Author: Editor

“You will use the name John Daniel,” said the tall, clean-cut blonde from behind her desk. “Put your bag down. Sit.”

 

Her visitor nodded once, and did both.

 

“What have you been told?” she asked.

 

“Yesterday I was called to the director general’s office. His secretary instructed me to take the twenty-fifteen South African Airways flight to Heathrow and report to you, here, as soon as possible.”

 

“That’s it?”

 

“Ja.”

 

“Good.   You’ll be needing these.” She stood, took a black leather wallet out of a drawer, and picked up a briefcase Daniel hadn’t noticed. She brought both around to him. “You’re a South African born British subject working as a security manager for Exall, Guest, and Cotterall, an auditing firm in Canary Wharf.   You live in Putney. The cover won’t hold, but you won’t need it to.”

 

Daniel checked the wallet. There was a debit card, two credit cards, a full UK driver’s licence with his photo on it, and a hundred pounds in cash. There were also two train tickets with today’s date on them, one for the Underground, and one to Oxford.   He stood up and pocketed the wallet.

 

She continued, “Be very careful with the briefcase.   Make sure you’re alone when you open it.   All the information is there. The combination has been set to your code.   You’re booked into Linton Lodge in Oxford.   It’s a Best Western about a mile from the city centre. You have a meeting with an access agent at seven o’clock tonight. Any questions?”

 

“Not if it’s all in there.” Daniel indicated the briefcase.

 

“It is. Everything you’ll need for the job. And remember, this is from the director general himself.”

 

“Then I’ll get started.” Daniel slung his sports bag over his shoulder, and picked up the briefcase. He was surprised when she wished him good luck. Daniel had grown out of the habit of smiling since the scar, so he just nodded again and left.

 

#

 

The door opened with a plastic key, which was unfortunate from a security point of view. Daniel put the briefcase and the bag on the bed. He checked the wardrobe wasn’t fixed, then shifted it until a few inches blocked the door. He returned to the briefcase, laid it on the desk, and caught his reflection in the mirror.   He looked as tired as he felt. He glanced at his watch: quarter past twelve. No wonder, he’d been in Johannesburg sixteen hours ago, and Pretoria three before that.

 

He manipulated the combinations on the briefcase, clicked the switches, and opened it. Inside the top half he found a pistol and a hand grenade. They were held in place in the foam rubber lining with plastic ties. Below: a handgun cleaning kit; a mission briefing consisting of five loose sheets of A4 paper; ten A5-size colour photographs; an Oxford A-Z; a bus ticket and timetable for the Airline Company bus from Oxford to Gatwick; and an airplane ticket for a Lufthansa flight from Gatwick to Berlin, leaving at midnight tomorrow.

 

A murder kit complete with instructions.

 

The mission brief was divided into five sections: Agent Cover, Target Information, Target Confirmation, Target Execution, and Agent Extraction.

 

The target was a thirty-four year old South African citizen named Siyabonga Mchunu. Daniel recognised the name immediately. Colonel Mchunu had been adjutant to Lieutenant General Mthimkulu, the Chief of the South African Army. Last year he’d been investigated for fraud before deciding to leave the country in a hurry with a large amount of Department of Defence money that didn’t belong to him. Daniel remembered communiqués placing him first in Abu Dhabi and then Switzerland. The ID photo clipped to the second page was unnecessary, as were the A5 photographs; he hadn’t altered his appearance.

 

Daniel had two questions: why were the Secret Service using an intelligence officer instead of an agent, and why did they want Mchunu dead? If the Secret Service had to hunt down everyone who defrauded the government, they’d need a full time death squad and plenty of dissembling diplomats for the subsequent denials. His second question was answered in the last paragraph of the second page.

 

The president’s granddaughter had recently suffered a nervous breakdown. This was common knowledge. During psychotherapy she’d told her therapist that Mchunu had raped her five years ago.   She’d kept quiet about it because her grandfather had been up for re-election at the time and she’d wanted to avoid any scandal. She still didn’t want anyone to know, but the therapist had taken the news straight to the president. Absconding with hundreds of thousand of Rand was one thing, but raping the president’s granddaughter was guaranteed to reduce one’s life expectancy. Drastically.   Daniel thought it was probably the reason Mchunu had taken the money and run. Not that he cared. He was just there to do a job.

 

But he still wondered why he’d been selected for it.   Despite the misconception propagated by the mass media, intelligence officers didn’t go about breaking and entering, stealing secret documents, or killing people. They recruited intelligence agents to do that for them, and thus remained once-removed from the actual dirty work. Perhaps there was a shortage of suitable agents for the job, although Daniel found that unlikely with something like three million expatriate South Africans in Britain. Maybe there wasn’t one who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut if he was caught.   That was more like it.

 

The access agent’s name was Lily. Daniel didn’t remember her from his tour with the Economic Reconnaissance Office in South Africa House. She must be new. Her profession was listed as prostitute, which was unusual. Access agents were routinely of high social standing, people who assisted intelligence officers to recruit suitable and useful agents.   Daniel was to meet her in The Turf at seven tonight. She would find him. He looked at the mirror again, saw the thick, white scar that ran from his left eye, down the side of his cheek, almost to his mouth.

 

Ja, she probably would.

 

#

 

Daniel woke at five. He dressed quickly, left the hotel, and walked into Jericho, a small suburb of Victorian terraced houses immediately to the north-west of the city centre. The target execution was scheduled for the corner of Cranham Terrace and Jericho Street, outside a pub called the Harcourt Arms. The pub was right on the corner, at the end of a terrace row.   Opposite the entrance, across the narrow street, a beech tree grew out of the pavement. Daniel committed the terrain to memory, but was careful to keep moving so as not to draw attention to himself.

 

Thirty minutes later, he found The Turf, hidden away in an ancient alley off New College Lane. The pub was a long, low building with a raised section serving food at the far end. It was busy, but not full. Most of the clientele looked like students. Wealthy students. Daniel ordered a pint of Hoegaarden blonde beer and took a stool along the wall. He wasn’t a great reader, but regretted not bringing a book to the pub. It seemed quite a normal thing to do in England, particularly here in a university town, and he had no idea how long Lily was going to be.

 

“Howzit, do you mind if I join you?” The woman stood very close to him, almost touching.

 

“No, please do.” She was short and slim, with skin the colour of milky coffee, long curly black hair, and bright red lips. She could have been anything from fifteen to thirty. She smoothed her short skirt over her thighs as she sat.   “Would you like a drink?” Daniel asked.

 

“No, thanks, I doubt you’re gonna make it worth my while.” Her accent was South African. Daniel guessed Cape Town.   “My name’s Lily, by the way.” She held out her hand.

 

Daniel took it. “John. I’m afraid you’re right about me not making it worth your while. Is this your regular place?”

 

“Ja, I pick up tourists or students here.”

 

“The manager doesn’t mind?”

 

She smiled at him. “My customers don’t complain, John. I’m good for business, not bad. In a few minutes I’m going to move on and mingle, cos that’s what I usually do.”

 

“Okay, do you have a message for me?”

 

“Ja, the message is that you have confirmation.”

 

“That’s all?”

 

“That’s it.”

“Is he expecting to meet you?”

 

“No, he’s expecting a man.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Lovey, that’s very sweet of you, but neither of us has time to chat, do we?” She smiled at him again, squeezed his forearm gently as she rose, and moved off to a table with three young men.

 

Daniel finished his pint without hurrying. When he left, Lily was still at the table with the three men, a glass of white wine in front of her.

 

#

 

The pistol was an HS95, a Croatian imitation of the famous Swiss SIG Sauer nine millimetre. Daniel removed it from the briefcase, leaving a handgun-shaped space in the foam rubber. It reminded him of the old toy he’d had as a child where you had to put the right block into the right hole. Except that this was a little more obvious. He slid the magazine from the pistol’s grip. He removed the bullets, placing each on the desk top, and counted sixteen. He checked the chamber: empty. He opened the cleaning kit, and began disassembling the pistol. He wasn’t happy about having to use a weapon he hadn’t actually fired, but he had no choice.

 

There was no choice in any of it. Every detail of the murder had been pre-planned and prearranged, even down to the specifics. The briefcase contained everything he needed: information, instructions, and tools for both the assassination and the escape. It was like those colouring-in books from junior primary. What were they called…colour by numbers? Ja, colour by number. All Daniel had to do was turn up in the right place at the right time, and follow instructions. He was purely a tool, no more and no less than the pistol provided.

 

Murder by numbers.

 

He finished field-stripping the pistol, cleaned the separate parts, and checked the firing pin. Then he re-assembled it, using an oiled cloth to prevent leaving fingerprints. He replaced the empty magazine, and dry fired double-action: click. Perfect. Next, he loaded the magazine, slid it back into place, cocked a round into the chamber, and eased the hammer down. He flicked the safety catch on, wiped the outside of the pistol with a clean cloth, and put it back in the briefcase.

 

The hand grenade was an HG85, British Army standard issue. It was an incendiary model, which meant that the forty-nine millimetre aluminium case was filled with thermite instead of steel balls. The thermite would burn for forty seconds at around four thousand degrees Fahrenheit. It would ignite everything it came into contact with, including metal. The detonator was fitted with the standard four second fuse. Daniel removed the extra safety clip and returned the grenade to the briefcase.

 

The plane ticket was in his own name. John Daniel would cease to exist once he left the Linton Lodge tomorrow morning. He checked the bus timetable and ran through the plan in his head. Mchunu was meeting him opposite the Harcourt Arms at eight tomorrow night. He would pull up next to the tree in his black Citroen C5. He would be alone. Daniel would shoot him as he exited the car, push him back in, and administer the coup de grace. Then he would throw in both pistol and grenade, and flee on foot to Gloucester Green bus station. Busses left at eight-thirty and nine o’clock. The flight left at midnight.   It was as simple as that. The straightforward plans tended to work the best: there was less that could go wrong.

 

Like clockwork.

 

Daniel opened his window and burned each A4 page and each A5 photo, transferring the remains from the ashtray to the toilet when he was finished. He’d already found a skip to dump the briefcase and sports bag when he checked out.   He switched on the TV as he undressed, thinking about morality. It hadn’t even occurred to him not to kill Mchunu. Had he left his morals behind when he’d joined the Secret Service, or had it been before that, in his previous life? He couldn’t remember.

 

#

 

At a quarter to eight Daniel was in the small, Victorian cemetery of St Sepulchre’s, at the other end of Cranham Terrace. There were no benches, so he sat on the raised stone of John Wilson, a porter who’d died a hundred and fifty four years ago. He’d been aged seventy. Daniel wondered if he would live that long himself.

 

He was wearing a reversible weatherproof parka, with the black inner lining on the outside. In the poacher’s pocket – unzipped – was the hand grenade.   Daniel’s passport and plane ticket were in the inaccessible pockets on the other side. His hands were snug inside a pair of tight-fitting dark blue police marksman’s gloves. He wore stretch denims and brown hiking boots. The denims held his wallet and bus ticket. The pistol, safety catch off, was tucked into his belt, just to the right of the buckle, concealed by the jacket.

 

He glanced at his watch, stood up slowly, and walked out into Walton Street.

 

Two minutes past eight: Daniel was standing in the doorway of 4 Cranham Terrace, facing the bright blue door. He was nestled in shadow, out of the light from the Harcourt Arms. The beech tree – across the road – was fifteen metres away. The street was quiet, except for the occasional car or pedestrian. Two women strode past him without a glance. They went into the pub, two doors down. Daniel waited.

