is all your feet are made of? In spite of which he circled Finkie, his fists up before his face. “You know so much about the Middle Ages? Did you ever hear of single combat? So one-on-one I challenge you, with fists, not guns or swords. If I lick you Rosala and I walk out, OK?”

“Oh, Julius!” marveled Rosala, for surely God must protect him. Just to be on the safe side she put her hands over her eyes not to see with just one hand Finkie squash brave Julius. No, Sir Walter Scott never let might decide; always things were otherwise with Quentin Durward.

Thus had Julius retrieved the shining armor that in her eyes he had heretofore worn; then was once more stripped of it when he screamed he had a bellyache and ran around the room, his face so contorted that Finkie tossed him the key to the hall toilet and pressed the door release on the leg of his desk, Julius bolting out like one of Finkie’s sure things at Belmont.

“We didn’t want your fy-nancy dropping dead right on my good carpet, did we, baby? Should I really fight him, whatdya think, baby?”

What did she think? How could she know when all that was in her stupid head were sparks from the trains falling down from the Third Avenue Elevated by the Bowery, fire horses breathing out like poor Julius’s mother Moscow winter clouds; ambulances screaming, clanging? “Never once in my life I have before such a headache,” she said, by which time Julius was back with two policemen who Finkie, pulling up his trousers not to spoil the crease and to show off his clock socks when, after sitting down, he put his feet up on the desk, laughed he knew better than the back of his favorite whore’s toches.

“What cooks, Murph? How goes it, Isaac? To what do I owe the honor? Christmas ain’t for three months yet, so early you got cause to worry? Does Finkie ever forget?”

“Dis guy swears he your kid brother, Finkie.” Murphy licked his lips. A beat cop should push a man aroun’ got so much influence?

“Duh pisher cryin’, Fix! Fix! cock ’n bull story, am I right, Finkie?” Isaac regarded Julius like he was something shouldn’t stick to your shoes, especially you buy your own uniform.

“He told us! He told us!” Julius danced here, there, everywhere, as though he were all the snakes of the fakirs in all of Bombay’s bazaars. “Five hundred dollars he was giving us to bet with; fat envelopes I should deliver. You tell them, Rosala.”

“ ’at’s right, Rosala, go ahead tell them,” Finkie laughed. “Tell them how Finkie got so soft in the head he uses skirts, collich kids to fix duh whole Whirl Series, can you imagine, Murph? Isaac?”

A whole Whirl Series! No, Murphy making the sign of the cross couldn’t imagine. A Whirl Series! Ain’t nothin’ sacred? gasped Isaac, making wheels at his temple. “Meshugeh, tsedrait, your kid brother, Finkie?”

“How could you, Julius?” Rosala demanded. “Your very own brother! Oh, Julius, how could you!”

Isaac nodded. “Rat on your own flesh and blood, imagine!”

“Flesh and blood,” echoed Murphy. “No Irishman’d do such a stinking thing.”

“How could I? You ask how could I?” Julius demanded of Rosala, his screech that of a turkey has its head on the block. “Rosala, you’re ripping from me the heart. You want I should drop dead at your feet?”

Rosala felt for Julius. That she could not lift a finger to help him, no more than she could for herself, did not mean that her heart had turned to stone. But to rat on your own brother!

Julius flinched. Did Rosala turn away to hide her loathing? He couldn’t breathe, he could only gasp; his eyes so awash with despair that he was all but legally blind; like the wings of a hen about her brood in a storm his pitiful shoulders enfolding even more pitiful chest, he tripped over his own feet crossing the threshold.

“All right, guys. I’m sorry about me kid brother’s imagination. I am always telling him he should write stories, you remember, Rosala? No? You was too young, maybe.”

They never believed for a second, Isaac swore. They shut him up right away, Murphy added. “By my mother’s sou), may she rest in peace, ’at’s the God’s honest truth, Finkie. Would we kid you?”

Confident that they wouldn’t, Finkie, passing out cigars and walking them to the door, said, sure, sure, see you guys, and shut the door behind them.

“Do me a favor, Rosala, just sit down, ha, baby? By the soul of Murph’s old lady, ha ha, I ain’t ever gonna rape you, baby. ’Atsa good girl. Now what we have to talk over is you should go to business school, learn shorthand, typewriter. Because you’re so good with arithmetic we better keep you in the fambly; and like Mama always saying, ’bout time I should marry and settle down. What are you jumping for? Am I going to eat you? I know, I know, if I’m the last guy on earth yuh wouldn’t marry me? ’at’s a beaut too,” Finkie laughed.

If he was the last man on earth, just what Rosala would have said as she left, only something, someone holding her tongue, making her so weak that she cannot even lift herself out of the chair. Oh, dear God, she wept, for surely the dybbuk, the creepy-crawly thing is inside her.

Saying soothing things, Finkie lifted, earned her to the couch in the now deserted outer office where, being so experienced and really understanding in such situations, was making love to her when Julius crept back inside the room as shoeless as Joe Jackson so he shouldn’t squeak. Scalpel ready, his face whiter than Moscow’s January snow, he slashed at Finkie’s jugular vein.

“Jesus!” said Finkie, rolling off of Rosala and squirting blood everywhere. “Just like Cain and Abel, now who would have thought?”

Rosala had only time to wonder if in time to save her honor her knight had arrived before the bloody scalpel just below the sternum slid in and up between her teats. Gasping for breath, her eyes as round as honeydew melons, Lilith! poor tsedraite Rosala cried out. Lilith! who sucks out from the soul what she shouldn’t, how otherwise explain Julius’s bloody monstrous face as he extracts the blood-soaked instrument and plunges it into his heart?

“Julius?” Mrs. Finkelstein said when Isaac the policeman told her how many more sweaters she could buy now that Finkie was dead. “He never had it in him.

“ ’ead all about itl ’et yuh Journal, Whirl, Tele...”

Spy for Sale

Edward D. Hoch

Edward D. Hoch is a past president of Mystery Writers of America and author of more than seven hundred short stories. He also has twenty-eight books to his credit, including his annual series. Year’s Best Mystery & Suspense Stories, which he edits for Walker. About “Spy for Sale,” Mr. Hoch comments: “This story doesn’t introduce a new character but is intended more as a nonseries tale focusing upon the increasingly important world of what might be called civilian intelligence gathering. The idea came to me after reading an article about such activity in the New York Times. I enjoy researching this type of story, and I hope readers might gain some knowledge along the way.”

Method was already at his desk pouring over the latest satellite photos of the Oregon forestland when Frazer arrived. He was late, as usual, and was aware of Method’s critical gaze on his back as he hung up his raincoat and took his seat.

“I’ve started work on the forestry management report for you,” Method said. “It has to be completed today, you know.”

“I know,” Frazer replied. “Do you have the photos?”

“Right here.”

He leaned over the balding man’s shoulder and inspected the familiar satellite views of tree-covered mountainsides seen from four hundred miles up. “Those fires did more damage than we thought. See this area along the ridge?”

Felix Method grunted. “It’s nature’s way. It’ll fill in again through natural growth.”

Frazer had been a photo analyst for Sky-Eye since the first of the year. Though he didn’t particularly like Felix Method, he had to admit the man had laid the foundation for what might well become a hugely profitable business in a few years’ time. Method and his backers had purchased Sky-Eye from the American government when it turned over three aging satellites to commercial companies. The two Landsats had gone to the Earth Observation Satellite Company, while Sky-Eye had gone to the newly formed Sky-Eye International Corporation.

The satellite, circling the earth in a regular orbit, was the equal of the highly touted French SPOT, capable of photographing any point on earth twice each week with a peripheral-vision camera and transmitting the picture to a ground station via electronic signals. Powered by solar panels, Sky-Eye had decades of life ahead of it. “It’s not as good as the military satellites, of course,” Felix Method had explained when Frazer joined the firm. “It can’t read the numbers on a license plate from one hundred fifty miles up, like the American and Soviet governments can. The Defense Department set specific limitations on how good the Sky-Eye can be. Still, it can distinguish objects a quarter the size of a football field, which is good enough for our clients.”

“Just who are your clients?” Frazer had asked, wondering what he was getting into.

“Our photos can be used for mineral exploration, city planning, crop forecasting, forestry management — just about anything where an overview of a large area is required. Clients merely furnish the latitude and longitude of the spot they need, and Sky-Eye takes the picture. The cost can be anywhere from under a hundred dollars to two thousand dollars, depending upon various factors. If they need it at once, it costs more. If they’re willing to wait a few months until the data can be routinely transmitted back to earth and the pictures processed as a group, the cost goes way down.”

Frazer’s job was photo analysis, for those clients who required it. Mostly this involved a knowledge of geology and land management, but his years with Air Force intelligence helped, too. They’d taught him a great deal about shadows — how they could help or hinder photo analysis. As Felix Method liked to point out, “There are always shadows on our pictures. If the sun can’t get through the clouds, our camera can’t get through, either.”

This morning in April, with a misty rain falling outside, Method and Frazer and Miss Raymond were the only ones in the office. Miss Raymond was Cynthia Raymond, who handled much of the office routine and billing, taking time out occasionally to try a bit of photo analysis on her own. She was especially captivated by satellite views of the Nevada desert, showing the site of underground testing of nuclear bombs at Yucca Flat.

“What are all these things?” she asked Frazer, coming over to his desk with the latest Yucca Flat photo. “They look like the craters of the moon.”

“You’re not far wrong.” He liked the feel of her alongside him, her long legs brushing against him ever so slightly as she leaned over the desk. “The underground explosions, if they’re powerful enough, cause the earth to collapse over the point of the blast, leaving craters several hundred feet wide. Such tests are easily detected by satellite cameras, so there’s no way of hiding them from the Russians. That’s why our government announces them, although since 1982 they haven’t announced the smaller ones.”

“Someone could count these craters and know exactly how many underground tests we’ve conducted.”

“It’s not quite as easy as that. As I said, some are much smaller and don’t leave craters. And tests of equipment are often done in a different manner, in horizontal tunnels drilled into the side of the mesa. But this is a good record of the larger underground ones.”

“Can we tell as much about the Russian tests as they can about ours?”

“Pretty much.” He flipped through one of the photo files and took out an eleven- by fourteen-inch enlargement. “This is a Soviet missile launching site. I could make you a detailed drawing of it from the information on this photo. And here’s a space-shuttle runway being built.”

“You’re good at this business, aren’t you?”

“Fairly good,” he admitted with a grin. “Everyone’s good at something.”

Felix Method came in from his desk to interrupt them. “Less chatter and more work would be appreciated. How are those forestry-management reports coming along, Frazer?”

“I’ll have it after lunch.”

“I hope so.” He turned his attention to Cynthia. “Caught up on your work, Miss Raymond?”

“No, sir.” She blushed prettily and retreated to her own desk.

Frazer waited until he was going out to lunch and then managed to pause by her desk. “Maybe we could continue our conversation over a drink tonight,” he suggested.

She brightened up at once. “I’d like that.”

Frazer was unattached at the moment, and he’d had his eye on Cynthia Raymond since she joined Sky-Eye two months earlier. Her high cheekbones and dusky eyes gave her an appearance that was almost oriental, the sort he found especially attractive in a woman. Better yet, she’d demonstrated the sort of intelligence on the job that he found refreshing. She wasn’t afraid to ask questions, and the answers seemed to go into her memory like programs into a computer.

He took her across the street to the Weather Vane after work. A great many of the area’s office workers hung out there, but Felix Method had never been seen to drink in public, and Frazer was reasonably certain they wouldn’t encounter him. “How do you like working at Sky-Eye?” Frazer asked her when the drinks arrived.

“I really find it fascinating. It’s like being a spy but without any of the risks. In a way, we’re offering a spy for sale.”

“I never thought about it in quite that way,” he admitted.

“Do you know that one of the biggest customers for our satellite photos is an organization of retired CIA agents? What do you think they do with them?”

“Keep their hand in, I suppose. They like to know what’s happening.”

She took a sip of her vodka and tonic. “Sometimes I fantasize that the three of us are spies — you and Method and me. Did you ever realize that our names contain the letters x, y, and z? Felix Method is X, Cynthia Raymond is Y twice over, and Frazer is Z. Isn’t that something? It’s like a Hitchcock movie!”

“You’re not old enough to remember Hitchcock movies, are you?”

“I see them on television all the time.”

“I don’t think Hitchcock would understand spying from four hundred miles straight up. His plots needed human contact, interplay between agents from different sides.” He added, “And as for your X, Y, and Z, what about Jack Sergeant? He doesn’t fit.”

Sergeant was the fourth member of the Sky-Eye staff, though he was often on the road selling the service. “I hardly know him,” Cynthia admitted. “He’s only been in a couple of times since I’ve been there. Are he and Method former spies like you?”

Frazer had to chuckle at the description. “I was a photo analyst for the Air Force, but hardly a spy. I think Felix Method had an office-equipment business of some sort. He found some backers and happened to be in the right place at the right time, when NASA was forced by law to turn over the Landsat and Sky-Eye satellites to private commercial companies. It’s a growing business with great potential, as soon as they figure out exactly how to exploit it. Jack Sergeant wants us to advertise more, but Method is against that. He feels it would attract the wrong type of client.”

“What would the wrong type be?”

“Only America and Russia have photographic spy satellites. If any other nations want satellite photos, they have to buy them from one of the private suppliers, like us. Naturally, the government doesn’t want us dealing with certain unfriendly Communist or Arab nations.”

“What would they use the photos for?”

“To check troop buildups and defenses along their borders, mainly. Satellite photos would be invaluable to a country planning to invade its neighbor, or to guard against such an invasion. But Method must have told you all this when he hired you.”

“He told me next to nothing. It all sounded like a dull science class in college. I almost quit the first week.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

After two drinks he suggested dinner, but she had another engagement. “I’d like to do it sometime, though. Maybe next week.”

“It’s a date,” he said with a grin.

They parted in the parking lot, and Frazer drove home alone. He lived in a three-room apartment in an older, middle-class section of the city. It was a place he’d located under pressure after his separation and he’d kept it through the divorce, letting Maggie have the house without protest. He still viewed it as something of a transition, though he didn’t quite know where his next home would be.

He’d parked the car around back and headed for the rear door of the building when he became aware of another presence nearby. Jack Sergeant emerged from the shadows and spoke to him. “Didn’t mean to startle you, Frazer. I’ve been waiting for you to get home.”