 

A car slowed, and stopped next to the tree: a black Citroen.

 

Daniel took the pistol from his trousers, and cocked the hammer back. The car door opened. Daniel took a deep breath and walked into the road. He kept the pistol low, gripping it lightly with both hands. A tall black man climbed out the car. Daniel stopped five metres away. He slid into a side-on stance and raised the pistol. He looked over the front sight and squeezed the trigger once.

 

Click.

 

Mchunu was facing Daniel. Both men reached inside their jackets as Daniel dived behind the Citroen. His pistol clattered uselessly on the road. He landed heavily, using his left arm to break his fall as his right removed the grenade from his pocket. He crouched against the corner of the car and twisted the pin out. Mchunu’s first shot cracked over the boot.

 

One second.

 

Daniel scrabbled round to the passenger side of the car, keeping low. The second shot lodged in the boot.

 

Two seconds.

 

Daniel heard Mchunu move and saw the muzzle-flash of the third shot. His heart thundered a relentless tattoo. He crouched even lower and backed around the bonnet, keeping his head down.

 

Three seconds.

 

Mchunu stepped from the rear of the car onto the pavement. He saw Daniel. Daniel lobbed the grenade high. Mchunu fired. Daniel threw himself under the engine block.

 

Four seconds.

 

The grenade detonated into the night, and the thermite illuminated the entire street. Daniel waited a single second, then leapt to his feet. The tree and the Citroen were both burning. So were two cars parked outside the pub, and a garage door at the end of the terrace. As Daniel jumped back he smelled the burning flesh. He heard the sizzling and crackling of Mchunu’s torso as his body flamed.   There was nothing where his head had been.

 

Daniel turned and sprinted down Hart Street.

 

Right, into Cardigan Street, then left into Albert. He bumped into a couple on the corner, kept moving.

 

He crossed Clarendon Street, crossed Wellington, sprinted past the new synagogue and the Lebanese restaurant.

 

Richmond Road, then hard right into Worcester Place.

 

Daniel slowed, and stopped outside a wooden door set into the high wall on his right. He checked up and down the street, saw no one, and opened the door.   He stepped inside a small, overgrown garden behind another row of terraces. He took off his gloves, threw them away, and reversed his parka. He stood in the cold for a full minute before putting the beige jacket back on. He fought to breathe through his nose and stomach, gradually slowing his heart rate. Composed, he walked casually out into Worcester Place, careful not to touch the door with his fingers.

 

Twenty-three minutes past eight: Daniel was standing in Bay 7, under the long bus shelter at Gloucester Green. There were ten buses in the dozen bays, but the eight-thirty to Gatwick hadn’t arrived yet.   Daniel noticed movement to his left and turned to see two policemen walking through the crowd. One had a Heckler & Koch submachine gun, the other appeared unarmed. They were in Bay 3. He looked to his right, and saw another two in Bay 11. Also one armed, one not.

 

Daniel stayed where he was.

 

The policemen on the left were moving quicker.   They were looking at everyone in the crowd. He checked the right again: they had reached Bay 10. They both stopped, and the unarmed one spoke to a man in a leather jacket.

 

Twenty-four minutes past eight: the Airline Company bus pulled up. Daniel was fourth in the queue. As the doors opened, the two policemen came up from the left.   They stood at the entrance to the bus.   Everyone in the queue was staring at them. Daniel was careful to do the same.

 

No one moved.

 

The first passenger climbed on, then the second.   As the third followed, the unarmed policeman put his hand out in front of Daniel.

 

“Hold it.”

 

The armed policeman walked in front of him to Bay 8.

 

“Thank you,” said his colleague as he followed.

 

Daniel stepped onto the bus.

The End

The man lying prone on the floor is still groggy. He tries to get up, but can’t. His limbs and torso are restrained with leather straps attached to steel clamps bolted into the concrete floor. Suddenly aware of his plight, he regains full consciousness.

 

“Where am I? How did I get here?”

 

The man is illuminated by a bare light bulb dangling overhead.     Beyond the reach of the light, the surrounding space fades away in shadows. From the deep resonance of the man’s voice, it is evident that he is in a large and empty place, maybe an abandoned store or warehouse.

 

Someone in the shadows speaks to him in an amiable tone, as would a host making his guest feel a home.

 

“Hello, Professor. Have a nice nap?”

 

The owner of the voice lets the man wonder for a while, then slowly steps into the lighted area, bearing a baseball bat. He kneels close to the man on the floor, so they are face to face.

 

“Remember me, Professor Hernandez?”

 

Hernandez stares for a moment, as if seeing an apparition.

 

“Robles! Carlos Robles! Yes, I remember you. You’re the grad student that dropped out of our program and joined the Marines.”

 

“Yes, Professor. I joined the Marines and served two tours in Vietnam. But I did not drop out of your graduate program. That part of the story is wrong. What happened—refresh your memory, Professor—was that you forced me out.”

 

“No, Carlos! No! I would never have done that to you. You were my best student, like a nephew to me, and a fellow Cuban. The faculty committee, they were the ones that recommended you transfer to a school more to your liking.”

 

“And who chaired and dominated the committee? You, Professor! You were the one who screwed me, and now you’re going to pay for it, in full.

 

Robles rises and slowly starts walking around the prone Hernandez, studiously swinging the bat and doing stretching exercise with it, as would a baseball player on the on-deck circle preparing for his turn at bat.

 

Hernandez, whimpering, follows Robles with his eyes.

 

“Carlos, please! I can explain!” From one Cuban to another. Escúchame, por favor!”

 

Suddenly piqued, Robles pokes him in the belly with the bat.

 

“Don’t talk to me in Spanish. Dammit! I’m in no mood to hear that goddam language! And don’t give me that fellow Cuban crap.”

 

“But you are a Cuban, Carlos, like me.”

 

“Wrong, Professor. I’m an American. I have no recollections of Cuba. I came to this country at age three, and from what my parents told me, Cuba was not worth recollecting, anyway. A backward, corrupt country—nothing to be proud of.”

 

Robles resumes circling around Hernandez, swinging his bat.   He is a trim, sinewy man of around 40, clad in boots, jeans, and a military green T-shirt, hair closely cropped, the classic figure of a U.S. Marine, in stark contrast with the pudgy, fiftyish man shackled to the floor.

 

“Carlos, please be reasonable! Hear me out!”

 

“O.K. Professor, I’m listening. But speak in English. Don’t piss me off!”

 

Cocking his head, in a mock listening gesture, Robles leans over Hernandez.

 

“But, hey! Why am calling you Professor? You never deserved that title. You got your Ph.D. back in the days when they were giving them away. A fraud, Alfredo. That’s what you are.”

 

“You say my Ph.D. in Spanish literature was a gift?”

 

“That’s right, Alfredo. You got it under an idiotic Federal program to mass produce foreign language educators.   All one needed to qualify was a speaking knowledge of some foreign language. In your case, that was easy, Spanish being your native tongue. Had the demand been for educators in math, science, or some legitimate field, phonies like you would have never made it.”

 

Robles resumes pacing around Hernandez, pivoting and changing directions now and then, and swinging the baseball bat, now more forcefully.

 

“But I can’t say that I blame you. America is the land of upward mobility. You were offered a freebie profession and you took it.”

 

“No, no, Carlos it wasn’t like that at all!”

 

“Bullshit, Alfredo! I’ve met more than a few so-called exiles from Cuba who were accepted in those Ph.D. programs with forged credentials, no questions asked. And having witnessed your educational limitations first hand—Hell, you thought that Aristotle was a Roman statesman—I suspect that you were one of those impostors.”

 

“You’re wrong, Carlos. My credentials are legitimate, from the University of Havana.”

 

“Whatever, Alfredo. As I said, I don’t blame you for seizing the freebie that the gullible gringos offered you.   They got what they deserved. What I hate is the way you clawed your way to the top and abused your power. For that, I can’t forgive you.”

 

“I did my job, Carlos. My record as department chairman is impeccable.   I have commendations to prove it.”

 

“Bullshit! You’re no scholar or administrator, not even close. A third-world crook, an evil bastard, that’s all you are.”

 

“Not true! Not true!

 

“People who knew you in Cuba told me you were an informant, a chivato, for Batista’s secret police. When Castro took over you had to flee for your life.   Well, fate has finally caught up with you,”

 

“Carlos, please, can’t you see?”

 

“Can’t see what, Alfredo?”

 

“That your war experiences have distorted your recollections of what happened between us. I’m not the monster you think I am.”

 

“Oh, so you think the war made me crazy.”

 

“No, I didn’t mean it that way.”

 

“Well, for your information, my war experience had the exact opposite effect.     It cleared my mind of all delusions.   There I was in Vietnam, killing people with whom I had no quarrel, while my real enemies were here at home, out of harm’s way. The corrupt politicians, the rapacious CEO’s, the fat old men in tailored suits that started the war for profit, the frauds like you—those were the ones that needed killing.”

 

“That was 14 years ago, Carlos, too long a time to bear a grudge.”

 

“For me, Alfredo, my grudge against you has been most inspiring.   You’d be surprised by all the insights and wisdom I’ve garnered by reliving my ugly memories of you. In a sense, you—and others like you—have been my muse.”

 

“So I take it that I’m not your first victim.”

 

Hernandez seemingly wants to engage Robles in an argument, hoping, perhaps, that the longer he keeps him talking, the more likely he will listen to reason, but the fear in him renders his accented English even more accented, and unconvincing.

 

“Jesus Christ, Alfredo. I can barely understand what you’re saying. What kind of linguist are you? Lived in this country for over 20 years, chair a university language department, and still can’t speak English worth a damn.”

 

Chuckling scornfully, Robles reaches down and tweaks Hernandez’s nose. “Further proof that you are a fraud.”

 

Robles continues circling his captive, now in slow, menacing steps, as if preparing to pounce on him at any moment.

 

“Yes, Alfredo, my stint in Vietnam turned out to be a blessing. Not only did it open my eyes to the real world, but it also taught me many marketable skills, like how to make undesirables disappear. That’s what I do for a living nowadays, by the way, as part of a team of other veterans.   Pays quite well, though for this job my partners offered their services for free. We now and then do personal favors for each other. The old warrior brotherhood.”

 

Robles tugs at Hernandez’s Cuban guayabera shirt.

 

“See, not a smudge on it, and not a mark on your body save for the prick on your arm where I shot you with the tranquilizer dart. A clean, professional job.”

 

Hernandez opens his mouth, as if to cry for help.

 

“Go ahead, call out all you want, but you’d be wasting your energy.   This place I chose for our reunion is in the middle of nowhere, next to a garbage dump.” And sniffing the air: “Which explains that foul odor you smell. Yes, an ideal location. No one for miles around, except for my buddies outside waiting for me to finish.”

 

He teasingly runs his fingers under Hernandez’s guayabera shirt. “Plenty of vermin in here, though. If you listen carefully, you can hear the rats squealing. They’re hungry.”

 

An electric cord with a switch dangles from a black box-like object affixed to a beam half hidden in the shadows overhead. Robles looks at his watch then glances up at the black object.

 

“But time’s a-wasting, Alfredo. Let’s get on with our reminiscing. Remember the day we met? You, the big-shot tenured professor, and I, the lowly grad student?   Remember?”

 

Hernandez shakes his head.

 

“No? Well, let me refresh your memory. You were supposed to be interviewing me, quizzing me about my qualifications, but all you did was talk about yourself, trying to awe me. And when you realized I wouldn’t be awed, that intellectually and creatively I was your superior, you resolved right then and there to crush me.”

 

“You’re imagining all this, Carlos.”

 

“But you didn’t crush me right away. No, you took your sweet time, leading me on here, putting me down there, plagiarizing my term papers, stealing my ideas.   Then, when I submitted my dissertation, a piece of scholarship far better researched and written than anything you had ever done or would ever do, you rejected it out of hand. Had others professors not read it, you would have stolen that, too.”

 

Hernandez appears to have overcome his fear. His accented English is now less accented, more deliberate, with a galling, taunting edge to it, in keeping with the kind of man remembered by Robles.

 

“You misunderstood, Carlos. In the Old World tradition where I was educated, grad students are regarded as apprentices. Whatever they do is the intellectual property of the master professor.   I made that perfectly clear in my orientation sessions.   So I did not steal your work, as you say, I merely incorporated it into mine, and the fact that I did was a sign of approval, like giving you an A. You should have felt flattered.”

 

“An Old World scholar? You? An undergraduate from the University of Havana with fake credentials and a trumped-up Ph.D. from a third-rate American University? Bullshit! And forcing students to do your laundry and run errands for you, and expecting sexual favors? Was that also part of your Old World tradition? ”

 

Robles crosses over to the other side of Hernandez, by stepping on his legs. “This is modern-day, democratic America, scumbag. No Old-World serfdom allowed here.”

 

Hernandez winces, and then smirks. “Too bad. Your great American society could use a little Old World class.”

 

Robles crosses over his captive the same as before. “You may deem me a brutish fellow, but no, at heart I’m a considerate soul. Had you shown me the slightest hint of decency, I might have forgiven you. But try as I might, I couldn’t detect any.”

 

“None at all?”

 

“None, not even in your personal life. You made it a sport of cheating on your wife—the Latino macho man act—until you forced her to leave you. And your son and daughter—from what I heard, once they finished college, they moved away and never again had anything to do with you.   You must have abused them pretty badly.”

 

Hernandez strains hard against the straps binding him to the floor, then abruptly stops, exhausted.

 

“You can’t get away with this, Robles! The police will track you down.”

 

“After all these years? Fat chance.   The only ones under suspicion will be the enemies you’ve made since you screwed me. So many, I figure, that the cops will eventually get flustered and give up.   Besides, changing identities to elude the law is an integral part of my professional training. I’m an expert at it.

 

“Damn you! Even if you manage to evade the law, in the end God will punish you.”

 

“God! Which God are you talking about, Alfredo? The meddling deity served up by churches to control and exploit the gullible masses.” Robles waves the baseball bat in front of Hernandez’s eyes.

 

“Like my bate, Alfredo? Bring back fond memories of our Cuban pastime?” He pokes him some more with the bat. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I strongly believe that God the Creator exists, and that the only way for us mortals to achieve joy and fulfillment to the extent we are capable is by emulating his modus operandi. Am I making myself clear?”

 

“You’re playing God, is that it?

 

“No, not playing, emulating. The Creator, you see, is at once a demolisher and a builder, a destroyer and a preserver. He divides and unifies, kills and heals, avenges and . . ..”

 

“You’re crazy!”

 

“Maybe. But calling me names isn’t going to save your sorry ass.” Robles lays the baseball bat aside, and steps off into the surrounding shadows.

 

Hernandez had meanwhile espied the black object on the beam overhead and is gazing up at it, muttering something in Spanish.

 

Presently, Robles returns with a thick wooden dowel and a length of red ribbon, and shows them to Hernandez. “The garrote. Part of our Spanish heritage. A far neater form of execution than the gas chamber or the potassium chloride lethal injection. Don’t you agree, Alfredo?” Tying the ribbon loosely around Hernandez’s neck, he inserts the dowel in the slack under his chin. “A traditional garroting would have the torque applied behind the neck, I know; but because you’re lying on your back, this front-of-the neck variation will have to do.”

 

Robles suddenly leans over his captive, startled. “Hey, what’s this?   Why are you sweating and having so much trouble breathing when I haven’t started twisting yet? Shit, you have bad heart, don’t you?   That bottle of pills we found in your pocket must have been your medication. And that sly smile on your face. You’re aiming to die before I can kill you! Cheat me one last time. Well, Professor, it’s not going to work.”

 

Robles swiftly straddles Hernandez’s heaving chest and proceeds to twist the dowel, hard, and keeps on twisting well after the chest stops heaving.   Then rising to his feet, he takes the switch dangling from the black object overhead and, as if addressing an audience, announces: “Alfredo Hernandez. September 4, 1982.” He then presses the switch, and the room is engulfed in darkness.

 

Part II

 

John Nagle packed the last of his belongings into the U-Haul trailer,     Effective that day, his two-year contract as visiting professor of English at Dawson College, in North Carolina, had expired. First thing tomorrow morning he would turn in the key to his rented apartment and leave for Radford University in Virginia, 150 miles up the Interstate, to his next visiting-professor post, this one for only one year.

 

Despite his impeccable credentials—M.A., Dartmouth, Ph.D., Yale—he had never been able to win a permanent position in any of the schools where he had taught, English Ph.D.s like himself being a dime dozen, a pool of cheap labor for institutions economizing on full-time salaries.

 

At some schools, as many as one-third of the humanities faculty were of the visiting kind, on temporary, dead-end assignments. Since his graduation 15 years earlier, Nagle had bounced from job to job, earning less than the average department secretary, a nonentity at the very bottom of the academic pecking order.

 

But it wasn’t the glut of English Ph.D.s alone that was keeping him down     Had he not been so contemptuous of conventional scholarship—”That mind-numbing crap in the limbo of university libraries”—; had he followed the lead of savvy professors and rehashed chapters from his dissertation as articles for professional journals; and had he been a bit more diplomatic, more subtle, not so apt to criticize and gall his tenured superiors, he might have been given a chance.

 

But, no, he would not abide by academic tradition or hold his tongue.   Predictably, the insightful pieces he wrote on the 9/11 attacks and on the war in Iraq for a local newspaper were dismissed out of hand by the powers-that-be in the Dawson English department. Nor did his 16 short stories, none yet published, count for anything in their esteem. He had pissed them off once too often, and they couldn’t wait to see him go.

 

So there he was, at age 42, unmarried, no close friends or family ties to speak of, waistline a bit thicker, hair a bit thinner than a year ago, a veritable failure due as much to his obstinate idealism as to external circumstances.

 

Having by now seen the writing on the wall, he resolved that if he failed to earn a permanent position at Radford, he would quit academe and seek employment in a more secure, rewarding field, probably home construction.   During summer breaks, he had worked for local subcontractors, building and renovating houses, and had become pretty good at it. Half of the boxes packed in the U-Haul held his collection of construction tools, ranging from state-of-the-art power tools to antique mallets and chisels.

 

Like most institutions of higher learning in America, Dawson College gave much lip service to social equality. The pictures and blurbs of every full-time employee of the college—secretaries, technicians, receptionists, book store clerks, security guards, cafeteria workers—were listed together with those of the faculty and administration, the president included.

 

But in fact the Dawson community was sharply stratified in castes, in keeping with its self-image as an elite institution.   Other than a cursory “Good morning,” full professors did not socialize with assistant professors and, much less, with non-academic employees.   Especially snobbish was a dean who smiled wide with his mouth while skewering you with tack-like eyes. The unwritten order required that everybody know and keep their place.

 

In this, too, John Nagle messed up, big time. His tendency to get chatty with everyone alike made everyone alike feel uncomfortable.   The show-more-respect gestures from the bigwigs and the suspicious frowns of underlings were lost on him.

The only one who reciprocated his friendly overtures was a fellow named Chuck, the head of the buildings-and-grounds crew. The old apartment building where Nagle resided was property of the college. When Chuck came one day with his crew to demolish the deck behind the property and build a new one, Nagle and Chuck struck up a conversation, and the two hit it off.

 

Several times a week they would meet for coffee in the school café. At first, figuring that Chuck was at most a high school graduate, he tried to steer away from intellectual topics. But much to his amazement, the building-and-grounds man turned out to be the most erudite person he had ever known. Not only was he conversant in English and American literature, Nagle’s field, but he could shift from literature to history to philosophy to physics to art to economics to biology, seamlessly tying it all together, as if orchestrating the work of his crew.

 

When Nagle inquired how he came to acquire such a vast erudition, Chuck would smile, saying: “I’m a hedonistic reader.” And left it left it at that. Their chats in the college café thereafter waxed more intellectual, and one-sided, with Chuck doing most of the talking and Nagle the listening.

 

A trim, sinewy man in his sixties, clean shaven, thick head of hair cropped short, and ever in a bright mood, the person of Chuck the buildings-and-grounds man had taken on mythical proportions in the eyes of the middling visiting professor, and the fact that Chuck never talked about himself lent him an air of mystery that enhanced his image all the more.

 

For all the hours he had spent listening to Chuck expound on everything under sun, Nagle never heard him utter a word that might betray who or what he had been before he came to Dawson five years earlier. Nagle had to look in the college directory to learn that Chuck’s surname was Ortega, though, given how careful Chuck was to keep his past secret, Nagle suspected that the name was fake. And as far as he could tell, he was the only person in Dawson to whom Chuck had revealed his scholarly side.

 

So it was that in their chats Chuck did most of the talking and Nagle most of the listening —until the day that Chuck happened to read the short stores that Nagle had put up on his web page.

 

Among Chuck’s pet themes had been the healing power of catharsis, not as Aristotle would have it, where one vicariously purges a troublesome passion by identifying with actors acting out the passion on stage. In Chuck’s version of catharsis, the spectator and the actor were one and the same.

 

“First one acts, then one recalls and reflects on the act, as if watching oneself on stage,” Chuck had explained, as Nagle listened intently. Perhaps that was what he needed, the kind of catharsis advocated by Chuck, to turn his life around,

 

After reading Nagel’s stories, Chuck again brought up the theme of catharsis.   This time, however, with an ulterior motive. The second-hand adventures and social commentaries in Nagle’s stories he found sophomoric, if not silly.

 

But the way Nagle had put the stories together, the language and style, struck a chord in Chuck’s imagination. Nagle had unwittingly offered himself up as a tool that Chuck had long been seeking and intended to exploit.

 

So now the nature of their chats in the student café changed, with Nagle, at Chuck’s prompting, doing most of the talking and Chuck the listening.

 

Nagle at first felt flattered, but after a while Chuck’s undue admiration of his stories made him feel uncomfortable, then suspicious.   The buildings-and-grounds man had too abruptly and too drastically transformed from an intellectual superior to a deferential inferior angling for attention, Even his speech changed, from a calm Southern drawl to an obsequious voice tinged with what sounded to Nagle like a Spanish accent. Clearly, Chuck wanted something from him, something important, but what that was, he did not care to know. He had enough problems of his own. Finally, he told Chuck that he was too busy preparing classes, and broke off meeting him in the student café.

 

A week before he left for his new post at Radford University, Nagle received this e-mail from Chuck:

 

John,

 

By the time you read this, I will have left Dawson for another job at another place, the details of wish I do not wish to disclose.

 

You no doubt have wondered why I was so enthralled with your stories.   Let me explain.