“Jack! I thought you were in Chicago or someplace.”

“I just got back. Can we go inside and talk?”

“Sure, I suppose so.”

Frazer led the way up to his apartment, switching on a few lights and offering his visitor a beer. He’d never been on close terms with Jack Sergeant, and he knew very little about the man. Sergeant was in his forties, balding, and wore thick horn-rimmed glasses that gave him something of an academic appearance. His background was in sales, according to Felix Method, but Frazer knew nothing more about him.

“I’ve had a very interesting journey,” Sergeant began, accepting the beer from Frazer but not tasting it immediately. “Lots of new clients for Sky-Eye.”

“I’m sure Method will be pleased to hear about it.”

Jack Sergeant looked down at his beer. “Maybe not. You know how nervous he gets about the Defense Department regulations.”

Frazer perked up, wondering what Sergeant was getting at. “Who’s the client, Jack?”

“It’s a Middle Eastern country. The name doesn’t matter. They’re willing to pay a premium price for satellite photos of the Mediterranean and Persian Gulf regions.”

Frazer nodded. “Aircraft carriers and oil tankers. They’re both easy to spot, even from four hundred miles up.”

“And we can give them pictures twice a week, right? That’s frequent enough to keep pretty good track of ship movements in the region.”

“I can see why Method would be nervous. Did you tell them we can’t do it?”

“Not exactly,” Sergeant replied. He slipped a hand into his inner pocket and brought out a thick plain envelope. “Look inside.”

Frazer opened it and took out a wad of hundred-dollar bills, all new. “My God! How much money is here?”

“Twenty grand. That’s the down payment. There’s five times that much.”

“Method—”

“Not Method. Us, Frazer. Us — you and me! Are you in?”

“That’s crazy! What are we supposed to do for that sort of money? You know our price schedule.”

“Method would never sell them what they want. They have to work under the counter, and it’s worth the money to them.”

“Exactly what is it they want?”

“I told you — twice weekly photos of the Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf, plus occasional photos of Israel. That’s all.”

“That’s enough!” Frazer placed the envelope of money on the coffee table. “I don’t think I want to get involved in this.”

“Hell, if we don’t do it they’ll buy ’em from the French. Their SPOT satellite is probably better than ours anyway. I figure it’s best for everyone if we sell them the pictures.”

“Best for us, certainly,” Frazer said, eyeing the envelope.

“I need you, Frazer. You know Method doesn’t give me access to the pictures except for recognized clients. You see them when they come in, and you can command Sky-Eye to shoot anything we need. Method trusts you.”

“I’m only an analyst.”

“He still trusts you. And you know how to fudge the records so it looks like we’re shooting Alpine forests.”

“I don’t know—”

“This is our big chance for some easy money. They’ve promised another twenty grand at the end of the first month, if they like the results. That’s ten each. I do all the contact work. You give me the pictures, and you never have to see anybody.”

“Let me think about it, Jack. Give me a day or two. That’s the best I can tell you.”

“That’s good enough for me.” Sergeant stood up and shook hands. He hadn’t touched his beer.

“Take the money. I don’t want it here.”

He slipped it back into his pocket, eyeing Frazer as he did so. “Half of it can be yours.”

“I’ll let you know.”

After Jack Sergeant left Frazer fixed himself a sandwich and thought about the money.

Two things happened the following day to decide him.

The first was a phone call at work from Maggie’s lawyer. He’d thought the divorce settlement was final, with Maggie getting the house and a comfortable alimony check. Now the lawyer informed him that she was refusing to sign the final papers unless the alimony was increased by fifty percent. After all he’d been through during the divorce, Frazer only wanted to be rid of her. “Tell her I’ll agree,” he said reluctantly.

Perhaps he already knew then that he would accept Sergeant’s offer, but he said nothing when the man arrived at his desk shortly before noon. He went into the tiny conference room to report to Felix Method on his trip, then joked a bit with Frazer and Cynthia. Finally he went off to lunch alone.

When Method left for lunch, Frazer paused in the analysis report he was writing and turned his attention to Cynthia. “Did you have a good time last night?” he asked.

She smiled at him. “Before or after I left you?”

“Both. I was thinking of after.”

“It was dull. I should have taken you up on that dinner offer.”

“We can remedy that quickly enough. How about tonight?”

“Sure! Why not?”

He took her to one of the better restaurants near the office, and then suggested they return to his apartment for a nightcap. She didn’t object. They made love for several hours, until she finally said she had to go, sometime after one o’clock. Reluctantly he drove her back to her car.

Later, in bed, he reached his decision. He needed money for Cynthia Raymond. She was the sort who liked nice things, good food, fancy restaurants. And he needed money for Maggie’s alimony. There was no harm in playing along with Jack Sergeant for a month or so. He could always quit any time he wanted.

He told Sergeant the following day, and they had lunch together. After lunch he stopped at the bank to deposit nine thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. “Keep it under ten grand,” Sergeant had cautioned him. “Banks have to report deposits of ten thousand or more to the government.”

Programming the Sky-Eye satellite to photograph the areas they needed was easy enough. Frazer had been gradually taking over more of the routine operations from Felix Method, and the older man seemed to welcome the help. He was busy with trips to Washington and meetings with his investors. In the week that followed his luncheon with Jack Sergeant, Frazer was able to supply two complete sets of photographs showing key areas of the Mediterranean, Israel, and the Persian Gulf. His only problem was in doctoring the records to explain why the satellite had been instructed to transmit the photos to the earth station at once, rather than waiting for the less-expensive regularly scheduled relay. He managed to explain it by charging the photos to several of their large-volume accounts like the Oceanographic Institute, then issuing credits to cancel the charges before they were billed. He knew Method scrutinized the charges with some care, but generally ignored routine credits. There was always an excuse for credits — clouds over the target area, electronic glitches in the transmission from the satellite, or simply a mistake in the order. Cynthia typed up the orders and credits, and he knew she would come to him with any questions before she would go to Method.

They slept together twice during that following week, enjoying it more each time. But Cynthia was unhappy with her job at Sky-Eye. “I’m nothing more than a secretary and billing clerk,” she grumbled. “Can’t you talk Method into letting me do a bit more photo analysis?”

Frazer rolled over in bed and chuckled. “You’ll have my job before long. Is that what you want?”

“I want something where I can use my brain.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he promised, though in his heart he knew he preferred her exactly where she was. If Method were to hire a new clerk-typist, she might find reason to question some of the recent charges and credits.

A week later, when Frazer had delivered two more sets of photographs to Jack Sergeant, Method called him into the conference room. “Shut the door, will you, Frazer? I want to speak to you in private about something.”

“What is it?” He sat down opposite Felix Method at the long oak table.

“The people at the Defense Department have been hearing disconcerting stories about certain foreign powers trying to buy high-resolution satellite photos. I gather their information is coming from the CIA. You understand the awkwardness of our position here. We operate with the blessing of the Defense Department, as does Landsat. One word from them and we could be effectively out of business on national security grounds. Have you seen or heard anything — anything at all — which might make you suspicious?”

“Suspicious of what?” Frazer asked, stalling for time as he tried to fathom what the man was after.

“Well, I was thinking specifically of Miss Raymond. She keeps wanting to get into photo analysis, and I’ve noticed you giving her some rudimentary instructions. Do you have any reason to believe she might have an ulterior motive?”

“Certainly not,” Frazer said with something like relief. “She’s simply an ambitious young woman trying to get ahead.”

“She’s never asked you any questions that seemed to go beyond the bounds of mere curiosity?”

“No.”

“She’s never indicated a connection with any foreign government?”

“Of course not! I think the Defense Department’s being unnecessarily edgy about this whole thing. After all, they did set you up in business. And you’re not doing anything the French aren’t doing with their SPOT satellite.”

“They can’t control the French, but they can control us. That’s the difference. You know the trouble they’ve had with the space shuttle and the Titan in recent months. At a time when America has only one spy satellite in a decent orbit over the Soviet Union, they hardly want foreign governments buying pictures at will from private companies.”

“I can assure you Miss Raymond has said or done nothing suspicious.”

“But you’ll keep an eye on her? Just between us?”

“Of course.”

Frazer returned to his desk, giving Cynthia a wink as he passed her. Later she managed to whisper in his ear while bending over the desk. “What’s with X and Z meeting?”

“Nothing that concerns Y,” he whispered back. He remembered telling her she had no designation for Jack Sergeant. It hadn’t seemed to matter then.

As the weeks passed, Sergeant grew increasingly nervous. “You know, Frazer,” he said one night, accepting the familiar large envelope of pictures, “I think Method may be right about foreign powers trying to buy pictures. There’s more than one of them out there. If I had the guts to do it, I’d start putting these pictures out for bids.”

“You’d better be content with what we’re getting. Isn’t it about time for that second twenty grand?”

“I’m meeting him tomorrow night. I’ll bring your share to your apartment.”

“I can use it.” He’d already had to draw out part of the nine thousand for the increased alimony payments.

Cynthia was busy that night, but they had dinner together the following evening. They didn’t meet at the Weather Vane any more, for fear that Felix Method might see them together. Instead they found a small cafe across town with good food and a nice sense of isolation.

Over coffee she asked, “Have you spoken to Method about getting me something more important to do?”

“This isn’t the right time for it,” he told her. “The Defense Department has got him so scared he’s seeing spies coming out of the woodwork.”

“Do you think Jack Sergeant could help me?”

“Jack? I don’t see how. He’s hardly ever around.”

She rummaged in her big purse and brought out a compact, checking her lipstick and hair. “Want to come over to my place for a change?”

He remembered that Sergeant might be coming by with the money. “I should be home. Maybe we should make it an early evening.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“God, no!” he said with a laugh. “Come on over. I just might have to take you home by midnight.”

“You got another girl coming in for the late shift? Is she better than me?”

“Stop that!”

She seemed more passionate than ever in bed that night, and after the violence of their lovemaking Frazer drifted off to sleep. He dreamed he was a bird circling the earth, watching couples in love, watching creatures in the forest, watching—

He awakened suddenly, aware of Cynthia’s deep, regular breathing at his side. The door chime had rung, just once. He slipped out of bed, got into his robe, and padded out the bedroom door, quietly closing it behind him. He crossed the living room and opened the door an inch. “Who is it?”

“Jack. Open up, will you?”

He let Sergeant in but kept him near the door, speaking in a low voice. “I... there’s a friend in the other room. Let’s keep our voices down.” He switched on a small reading lamp.

“I brought the money,” Sergeant said, slipping another fat envelope from his pocket, opening it to show the familiar wad of new bills.

“Good.” Frazer hesitated and then added, “I’ve been thinking about this whole setup, Jack. With Method as nervous as he is, maybe we’d better call it quits for now.” He was looking through the money as he spoke.

“You’re not backing out on me?”

“I told you I’d give it a try. Right now it’s too risky to continue.”

“Because of Method?”

“Because of you. I noticed the consecutive serial numbers on that first batch of new hundreds, before you took your share. These are the same bills as the ones you kept for yourself last time. You’re not working for anyone else. You’re paying the money and delivering the photos directly to this unnamed foreign government. You’re an enemy agent, Jack.”

He shook his head sadly. “I hope you’re not going to tell that to anyone.”

He started to turn, as if leaving, and then spun around. Frazer saw the gun in his right hand but he was frozen with surprise.

There was a sound like a cough from the bedroom and Jack Sergeant toppled over, knocking aside the lamp as he fell. Frazer turned to see Cynthia standing naked in the doorway, holding a pistol with a silencer on the barrel.

“God, you saved my life! He was going to kill me!”

She came slowly into the room. “Is he dead?”

Frazer picked up the lamp and bent to examine the body. “Dead as he’ll ever be. You’d better call the police.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No police. We’ll get rid of the body ourselves.”

“What are you—?”

She came closer and he saw the steely coldness of her eyes. “From now on, Frazer, you’re working for me.”

Looking for Lauren

Joseph Lisowski

Joseph Lisowski teaches English at the College of the Virgin Islands on St. Thomas. He has had poems and translations of Chinese poetry published in over one hundred periodicals, and his first published story, an abridged version of an unpublished novel, appeared in 1984.

About “Looking for Lauren,” Mr. Lisowski commented: “The story is an attempt to explore character in a short form of detective fiction. I like it, but I think I’ll have to do three or four more Wilcox stories before I’m satisfied. He has to face the long run and changing circumstances, a changing sense of self.”

“No,” she said. “I won’t let you go.” Her long black hair fell over her shoulders and across my chest as she looked down at me. Her gray eyes were determined yet filled with longing. Her hands were on my shoulders.

I turned over and groaned, slowly opening my eyes. It was already light outside, which meant that I had overslept again. I would only have time to check my post-office box before going to work. No time for jogging this morning. Just as well. I was really too old for exercise anyway. Besides, I had enough trouble managing to sit erect on the bed. I looked down at the small mountain where my waist should have been, shook my head, and lit a cigarette.

It was the third time in a week that I had that dream. Made no sense to me at all except that it was some time since I had been involved with a woman. Years. I tried to rub the sleep from my face.

After a shower, I made a cup of instant coffee and got the morning paper. As it had been for the past three weeks, my ad was in the personal section: “Discreet inquiries — reasonable rates, P.O. Box 1904.” Pretending to be an investigator took the edge off loneliness; it gave me something to look forward to, even though not much ever came from it. There had to be more to life than what I was doing. All the TV programs showed that it was so. Being a bookkeeper for Martin Ross Manufacturing wasn’t exactly a high-risk occupation.

I stopped by my post-office box before work to see if anyone had responded to my ad. I had almost given up hope that anyone ever would, but checking the box each morning was at least a chance, a chance that this day might not be a duplicate of yesterday, and the day before that, and the months and years before that.

When I opened the box, it was there. I stared at the envelope in disbelief and thought that there must be some sort of ritual to go with opening the letter. What it was, though, I couldn’t figure out. I put the letter in my pocket. I’d prolong the suspense until coffee break. I hadn’t felt so good in years. It was my chance.

At 10:15 A.M., I opened the letter to find only a name and a phone number. I waited an hour before I called. It was delicious. A woman answered on the first ring, and she sounded anxious. I made an appointment to see her during my lunch hour. She lived just north of the city, not far from my office.