 

To be truthful, the contents of the stories are trite, unoriginal, boring, to say the least. Small wonder that no publisher would accept them. On the other hand, your literary skills are first-rate. Though you have nothing of interest to say, you know how to say it brilliantly.  

 

But that alone was not what enthralled me.   It was that fact that your half-gift complemented mine.   You see, I have much to say, great stories to tell, but, alas, cannot write worth a damn. Try as I might, the right words and sentences elude me, probably because English is not my native language, and what limited command I once had of my native language I long ago lost.

 

Many an hour I had spent analyzing the style of ghost writers, hoping to find one that might be able to convincingly express what I wanted to say, but to no avail. Then fate brought us together. Your unique style was precisely what I was looking for and, as you will see in the DVD records I have sent you, my real-life experiences are precisely what you need to make your stories ring true.

 

When you get to Radford you will find a box of the DVDs in your mailbox, waiting for you. Some are copies of old VHS tapes, so the images may be a bit blurred, but the details are clear enough, and the contents self-explanatory.  

 

Since you don’t know where I’ve gone, or, for that matter, who I am, I do not expect any recognition. (My original self was officially declared “missing in action” in Vietnam 40 years ago.) So, if you decide to use my records for new stories, as I hope you will, please feel free to submit the stories for publication as if they were entirely your own. The fact that what I have to say is finally written up and presented to the world would be all the reward I need.

 

Good luck to you,

 

Chuck.

 

John Nagle liked Radford a lot better than Dawson. The apartment he had rented was walking distance from the campus and much more comfortable; the surrounding mountain landscape more scenic; the weather more pleasant; and the university community more congenial, though some of its members were still jittery over the massacre of 32 people by a psychotic loner, which had taken place that April at Virginia Tech, just 10 miles away.

 

He arrived at Radford on Friday, three days before classes started.   The parcel of DVDs from Chuck were already in his department mailbox, as a Chuck had said, along with a faculty orientation folder and rosters of his three English 101 classes. The U-Haul trailer unpacked and returned to the local rental office, he spent the better part of the weekend settling into his apartment and making lesson plans.

 

On Sunday he watched the late evening news, most of it coverage of the war in Iraq. Then, curious about what Chuck had in mind, he opened the parcel of DVD disks. There were 16 of them, each in plastic cases labeled with a person’s name and a date, the dates ranging from 1980 to 1999.

 

Randomly selecting the one labeled Alfredo Hernandez, September 4, 1982, he turned on his DVD player and inserted the disk.

The End

“I’m in big trouble, man,” Dick said, as he and Stan Slayter sat
zip-coding letters in the Castletown post office. For ten years working
together they had been wallowing in commiseration about their unhappy
lives. Today Dick Foon was taking his turn.

“Yeah–well, I got troubles of my own,” Stan snarled.

Dick resented the intrusion on his time for pity but let him go on.
“Like what?”

“My god damned wife–the cheatin’ bitch!” Stan’s dark eyes slowly slid
onto Dick and held him fast.

Dick looked away sharply and shifted on his stool. “You gonna listen to
my problem or not, Stan?”

“Okay, okay–what is it?”

“You know a lot about insurance companies, right?”

“Been fightin’ for settlements most of my life.”

“And you’re not particularly against screwin’ ‘em a little, right?”

Stan grinned. “Go on.”

Dick drew a deep breath. “Well, I gotta cash in, man.” He bent his
head toward Stan and whispered, “Gotta get ridda my car.”

“Ridda your car?”

“I’m in over my head. If I don’t find a way out soon–I could go
bankrupt.”

“Bankrupt!” Stan Slayter shouted, not the soft-spoken type.

“Shhhh–” Dick said glancing around the big room.

“Not your car, man? She’s a beaut.”

“Yeah–and I hate to do it. Like givin’ up a sexy mistress. But, damn
it, I got no choice. Can’t make the payments.”

Stan nailed him with deadly eyes then grinned like a gargoyle. “So what
you do? Get into one of those zero, zero, zero deals?” Dick did not
reply. Stan shook his head and muttered, “Stupid–”

“Look, man…”

“Okay.” Stan started working faster. “So what in hell ya want me to
do?” He stopped short. “Hey, you’re not leadin’ up to a touch, I
hope.”

“No, Stan, I ain’t gonna hit you up for cash. But I do need to stop
bleeding it. And the quickest way I can think to staunch it is by
dumpin’ my car.”

“Put her up for sale.” He turned sharply toward Dick and hissed. “Just
what I oughta do with my ol’ lady.”

Dick squirmed again and muttered breathlessly. “No, no, I owe too
much.” He too started working rapidly.

“So what you mean–dump your car?”

Dick checked to see if anyone’s ears were on fire. He whispered, “I
need you to make it disappear, man.”

Stan stared at him. Dick met him with his pale green eyes. They stayed
that way till Stan broke the trance. “What in hell makes you so cock
sure of me, Dickie, boy?”

“ ‘Cause there’s money in it.”

Stan’s face tightened. “Yeah? How much?”

“A grand.”

“Thousand bucks ain’t much. What exactly you expect for it?”

“I told ya. Dump my car.”

“Just like that.”

“Yeah. I got it all figured out.” Dick bent close to Stan’s ear and
whispered his plan.
* * *
One moonless Saturday night at a quarry outside of town a silver sedan
shot off a cliff and plunged one hundred feet into stagnant water.
After bubbling boisterously for several seconds it sank out of sight.
That night Dick reported the theft then called his insurance company.

A few days later a suited agent came to Dick’s house and questioned him
for more than an hour. “So, Mister Foon–you have no idea how your car
was stolen.”

“No. Like I told the sheriff. I locked it up tight when I went to the
movies. When the show was over I came out and found it gone.”

“Uh-huh,” the agent searched his eyes. “Well, most likely you’ll be
covered for the loss–once we recover the vehicle.”

“Recover?”

“Yes. We have to know the final disposition of the property before we
can make a decision.”

“Oh.”

“Have you heard lately from the authorities?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m sure you will. In this county law enforcement avidly pursues
auto theft. Nearly as much as murder.”

When the agent left, Dick was elated. So certain was he of the
insurance company finding in his favor that he bought a bottle of
champagne to celebrate. He was halfway through it and feeling very
self-satisfied when he decided to call Helen Slayter. See if she could
sneak out to share in his good fortune. As soon as he punched the
number, a knock on his door startled him. He did not hear it ringing.

“Open up, Mister Foon–county sheriff!” a voice demanded. “Open up!”

Dick dropped the phone, stumbled to the door, and looked through the
peep hole. Two deputies. After frantically looking around as if to
find something to cover his ass, Dick slowly opened the door.

The peace officers pushed their way in, guns drawn. Dick jerked his
hands into the air. “Turn around, Mister Foon,” one of the deputies
said with an ominously calm tone.

Dick obliged and, as they were cuffing him, tried to be amiable.
“What’s goin’ on, fellas?”

The other deputy barked, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Mis’ess
Stanley Slayter.”

“Murder! What in hell you talkin’ about? I didn’t kill anyone. I
only…”

“Yeah?” the deputy’s eyes narrowed. “Then, why’d we find her body in
the trunk of your car?”

Dick’s face went anemic. “My car?!”

“Yeah,” the other one said quietly. “Where you left it–at the bottom
of the Castletown Quarry. Couple of divers found it this morning.”

“But I…”

“Mister Slayter reported her missing about the time you reported your
car stolen,” the loud deputy barked.

The calm one put Dick into the back of the police car and said, “Told us
you been stalkin’ her for months, Mister Foon.”

“That Sonofabitch!” Dick mumbled, as the car roared away from his house.

Inside the house, on the floor lay the telephone, gushing a torrent of
cackling laughter.

The End

Courtney Mroch

“I don’t know how they keep getting there,” Pamela Butcher, the person in charge of exhibits, said. “All I know is it started happening a month ago and has slowly gotten worse.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I asked.

 

Pamela shrugged. “I didn’t think anything of it really. Until now.”

 

I knelt down and scanned the floor around the logging machine display, which was littered with cigarette butts. Some had lipstick stains on them, some didn’t. And the lipstick was various shades, the butts themselves various brands.

 

“Maybe it’s the ghost,” Sue Ellen Reed, my secretary, offered.

 

Pamela shot her a scathing look, which affected Sue Ellen as much as water bothers a duck. She shrugged and waddled back to her office.

 

“They weren’t there when I left last night,” Pamela said when Sue Ellen was gone.

 

“Hmmm…” I said, standing. I scanned the other exhibits. Across the aisle, by the lumber wagon, I found several more.

 

“I hadn’t even noticed those,” she said, looking dismayed. A woman in her forties, Pamela prided herself on her innovative and informational displays. Working with a tight budget, she stretched every penny, creating what amounted to works of art. I figured she probably hadn’t told me because on any other day this really wouldn’t matter. She would clean it up and that would be that. But today wasn’t any ordinary day. With the new exhibit opening in a couple of weeks, the board members had wanted to come in for a sneak preview. And this was the day.

 

It wasn’t a huge mess to clean up, and we’d easily be able to do it before the board members arrived, but it was troubling nonetheless. Especially since this area was temporarily closed to the public.

 

“Maybe it was one of the contractors?” I suggested. It was a more realistic possibility than the one Sue Ellen had posed. We’d had numerous contractors in recently to do various projects with not only the upcoming exhibit but with the museum in general. Pamela discounted this theory too.

 

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “The painters were the last contractors in here, and that was three days ago. Besides, none of them were women, and I think I would have noticed this mess before now. This had to have happened between the time I left last night and when I came in this morning.”

 

“Who on staff smokes?” I asked. The museum wasn’t all that big. Anyone from the public would have been spotted coming in here. If it wasn’t the contractors, it had to be someone on staff, someone who had access to the place when others –including other staff members—weren’t around.

 

“Rebecca used to, but she quit last year. Kay and Sue Ellen don’t, and I don’t think Melanie does either. Besides, she left before me last night and won’t be in today. And I can’t imagine Tyrone doing something like this.”

 

“Me either,” I said.

 

Tyrone was the museum’s night security guard. If we couldn’t trust him, who could we trust? If we only had proper safety and surveillance equipment in place. Ah, but there I went again with my wishful thinking. The board, seeing that Tyrone did a good job, weighed his annual salary against the expense of cameras and alarms. The annual salary was less, and in the board’s eyes that meant more cost-effective. In my eyes it was a great big liability and an insurance claim nightmare just waiting to happen.

 

“We’ll figure this out, Pamela,” I reassured her. She made a face that indicated she doubted it and turned to clean up the mess. I left her to it while I went to look up Tyrone’s home phone number.

 

~*~

 

“Hello?” a woman answered.

 

“Yes, ma’am, this is James Hayden, the director at Herlong History Museum? I was wondering if Tyrone was available.”

 

“Tyrone?” she asked, her voice filled with suspicion.

 

I thought it was strange she should sound so wary, but I shrugged it off, thinking she might not know exactly who I was.

 

“Yes, I need to discuss a museum matter with him.”

 

There was a pause, then she said, “Tyrone don’t live here no more.”

 

With that, there was a click and the line went dead.

 

I checked the number I dialed and dialed it once more. When the same woman answered, I asked if I had the right number.

 

“You have the right number, mister. Tyrone just don’t live here no more.” And then she hung up on me again.

 

Frustrated, but not deterred, I scribbled a quick note to Tyrone, left it on his desk, and was on my way back to check Pamela’s progress when I saw Rebecca coming out of the employee lounge.

 

“Rebecca, could I speak with you a moment?”

 

She swiveled around when she heard her name. I thought I saw her eyes flash with panic when she spotted me. But it was quickly replaced with the cool bitchiness I’d come to know as her trademark demeanor.

 

“Can you please make it quick, Mr. Hayden. I know the board members are coming to see Pam’s exhibit today, but I have a new proposal I’d like to present to them and I want to put the finishing touches on it.”

 

“This won’t take but a second, Rebecca. I wondered if you smoke?”

 

“No,” she said curtly.

 

“But you used to?”

 

“Yes. Why?” She wasn’t even trying to be nice. I might have taken it personally, but Missy Jamison, the head of the board of directors, had warned me that certain employees were quite faithful to the previous director and would be hard-pressed to transfer their loyalties to the new guy. Rebecca was one of the loyalists.

 

“We found some cigarette butts in Pamela’s display. I’m trying to find out where they might have come from.”

 

“Maybe it was Jesse.”

 

Jesse was the name they’d given to the ghost. I was beginning to think they’d made up the story of the ghost in order to have a scapegoat for anything that went wrong.

 

“Doubtful,” I said coldly.

 

“Well then I can’t help you. Is that all?”

 

I nodded and watched her sashay away. She was Pamela’s assistant and had been for the last two years. She’d only taken the job thinking she’d quickly prove herself and be promoted, as she possessed almost the same credentials as Pamela. Which she did. Almost. She was a good worker, but she lacked the experience and finesse Pamela had acquired over her years. Due to budget constraints, it was also difficult to foresee a time when there’d be enough money to support two full-time exhibit positions. Rebecca resented this, and she reminded everyone of it every chance she got. Why she just didn’t look for another job was beyond me.

 

Glancing at my watch again, and with my own ducks to get in a row before the board members arrived, I let the case of the cigarette butts sit for the time being.

 

~*~

 

The board member’s visit went well. They’d been pleased with Pamela’s exhibit and had been spared any knowledge of the cigarette mess. I took Sunday off, completely forgetting the incident until Monday morning, when Pamela stormed into my office first thing.

 

“It happened again,” she said, her face red.

 

“What?” I asked, putting down my coffee and waving her to a seat.

 

She shook her head, declining, and said, “The cigarette butts. But this time there were more of them and they were in more areas. And I also found beer bottles.”

 

“What?” I stood and followed her into the gallery.

 

Sure enough, there were cigarette butts and beer bottles strewn through various displays of the museum.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Hayden,” a woman said from behind me.

 

I spun around and to my horror saw Missy Jamison smiling at me. My heart fell to my stomach. What was she doing here? And right now? Trying not to panic, I knew what I had to do: get her out of there pronto.

 

“Well, Missy, isn’t this a fine surprise?” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound as phony as I thought it did. “To what do we owe this great honor?”

 

She cocked her head to one side and said, “Didn’t Pamela tell you I was coming in this morning?”

 

Trying to control the darts wanting to shoot from my eyes, I looked at Pamela. “As a matter of fact, she didn’t.”

 

“I’m sorry, James. I totally forgot. Missy left while you were talking to Mr. Pigeon on Saturday. I was supposed to tell you she’d be back today.”

 

Taking a deep breath, I faced Missy again. Her eyes roamed past me and to the floor. Her pleasant expression turned to one of curiosity, and she stepped forward and peered down at the mound of butts and bottles.

 

“Oh my word!” she exclaimed. “Is that what I think it is, Mr. Hayden?”

 

“I…”

 

“It’s something I was experimenting with, Missy,” Pamela stepped in. “You know, kind of a slice of life type of thing. A vignette of what it might have looked like around a real logging camp.”

 

I held my breath to see what Missy would make of Pamela’s lie.

 

She stared at the floor for a second more, then she looked up at us with a disapproving sneer.

 

“I can see a few cigarette butts perhaps, but not so many. And beer bottles? For one thing, those are new bottles, Pamela. I’m sure Light beer wasn’t even invented at the end of the nineteenth century. For another, I’m sure those men didn’t drink on the job. You shouldn’t have put the bottles by the machine. Maybe by their tents, but even that’s tacky at best.”

 

“Yes, ma’am. James was just humoring my experiment.”

 

Missy now turned her full displeasure on me.

 

“I’m surprised at you, James. I thought we agreed on Saturday that the exhibit was just fine the way it was?”

 

I felt the heat rushing to my face and knew I had to change the subject fast before I lost my temper and all composure.

 

“We’ll see to it that it’s cleaned up, Missy. Won’t we, Pamela?”

 

Unable to meet my seething gaze, she bowed her head, nodded and set about cleaning up.

 

“Now, Missy, let’s discuss whatever it was you wanted to talk to me about.” I steered her away from the exhibit and back to my office.

 

~*~

 

Missy hadn’t wanted to do anything more than gossip. She found it charming that I was a gay man. She felt I made the perfect confidante for her wagging tongue. Of course I did. Not many people in the small north Florida town knew my sexual orientation. The other stodgy board members would never have approved my position if they had.

 

Missy, however, did. After confronting me directly, I’d admitted it. I would have done that with anyone though –even any one of the stodgy board members. I wasn’t one to lie about it, but neither was I one to flaunt it. After all, heterosexuals didn’t have parades so why should I? I was who I was and that was that. But Missy mistook my lack of pomp for shame and held it over me. Such is the way of small people.

 

When she finally left I was free to once again ponder the mysterious cigarette butts. Remembering the message I left for Tyrone on Saturday, I looked on my desk for a reply. There wasn’t one.

 

Somehow those butts were getting there, but who was doing it? Sue Ellen? I doubted that. Rebecca? Would she stoop to such a trick to annoy Pamela? Or maybe she wanted to make her look bad? Possible.

 

Or was it Pamela herself? Maybe she was trying to make me look bad. After all, it was funny she’d been finding those cigarette butts for the last month, but had only brought it to my attention two days ago –on the same day as the board member’s visit. And to have conveniently forgotten to tell me about Missy’s return visit?

 

Rebecca had been loyal to the previous director, and Pamela might have been sad to see him go, but she’d always made me feel welcome since I’d come on staff. I found it hard to believe she had it in for me.

 

Maybe it really was Jesse.

 

Oh the joys of office politics –and buck passing.

 

The ringing phone snapped me back to reality, and then interrupted my investigation of the cigarettes altogether. Other fires were in need of tending.

 

~*~

 

At lunch most of the employees ate in the lounge. There weren’t many staffers. Only Rebecca, Sue Ellen, Pamela, Kay, and Melanie. As much as I knew they’d resent it, I felt it better to catch everyone all together, even if it meant disrupting their lunch.

 

“I hate to trouble you all right now, but there is a problem that’s a bit disconcerting to me and I need some help figuring it out. As Pamela may or may not have filled you in, we’ve had a problem with cigarette butts –and now beer bottles—being left around the exhibits.”

 

“I didn’t know we were allowed to smoke and drink in the building,” Kay said. A heavyset lady who made up the entire accounting department, she tended to take things too literally.

 

“No, Kay, we’re not,” Rebecca said, not kindly. “That’s why it’s a problem.”

 

“I’ll say,” Pamela chimed in.

 

“So who do you think’s doing it?” Melanie, the museum’s cashier, asked.

 

“That’s what I’d like to know. The public isn’t allowed in that area, and we would have noticed if any were, so it’s got to be one of us,” I said, looking at them all, hoping that maybe one of them would confess. I was rewarded with silent mouths and blank stares.

 

“Don’t look at me,” Rebecca said. “I swore I’d never touch another cancer stick and I mean to stick to my word.”

 

“I smoke on occasion,” Melanie confessed and then added, “But only in social situations.” She bowed her head guiltily.

 

“My weakness is chocolate, not nicotine,” Kay said. “If you find Hershey’s wrappers laying around, I’ll be the first to fess up.”

 

I sighed and left them to their lunches.

 

~*~

 

Because I had a lot of paperwork to catch up on, I decided to work late that night. It was also an excuse to try and catch Tyrone when he came on duty. I knew once he reported to work, he’d come by on his rounds. I’d work until then.

 

Around seven o’clock the lights in the hall went out.

 

“It’s okay, Tyrone. You can leave them on. I’m still here,” I called out.

 

The lights didn’t go back on, and there was no answer.

 

“Tyrone?”

 

When there still was no answer, I got up and poked my head out the door.

 

The hall was empty and dark.

 

Then the lights flicked back on…and my heart flicked into overdrive. I’d been staring right at the switch for the hall lights. No one was there. It hadn’t moved up or down, and there was no other place they were controlled from.

 

Shivering, not from the air conditioning but from the creeps, I backed into my office and quickly gathered my things. Everyone had their Jesse stories, and now it looked like I had one too.

 

A minute later, as I was hustling down the hall, I jumped again when Tyrone rounded the corner and we nearly collided.

 

“Well, hello, Mr. Hayden. Is everything all right tonight?” he asked, concerned.

 

He must have noticed my eyes, which I was sure were as round as dinner plates.

 

“For the most part, Tyrone. Hey, while I have you here, did you get the note I left you on Saturday?”

 

“Oh, as a matter of fact I did, sir. Didn’t you get my answer?”

 

“No. Where’d you leave it?”

 

“On your phone. I figured it was easier to leave a voice mail.”

 

“No, there were no messages on my machine this morning.”

 

Tyrone frowned, then shrugged and said, “Well, I remember what I told you at any rate. Maybe it was Jesse, though I never knew her to smoke before.”

 

I was about to say that wasn’t funny when he added, “Seriously, Mr. Hayden. I don’t smoke. My momma taught me to say no when I was a kid and I have ever since.”

 

“Thanks, Tyrone. If you do happen to find out anything, let me know.”

 

“Of course, boss, of course.”

 

I hustled past him and I don’t think I took a breath until I was safely locked in my car. As I drove home I thought again about the cigarette situation. They weren’t just coming out of thin air. Someone, and I was convinced it had to be someone within the museum, was leaving them behind. But who?

 

Rebecca could’ve been doing it to spite Pamela; Sue Ellen really had no reason to do such a thing; Kay, a kindhearted grandmotherly type who truly did have an unnatural affinity for chocolate, also seemed unlikely; young and ditzy Melanie made no sense either; and Pamela? I just couldn’t wrap my mind around her sabotaging her own exhibit. She took too much pride in them.

 

That left Tyrone and myself. I knew it wasn’t me, and Tyrone? It might get lonely and tedious at the museum during the night, but to smoke so many cigarettes? He’d have a nicotine overload. And there was still the matter of some of them having lipstick stains…

 

Did Jesse wear lipstick?

 

Oh brother! It hadn’t taken me long to jump on the passing of the ghost buck bandwagon, had it?

 

~*~

 

The rest of the week passed uneventfully. Work as usual, hectic and harried, but no more cigarette butts. Maybe just the fact that I was asking around had been deterrent enough for whomever to stop.

 

I was especially looking forward to the weekend. No reason to work it this time. And when Friday came, I left all work worries behind. I had plans to rent a movie, make myself a nice dinner at home, and in general unwind.

 

On Saturday I spent time running errands and catching up on all the housework I’d put off during the week. I tired myself out and was fast asleep before eleven that night. Three hours later the phone woke me up.

 

“Hello?” I asked groggily.