Hawthorne Street was wide and lined with large sycamores. The houses were set back a good forty yards from the curb. When I walked to the door of 3905, I adjusted my rates accordingly. This was going to be money.

“My name’s Wilcox,” I said. “I believe we talked earlier.”

“Oh,” she registered surprise. “You don’t look like a private investigator.”

“A lot of people think that, ma’am. Helps me get the job done.”

She hesitated a moment and then said, “Well, come on in.”

I followed her into the living room. She was an attractive woman about thirty who looked like she had a lifetime membership to a health spa. She wore a simple beige dress with heels. Very little makeup, no jewelry.

After we sat down, she studied me for a moment. “Yes, I guess so,” she said. “Not many people would ever think of you as a detective.”

I smiled. I would never be mistaken for Magnum. When I hit fifty, I let my weight go, not that I was ever really in good shape, but two hundred pounds is a bit much for my five-foot-five-inch frame. That’s why I took up jogging. Jogging, to me, meant once around the block. So far I had made the distance only twice. I always have the feeling that I’m going to fall when I jog, which is easy to understand because I can never see my feet. Actually, I get enough exercise just getting dressed each morning, but it got to the point that I couldn’t read a paper without seeing some article about how jogging is good for the heart. So, it’s me and Jim Ryun from now on.

“What is it that I can do for you?” I asked.

“I want you to find my sister. She’s been missing for three days. All her clothes are still here. And not one word from her. I’m worried. It’s not like her at all.” She wrung her hands. Her nails were long and tapered. Clear fingernail polish and no rings.

“My fee is one hundred fifty dollars a day plus expenses. In a case like this, I usually get paid three days in advance. If I don’t find her in a week, I work the next week free, or until I find her.”

She was silent for so long that I got uncomfortable. I started checking to see if my shirttail was hanging out. It was. And there was no way I could be discreet about tucking it back in. How could she not notice? I began to fidget.

“OK,” she finally said. “When do you begin?”

“Right now,” I said as I opened my notebook and clicked my pen. I couldn’t believe that she bought it.

A half-hour later I was back on the street with a check for $450 and a photograph of a girl in my pocket. My entire shirttail was out now, but I couldn’t care less. I couldn’t have been happier. My first real case! The first thing I did was stop at a public phone and call in sick. I had 780 hours of sick leave accumulated. There would never be a better time to use some of it. I couldn’t believe it. Someone actually hired me; something was actually happening to me!

Lauren Wright, until three years ago, had been a fashion model for the Miller & Rhoads Department Stores. She got bored with it, or so her sister said, and frustrated by the fact that she would never make the New York modeling scene — her legs were too thin and slightly bowed. After she quit her job, she moved in with her sister, let her body hair grow, and didn’t do much more than watch soap operas for about a year.

Two years ago she started attending the local college, and five months ago took a part-time waitressing job at a place called Berrini’s. She had no steady boyfriend, dated occasionally, but never spent the night away from home. Sometimes her male friends would sleep over, but no one ever spent more than two nights, and she hadn’t dated anyone in at least a half a year.

Sara Wright, my employer, was a lawyer with McGraw and Litman who specialized in accident cases. When I asked her why she didn’t hire an investigator that she knew, she said that she wanted to keep her private affairs private. That didn’t make much sense to me, but I wasn’t about to give her money back.

I looked at Lauren’s picture. There was something familiar about her. High cheekbones, fleshy mouth, expertly applied makeup. It was taken when she worked as a model. I wished that I had a more recent photo.

I figured that I’d try the college first. After all, she may have had an argument with her sister that Sara didn’t tell me about and decided to cool it for a while, or maybe she had fallen in love and was on one of those in-town honeymoons. Anyway, Sara said that she was very serious about school, so maybe she could be missing from home but not from school. The idea was pretty weak, but I had to start somewhere. I had her class schedule, and besides, I was hungry. The college snack-bar would be as good a place as any to have lunch.

Before I went to the school, I stopped at the bank. Once again they had changed tellers, and they wouldn’t cash the check. Rather, I had to deposit it and then write a check for cash. And once again, I threatened to close my account. Fifteen years at the same bank entitles you to some respect, but apparently I was the only one who thought so.

At the snack bar, I ordered three hamburgers and smothered them with mayonnaise and onions. As an afterthought, I got a large Diet Coke. I figured that it would make up for not jogging that morning.

There was an empty table near the far window that gave a pretty complete view of the place. It didn’t occur to me until after I was seated that nobody paid much attention to me. I didn’t look like a professor, and certainly not a student. A book salesman, that was it. Luckily, I had my briefcase.

They served the kind of hamburgers that are best eaten fast — if you took your time, you’d wonder what kind of meat was used — so I had to be inconspicuous for the next thirty minutes. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t have stood out more if I was Babe the Blue Ox. I removed the morning paper from my case, spread it on the table before me and then started to study the clientele. Most of the students looked like students — young, loud, sloppy. Lauren would have stuck out in this crowd, especially if she still dressed like a model, which would probably be unlikely.

After two cigarettes, a familiar pain in my chest returned. Before I started jogging, I thought I was having a heart attack when it came. But now I usually felt that the most it could be was heartburn. While walking across campus to Oliver Hall where Lauren’s American Lit class was, I broke wind and felt much better. If Lauren was at school, chances were good that she’d show up there. Sara said that Lit was her favorite subject.

At 1:45, I was outside the door. Class would dismiss in five minutes. A few professors passing in the hall eyed me suspiciously. There were not many students about. Maybe nobody took a class after two o’clock.

The door opened and six students came out. I could still hear voices inside the classroom. I waited a while longer before I looked in. Three students were gathered around the professor’s podium. None of them was Lauren. I smiled and waited in the hall. Very shortly, a man came out and stopped in front of me. I smiled again.

“May I help you?” He sounded like Lee Marvin. I guessed he was the Lit professor, though he certainly didn’t look like one to me. About thirty-five, longish blond hair and a big mustache, he was wearing one of those Hawaiian shirts with jeans and boots. He was big and looked like a TV private eye. He did not smile.

“Do you have a Lauren Wright registered in this class?”

“Who are you?” It was more of an accusation than a question.

“I, ah...” I felt my smile grow and my face flush. “I’m her father.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God for my quick mind. “I’m only in town for the day. I haven’t seen Lauren for quite a while, and, ah, her sister told me that she was at school. Do I have the wrong class?”

“Come with me,” he said.

I followed him a few yards until he opened the door to his office.

“Have a seat.” He sat behind his desk. The room was dimly lit, almost dark. He lit a cigarette. I felt uncomfortable under his gaze.

“Lauren never mentioned a father to me,” he finally said.

Who was this guy, I thought. What does he do, take a case history of his students? Seems more than just a professor to Lauren.

“Well, I hardly ever see her,” I said. “You see, me and her mother split up about fifteen years ago, and...” then it struck me why he was so suspicious — Lauren looked about as much like me as a quarter horse does a buffalo. “I, well, you know how things are.” I smiled again. “Thank God the girls look like their mother,” I added. The words seemed out of place. I felt that he didn’t believe me.

“No, she wasn’t in class today. The first class she missed all term. Didn’t call either.” He paused. “I ask the students to call if they are not coming to class. Sorry, I can’t help you. I’ll tell her that you stopped by when I see her.” He rose. The interview was over.

On the way to my car I debated whether or not to follow that guy. He knew a lot more than he let on. When I got to the parking lot, I had no idea what to do next. I had only one other place to check out and that was Berrini’s, where Lauren worked. It was pointless going there before dark, however. I had the whole afternoon ahead of me.

I sat in my car and thought about killing time. I could go home and take a nap. It was a sunny, warm fall day; it would be a shame to sleep on a day like that. I could go for a long walk in the park, but my Diet Coke was my one concession to fitness for the day. I went to the library instead.

College libraries don’t, as a rule, carry many mysteries, but I got lucky. The browsing room had Ross MacDonald’s The Zebra-Striped Hearse. I first read it fifteen years ago, a time when I read about private eyes without thought of being one. I found a comfortable chair in a comer near the window and began reading. Lew Archer would show me the way.

“Sir, sir!” I felt someone nudging my shoulder. “You’re disturbing the others,” the voice sternly warned.

“Huh, ah...” My mouth felt like wax. I opened my eyes. “Oh, I am sorry, very sorry,” I tried to swallow but couldn’t. “I must have dozed off.” The librarian turned and walked away. Students at a nearby table snickered. I blinked a few times and realized it was close to sunset. How could I just fall asleep like that? Looking at the book, I saw that I only got to page fifty-seven. Oh, brother, I thought. Well, at least I won’t be too tired tonight.

After putting the book on a table, I went to the water fountain. No matter how much I drank, I couldn’t get the dryness out of my mouth. I must have sucked an awful lot of air.

Back in my car, my stomach started growling and I headed for the Blue River Rib Company for their special — all the ribs you can eat for $8.95. I knew that I’d feel a lot more like myself after dinner.

The ribs were spicy, just the way I like them, and they served beer in quart mason jars. After three plates and two beers, I was content. Singles were filing into the bar’s lounge as I was leaving. I checked my watch: 7:20, a little too early for Berrini’s, so I sauntered through the double western doors and looked for a seat at the bar. All the scats had backs with wraparound arms. Just great, I thought. Even if I could have fit into one of them, which was doubtful, they’d have to call the rescue squad to get me out. I stood at the bar and ordered a schnapps.

The waitresses there wore short shorts with flowered blouses; their midriffs and backs were exposed. Some people would think that to wear an outfit like that, the girls would have to be thin. These weren’t. They looked fine to me, but I liked the way they dressed before — a black leotard top, a dark red skirt slit up to the waist, black stockings and heels. Almost anyone would look good dressed like that. No, I reconsidered, let me take that back.

I looked around the lounge. It was nothing special — hardwood floors, ceiling fans, a lot of instruments set up in a far corner on what could be a small stage, vinyl booths, and a good many small Formica tables. A woman, about thirty, sat at one near me. She looked like she had been crying. I never could understand why people cried. Maybe it had something to do with hormones, which reminded me of an old joke. I smiled. The woman at the table looked at me and scowled. Maybe she thought I was smiling at her.

I ordered another drink. The place got to be about half-full. I tried to spot a smiling face without having much luck. Maybe frowning was in. I wondered if people practiced in front of mirrors. It was not a happy thought. I finished my drink, paid my chit, and headed across town to Berrini’s.

I had never been there, before and took two wrong turns, which I didn’t mind. It was still early. When I did find it, I thought I was at the wrong place. It sat on a quiet part of Broad Street, and there were nothing but empty parking spaces in front of it. I parked and went in.

The place was chic, at least compared to where I’d been. The cut-glass doors opened to a solid walnut bar. Behind it was the biggest mirror I’ve ever seen topped by a panel of dim orange lights. At the bar were stools — no backs, no arms. Maybe my luck had changed. I took a seat and ordered a schnapps. No sense in mixing drinks unnecessarily. The bartender smiled. She was about forty, short cropped blond hair, and wore a black dress with short-heeled black shoes. She had on a string of pearls as white as her teeth. Her smile was warm. I hoped she would smile again.

There were only a few people seated at the twenty or thirty small tables that extended a good way back to the stage. They were covered with white linen, and white linen napkins rested like crowns in the center of the place settings. A single, live carnation in a small glass vase dotted the center of each table.

On the stage, a large, three-part mirror like those old changing screens covered the back wall. In front of it was a baby grand with large bouquets of pink flowers on it. They were too far away for me to tell what kind they were. Both walls had the kind of lights I remembered theaters having when I was a boy.

“What do you call this decor?” I asked.

“Art deco,” the bartender replied smiling and then quickly went to a table almost directly behind me. A kingdom for that smile, I thought.

I was the only one at the bar. I looked at the man at the table through the minor. He was talking to the bartender, and she was paying close attention. Maybe he was the owner. He looked about my age but was a little taller, and his gray suit fit him well. My suit always looked like I slept in it. He wore what I imagined was an old school tie and had the habit of looking at her over the top of his half glasses as he spoke. A large, partly smoked cigar lay in the ashtray in front of him. He caught my reflection in the mirror and held my eyes for an instant before I turned away. I felt a pain rise in my chest. Schnapps usually took care of that. Give it time, I told myself, but I couldn’t help thinking that maybe it was gallstones. My hands became clammy. I had to concentrate on my case, gallstones or not.

Maybe I could ask that man, if he was the owner, or the bartender if Lauren would be in tonight. I took out her picture and looked at it again. I began rehearsing my pitch about being her father, but then gave it up. Fathers just don’t go searching for their daughters these days. Or do they? I always wanted to have a daughter, a grownup daughter. One that would meet her old dad for a drink in a place like this and tell him about how great things were going for her. Yeah, I could almost see her talking excitedly, forgetting the time and then remembering that she had to rush to catch a plane to go to a UN reception. She’d smile like sunshine, kiss me on the cheek, squeeze my arm, and then be off.

“Another drink?” the bartender asked.

I looked up startled.

“Must be a fascinating picture,” she said.

“It’s my daughter,” I replied automatically. “I guess you caught me reminiscing.” I smiled and put the photo back in my pocket. I don’t think that she saw it. “Sure, I’d love to have another drink.”

“Coming right up.”

Two black men, about forty or so, came in and sat at the other end of the bar. She brought me my drink and then took their order. I’ve seen a lot of bartenders before, and this one was a real pro. She mixed the drinks in front of them with speed and aplomb, if not style. They were drinking those funny-looking drinks that took four different kinds of liqueur.

A few younger couples came in and took tables near the stage. The bartender served dinner to the man behind me. Whatever it was, it sure smelled good. No, I just couldn’t eat again, I managed to convince myself. A tuxedoed waiter took orders from the tables.

A man stepped on stage and began playing the piano. It sounded like a mix of classical and jazz. The music was faintly familiar; in fact, the whole place seemed that way. After two tunes, he was joined by another man who sat across the stage from him and started playing saxophone in a bluesy tone. After the first sixteen bars I recognized it. It was “Blue Moon.” “Moon River” followed that and then “You Send Me.” I was aware of other people coming in but didn’t really pay attention. The music, lighting, maybe my drinks, and especially the bartender’s smile were pushing me off the edge of a daydream.

When the set was over, I looked around the room. I didn’t get far. There she was at the end of the bar holding the telephone. She punched out the numbers with the back of a pencil. She wore her hair up, away from her face. No jewelry, a simple black blouse, dark gray pin-striped pants that stopped at her calves, black stockings, and black heels. My heart skipped a beat. She hung up the phone and looked pensively at some spot on the bar. I rose and almost lost my balance.

Steadying myself, I walked over to her.

“Lauren,” I said with a smile. She looked up quizzically. “Lauren,” I continued, “your sister is very concerned about you. Could you please call her?”

“I don’t have a sister. Who are you anyway?” There was a note of rising anger in her voice. “How...” she stopped abruptly and stared over my shoulder. I glanced into the mirror. The man at the table peered at her and then rose. He walked toward her but didn’t stop. He seemed to be going to the men’s room.

Lauren looked as if she was about to say something but turned instead and walked out the door.

Great, I thought. Way to go, Wilcox. You find her and then spook her. And you know how great you’d be on a chase.

I gave the bartender a ten and told her to keep the change and was out on the street in time to see Lauren get into a small, dark sports car. I ran to my car. That would be my exercise for the month. I hoped that I would spot her at a nearby intersection.

Three times around the block and no sight of the car. I lost her that fast. Without much hope, I decided to cruise to Sara’s house. Maybe the wayward sister had a change of heart and went home.

There was a light on in the living room but no dark sports car in the driveway or on the street. I parked across the street, slouched in my seat, and waited. Maybe she would show up.

After about a half hour, I’d given up hope. Besides, I was sleepy. Just as I was about to start the ignition, a car pulled behind me. It stopped abruptly and then the red lights flashed.

“OK, buddy. Let’s see your license. Real easy now.” He was nervous. I gave him my license slowly.

“Any problem, officer?” It seemed that the neighborhood watch watched this block.

“Stay right where you are.” He took my license back to his car. A few minutes later he returned, considerably less nervous but not at ease.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Well, you see, officer, I used to live in that house,” I pointed to Sara’s. “Me and my family. My wife divorced me fifteen years ago and left the state. I hardly ever see my daughter anymore, and I guess I had a few drinks tonight and was feeling lonely. Well, you know how it is. I just stopped here to look at the house and remember.” I practically believed it myself. “I’ll be moving on.”

He studied me for a moment, decided that I wasn’t worth the bother, and gave me back my license. I started my car and drove off. He followed me for five blocks before turning off. It was past time to call it a night.

I had no trouble falling asleep, but when I woke, I was still tired. I couldn’t remember my dreams. It was cloudy outside and felt like it might rain for days. My head throbbed, and I called in sick again. Three cups of coffee didn’t help matters any. What I discovered next made my head feel a lot worse.

“WOMAN FOUND DEAD” read the headline on page twenty. “Lauren Wright, 24, was found dead in her car at the 1700 block of Seddon Rd. in the city’s northside section by Officer G. Kugler at 12:22 A.M. Suicide is suspected. Police are investigating.”

I reread the article. It must have just made the press deadline. My first real case, and she’s dead. My daughter’s dead, I thought. “You’re crazy,” I said aloud, got up, and took a long, hot shower. My head felt only slightly better. As I dressed, I knew that Lauren was murdered and that I had to find the killer. Nothing could be more important.

Two cars were parked in Sara Wright’s driveway when I arrived. Neither looked like an unmarked police car, so I parked and went to the door.

I rang the bell three times before the door opened. Sara looked as if she had been up all night.

“I read this morning’s paper, I’m sorry.”

She stared at me.

“If there’s anything I can do...” I waited for a response.

“Just leave me alone,” she finally said. “You can keep the advance.” And she closed the door. Dumbfounded, I looked at the brass knocker.

I felt like I needed more consoling than she did. Something was definitely wrong. I circled the block and parked on the street six houses up from hers. There was at least one other person in there. It may have been only a relative. I asked myself what Lew Archer would do in a situation like this. Wait. So I waited.

Twenty minutes later, a man came out of the house. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. It was the college professor.

He pulled out of the driveway. I waited until he turned the corner before I followed. He then turned on Brook Road, headed for the city. And I was three cars behind him. When he took the college exit, I relaxed. If only Lauren had been as easy to follow, she wouldn’t be dead now. If only I had been quicker... I slowed down. No need to risk him seeing me.

I parked in a pay lot three blocks from his college building and waited until ten o’clock before going in. I remembered that there was a directory on his floor that listed the names and offices of the faculty. I didn’t know his name but I remembered his office number. There it was, big as life, Room 322, Dr. J. Stone. I then took the stairwell down to the first floor where the admissions office was. He was listed in the college catalog as having been at the school since 1974, the same year he got a Ph.D. from the State University of New York at Binghamton.

The city phone directory listed a Dr. J. Stone at 3106A Hanover Avenue. In spite of being hungry enough to eat New York, I decided not to eat in the snack bar. It was just too risky.

A Waffle House was only two blocks away, and by the time I finished a steak-and-eggs special, my headache was completely gone. I always could think better on a full stomach, but I questioned the wisdom of breaking into Stone’s apartment.

As I walked to his front door, credit card in hand, I was glad that the street was empty of people. After fidgeting with the lock for a minute, I started to sweat. How did they do it so easily on TV? Finally, my credit card snapped. Great. I wiped my brow and turned around to see if anyone was watching. The street was deserted as before. I looked into his mailbox, checked under the welcome mat, and then ran my hand over the doorsill. No luck. I knew that there had to be a spare key. I was really sweating now. My shirt stuck to my back. Someone was bound to see me. Then I remembered seeing a display of fake rocks at the drugstore — the kind you put a key under. At the time I couldn’t understand why anyone would buy such an obviously phony and useless product. I walked down the front steps and looked in the shrubbery. No plastic rocks. I began turning over stones with my foot. And, sure enough, there it was, the key. I picked it up.

Stone’s apartment was the second floor of a two-story house — two bedrooms, a living room, and an eat-in kitchen. It was undistinguished except that it looked like it had never seen a broom. Dust was pretty thick everywhere. I wondered if he actually lived there. One bedroom was used as an office, with a large black table as its desk; it was littered with papers and books. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Most of the papers were either memos or student work, an occasional letter. Nothing very promising. I then went through the wastebasket. The third paper I uncrumpled was it: “Jerry, I need to talk to you. Come to Berrini’s tonight at eleven. VERY IMPORTANT! Lauren.” It was undated. I put it into my pocket and walked into the kitchen. Suddenly, a big black dog barked and bounded against the outside door. I almost lost my breakfast. He kept barking and pawing at the glass. Apparently, he was asleep on the back porch when I was fiddling around out front. Thank God the kitchen door was locked. I left fast.

At a loss for what to do next, I drove aimlessly, stopping once at Dunkin Donuts for coffee and a cream puff. There it occurred to me that I ought to stop at the morgue. It really didn’t make much sense, but I felt that I had to do it.

The attendant looked at my I.D. suspiciously when I told him that I was Lauren’s father. The body had already been identified. Why was my name different than hers? Why did I want to see the body now? Etcetera. I had to do a lot of talking, but the attendant finally let me in. What I saw and especially what I smelled made me regret the steak-and-egg special, and I cursed whoever invented the cream puff. The attendant sensed my discomfort and pointed the way to the rest room.

The rest room was closet size and only had a commode. There was no way I could comfortably bend over, and standing up, there was no way I could heave over my stomach. I started to sweat. Just before complete panic set in, I found the solution. I raised the lid of the tank, braced myself against the back wall, leaned forward, and lost it all. When I finished, I wiped the tank lid with toilet paper, regained my composure, and promised myself that I would go on a diet.

The attendant was waiting at the drawers when I came out. He pulled out a slab and uncovered her face. Her hair was down over her shoulders, and her complexion was bright pink. I wanted to touch her but didn’t. I shook my head, put my hands on my face, and started to turn away. The attendant was about to cover her face when I looked back. Then it struck me. It was her. The girl in my dreams. I felt faint.

I left the morgue more determined than ever to find Lauren’s killer. Maybe I could bully some answers out of her sister. I had to have more information. I drove to Sara’s house with a single purpose. No cars were in the drive. I parked, walked to the door, and banged the knocker instead of ringing the bell.

“What do you want? I told you, the case is over!” She was more than mildly irritated by my presence.

“I don’t quit until I’m finished, Ms. Wright.”

She turned in disgust and began to close the door. I stuck my foot in. She saw it and slammed. I let out a scream and pushed forward. It caught her off balance and she stumbled backward. I was in, though, and closed the door behind me.

“Get out of here or I’ll call the police!” She reached for the phone. “Get out!” she repeated.

“Look, Ms. Wright,” I began, and she dialed 911. “OK, OK, I’m leaving.” My foot throbbed and I felt foolish. She hung up and glared at me.

“Ms. Wright, your sister was murdered, and I want to find the murderer. Please cooperate.”

“Get out!” She picked up the phone again. I turned and opened the door.

“I only want to help.”

“Out! You, you sack of cow turds!”

I closed the door behind me and limped to my car. I thought I heard them all — a sack of cow turds...? I almost smiled.

I didn’t know what to do, so I drove to Joe’s Inn for lunch. When in doubt, eat. It didn’t work very well this time, though. A half hour later, I was still staring at the half-empty plate of spaghetti before me. What did I expect to find out? Obviously, who killed Lauren. Why did Sara hire me? Seeing Lauren in the morgue clouded my mind and rushing to Sara’s house without a plan only got me a sore foot. I’d have to be more careful when I saw Stone. He was certain to know by now that I wasn’t Lauren’s father. What ever made me think I could be a detective? I ordered another half liter of wine and asked the waitress to take my plate.

Male menopause. Maybe that was it, I sighed. The wine didn’t help me think any clearer, but I did feel less anxious. I took out Lauren’s picture and stared at it.

With my wine finished and the picture still before me, I wasn’t any better off than before. No closer to a plan, no idea where to go next. I yawned, paid my chit, and drove home to take a nap.

By the time I arrived there, I was feeling pretty miserable. This playing detective was an old man’s folly. Yet, if not for Lauren, what would my life be? I tossed and turned, it seemed endlessly, before I fell asleep.

“No,” she said. “I won’t let you go.” Her long black hair fell over her shoulders and across my chest as she looked down at me. Her gray eyes were determined yet filled with longing. Her hands were on my shoulders.

I awoke trembling and in a cold sweat. It was evening and the sun had already set. Dusk filtered through my bedroom and covered me like a shroud. I was chilled to the bone.

A hot shower revived my body but not my spirits. I had to find out who killed Lauren. Even if it was the last thing I’d ever do.

Berrini’s was even less crowded that it had been the night before. I took the same stool at the bar. Only yesterday, I thought. It seemed like a month had passed since then. The same bartender was on duty, wearing the same dress, the same smile. I ordered a double bourbon on the rocks. She raised her eyebrows. She remembered what I drank last night.

“Miss, I’m Lauren’s father,” I said when she returned with my drink, “and...”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Wright.” Her face saddened. “Lauren was such a sweet, sensitive girl. I’m really sorry.”

“Can you help me, Miss uh...” I paused and held her gaze. My eyes inadvertently filled with tears.

“Sandra. My name is Sandra. It must have been a terrible shock for you.”

“You see,” I stared into my drink, “I hadn’t seen Lauren for years, and I’m afraid that I never was a very good father. Now that she’s gone, well...” I looked at her. “Could you tell me something about her, please. You know, what she was like, her friends?”

She reached out and touched my hand. “Everybody liked her. She was quiet and...” she paused. I could see her thinking about what she should or shouldn’t say.

“I don’t even know if she had a boyfriend or who her friends were,” I prompted. She removed her hand from mine and started to dry a glass.

“She’d come back to my apartment some nights after work,” she said. “And we’d make a fire, have a hot toddy, and talk. She was moody at times but kept what was bothering her pretty much to herself. The past week or so, we hardly said hello. She seemed nervous and preoccupied. If only I had known! I would have made a point to draw her out. Nobody would have ever guessed that she would do what she did last night.”

“Did she break up with her boyfriend recently?”

“As far as I know, she didn’t have one.” She hesitated. “School was real important to her. Come to think of it, one of her professors came in here one night, and she asked to have the rest of the evening off. I said sure. He was the only man I ever saw her with.”

The man with the cigar who was there last night came out of the side room and stopped at the end of the bar. He then walked toward us.

“Mr. Gray,” the bartender said, “this is Lauren’s father.”

I smiled and extended my hand.

“Like hell he is,” he said peering at me over his glasses. “What do you want here, pal? Who are you?”

I finished my drink in one gulp, put five dollars on the bar, and walked toward the door.

“Don’t come back, if you know what’s good for you,” he said to my back. Outside, I took a deep breath and looked back into the bar. The bartender was gesturing and talking rapidly to him.

I took a chance and drove to Stone’s house. There was a light on upstairs. I walked to the door and rang the bell. The porch light clicked on, and I could hear him come down the steps. He opened the door.

“Mr. Stone, I’m a private detective investigating the death of Lauren Wright and...”

“Get the hell out of here! And quit harassing Sara!” he yelled, giving me a stiff push. I fell backward and down the concrete steps. “Stay away, fat old man!” He emphasized the last three words, pointing his finger after saying each one. Then he slammed the door.

My pants were tom, and my scraped knee began to bleed. I had broken the fall with my hand, and my wrist throbbed and started to swell. I could hear the dog barking and then saw him jumping at the side gate.

I hobbled back to my car and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. He was at the window watching me. I couldn’t believe how things went from bad to worse.

After my third drink at the Hob Nob, I finally stopped trembling. At least I’m safe here, I thought. Keep smiling, I told myself. I must have gone crazy. What I’ll do is go back to work and forget that this whole thing happened. “Stupid old man,” I mumbled. Fixed assets don’t push or threaten. You can’t change what you are. In six years you’ll have a pension. Have it made. Give up. Give it up...

When I woke up the next morning, I knew that I wasn’t going to work. I was bruised and ached all over, but I didn’t feel sorry for myself. My job wasn’t finished. Lauren was counting on me. I called in sick again.

After a steak-and-egg special at the Waffle House, I drove to Southern Gun World. I was surprised how easy it was to buy a gun. They were running a 25-percent-off sale on handguns in stock. If I had told them that I wanted to buy a gun to shoot my son-in-law, they probably would have suggested a higher-caliber (and higher-priced) model to make sure I got the job done. I left with a .38 police special and a box of bullets.