 

“Is this Mr. James Hayden?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You’re the emergency contact for the Herlong History Museum?”

 

At the mention of “emergency contact” my eyes flew open and all sleepiness evaporated.

 

“What’s happened?”

 

“There’s been a fire.”

 

My heart sunk.

 

“How bad’s the damage?” I asked, fearing the answer.

 

“Pretty extensive. It’s just lucky no one was hurt.”

 

“So the security guard made it out okay?”

 

“And all the other people who were in the building.”

 

“Other people?” I asked, confused. “There shouldn’t have been anyone else in the museum.”

 

“So you didn’t authorize the after hours event?”

 

“What after hours event?” I was beyond exasperated at this point. “There was nothing scheduled at the museum tonight.”

 

“Maybe you’d better get down here.”

 

I was dressed and on my way in five minutes.

 

~*~

 

When I arrived, it was even worse than I feared.

 

Not including the fire department personnel, there was about 30 other people, most of them in their late teens or early twenties, mulling around in front of the building. I spotted Melanie as I was pulling up.

 

“Melanie?” I asked. Smudges of soot marred her nose and cheeks and her hair was disheveled and wet.

 

Guilt flooded her face and she dropped her gaze.

 

“What happened?”

 

But she was spared from answering when a policeman approached me.

 

“Are you James Hayden?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Come with me please, sir.”

 

I followed him to the fire marshal. He asked me to give him a moment while he talked with another man, so I took the opportunity to survey the scene. The museum was in bad shape. It might be able to be rebuilt, but not in time for the new exhibit’s gala opening in a week. Speaking of, the section of the museum where that was set up was the one most badly damaged.

 

“Mr. Hayden, thanks for coming so fast,” the fire marshal said, finally free to speak to me.

 

“What happened?” I asked.

 

“It seems one of your employees, a Mr. Tyrone Barker, was using the museum as a dance club.”

 

“What? Our security guard?”

 

The fire marshal nodded.

 

“He confessed to the whole thing. Guess he’s going through a bad divorce, custody battle, facing stiff child support payments. Said he and a friend concocted the scheme as a way to earn some extra cash. They charged a five-dollar admission and provided the music and drinks.”

 

I closed my eyes while I let the information sink in.

 

“Do you want to press charges?” he asked.

 

“I’ll have to discuss it with the board members.”

 

“I understand. The police will be taking him in anyway for serving to minors and operating without a permit. Just give them a call when you decide what to do.”

 

He turned to walk away, but I had one more question.

 

“Do you know how the blaze was started?”

 

“Maybe all the cigarettes on the floor, maybe faulty wiring. We won’t know for sure until we conduct a thorough investigation.”

 

~*~

 

Being a young person in a small town with limited things to do after sunset, Melanie didn’t really see the harm in attending Tyrone’s parties. They’d started out small, but as is so often the case with such things –especially fun things—the parties grew in popularity until they were “the” weekend event.

 

Needless to say, Melanie was promptly let go from the museum’s staff.

 

The board decided it was in their best legal interest to press charges against Tyrone in case any of the “club” goers decided to sue the museum for the fire debacle.

 

The museum is undergoing what we like to call “renovations.”

 

The fire department still doesn’t have an exact answer as to what caused the fire. They’re leaning towards a combination of faulty wiring and improperly extinguished cigarettes. At the museum, we blame it on something else entirely –Jesse.

The End

“Fran, this is the third case of poaching this month.   Do you have any ideas on how to capture them?” Game Warden Lee Garrison stood with folded arms in front of Sheriff Fran Buckner’s desk.   “I’ve double checked the deer tags bagged at the end of the season.” He waved a stack of crisp papers. “They’re all accounted for.”

 

Fran swiveled in her chair. Tapping her letter opener against her full lips, she gazed out the window at the passing traffic.

 

“When was the last one found?”

“Mitchell Harvey said he heard whooping and hollering from a truck swerving across his property last night. He’s allowed hunters, but he doesn’t know which one it was.   I found the remains of another deer.”

 

“Did you find any shells?”

“No. They’re using bows.”

Fran stretched her long legs. She walked over to the window, noticing two Jimmy pickups parked in front of Millie’s Dinner. One license read, “Dun Bros.” Both vehicles sported buck antlers on the cab.

“When did Zeke bag a six pointer?” After five years in public office, Fran knew all the locals. “Zeke hates hunting. Ken and Frank Duncan have tried for years to get him to join them, but he hates guns.”   Fran turned to Lee. “Do you have a tag for Zeke Elder?”

 

Lee flipped through the papers without success.

“No.”

Fran spun and headed for the door.

“Let’s get some breakfast.” A confused Lee marched behind him.

 

The door jingled as the two officials entered the diner. Fran picked out Zeke sitting between Ken and Frank at a round table.

 

“Morning, boys. Mind if we join you?” Without waiting for an answer, Fran lowered herself into a chair.

 

“This here is Game Warden Lee Garrison.” Fran inclined her head towards Lee who stood at attention. “He’s got a little problem with some poachers. You boys wouldn’t have any idea who might be doing it would you?”   She reached for Ken’s freshly poured coffee, added some cream and took a sip.

 

Ken leaned back, grinning boyishly.

“Now, sheriff, what would give you the idea we’d know anything about illegal deer hunting?”

 

Fran selected a slice of bacon off Ken’s plate.   She chewed for moment and asked, “Who said it was deer poaching?”

 

Worried looks between Zeke and Frank did not go unnoticed. Ken’s smile faded, but he didn’t comment.

 

“Lee, you got any tags for Ken or Frank Duncan?”   Fran picked up Ken’s fork, cutting into his buttered waffle.

 

The Game Warden shuffled through his stack.

“Yes, they each bought two.”

“Where did you get your antlers, Zeke? We didn’t find a tag for you.” Fran reached across the table and took a couple of stabs of Zeke’s untouched scrambled eggs.

 

“Uhhh…” Zeke looked wide eyed at Ken.

“I gave him one that I bagged last fall.”   Ken’s smile was barely above a grimace.   “Never could talk Zeke into hunting even with bows, but he wanted some antlers on his truck to impress Millie.”

 

Fran cut out a huge wedge of Frank’s golden pancakes, swirling it in a pool of maple syrup.

 

“You boys weren’t out by old man Harvey’s last night were you?”

 

“No, sheriff,” his lips tight. “We were at Zeke’s playing cards.” Ken pushed his plate across to Fran. “I hope you don’t have any more questions for us cause we’re out of answers and food.”

 

Smiling, Fran wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“Thanks for the information boys.” She rose and placed a hand on Ken’s tensed arm.   Leaning closely into his ear, her hair draped across one of his broad shoulders. “You will let me know if you see any poachers.”

 

Fran flipped back her long hair as she strode to the counter. Picking up a toothpick, she waved at the owner.

 

“Good food as always, Millie. See you at lunch time.”

Outside, Lee caught up with Fran, blocking her path.

“Fran, I appreciate your help so far, but I don’t see what this conversation has accomplished.”

 

The sheriff removed the toothpick from her mouth and smiled.

 

“Lee, trust me. We’ll have the poachers in jail before the weeks out. I know Ken. I insulted him. He’ll hunt illegally just to gall me. Those men will never accept a female sheriff.   I’ve been calling the Duncan brothers ‘Dumb’ and ‘Dumber’ for years. They’ve both spent time in my jail before.” She shook her head, replacing the toothpick in her mouth. “I just can’t believe Zeke’s gotten mixed up with those two.”

 

Fran steered Lee back to her office.

“I’ll grab my deputy and the three of us will stake out Harvey’s property for a few nights. The poachers are bound to slip up.”

 

Two days later, without any new developments, Fran stopped by Millie’s for lunch. She spied Zeke sitting alone.

 

“Hello, Zeke.” Fran stood by his side, draping her arm on his shoulder. “Care for some company?”

 

She slipped into the chair next to a stunned Zeke.

“Yum. Steak.”   She reached for a spare fork, spearing a cut piece. She rolled it around her mouth, smiling sweetly. “Tell me, Zeke. Have you and the Duncan brothers been out deer hunting on old man Harvey’s property lately?”

 

Zeke remained mute.

“It’s okay to tell me, Zeke.” She layed down the fork, reaching for his corn-on-the-cob and took a few bites.

 

“Uhhh…we…uh…we were out there a few nights ago.”

Wiping her mouth with a napkin, she asked, “Did you catch any deer?”

 

“We…uh…”

“Good afternoon, sheriff.” Ken and Frank stood over her, their faces grim. “You don’t have to tell her nothin’, Zeke. She’s just a woman playing in a man’s game.”

 

Fran speared another piece of steak, chewing slowly.   After swallowing, she took a long drag of ice tea.

 

“Thanks for the meal, Zeke.” She rose and stood toe to toe with Ken. “We’ll see who’s playing at a man’s game.” Turning on her heels, she left.

 

Two days later, Lee paced Fran’s office floor.

“Another poached deer, Fran. We’ve staked out for three nights and haven’t found a thing.   And we couldn’t watch last night since we got two feet of snow. Maybe we should call for more backup.”

 

“I’m sure something will turn up soon, Lee.   We can handle this. I don’t think even “Dumb” and “Dumber” were that stupid to hunt last night.” Fran chewed on her letter opener while watching the traffic move slowly over the covered roads. The shrill ring of the phone stopped Lee in his tracks.

 

“Sheriff’s office. Yeah, Harvey? All right.   We’ll be right up and thanks.”   Fran reached for her gun belt.   “Harvey says he found another gutted deer. He followed the tire tracks to a fresh blood trail, but he didn’t want to disturb anything.   If we hurry, we might be able to wrap this up.”

 

Twenty minutes later they arrived at Harvey’s.   He pointed out the tire tracks for the officers to follow. Parking the truck, they proceeded on foot to the bloody remains.

 

“What do we do now?” Lee asked, looking around. “All I see is snow.”

 

Fran stood motionless with her hands on her slim hips, her lips turned up in a victory smile.

 

“I see ‘Dumb’ and ‘Dumber.’”

“Where?” Lee asked, whipping around.

Fran pointed to a snow bank. The poacher’s truck bumper had backed into it, leaving a perfect imprint of their license plate, “Dun Bros.”

 

Fran slapped Lee on the back.

“I hope they’re at Millie’s. I’m ready for breakfast.”

The End

Evergreen Park was filled with people of all ages that Saturday afternoon. Young lovers sat close together on the wooden benches and stretched out on blankets under the maple trees. Grandmothers read books while their young wards tossed Frisbees, jumped rope, or played tag. Teenagers grouped together jamming to their CDs, playing rap music.

 

Harlan Hadley stood next to his partner, Leon James, on the footbridge, leaning against the rail, watching everything. They’ve been coming to the park every day for months, scoring their daily prey. High school hadn’t worked out for these guys, nor had working on the fish loading docks.   Harlan and Leon wanted a bigger and quicker score. At the ages of seventeen, they had discovered the immediate rewards of purse snatching. They had even managed to steal several cameras and camcorders that turned a hefty profit at Joe’s PawnShop. It was just a matter of finding the right distracted victim. And Saturdays always brought out the best victims.

 

After thirty minutes of watching, Harlan nudged Leon and nodded. Leon followed his gaze, spying the well-dressed middle-aged woman, sitting on a secluded bench with a small leather purse, a camera and two hyper children.

 

“It’s paycheck time.” Harlan tugged on his denim jacket and sauntered towards his score.   Leon went into backup position.