I debated whether or not to load the weapon and finally decided to do it and then placed it in the glove compartment. I drove to Stone’s house, took the gun out and put it behind my belt and walked slowly to his door. Not even the light falling rain could dampen my spirits. I rang the bell and soon heard his footsteps on the stairs.

“You again!” he said as he opened the door. He started toward me.

“Think about it,” I said as I held the gun on him. He stopped dead in his tracks. I started to sweat. “Mr. Stone, I think we need to have a little talk. Upstairs.” I pointed the gun. My hand was shaking. He turned and walked up. I followed three steps behind.

Then it happened. Two steps from the top, I tripped. I tried to break my fall and my wrist surged with pain. The gun went sliding across the kitchen floor. Stone stomped on my hand — I screamed so loud the sound scared me.

“Get up, you sack of shit!” he ordered. I looked at him standing over me, gun in hand.

It wasn’t easy getting up; my knee felt like it was sprained, and my wrist was too tender to take any pressure.

“Sit down,” he motioned with the gun to the living room. I hobbled over to the couch.

“I ought to call the cops on you, you meddling old fool!”

I took the crumpled note out of my pocket and threw it toward him. “What did Lauren need to see you about?”

“You asshole!” he yelled. “I don’t believe this!” He took a few steps toward me, turned, and then walked toward the window. He rubbed his brow with the hand not holding the gun.

“I got to find out who killed Lauren. I don’t care if it kills me.” I couldn’t believe I was saying that.

“You pathetic old piece of shit.” He shook his head, no longer holding the gun on me. He held it loosely at his side as he paced.

“Look,” he finally said. “Nobody killed Lauren; she killed herself. You got that.” He looked at me, unsure of what to say next. He started unloading the gun; the bullets fell on the floor.

“Something happened that she couldn’t handle. That’s all. She couldn’t handle it. She killed herself.” He shook his head again rubbing his eyebrows.

“I loved her,” he said, taking me completely by surprise. “I know I shouldn’t have, especially after being practically married to Sara...” He stopped abruptly. I squirmed in my seat. It seemed like years passed in his pause.

“Get out!” he yelled and threw the empty gun at me. It hit me in the stomach and bounced on the floor. He came over to me in a rage, grabbing me by my coat, trying to lift me from the couch. “Get out! Get out!” He yelled, “and leave me alone!”

Realizing that he couldn’t lift me, he shook me instead but then suddenly stopped. I slipped off the couch. He walked back to the window. I picked up the gun and, with greater effort, myself. He kept staring out the window. I walked out.

Once I was on the street, it all made sense to me. I locked the gun in the glove compartment and drove directly to Sara’s house. This time I parked in the driveway, blocking the garage. I didn’t think that I would need the gun. Besides, it certainly didn’t do me any good at Stone’s house.

When she opened the door and saw me, she began to slam it. This time, instead of jamming my foot, I pushed my way in.

“Get out!” she screamed. “Oh, brother, I’ve had it! This time I am going to call the police!” She walked to the phone.

“Go right ahead,” I said. “I’m sure they’d be interested in knowing where you were when Lauren died.”

“What! You’re crazy!”

“I know you did it, Sara, and I know why. You were always jealous of her, weren’t you? And when she stole Stone away from you, right under your nose, you couldn’t take it!”

“You can’t prove...” She blurted out and then stopped herself. She stared at me.

I was sure now. She was guilty. I knew it, and she knew I knew it. Her eyes flashed for a moment, and I was scared. She opened a drawer of the telephone stand and pulled out a small, silver revolver. She pointed it at me. It went pop! And my stomach felt hot. I slid to the floor. I heard her talking on the phone before I passed out. She sounded hysterical and was talking to the police about a man who broke into her house. I drifted in and out of consciousness.

The police came, and shortly afterward, an ambulance. I only caught snatches of her explanation; she seemed to be giving an academy-award performance.

When I fully regained consciousness, I was in a hospital room with a tube up my nose. My head felt like it had been kicked by a Clydesdale. The objects in the room seemed to be floating.

Some time later, a man came in and introduced himself as Sergeant Ed Lewis.

“Mr. Wilcox,” he said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions but before I do, I must remind you that you have the right to remain silent...”

I was so stunned, I almost passed out. The objects in the room — the lamp, the chair, the dresser, seemed like they were moving. “But, but, but...” I stammered, “she killed her sister!”

“Take it easy, Mr. Wilcox. Officer Kugler’s report of you loitering near the Wright residence could be construed as confirming your intent to break and enter. Would you care to explain why you, a bookkeeper close to retirement and financially secure, would want to burgle? You thought no one was home, and she surprised you, didn’t she?”

“She killed her sister!” I screamed and felt my head pound so loudly that I had to put my hands to it to try to keep it from exploding.

“Look, friend,” he said. “I checked your record. You never even got a traffic ticket. The woman feels so bad about shooting you, she probably won’t even testify. Now, what were you doing there?”

The room started to spin.

“Looking for my daughter...”

Murder in Store

Peter Lovesey

“Murder in Store,” the second story by Mr. Lovesey in NBM, appeared in the special Christmas issue of the British magazine Women’s Own; it has not been previously published in the United States. Mr. Lovesey’s new novel. Rough Cider, is scheduled for publication in May 1987 by the Mysterious Press.

Among all the children hanging around the department, this one was definitely the most persistently bothersome. Even now, she was tugging at Pauline’s sleeve.

“Hey, miss.”

“What is it now?”

“Something’s up with Santa.”

“That’s quite enough from you, young lady,” Pauline said sharply — unseasonably sharply for Christmas week in an Oxford Street department store.

The Toy Fair was a bedlam of electric trains, robots, talking dolls, and whining infants, but the counter staff, however hard-pressed they might be feeling, weren’t expected to threaten the kids.

The day had got off to a distinctly trying start when a boy with mischief in mind had pulled a panda off the shelf and started an avalanche of soft toys. Pauline had found herself wading knee-deep in teddies, rabbits, and hippos.

Now she was desperately trying to reassemble the display, between attending to customers and coping with little nuisances like this one, dumped in the department while their parents went off and shopped elsewhere in the store.

“Take a butcher’s in the grotto, miss.”

Pauline glared at the girl, a six-year-old by the size of her, with gaps between her teeth and a dark fringe like a helmet. A green anorak, white corduroy trousers, and red wellies. She’d been a regular visitor since the school term ended. Her quick, sticky hands were a threat to every toy within reach. But she had shining brown eyes and a way with words that could be amusing at times less stressful than this.

“I think Santa’s snuffed it, miss.”

“For the last time...”

A man held out a green felt crocodile, and Pauline rolled her eyes upwards and exchanged a smile. She rang up the sale, locked her till, and stepped around the counter to look for Mark Daventry, the head of the toy department. The child had a point. It was 10:05 and Santa’s grotto should have opened at 10:00. A queue had started to form. There was no sign of Zena, the “gnome” who sold the tickets.

It was shamefully unfair. Mark hadn’t been near the department this morning. No doubt he was treating Zena to coffee in the staff canteen. When blonde Zena had first appeared three weeks ago in her pointed hat, short tunic, and red tights, Mark had lingered around the grotto entrance like a six-foot kid lining up for his Christmas present. Soon he’d persuaded her to join him for coffee breaks: the Mark Daventry routine familiar to Pauline and sundry other ex-girlfriends in the store.

However, Zena wasn’t merely the latest Christmas casual in the toy department. She wasn’t merely an attractive blonde. She happened to be the wife of Santa Claus.

Big Ben, as he was known outside the grotto, was a ready-made Santa, a mountainous man who needed no padding under the crimson suit, and whose beard was his own, requiring only a dusting of talc. On Saturday nights, he could be seen in a pair of silver trunks in the wrestling-ring at Streatham. This time, Mark was flirting dangerously.

“Coming, miss?”

Pauline felt her fingers clutched by a small, warm hand. She allowed herself to be led to the curtain at the far end of the grotto.

The child dived through the curtain and Pauline followed. Surprisingly, the interior was unlit. The winking lights hadn’t been switched on and the mechanical figures of Santa’s helpers were immobile. There was no sign of Ben and Zena. They generally came up by the service lift that was cunningly enclosed in the grotto, behind Santa’s workshop. They used the workshop as a changing room.

“See what I mean, miss?”

Pauline saw where the child was pointing, and caught her breath. In the gloom, the motionless figure of Santa Claus was slumped on the throne where he usually sat to receive the children. His head and shoulders hung ominously over to one side.

It was difficult not to scream. Only the presence of the child kept Pauline from panicking.

“Stay here. Don’t come any closer.”

She knew what she had to do: check whether his pulse was beating. He might have suffered a heart attack. Ben was not much over thirty, but anyone so obviously overweight was at risk. She took a deep breath and stepped forward.

She discovered he wasn’t actually wearing the costume. It was draped over him. Somehow, she had to find the courage to look. She reached out and lifted the furry trim of the hood. She gave a start. She was looking into a pair of eyes without a flicker of life. But it wasn’t Ben.

It was Mark Daventry. And there was something embedded in his chest — a bolt from a crossbow.

Pauline rushed the child out of the grotto and dashed to the phone.

She called Mr. Beckington, the store manager, but got through to Sylvia, his secretary. Even suave Sylvia, equal to every emergency, gave a cry of horror at the news. “Mark? Oh my God! Are you sure?”

“Is Mr. Beckington there?”

“Mr. Beckington? Yes.”

“Ask him to come down at once. I’ll make sure no one goes in.”

When she came off the phone, Pauline looked around for the small girl. She’d wandered off, probably to spread the news. Soon the whole store would know that Santa was dead in his grotto. Pauline shook her head and went to stand guard.

She told the queue that Santa was going to be late, and someone made a joke about reindeer in the rush hour.

This is totally bizarre, Pauline thought, standing here under the glitter with these smiling people and their children, and “Jingle Bells” belting out from the public address, while a man lies murdered a few yards away. Her nerves were stretched to snapping point.

Fully ten minutes went by before Mr. Beckington appeared, smoking his usual cigar, giving a convincing impression of the unflappable executive in a crisis. He liked customers to be aware that he managed the store, so he always wore a rosebud on his pin-striped lapel. He nodded sociably to the queue and then murmured to Pauline. “What’s all this, Miss Fothergill?” as if she were the cause of it.

She took him to the grotto.

They stopped and stared.

The winking lights were on. The model figures were in motion, wielding their little hammers. Santa was alive and on his throne, dressed for work. Zena the gnome was powdering his beard.

“Ho-ho,” Ben greeted them in his jocular voice, “and what do you want in your Christmas stockings?”

Mr. Beckington turned to Pauline, his eyes blazing behind his glasses. “If this is some kind of joke, it’s in lamentably bad taste.”

She reddened and repeated what she’d seen. Ben and Zena insisted that everything had been in its usual place when they’d arrived in the lift a few minutes late. They certainly hadn’t seen a dead body.

She gaped at them in disbelief.

Mr. Beckington said, “We re all under stress at this time of the year, Miss Fothergill. The best construction I can put upon this incident is that you had some kind of hallucination brought on by overwork. You’d better go home and rest.”

She said, hying to stay calm. “I’m perfectly well, thank you. I don’t need to go home. And if it’s all my imagination, where’s Mark Daventry?”

Mr. Beckington told her: “He’s down with flu. We had a message.”

“Darling, I think some meany played a trick on you,” Zena suggested. “That kid with the teeth missing is a right little scamp. Some joker must have put her up to it.”

Pauline shook her head and frowned, unwilling to accept the explanation, but trying to fathom how it could have been done.

“If you’re not going home, you’d better get back to your position,” Mr. Beckington told her. “And let’s get this blasted grotto open.”

She spent the rest of the morning in a stunned state, going through the motions of selling toys and answering inquiries while her mind tried to account for what had happened. If only the small girl had returned, she’d have got the truth from her by some means, but, just when the kid was wanted, she’d vanished.

About 12:30, there was a quiet period. Pauline asked Zena to keep an eye on her counter for five minutes.

“I want to check the stocklists in the sports department.”

“Whatever for?”

“To see if a crossbow is missing.”

The sports department was located next to the toys on the same floor. Disappointingly, Pauline found that every crossbow was accounted for. She told herself that if the murderer was on the staff, he could easily have borrowed the weapon and replaced it later. But what about the bolt?

She examined the crossbow kits. Six bolts were supplied with each. She checked the boxes and found one with only five. She hadn’t been hallucinating.

“What are you going to do about it?” Zena asked, when Pauline told her.

“I’ve got some more checking to do.”

“Proper Miss Marple, aren’t you? You’re wasting your time, darling.”

“Coming from you, that’s good.”

Zena said without a hint of embarrassment, “Jealous of my coffee breaks, are you? That’s all water under the bridge. Look, I still say this is someone playing silly games. It could even be Mark himself.”

Pauline shook her head. “Zena, he’s dead, and I’m going to find out why. Tell me, did you and Ben arrive together this morning?”

Zena smiled. “You bet we did.”

“What’s funny?”

“He guards me like a harem girl since he found out Mark was after me. We had a monumental row last week, and I told Ben straight out that he shouldn’t take me for granted. Now he watches me all the time.” She adjusted her pointed hat. “I find it rather a turn-on.”

“But you definitely finished with Mark last week?”

“Absolutely. I wouldn’t say he was heartbroken. You know how he is. Adaptable.”

“That isn’t the word I’d use,” said Pauline, thinking of all the women Mark had chatted up.

During her lunch hour, she went downstairs and talked to the security man on the staff entrance, a solemn Scot who’d made himself unpopular with everyone but the management by noting daily who was in, and at what time. Pauline asked if Mr. Mark Daventry was in.

“Yes, he’s here. He arrived early this morning, just after 8:15.”

She said, “Are you sure?”

To prove his point, the security man showed her Mark’s overcoat in the staff locker-room. There was no question now that what she had seen was true.

She asked the security man about Ben and Zena. They’d arrived together at their usual time, 9:50 — which was odd, not to say suspicious, considering how late the grotto had opened.

She decided to have it out with them. The grotto closed between 1:00 and 2:00, so she found them in the staff canteen. They’d finished lunch and Ben had his arm around Zena. They looked like two innocent choirboys on a Christmas card.

She warned them that she’d been checking downstairs. “I want a straight answer. Why weren’t you ready to open the grotto at ten this morning?”

“There’s no mystery, darling.” answered Zena. “We had to wait ages for the lift.”

A reasonable explanation. The lift was their only means of access to the grotto. Pauline had to accept it for the moment. She said, “I’m going to search the grotto.”

Ben said affably, “Fine. Let’s all make a search.”

They had twenty minutes. Pauline had hoped to find bloodstains on Santa’s throne, but it was painted red. She went behind the scenery, where it was supported on wood and chicken wire. “There’s something under here.”

It was a wooden packing case. Ben dragged it out and pulled off the lid. There was a layer of the small, white chips of polystyrene used in packing. Ben dug into them with his large hands.

Zena screamed as a tuft of dark hair was revealed. It didn’t take long to confirm that Mark’s body had been crammed into the packing case.

“We’d better report it,” said Ben in a shocked voice. Reassuringly, he and Zena seemed genuinely surprised at the discovery.

“Before we do,” said Pauline, “look in his pockets.”

In an inside pocket Ben discovered the note Pauline hoped to find. Something must have lured Mark to his death in the grotto.

It was a short, typed message: “See what Santa has for you, darling. Tuesday morning, 8:45.”

“I’ve seen that typestyle recently,” said Ben.

“On our letter of appointment,” said Zena.

“Sylvia?” said Ben, frowning. “Mr. Beckington’s secretary?”

Pauline and Zena exchanged a long, uncomprehending look.

They covered the body and took the lift to the management floor above. On the way up, Pauline said, “I’ve thought of something terribly important. Did you find out why you had to wait so long for the lift this morning?”

“It’s usually because a storeman’s delivering goods,” Ben answered.

Pauline said, “I believe it was the murderer jamming the lift door open at our floor so that no one would interrupt the killing. When it finally arrived, did you see a storeman?”

“No,” said Zena, “it was empty.” She hesitated. “But we smelled cigar smoke.”

There wasn’t time to reflect on that, because the lift doors opened at the top floor and Mr. Beckington was waiting there, a cigar jutting from his mouth. At the sight of the three of them together, his features twisted in alarm. He turned and made a dash for the stairs.

“Ben!” shouted Zena.

The commotion brought people from their offices, among them Sylvia. Pauline grabbed her arm and drew her into the lift. Zena pressed the ground floor button and the three women started downward.

“Mr. Beckington,” Zena blurted out. “He murdered Mark.”

Sylvia’s hand went to her mouth.

“But why?” said Pauline.

Sylvia said in a small, shocked voice, “He was jealous. Silly man. He was forever trying to start something with me, but I wasn’t interested. I mean, he’s married, with a daughter my age. Then last week Mark started taking an interest in me. I always thought him dishy, and... well, on Friday evening we spent a little time in the grotto.”

“By arrangement?”

Sylvia nodded. “When everyone else was gone.” Pauline showed her the note they’d found in Mark’s pocket. “I didn’t type this!” said Sylvia.

“Mr. Beckington did,” Pauline explained, “on your typewriter, to make sure Mark turned up this morning. He killed Mark in the grotto and he must have still been in there when the child sneaked in. He must have been hiding behind the scenery when I came in. I raised the alarm, and while I was standing outside like a lemon, he hid the body in a packing case. I just hope Ben catches him.”

The lift gave a shudder as they reached the ground floor. When the doors opened, a police sergeant was waiting. Two constables were nearby, standing at the foot of the stairs.

“All right, girls,” said the sergeant. “Just stand over there, well out of the way.”

In a moment, there was the clatter of footsteps on the stairs, then Mr. Beckington ran straight into the arms of the waiting policemen. He offered no resistance.

Pauline felt a tug on her skirt and looked down at the small girl. “You?” she said. “You called the police?”

The child smiled smugly and nodded.

“And you believed her?” Pauline asked the sergeant.

“She’s my daughter, miss. The way I see it, if my little girl tells me Santa’s snuffed it, I’ve got to be very, very concerned.”

Shhh, Shhh, It’s Christmas

Carolyn Banks

“ ‘Shhh, Shhh, It’s Christmas’ is, for me, an experiment in voice,” Carolyn Banks says. “The narrator has what I think of as a wee voice, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take a reader to realize that the information she is imparting might be sinister. In other words, is it true that ‘It ain’t what you say; it’s how you say it?’ ”

Ms. Banks’s story “Mean to My Father” appeared in NBM6.

I remember thinking how cozy the room looked. I had waxed the furniture that afternoon, using that red oil that my mother used — or was it the nuns? — oh so many years ago. And all the wood gleamed. Not just the tables, but the trim, too. And the legs of the chairs and things. I’d actually knelt down and worked the rag deep into all the crevices.

Outside, according to the radio, it was a grim eight degrees Fahrenheit. I only listened to what they said about Fahrenheit, because I never did learn Celsius.

It seemed especially cozy after I began sipping on the sherry that Alan had poured. He hardly ever offered me any, because I hardly ever drank it, but what with Christmas coming...

“Elaine,” he began, and I looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back, but a wry smile.

“The sherry is delicious,” I said, and wondered then if I could be drunk. How many sips had I had and how many sips did it take? Anyway, I sipped some more.

The wind picked up outside. I could hear it, but where had the sound come from? The windows? The chimney? The roof? I tried to listen closer. The windows, I thought. “You aren’t in a draft, are you?” I asked.

He shook his head, no, not looking at me, though. “Elaine,” he said again, and his voice sounded the way it did at the end of an argument. Thin and dry and faraway, as though I’d never ever understand and he was just giving up.

“It’ll be a wonderful Christmas,” I said, leaning deep into my chair. “Really wonderful.” I thought maybe I should get up and stand behind his chair. Rub his neck. He used to like that. Except that I couldn’t because the back of the new chair — the one that I’d wanted oh so much, the one with the roses climbing the fabric as if it were a trellis — had a back way too high for rubbing anybody’s neck.

“The Berensons were lots of fun,” I offered, staying put. They’d stopped by with a bird feeder. One that you had to stick on the side of the house, a plastic one with a little suction cup. I wondered then, would it stay up? Would the little cup hold? Or would it fall down, maybe not the day you stuck it up there, but one day?

“Yes, they were,” he agreed, and got up and went over to the closet where the liquor bottles were. While he was over there, he turned the radio off.

He hadn’t given up, not really.

“Alan,” I said, not wanting to accuse him or anything, but he’d been to that closet three times since he poured my sherry. Three times at least, maybe even four. But he acted as though he hadn’t heard me, and I acted as though that was all right.

“The Berensons are getting a divorce,” he said. The fire hissed when he said it and little sparks flew. The fire astonished me and I jumped forward in the chair, spilling a bit of the sherry. It ran down my hand. I wiped my hand on my skirt and looked down to see if it had stained. It hadn’t. Still, I felt tears leaking down my cheeks, as hot as the sparks must have been.

“Elaine!” he said it sternly, the way my father used to, the all-wrong way that only made things worse. Then he was kneeling in front of me. There were cat hairs on the rug and they’d stick to his trousers and then he’d get mad. He was wearing dark trousers; he always did, even though the cats got hair on everything and then it got on him. If I could have spoken, I’d have reminded him about the hairs, maybe so he’d get up before his pants got dirty. But I didn’t say anything. I just put my sherry down on the arm of the chair and ran my fingers through my hair, short hair cut like a boy’s, easy to take care of, you didn’t have to set it or anything. Just wash it and towel it and then let it dry. I thought of Jan Berenson’s hair, thick and dark and longer than it ought to be. Then I was able to say something and it just came right out, “No!”

Alan took my glass and held it up for me to drink from, kind of rolling the glass between his hands. He had hair on his knuckles. Actually, just below his knuckles, little tufts of hair. I thought about that and I thought about slapping at the glass, making it fly across the room, an arc of sherry rising and spilling across the rug. It would leave a stain then, I was sure of it. A stain that you couldn’t get out no matter what you used. That’s what stain meant: forever.

So I took the glass from him, careful not to touch his fingers with my fingers, and I even laughed before I sipped again. “I’m all right,” I said, “it’s just...” Just what? I didn’t know, odd, and such a surprise about the Berensons. “Well,” I said, wiping my nose with my knuckle and sniffing, still holding onto the sherry glass. “He was away so much...” And he was, Lester Berenson, an airline pilot, away so much.

“Yes,” Alan agreed. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the Christmas tree. As if, for the first time, appraising it. Was the trunk straight? Was it bushy and frill? Was it tall and fresh?

“Let’s get the tree up,” I sniffled and Alan looked at me. “You’re right about this tree,” I went on. “It wasn’t worth twenty-five dollars.” But I was thinking, how did he know about the Berensons? They hadn’t said anything, not the whole time they were here. Jan Berenson had even slung her arm around her husband when it was time to go and hiccuped on purpose and he, Lester Berenson, had laughed and kind of squooshed her up against himself. They had given us that bird feeder as a couple, and we had given them, as a couple, that maraschino-cherry bread that I always bake for everyone at Christmastime, the one with all the Philadelphia cream cheese in it.

I took one of the ornaments out and unwrapped it and then, I don’t know why, tried to twirl it by its hanger. I went around once, perilously, before it fell and broke. “Oh,” I said.

“You sit down, Elaine,” Alan had my arm, the way he always did when he was concerned about me. “I’ll clean it up.” And then I was sitting, but on the rug, and I was crying while I listened to him rooting around in the kitchen for the broom and dustpan. “Oh,” I wailed, “You’ll never find it,” meaning the dustpan, which was hanging from a nail, not down on the floor where you’d expect it to be.

I could see Jan Berenson plain as day, see her with that hair of hers, too long, too thick, a hussy’s hair and not the kind of hair a married woman should have. “I’m not surprised after all,” I said, watching Alan try to sweep with a long-handled broom and hold the dustpan at the same time. “Not about the dustpan,” I explained. “I mean about the Berensons.” I knew I should get up and hold the dustpan, but I didn’t want to, not just then. Let him see what it was like, let him see. “Where’s my sherry?” I asked. I wasn’t even crying anymore.

“This isn’t easy, Elaine,” Alan said. The little shards of glass — that was all that was left, little shards — went into the dustpan bed.

“That’s enough,” I said. “I’ll use the vacuum in the morning.” Alan put the broom and dustpan away and came back and sat on the floor beside me.

“It wasn’t something we planned,” he said.

“What wasn’t?” I asked.

“Oh, come on, Elaine.”

“No, what? What do you mean?”

“Elaine,” he said, “I think you know I mean Jan Berenson.” He actually turned his head completely away from me, as though he were talking to the Christmas tree.

“No,” I said, and I could feel my head shaking, making it a very definite no. “I don’t know. Not really.” A couple of times, parties and stuff, they’d be in the kitchen talking. But just talking. Not even sneaky talk, just regular talk, talk they didn’t change or stop when I came into the room. Just talk. Nothing serious, nothing to worry about. “I really didn’t know,” I said.

My voice sounded the way it had when the Berensons had come to the door, bright as tinsel. “Where will we put this bird feeder? By the front door? Or maybe by the bedroom window? Then we can wake up and watch the birds. We’ll have to buy seed. Wild-bird seed.” Were they really wild? Were they? Or was it just a word they put on the package without really thinking about it? My voice grew small. “Have you?” I watched him out of the comer of my eye. “With Jan?” He nodded yes, but he didn’t say it. I thought, “Coward! Coward!” but I didn’t say anything either. I dusted at myself, but hopelessly, cat hairs all over my skirt.

We got married when that song came out. I don’t know the name of it. The one that said, “...and two cats in the yard.” Simon and Garfunkel? Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young? And then I thought, they split up. All of them, they split up. I took a glug of sherry. Not a sip, a glug. “We’ll have to keep the cats in the house after we put the feeder up. Because the cats will kill the birds,” yank their wings off and shred their feathers and bite out their bright round eyes.

“I meant it,” I said, standing, “about putting up this tree.”

“I’ll test the lights,” Alan said, and I smiled. We had those real old sets that used to belong to my parents, the kind where all of the bulbs in the string went off when even one bulb was bad.

“I’ll make us a surprise,” I said, “for our last Christmas,” and I ducked into the kitchen. I put water in the pot, the big pot that I use for soup. I could hear Alan humming in the other room. I put cinnamon in the pot, and nutmeg, and whatever other sweet spice came to hand. I’m good with seasonings. I put the pot over the fire so that the water would heat and the sweet smell of Christmas would fill the house. Then I got the instant Nestea and some orange juice.

Alan hummed away. He had done it, he had told me, so of course he felt relieved. “Hey,” he called from in there, “sure smells good.”

“You bet,” I said. I thought about what all my friends in school had said. About how I was so lucky. So very lucky. And I stirred.

When it started simmering, I sat down at the little kitchen counter that served as my desk.

Alan looked at the pot when I carried it in. He had a bulb in his hand and light cords at his feet. I checked to make sure that, yes, he had the plug in place, and then I heaved the pot in his direction and saw its contents, sweet with sugar and tea and spices, slap his trousers and the cords and the bulb and his hands. I watched Alan jolt and shake and jolt and shake and hold out his hairy hand toward me. I didn’t move, I didn’t even back away, I just stood there until it was time to call the Berensons.

In a way, it was a shame to call them. It was so late. I knew Jan Berenson had already changed for bed. I could see her in front of her vanity mirror, her hair crackling with static electricity, lifting up and trying to stick to the brush. That’s the trouble with hair like that. You have to do so much to it.

She would say, “Would you get that, Lester?” when she heard the phone, because Lester would be up. Probably packing for a flight. I heard her say that once, that Lester was always packing for a flight.

Lester would keep repeating what I said, filling in the spaces because I would only use separate words like tea, and tripped, and lights, and then maybe almost a sentence, like, Alan tangled up, and lights, again.

But then Alan came into the room and stood in front of my typewriter, blocking the light. “You know, Elaine, maybe this is it. Maybe this is the reason.” I didn’t look up and he went on. “I talk to you about something as important as this, and what do you do? You type. I mean, look at you. You don’t even remember anything, not even the tea.”

I looked up now. I smiled. I was even, relatively speaking, content. “Shhh,” I said, “shhh, it’s Christmas.”