 

“Carrie, stop whining. Your father will be here any minute,” the woman said to her five year old who had tears running down her pink cheeks as she stomped her feet.

 

“But, Mom, I’m hungry. I want to go home now!” Carrie pulled hard on her mother’s arm.

 

“Stop, Carrie. Just a few more minutes. Your dad said to meet him in the park when his shift was over. He wants to take us somewhere nice for dinner.” With some effort, the mother freed her arm. She turned her back to tuck the blanket closer around her infant son’s neck who had kicked off the covers in a fussy fit.   Harlan approached with Leon a few steps behind.

 

Silent and quick as a cat, Harlan snatched the purse and camera, then sprinted off into the woods.

 

The woman jumped up with her mouth wide open and stared in the direction of the retreating thief. Before she could issue a scream for help, Leon tore after his partner, shouting, “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll catch him.”

 

A little ways away, Leon found Harlan kneeling behind a clump of elderberry bushes, rummaging through the woman’s purse.

 

Harlan looked up, grinning, holding a wad of greenbacks and several gold credit cards.

 

“We eat good tonight, partner.” He peered behind Leon. “Anybody follow you?”

 

“Nah. They all thought I was chasing you, as always.” Leon pointed to the camera. “What’s that? Doesn’t look like any kind we stolen before.”

 

“Looks like some kind of camera.” Harlan turned it around in his hands. “Says it’s a Polaroid.” He shook his head. “Never heard of that brand before.”

 

“Me neither. But it’s gotta be good since that fancy lady had it,” Leon reasoned.

 

Harlan studied the strange looking camera from every angle.

“I don’t see any buttons. Maybe it pulls apart?” Harlan gripped it hard. The camera opened up. “Hey man, this looks like a clicker button. Hold still.”

 

Harlan pointed the camera at Leon and pressed the button. A black square popped out. Leon reached for it and stared.

 

“The picture’s black. Let me try it.”

 

Leon held the camera, pointing it at Harlan.   The same black picture popped out.   In disgust, Harlan threw the black squares on the ground.

 

“Must be busted.”

 

Suddenly, they heard voices.

“I think they went this way. You look over there. We’ll try over here.”

 

“Let’s scram,” Harlan said, pocketing the money and the credit cards, tossing the purse aside. Leon scooped up the camera. Both young thieves headed deeper into the woods. The voices trailed far behind them.

 

“I think we lost them, Harlan.” Leon stopped to catch his breath. He inspected the camera again. “Maybe we can still get a good price for this at the pawn shop. We just won’t tell them that it’s busted.”

 

“Let me try it again.” Harlan aimed the camera at some chattering squirrels on an oak tree. “Dang.   It’s still coming out black.” He tossed the film onto the grass.

 

“Come on, Harlan. Let’s see what we can get for it at Joe’s. We can’t stay out here much longer. It’ll be dark soon and Joe closes at six. I need some big bucks tonight.”

 

Harlan took pictures of trees, bushes, and Leon as they walked, tossing each black film on the ground in disgust.

 

“I just don’t get it, Leon. Why would that woman have this if it’s busted?” He shook his head. “Why can’t they all carry camcorders?”

 

Just as they were coming out of the woods close to Oakman Bridge, they heard hoofbeats, coming fast. Harlan and Leon spun towards the sound on their left.   Barreling down on them, was a mounted police officer.

 

Harlan tossed the camera into the weeds.

“Stop! Police!”   The officer reared in his horse just a few feet from the startled youths, blocking their escape. Two policemen burst through the woods behind them, weapons drawn.

 

Harlan raised his arms in mock surrender.

“You ain’t got nothing on us, cops. We were just out for a stroll.”

 

“Oh yeah?” One of the footed officers waved some black squares in the boy’s faces.   “These are some really nice pictures you took of yourselves with the camera that you stole from my wife. She gave a real good description of the both of you and the direction you fled.” He chuckled as he reached for his handcuffs while his partner retrieved the tossed camera.

 

“And they say pictures don’t lie. All we had to do was follow the ‘breadcrumb’ trail you left for us. It was better than Hansel and Gretel.”

The End

“Look at that poor kid over there,” Renee Sebastian said to her husband, motioning with her head. “You’d think the mother would at least look at him every once in a while.” Ben laid down the paperback he was reading, pushed down his bifocals, and glanced over to the next blanket.

 

A little boy, five year old with light blond hair and a baggy bright orange bathing suit, was digging in the sand with a plastic pail and matching shovel. The toys still had the price stickers from one of the shops up on the boardwalk that catered to the crowds who swarmed down to the Delaware shore every summer. The boy had built a lopsided sand castle, and he was trying to get his parents to notice.   The dad was asleep, stretched out on a blanket with a newspaper covering his face. The mother, sitting under an umbrella in a rented beach chair, was on a cell-phone, talking loudly and gesturing wildly with her free hand.

 

“Look, Frank, I don’t care what the hell they want.   There is no freaking way we are going to approve those medical claims by the end of the month. If they have any problems with that, then tell them to read their contract. Starting with the fine print.”

 

“Mommy. Look what I built,” the little boy called once again.

 

The mother must have finally heard him, because she frowned and said, “Frank, hold on for a second.” Then she put her hand over the phone and looked at the child.

 

“Conner,” she said in an artificially sweetened voice.   “Mommy is busy right now doing very important work. Remember your promise to play quietly and leave mommy and daddy alone.”

 

The boy listened silently, digging little holes in the sand with his foot.

 

“Yes, mommy. I’ll be good,” he said, his head hanging low.

 

The woman faked smiled at the boy and immediately resumed talking into the phone.

 

Ben leaned over and looked at his wife while raising an eyebrow. Renee had taken out her knitting and was furiously attacking a blanket for the newest grandchild she was expecting in October.

 

“Wonder why some people have kids if they don’t want them around,” he said.

 

“Well, it just make me sick,” his wife said. “I get so tired of seeing this.”

 

Ben and Renee came down to the shore just about every day. They had their usual spot all staked out by nine, before the tourists even crawled out of bed. The couple made it a habit to leave the beach before noon, when the sun got too bright.   Renee was convinced that Ben was going to get skin cancer. He never wore his hat and refused to put on any sun screen, no matter how many times she reminded him.

 

After spending the morning admiring the waves, they would pack up their blanket, the two beach chairs, umbrella, and assorted books, magazines, and papers. They would trudge back to their townhouse two blocks off the boardwalk for a nice lunch.   Today, it would be a salad, some tuna fish, and a freshly sliced cantaloupe. Afterward, they would take a nap or meet some people for bridge down at the club. Like Ben and Renee, their circle of friends were retirees, full-timers who lived at the beach year round.

 

Ben and Renee had moved here right after Ben had left the job. He had worked twenty five years in the Baltimore police department, the last five as a detective. Renee had not been ready to give up her job teaching kindergarten, but she knew that Ben had wanted to get away from all the things he kept bottled up inside when he came home every night, so she had retired as well. Ben had taken to the quiet beach community right off, but it had taken Renee a few years to settle down and find her way.

 

Renee nudged Ben.

 

“Look, he’s going down to the water, and neither parent has even noticed.”

 

“Yeah, I see,” Ben said. He had picked up the paperback again, but now was watching the child over his glasses.

 

The boy went out a few feet into the waves, which today were less than a foot high and not big enough to knock the boy down.   He bent over and filled his bucket with foamy saltwater. Then he ran carrying it back to the blanket. Lifting the bucket high over his head, he poured the water into the hole he had dug next to his mother. Some of the water splashed on her. Both Ben and Renee saw the woman roll her eyes, but she didn’t miss a beat on her phone conversation.

 

Renee squirmed in her chair.

 

“What do you think? Should we?” she said in a low voice, leaning close into Ben’s good ear.

 

Ben ran his hand though his thinning gray hair.   He looked around.

 

“Let’s take it slow. See what happens.”

 

Suddenly the mother’s voice grew even louder.

 

“Frank. You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you.” She looked at the cell phone and frowned.

 

“Listen, Frank, shut up a minute. My phone is about to die. I’m going to have to run back to the hotel and call you from there.   It should take me about ten minutes.   Don’t move until you hear from me.   Frank.   Frank?”

 

She looked at the phone like she had been betrayed by her best friend. Frowning, she threw it into her beach bag.

 

She leaned over and pulled the newspaper off the man laying next to her.

 

“Tim, wake up.”

 

The man opened his eyes. He immediately shielded them from the bright sun shining directly in his face.

 

“Yeah. I’m up.   What’s going on?”   He sat up quickly, reaching for his sunglasses perched on the cooler next to him.

 

“My phone died. I have to run back to the hotel to call work. Keep an eye on Conner.”

 

“Right Vicky, No problemo,” Tim said, still half asleep. He looked at the boy, who was now using a small toy bulldozer to construct a roadway system around his sand castle.

 

“Just you and me chief.”

 

Conner stood up.

 

“Can we go in the water now?”

 

“In a bit. Let daddy rest for a little while longer.”

 

Vicky stood up, brushing the sand from her legs.

 

“I shouldn’t be gone long.” She put a sheer silver beach cover up on over her black two-piece suit and walked away.

 

“When can we go in the water, daddy? You promised,” the boy said.

 

“We’ll go, Conner. But in a few minutes. Daddy wants to rest. Just for a little while. Now don’t wander too far.”

 

The boy nodded and sat back down in the sand, looking out at the ocean.

 

Tim laid back down, but not before putting on headphones connected to a portable CD player.

Renee had already seen enough.

 

“C’mon Ben. Let’s do it.”

 

“Honey, you have to be patient. Let the situation develop. We don’t want to rush things. Besides, it’s not all that bad.”

 

Renee sighed. “I know, I know. It’s just that it breaks my heart…”

 

Renee and Ben pretended to relax. They pretended when it became obvious that Tim had fallen back asleep. They pretended when a half hour passed and Vicky still had not returned. They even pretended when Conner picked up his bucket and started making his way down to the water.

 

Finally, Renee could stand no more.

 

“Really, this has gone on long enough. That kid could have drowned twenty minutes ago, and neither of those idiots would have noticed. Unless, someone called on a cell phone and told them.”

 

Ben nodded and then looked at his watch. He turned in his chair, scanning up and down the beach. The lifeguards were all looking out at the water, and there were no beach patrols in sight.

 

“OK, we do it.”

 

He checked his watch.

 

“It’s 11:15 now. I’ll meet you next to the ice cream place in exactly one hour. That’s 12:15, sharp. And be careful.”

 

Renee reached over and patted Ben’s head.

 

“It’s so cute the way you worry about me.”

 

Ben smiled at his wife.

 

“That’s because I wouldn’t know how to make lunch without you. Now get going.”

 

Renee stood up. “You have a note, right?”

 

Ben nodded. “Yes mother.”

 

Renee laughed, turned, and walked down the beach, towards where Conner was now wading in water that was almost up to his waist.

 

She stood next to Conner for a few minutes.   Close, but not too close. Just enough so he could get comfortable having her there. Renee knew the child was bored and she just had to wait him out.

 

Finally, he looked up at her and said, “I hope there are no jellyfish around here. Do you see any?”

 

Renee smiled down at the boy. “No honey, it’s too early in the season for jellyfish.”

 

“Good,” Conner said. “They scare me…a little.”

 

Renee patted Conner on the head. “I can’t believe that a big boy like you is scared of a silly old jellyfish. Not a boy who can go into the water all by himself.” Renee knelt next to him.