To Florida

Robert Sampson

“To Florida,” Robert Sampson says, “is the story of a man headed straight to hell who refuses every opportunity to change his course.” This is Robert Sampson’s second appearance in NBM; his “Rain in Pinton County” appeared in number 5. “From the Dark Side,” the third volume in Sampson’s study of the pulp, is scheduled for publication in December 1986. It deals with series detectives from 1905 to 1930.

Music blared as a ton of pink rocks flattened the orange bear. He sat up bonelessly, rubbing mauve stars from his head, and marched off the television screen, aggressive and undaunted.

Teller, not watching the bear’s problem, started recounting the money. His fingers danced through the stack of twenties like hunger in motion, like a love song, caressing.

A purple boxing glove belted the bear across a yellow room. Laughter screamed.

Teller glanced up, then down. His face was insolently wary, the face of a kid grown up to find out it was all a lie. He wore heavy sideburns, very black, and a lot of undisciplined mustache. He was on the short side of thirty, and looked soiled and a little crazy.

The apartment door bumped open. A girl’s voice said apologetically, “Whoops, slipped, I guess.” She backed into the room, angular and ugly, almost twenty. She wore blue jeans and a dirty pink sweatshirt. A big gray yam purse, striped blue-yellow-green, had slipped to the crook of her arm. She clutched two sacks of groceries.

“Jerry, can you grab a sack?”

“Dump ’em on the table.”

“They’re slipping.” She sidled crabwise across the room, showing too many teeth in a mouth like a frog’s. She thumped the sacks on a green painted table holding an air conditioner and the remains of last night’s Kwik-Karry Chicken. The window behind the table puffed cold air at her.

Jerry said to his hands, “You know what? I’m fixing to take me down to good old Florida and have a time.” He stroked the money. “I’m gonna drink me some beer and soak up some of that sun.”

“Yea, Florida,” she said. And speaking saw the money in his hands. All the expression flattened out of her face. “Is that yours?”

“Mine.” Their eyes met. “What you think, Sue Ann? Want to run down to Florida?”

She eyed the money, wary, surprised. “You got enough maybe we could give Mr. Davidson some? For the rent. He keeps calling.”

“He gave me this.” His quick fingers doubled over the bills, thrust them into the pocket of his shirt.

“He didn’t.”

“Go look in the kitchen and see. But don’t squeal, now. Don’t you squeal.”

“He wants we should pay him something.”

“Look there in the kitchen.”

She looked into the kitchen and her shoulders lifted slowly and slowly settled.

“Is he dead?”

“Naw.”

“I mean, really, is he dead?”

“I told you no. I just tapped him. Not even hard.”

“His one eye’s open.”

“So he sleeps with one eye open.”

She swung around to look at him. Apprehension twisted in her face like a snake in a bottle. “If you hurt him, we better not let anybody know.”

“We’re gonna be gone. I got his car keys. I’m cuttin’ out.” He waited for her enthusiasm and his face hardened when it did not come. “I figured you were so hot to run down to Florida.”

“To Florida. Well, I guess... sure...”

He heaved up from the recliner, boot heels cracking on the uncarpeted floor. “You get yourself together.” He grinned, watching her mind stumble after his words. “I want to go get me some of that good beer.”

“Jerry, you’re sure Mr. Davidson’s all right, aren’t you?”

“I said he was OK. Get packed.”

“Should I put a blanket over him?”

“You just let him be, now.” He pulled her to him with one arm, pressing hard, but that didn’t reassure her much.

She went into the bedroom and began opening and closing drawers. He shook his head and, grinning, went to the table, and heaved up the air conditioner. It was a small window model, the simulated wooden front very new. Through the open window he could see out along Holmes Avenue, glowing with spring dogwood, white and pink. Above the flowering branches spread a pale blue sky, featureless as painted wood.

He carried the air conditioner out into the hallway. From the back apartment, a radio hammered rock, violent and forlorn, into the dim air. He used two fingers to open the front door, carried the air conditioner across the porch, along a cracked brown concrete walk, to the light blue Toyota parked by the curb in the bright morning sunlight. He dumped the conditioner into the back seat and straightened up, working his fingers.

“Jesus is Lord, and salvation is at hand,” said a voice at his right ear.

Behind him on the sidewalk stood a hook-nosed old ruin, all bone and wrinkles, holding out a printed tract. “Let me give you the Lord’s word, brother. It ain’t too late for the word.”

“Ain’t that nice.” He stepped around the scarecrow, who smelled sourly of upset stomach. As he climbed the porch steps, the old voice called, “All sins forgiven in the bosom of Jesus, brother.”

In the apartment bedroom, she had pulled out all their clothing. The bed was piled with stuff that looked and smelled like specials at the Saturday flea-market.

She told him, “I don’t know what to take.”

“All of it.”

“All of it?” She snatched up a pair of shoes.

“You think we’re coming back here?”

Confusion blurred her face. “You got to open the filling station tomorrow, Jerry.”

“You think so, huh?”

He loaded two cardboard boxes of his own clothing into the Toyota’s trunk. The old boy with the wet eyes was talking Jesus at a house up the street. When he reentered the apartment, she was still staring at the clothing, jerking her arms. Impatience twisted his mouth.

“You ready?”

“Not yet. Not yet.” She blundered into uncoordinated motion.

“Like a scared blind hen,” he muttered, stepping into the kitchen.

It was a long, dirty room painted pink. A narrow window spilled sunshine across unwashed dishes, paper sacks, fruit peelings, empty cans, a squadron of flies. The room stunk sourly of garbage and cigarettes. Old Man Davidson lay on the floor by the sink, his head in a jumble of beer cans. One eye glimmered palely under a sagging lid. He was a sharp-nosed runt with reddish hair. His mouth lolled open and a fly tilted and curved above the lard-colored lips.

“Show you to bad-mouth me,” Jerry said to the figure on the floor.

In half an hour, he hustled her out the door, her arms dripping loose clothing. He put on a wide-brimmed brown hat, banded with pheasant feathers, and a shabby leather coat with the hunting knife tucked down in one pocket. It was tough that the television was too big to load into the car. “Hell with you,” he said and closed the door.

No one called good-bye. He fed the Toyota gas and they eased off between the exuberant dogwoods.

Half a block down the street, she clutched his arm. “I forgot the groceries.”

“Let ’em sit.”

“They’ll spoil.”

“So what?”

Thin brown fingers slipped across her mouth. “I used all our food stamps on them. Got some ribs for you.”

“Now, that was nice.”

“They were for you.”

He said in a flat, rapid voice, “Look, if we drive back, maybe somebody sees us in his car. You ever think of that? Then what you going to tell them?”

She stared at him, brown eyes blankly confused.

“What you going to say?”

“I... Well...”

“You got to think about that.”

She said faintly, “I just didn’t want them to spoil.”

“Well, OK. We’ll just go on.”

“I’m sorry, Jerry. I didn’t think about the car and... and all.”

“Shoot, you don’t have to think. You just sit there and have you a good time. We’re going to Florida.”

The Toyota shot around a yellow truck and picked up speed past rows of Victorian houses built close together, painted in shades of green and brown. They looked orderly and neat, like old women waiting for relatives on visiting day.

At the Friendly station, they stopped for gas and he bought a six-pack of Old Jack beer at the carryout. They drove north, then, along streets of grimy stores, small and set far apart with dust-gray windows and trash spilled along the sidewalk. The stores were replaced by narrow fields, still brown, stippled with weed stalks and bordered by trees blurred with new green. Beyond the trees, small hills humped up, dark with cedar, dappled by the dull rose and white of flowering trees.

“It’s just so beautiful,” Sue Ann said.

“Here we are,” he said.

He slewed the Toyota onto a gravel apron, jerked to a stop before a building the shape and color of a dirty sugar cube. Above the open door slanted a hand-painted sign:

STAFFORD’S PARTS AND HOUSE APPLENCES

In the doorway under the sign leaned a fat man without much hair, his circular face tarnished red-brown by years of sun. He watched Jerry work the air conditioner off the backseat.

“You jus’ come in here right now,” the fat man said.

Jerry plunged past him, banged the air conditioner onto a scarred wooden counter. The little room was hot, smelling disagreeably of rubber and cardboard. Orange boxes of auto parts packed the wall shelves. The floor was patched with flattened coffee cans, blue and red against silver-gray wood.

Jerry said, “Wanna sell me this air conditioner.”

The fat man worked his belly behind the counter. “It works, does it?”

“You give it a feel. Probably still cold.”

Thick brown hands deftly unfastened the grill. “She looks nice and clean.”

A door opened in back and a big old man, gone to bone and loose gray skin, limped into the room. The effort of moving thickened his breath. He inched over to a wooden chair by the counter, lowered himself into it joint by joint, said in a remote voice, “She’s getting cold out there, Dandy.”

Jerry said, “How much you fixing to give me for this beauty? Worth three hundred dollars, easy.”

“Oh, now, then,” Dandy said. He grinned at his fat hands. “It’s early for air conditioners.”

The old man grunted, spit at a blue can, looked at the air conditioner with sour suspicion.

Jerry said, “I got to get rid of it. They broke my lease.”

Fat fingers snapped the grill into place. “What do you think, Mr. Stafford?”

The old man sniffed, grunted, painfully extended his legs. “Expect she’s stole.”

“Like hell,” Jerry said, jerking his head. “What’s with you?”

“Couldn’t be nothin’ like that,” Dandy said. “I know this young fellow. He’s been in here before.”

“You know it,” Jerry said. Back stiff, hands jammed into his pockets, he stood without moving, watching them, grinning very slightly.

“Tell you what,” Dandy said. “You maybe got the bill of sale, I could give you, like, say fifty dollars.”

Stafford said in his sick old voice. “We don’t need no stole stuff.”

“Why don’t you shut up your mouth?” Jerry said to him.

Dandy said, very quickly, “No need to holler, son.”

“You want this or not?”

“Fifty dollar the best I can do.”

“No way, man. Hell with that.” White light leaped into his eyes. “I wouldn’t carry’ this thing across the street for fifty dollars.”

“We don’t hold none with thieving,” Stafford said, loudly triumphant.

“It’s worth one hundred dollars, easy,” Jerry said.

Dandy shook his head. “Not to me.”

Stafford yelped, “Get that stole thing out of here right now.”

Jerry made a small, bitter sound. He put his chin down on his chest, and a tremor, beginning at his hips, shook upward through his chest, shoulders, neck. His eyes became not quite human.

In a soft voice, he said, “Who asking you?” Then, very loudly, “Who asking you?” The sides of his mouth grew wet. “And so damn what?”

He jerked the air conditioner up from the counter. Held it poised. Wheeled left and flung the machine into the old man’s lap. Stafford shrieked as the chair legs snapped off. He slapped against the counter screaming and pitched heavily onto the floor, hands clawing his legs. “They’s broke.”

Jerry flipped the hunting knife from his jacket pocket and slashed backhand at Dandy. The fat man banged himself back against the shelves. Orange boxes slipped thumping into the aisle.

Jerry leaned across the counter, his eyes intent, yellow-tan teeth showing under his mustache. He whipped the knife around, splitting Dandy’s tan shirt. As he slashed, he made a thick, grunting sound. Dandy squealed frantically as a thin, red line ran across the top of his shoulder.

Jerry got over the counter, fell into the aisle. His body felt hot and slow. Hunched over, he moved toward Dandy, knife blade out in front of him, a bright splinter.

Dandy said in a voice full of wonder, “Oh, this is a terrible thing.” His eyes were round. As Jerry moved toward him, he jerked a rack of cans thunderously into the aisle.

Jerry stumbled over a can, fell, hitting one knee. Taking small, quick steps, Dandy shuffled back from the knife. He got to the rear door. His eyes, round in a round pale face, stared past the edge of the door as it whacked shut.

“You better watch,” Jerry yelled. Jerking around, still holding the knife out before him, he darted back along the littered aisle, snatched the cash box from under the counter.

The box, chained to the shelf, snapped out of his hands. Change sprayed into the aisle among boxes and cans and broken glass. He clawed up a five, a one, another one. Dimes glinted among orange boxes. He found a quarter, a ten, two nickels. Urgency choked him.

He swung over the counter in one hard twist. The old man lay contorted against the counter, eyes rolled up, mouth open exposing his dull yellow tongue. He breathed like a compressor. The air conditioner canted across one leg.

Two steps to the door and out. Seven steps long across the crunching gravel, fury in his legs, rage lifting his shoulders. He felt laughter like hot fat boiling in his chest and throat.

He slid behind the wheel. Sue Ann gaped at him, excited, “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?”

“No damn thing.”

The Toyota leaped away spewing gravel. “They tried to cheat me.”

As the car skidded onto the highway, Dandy appeared at the side of the building. His arms were extended and from hands clenched before his face projected the dark snout of a revolver. Then a screen of bushes lashed past, hiding him.

“Cheated me, by God.” His boot rammed the accelerator.

Gray-shaded clouds skated sedately across a pale sky. Beneath the clouds spread calm fields, furred with new light green. From Stafford’s dirty sugar-cube the road was a lean gray strip stretched north past a small housing development, a small store. Beyond the fields rose a sudden hill studded with the brick buildings of A & M College, sober, dull red blocks following the hill’s contours like bird nests along a cliff. Hill and buildings looked neatly peaceful as a European travel poster.

The Toyota hammered north, eighty miles an hour. Wheels jittered on the road. Fields reeled past. The pedestrian overpass swelled toward them, was over them, shrank behind. The car leaped, floated above a small rise, light as blowing leaves.

“Oh, my God, Jerry, what is it?”

Down the road by the lumber yard, a fat yellow truck wallowed onto the highway.

“Oh, Jerry!”

He tapped the brakes, cut left, cut back across an oncoming pickup, the driver’s face shocked.

“Cheated me,” he yelled. Tapped the brakes. They slid through a four-way stop, jerked left. Accelerated past shabby apartments screened by vivid forsythia. On the main highway, he slowed, turned south.

“Jerry, what happened?”

He said, “I made them remember me.”

His eyes were white stones.

Five miles down the road, rolling west at thirty-five miles an hour through streets lined endlessly with small houses. Each had its own yard, its own driveway, its own bush. He yawned, as dull-headed as if he had slept. A black child in a red cap waved at them.

“I was so scared,” she told him. “You looked so funny.”

“How’d I look funny?”

“You just did.”

He gulped beer from a can. “You’re OK, Lu Ann. You’re nuts, but you’re OK. I think you’re fine, you know that?”

“You scared me.”

She looked like no one he had ever seen before. The lumpy face shone with tear smears. The big teeth, the loose dull hair belonged to a stranger. Only her voice was familiar, stumbling, hesitating, the voice of a confused child.

“...please don’t say that. It’s what Daddy said.”

“What?” he asked her.

“He looked at me. He looked at Momma. He said...” The thin voice faltered and shook, unsteady with shame. “Said, ‘You take that dumbnut brat with you, too.’ He said that. My daddy. ‘Take your ugly brat with you.’ He’s in Saint Louis now. I won’t forget him saying that.”

His empty beer can clattered behind the seat. “Open me another one.”

“Am I ugly?”

“You?”

“Yes, am I ugly?”

“Shoot,” he said, “where’s that beer?”

“You don’t have to say I’m pretty. I know I’m not pretty. I know what pretty is, like on television, all shiny like there’s sun on them.”

“You’re all right,” he said, sucking beer.

“But he didn’t ought to say that. Was your daddy nice?”

At last, Jerry said, “He played him some games with us.”

“What like?”

“Held up his two fists all closed together. Says, ‘Which hand’s the candy in, kid?’ So you guessed. You guess wrong — bamo! He fetch you one up the side of the head.”

“That’s awful.”

“Never was any candy. Not in either hand. He tells me, ‘Don’t expect nothing cause that’s what you’re going to get. ’ ” He clattered the empty can into the rear. “That’s right, too. You better know it. Both hands empty, all the time.”

“That’s terrible.”

Her face disgusted him. It was brainless, narrow, and brown, shapeless, the teeth ledged in a loose pale mouth. Now, at last, he remembered her name. “Give me one of them beers, Sue Ann.”

Twenty miles west of Huntsville the highway intersected I-65 South. Between ploughed fields a broad concrete strip undulated beneath a filmy white sky. The Toyota began to eat miles.

“Now we’re going down to Florida,” he said.

“Yea, Florida.” She leaned toward him, fingers closing over his right arm, a disagreeable soft pressure. “You glad you’re taking me to Florida, Jerry?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“I’m sorry they cheated you.”

“Took that air conditioner in and they say, ‘Why this looks like you stole it, we’re gonna call the police.’ Said, ‘You better leave that old air conditioner here, we’ll call the police.’ ”

“You showed them.”

“I showed them good. I messed them up good.” In his mind the old man screamed as the pale highway flowed toward them. “You bet I did.”

“You didn’t hurt them?”

“Damn right I did.”

“You shouldn’t do that, Jerry. That isn’t right.”

“OK for them to hurt me, though,” he said, stiff-voiced.

“No, no. I mean...” She struggled with the soft stuff of her mind. “It’s in the Bible. Don’t be mean, that’s what it says.”

“Your tongue’s sure bubbling.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. I don’t think people are really mean. Like my daddy. He just yells. When he’s drunk, he’s sweet.”

He burst into laughter. “You’re somebody, you sure are, Sue Ann.”

She pulled back from him. “Now don’t you laugh at me.”

“Listen,” he said, “nobody’s got candy in their hands. You just remember that.”

“I’d give you some candy.”

“I guess you’d try, wouldn’t you?”

“You know I would.”

Under their wheels, the road down Alabama pulsed like a concrete heart.

“This thing’s a gas hog,” he said. “We better pull her in and fill up.”

They pulled off the highway and wound through a complicated series of small roads to a combination filling station, restaurant, and general store, spreading out under a bright orange roof. He gave her five dollars and she went inside, among the strange voices, and bought crackers, two large coffees, and four comic books with shiny girls wet-faced on the glowing covers. As she came out, he hurried up to her, white-faced and tight-lipped as if he had just smelled hell.

“You come on here.”

They drove around back of the restaurant and parked by a big square trash container. “That damn Dandy,” he said. “Look here.”

Two bullet holes punched the light blue metal, one above the license plate, the other over a taillight. Impact had dimpled the metal and the edges showed raw and clean. There was a strong smell of gasoline.

He said savagely, “Just creased the tank. Put a big old crack in it. It’s been slopping out gas all this time.”

She goggled at him, making inconsequential sounds.

“That Dandy fellow. I didn’t even hear him shooting.”

“Can... can we fix it?”

“Shoot. Can’t run along showing bullet holes. Turn on the lights at night, maybe blow the whole back out of her.”

Fingers crept over her teeth. “Who’s Dandy?” she asked faintly.

“Might tape it. Probably work right loose. Tank’ll hold maybe four gallon. But shoot — I’m not going to drive all over Florida sticking gas in this sucker every hour.”

“Can’t we go to Florida?”

“Will you shut up?”

“Please don’t be mad, Jerry.”

“Don’t you start whining. Give me a hand.”

They unloaded the trunk, piling reeking cardboard boxes by the side of the car. Under the floor mat shone a pungent skin of gasoline.

“Better not chance it,” he said at last. “Give her a spark, she’ll flare up like the sun in a sack.”

As they stared into the trunk, a dirty station wagon rolled past behind them, packed to the windows with staring children and luggage.

“I gotta get me another car,” Jerry said. Briefly his long arms beat at his sides, a furious sudden violence.

In their inconspicuous place behind the road stop, they waited in a numb paralysis of time, the journey compromised. From out front engines sounded, voices rose, and doors slammed and reslammed, a purposeful outcry of activity emphasizing their inactivity and isolation. Limp in the Toyota, Sue Ann fingered through a comic book. Alone by the dumpster, Jerry fidgeted, a wolf watching empty plains, glancing impatiently off toward the main parking area.

After a long time, a black Lincoln, arrogantly polished, rolled past with three people inside. It was followed by a red Ford with a young woman driving.

“Hey, can you give me a hand?” he called.

She drove slowly by, not looking around. He snarled after her and waited. After another ten minutes, a truck full of ropes eased past.

“Hey, can you give me a hand? Just need a second.”

Then a small tan station wagon drew to a stop and a thin-faced young man with glasses and neat dark hair leaned out and asked, “Trouble?” in a cheerful voice.

“Look,” Jerry said, “I need three hands for a second and I only got two.”

The young man elevated his eyebrows and, grinning, pushed open the car door. “Like the way you said that.” He was long-legged, long-armed, and walked with shoulders bent forward, as if being tall bothered him. He left the engine of the wagon running.

“This is a problem,” Jerry said.

The tall man said, “You sure got a gas leak.” And then, in an interested voice, “Those bullet holes?”

Jerry took a blackjack out of his hip pocket and hit the tall man hard on the side of the head above the right ear. The blow made a solid, single sound. His glasses flew off. Long legs buckled, folding him over the edge of the trunk. His head and shoulders dropped inside. Jerry shuffled sideways, struck twice more. He placed the blows carefully, leaning into them. He tried to heave the tall man into the trunk, could not turn the body. Legs dangled.

Grunting with the effort, he hauled the tall man out and wrapped both arms around his body. He lugged the limp figure along the side of the Toyota. Sue Ann stared at him, face convulsed.

“Get out of there,” he snarled at her.

She leaped away, scattering comic books on the cement.

He stuffed the body onto the seat, fought the long legs into the compartment. The head flopped over to expose an ear webbed with blood. From the rear, he jerked out a gray blanket, threw it over the body, pulled the head right, hiding the scarlet ear.

She was crowded against him, breath loud. “Is he dead? Is he dead, Jerry?”

“No, no.”

“Oh, Jerry.”

“Get that car loaded.”

“Oh, Jerry.”

He came at her, furious and tall, shoved her violently against the Toyota. She yelped as her head cracked against the glass. “Listen to me. Move.”

They tumbled boxes into the station wagon. They jerked their possessions from the backseat, rushing between the cars, stuffing sacks, armloads of coats, shoes, fishing rods blindly into any unfilled space.

A Volkswagen pulled in behind the wagon, blasted its horn. “Get this thing outta the street, buddy.”

“Go on around.”

“Dumb jerks parking in the road.”

The Volkswagen snarled around the wagon and was gone. Sweat iced his body; his fingers were lengths of marble.

“Let’s go,” he said to her.

“Oh, no,” she said, backing away. “No no no.”

He said in a soft distant voice, “Sue Ann, get in that car or I am going to have to hurt you bad.”

Her mouth fell open. She went back from him, taking small uneven steps as if moving ankle-deep through a marsh. She tottered around the car, got in. He darted back to the Toyota and, leaning in the driver’s side, fumbled under the gray blanket until he found the tall man’s wallet He locked all the doors. Stuffing the wallet into his pocket, he swung into the station wagon, eased it away from the building, down the road, turned left, moving with precise care, went down the clipped access road to I-65. The wagon handled fine. Sue Ann, staring and white, slumped in the corner.

The fingers of his right hand felt greasy. Making a fist, he saw the back of his hand smeared darkly with blood.

From the car radio a slow voice whined the lyrics of “Whiskey Woman.”

Behind the voice pulsed guitar, bass, drums, filling the interior of the automobile with urgent pressure. Over that sound their intense voices went back and forth, birds riding a heavy wind.

“You did. You beat on him.”

“I had to.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to. Take away your hand. It’s bloody.”

He clenched the fist, lifted it, rotated it before her face. “You see blood? You tell me, you see blood?”

“You beat on him and beat and beat. I heard you.”

He said thick-voiced, “You shut up and hear me. I had to get us a car. Us with a shot-up old bomb, the police maybe lookin’.”

“Police?”

In the southwest, mouse-gray clouds ledged in the silver sky.

“You don’t know anything at all, do you? You sit there like a dummy, big grin on your dummy face, don’t know a thing.”

Fear came between them and she strained away from him, her back against the door, feet jamming the floor.

“We need a car, I took us a car. Nobody going to give us a car. Nobody going to give us anything. You need it, you go and get it.”

“You was always so nice.”

“I’m same as I always was.”

“No, you’re not.” She stared at him and it was like looking into a long tunnel with a fire burning in it, far back. “You’re glad you hit him.”

“I didn’t and you wouldn’t be in this car right now, going to Florida, going to have you some fun.”

She began to cry. Country rock poured from the radio. They were building in the fields beyond the highway, orange iron skeletons rising in the sun, with trucks shuttling back and forth and men small among the shining beams.

Eyes on the fields, she said, “You don’t like me any more.”

“I don’t want to hear that. I’m not going to listen to that all the way to Florida.”

“It isn’t right.”

He felt the shaking begin then, the glorious deep trembling that would build and rise, wave on rich wave, half fear, half joy, a terrible exhilaration lifting him out of himself to tower gigantic, invincible, striding, and magnificent.

“It’s what I do.”

Her voice, muffled, wept. “But you hurt them, Jerry.”

“Shoot,” he said, feeling his body stretch and grow. “I busted their heads. Didn’t hurt them. Didn’t feel a thing. Old Davidson, too.”

“Mr. Davidson?”

He said, with cold satisfaction, “I knocked his head loose of his shoulders. Him with his mouth — ‘Gimmie, gimmie, you pay.’ Him with a big fat wallet and a nice blue car.”

“He’s a nice man.”

“He’s nothing now. He’s dead on the floor with his head cracked.”

“Dead?” she asked. “Dead?” Her mouth went quite square and bloodless.

He began to laugh. “You wanting to put a blanket on a dead man.”

“I want to go home. I want to go home, Jerry.”

He laughed.

“You let me out.”

She was across the seat then, snatching at the wheel, jerking it toward her. The car reeled right. He smashed her hand away as the metallic shriek of tires cut above the music. The world outside weaved and bobbed. He drove the back of his hand against her face, wrenched the wheel, accelerated, felt the skidding berme under the tires and the pop of stones flung against the body, felt the sheering lurch back onto the highway. Fought the wheel, tapped the brakes as the station wagon steadied. Struck past her snatching arms.

He slammed her forehead, her ear, drove her back, hands up before her face, smashing the hands back into her face. Awkward blows, slow and deliberate as if he were pounding nails.

She made a thin, high sound, like tearing flesh.

Steady on the road, the wagon lost speed as he pumped the brakes. They swerved to a stop on the shoulder.

“You get out,” he said.

She squealed thinly, without sense, brown eyes rolling.

“Don’t hurt me, Jerry.”

He showed her the point of the knife. It glittered unsteadily in the sunlight, the hot tip jittering in arcs and circles, trembling with a dreadful eagerness. She grew quite still.

“Out that door, Sue Ann.”

“Please please please please.”

He yelled at her. “I’ll do it if you make me. I don’t want to.”

The door opened. She sprawled out onto the shoulder, one hand before her face, palm out. She slipped and fell heavily, crying out.

Leaning across the seat he said, along the length of the knife. “Now you stay gone.”

“Jerry, dear.”

The door slammed. The station wagon leaped forward, kicking up dirt. It picked up speed, rushing south, full of towering mindless power. In the rear mirror he saw her staring after him, her figure dwindling, hidden by a gentle rise, reappearing smaller as the road rose again, still motionless, a huddle of pink by the white highway. Perhaps looking after him.

Five miles down the road, he saw her gray yam purse on the floor. He cranked down the window. After a moment’s hesitation, he opened the purse, opened the worn brown wallet inside. It contained a dime, a nickel, seven pennies. He shook the change onto the seat, dropped the wallet into the purse. Then he hurled the purse from the window. It bounded among the road weeds, leaping flying twisting.

The sun was low now. It was hard to see where the purse had gone.

He drove in silence for ten miles, listening to the radio.

At last he said, “She could have come on to Florida if she wanted to.”

He began to sing softly with the music. He had a pleasant baritone voice, warm and with a sort of lilt to it.

Content

The New Black Mask (No 8)
Number 8

John D. MacDonald: An Interview

Night Ride John D. MacDonald

Dial Axminster 6-400 James Ellroy

Flotsam and Jetsam John Lutz

Telex Martin J. Miller, Jr

Skin Deep Sara Paretsky

1

2

3

4

Stacked Deck Bill Pronzini

1

2

3

4

5

6

Family Business W. S. Doxey

’Ead All About It Sol Newman

Spy for Sale Edward D. Hoch

Looking for Lauren Joseph Lisowski

Murder in Store Peter Lovesey

Shhh, Shhh, It’s Christmas Carolyn Banks

To Florida Robert Sampson