 

“What’s your name, honey?”

 

“Conner. I like the beach, especially when there are no jellyfish and when the waves aren’t too big.   Don’t you, lady?”

 

“Oh yes dear, I do. Very much. And you can call me Miss Renee.”

 

Ben watched the pair from up on the blanket while Tim obliviously snoozed nearby. Within minutes, Conner and Renee were running up and down the beach, playing tag with the waves, like two old friends. Ben glanced over his shoulder every few minutes, keeping a watch out for the mother. He didn’t want her showing up. Not that they had done anything illegal. Not yet anyway.

 

Ben checked his watch. 11:30. Time to get moving. He waited until Renee looked up at him. He nodded at her. She nodded back.

 

“C’mon, Miss Renee. Chase me again,” Conner shouted. Renee tried to catch the boy, but he squirted through her arms and dashed into the waves. Renee ran after him for a few steps and then flopped down on the white sand.

 

“Conner, I’m bushed. Why don’t you come sit by me for a minute?”

 

Conner plopped down next to her. “Do you want to dig for crabs now? Wait for a wave to go away, and then look for the bubbles in the sand. There’s a little crab right under the bubble. But you have to dig fast.”

 

“We can do that in a few minutes, dear. But I imagine that a big boy like you must be getting hungry, especially after running around so much. Would you like a snack?”

 

“Yeah, that sounds great. Do you have any Oreos?”

 

Renee laughed. “Well, goodness no. Where would I be hiding cookies? I meant that maybe you and I could walk up to the boardwalk and get an ice cream cone.   Or maybe some candy. Salt water taffy is my favorite. Would you like that?”

 

Conner eyes narrowed.

 

“My mommy says that I should never go anywhere with strangers.”

 

Renee reached over and took the boy’s hand.

 

“And she is exactly right, your mommy is. And that’s a very good rule to remember. But I’m really not a stranger, am I?”

 

Conner shook his head. “Well, not exactly.”

 

Renee said, “Besides, I bet that mommy and daddy leave you with other people. Right?”

 

Conner nodded. “Yeah, lots of time. When we aren’t at the beach, I go to summer camp during the day and we have lots of grown-ups to watch us. My group leader is fifteen years old. It’s not sleep-a-way camp because I want to come home at night. Mommy says that next year I should be old enough to stay away for a whole week. I’m a little scared about that.” Conner got quiet for a second, then brightened.

 

“But during school,” he said, “my Nanny Fisher picks me up after kindergarten. Every day.   I like Nanny Fisher a lot. She plays cards with me.”

 

“Well, there you go,” Renee said. “I love to play cards with my friends too. How would it be if I was your summertime Nanny?”

 

“I think that would be OK. I don’t play cards much anymore. Nanny Fisher had to go away,” Conner said. “She used to fight with mommy a lot. When summer’s over, mommy said I get to pick out a new nanny.”

 

Renee tried to hide her scowl.

 

“Well then Conner, what do you say? How about you and your new summer nanny take a walk to get the biggest ice cream cone on the beach.”

 

Conner smiled. “Great.” He paused. “But can my dad come too?”

 

Renee looked up the beach.

 

“I think he’s still asleep, dear. Why don’t we just let him rest?”

 

“OK,” said Conner, “he did say he was tired, and that I should leave him alone.”

 

Renee and Conner stood up together, crossed the sand, and quickly disappeared into the crowd that was flowing along the boardwalk.

 

Sitting in his beach chair, Ben watched the pair move past him. He counted to sixty in his head. Then he reached into the Renee’s floral beach bag and sifted through it until he found a manila envelope. He opened it and pulled out a sheet of paper. He glanced at it only for a second, then folded it in half.

 

Ben looked up and down the beach one last time.   This was the tricky part, from here on out there was no turning back.

 

Seeing nothing unusual, he stood slowly and picked up a beach towel, which he used to conceal the sheet of paper. He walked over to where Tim was sleeping. Ben saw that the man was already starting to burn, and if he didn’t wake up soon, he was going to have a very painful next few days.   Without looking down, Ben quickly slid the paper under the CD player that was sitting on Tim’s chest. Ben straightened up and then continued walking towards the water. He was careful not to look back, just in case Tim was a light sleeper.

 

Ben stood on the shore for a few minutes, letting the waves wash over his feet. He watched a tanker move across the horizon, making its way out of Delaware Bay towards the open sea. He nodded when his friend Bernie walked by, his metal detector swinging back and forth.   Bernie called over. “You guys coming down to the dance tonight? It’s a fifties theme.”

 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Renee ironed her poodle skirt this morning,” Ben shouted back.

 

Ben watched Bernie move off down the beach, stopping periodically to dig in the sand and put a coin or two in his pocket.   When he was far enough away, Ben turned and went back to his blanket. Tim was still asleep.

 

Ben sat, killing time, reading his paperback.   It would be best if Tim woke up on his own, but Ben didn’t think that was going to happen. If anything, the man’s snoring had only gotten louder.

 

By 12:00, Ben knew he was going to have to do something. He reached over into Renee’s bag once again and pulled out a battered orange Frisbee.   In one quick motion, he flicked the Frisbee at Tim while at the same time picking up his paper back. Ben already had his face down in the book when the disk hit Tim in the stomach, hard enough to wake him mid snore. Tim sat up quickly. The CD player and the note slid into his lap. Ben studied his paperback with apparent great intensity, while he watched Tim out of the corner of his eye. It was a trick Ben had picked up patrolling the streets of Baltimore all those years.

 

Tim looked around, scanning the beach for his son.   When he couldn’t find the boy, he started to rise up, but then he noticed the white sheet of paper in his lap. He picked it up, still half looking around.   He opened the note and read it.

 

“We have your child. Your child is safe. Don’t be foolish and everything will work out. Get up right now and walk north along the boardwalk to the ATM on Silver Lake Street. Withdraw five hundred dollars. Then walk south to the free newspaper box in front of the candy store on Main. The one right near the bandstand. When you open the box, there will be an envelope tucked in back. In it will be a note with instructions on where to find your child. Leave the money in the envelope and put it back in the box. You have one chance to do this right. No cops.   $500 bucks is not worth being stupid for. Your child is too important.”

 

Ben watched Tim read the note and saw the look of terror appear on the man’s face. Suddenly, Tim turned his head. He frantically looked up and down the beach. Ben buried his nose even farther in the book.

 

Tim stood up and peered up and down the shore.   Then, he ran off, up towards the boardwalk, clutching the note in his fist.

 

Ben waited a few seconds and then slowly turned around. He saw Tim run up to Vicky who was finally returning from her phone call. Tim handed the note to Vicky. She read it quickly.

 

“Let’s call the police,” she said.

 

Tim frowned and then turned away.

 

“You see what it says. No police. It makes it pretty clear.”

 

“I can read. But say we drop off the money. Who says these guys will release Conner? It’s better if we call in the cops.”

 

“I can’t believe that you are thinking this,” Tim said. He put one of his hands on his wife’s shoulder. “Let do what the note says. I just want to get Conner back.”

 

Vicky pushed Tim’s arm away. “Well, if you had been watching him, then maybe they wouldn’t have been able to snatch him up from under your nose, would they now?”

 

Tim frowned. “And maybe if you had left your cell phone at home, you would have been here to keep an eye on Conner yourself. It’s not like taking a nap on a beach is a federal crime, is it?”

 

“Hey, I work just as hard as you do. Just because you make eight thousand a year more than I do doesn’t mean that my job is any less important.”

 

Tim started to say something, then caught himself.   He took a deep breath.

 

“Wait a minute, honey. Let’s calm down. We need to concentrate on getting Conner back. Enough of this ‘who works more thing’ again.   Agreed?”

 

Vicky looked Tim in the eyes. Then she nodded, bit her lip, and looked like she was going to start crying. Tim stepped towards her and put his arms around her. They hugged for more than a few seconds.

 

Vicky said, “You’re right. Conner is all that matters now. What do you think we should do?”

 

Tim squinted and looked around the beach. He blew a strand of hair out of his eyes.

 

“To be honest, I really don’t have a lot of confidence in the local police force. They probably don’t know how to do much beyond clearing the drunks off the beach every morning. Handling a kidnapping may be out of their league.”

 

“You may be right,” Vicky said. “Do you think that we should just pay the ransom? Like the note says.”

 

Finally Tim said, “It seems like the right thing to do.   These guys don’t want much. And they sound pretty professional.”

 

Vicky nodded. “Okay. Then let’s do it. I just want to get my baby back. Do you know where this ATM is?”

 

Tim said, “Yeah. I saw it the other morning, when I was out jogging. It’s right up the boardwalk.”

 

“Well, then let’s go. Hurry. I can’t stand thinking about my baby being with…those animals,” Vicky said. They started to walk up the beach. Vicky reached over and took Tim’s hand. Then Tim stopped.

 

“Wait a minute. I don’t have my wallet. Did your bring yours?”

 

“It’s down in my beach bag. In the little side pocket with my keys. Better yet, just get the whole thing.”

 

Tim turned and sprinted back to his blanket.   He slid down on his knees. Ben watched Tim snatch up the bag. Tim opened it and peered in to check if the wallet was there. He stood up and turned to run back up the beach and back to Vicky. Then he stopped and looked at Ben. Ben wondered if he had been made.

 

“Excuse me. Mister. I was here before with my son. Did you see where he went? Did he leave here with anybody?”

 

Ben relaxed. He put down his book and then he turned to Tim.

 

“Sorry. What?   You are going to have to speak up.   Left my hearing aid back in the room.”

 

Tim moved closer.

 

“I said, did you see my son?”

 

Ben nodded. “Sure did. Nice looking kid. Where’d he run off to?”

 

Tim looked at Ben with disgust.

 

“Forget it, old timer. Go back to your retirement.”

 

And he ran up the beach.

 

Ben watched him leave and then smiled. “Nice talking to you.” He looked at his watch and said under his breath, “And you better move your ass, you’ve only got ten minutes.”

 

Tim and Vicky got their money from the ATM in less than five. They both noticed the sign on the machine that said that $500 was the maximum per day limit on withdrawals.

“These guys have this figured out, don’t they?” Tim said.

 

By the time Tim and Vicky reached the newspaper box in the town square, Ben had already staked out his favorite bench across the street. He watched them open the box and peer inside. Tim reached in and pulled out the envelope that Ben had placed there earlier in the day, on his way down to the water. Vicky and Tim handled the envelope carefully, as if Conner himself was inside. Slowly, Tim opened it and read the note inside.

 

“You are almost done. Put the money in the envelope and place it back in the box where you found it. Then go sit on the bandstand.   Your child will be there shortly. When that happens, you should all leave. Do not come back. Ever.   And maybe in the future you should keep an eye on your child. It’s more important than you think. And one day they will grow up and be gone. For good.”

 

Tim took the cash out the front pocket of his bathing suit and put it in the envelope. He placed it back in the newspaper box, making sure that it was firmly tucked behind a metal clip. He carefully let the door swing shut. Then he took Vicky’s hand and the two of them walked over to the bandstand, where in about six hours, an eight piece fifties band would begin playing.

 

Ben looked at his watch. 12:15 on the nose.

 

Nearby Renee and Conner were sitting in a small ice cream shop. Renee brought her own grandkids here when they visited because the ice cream was homemade and the best in town.

 

“C’mon Conner. Finish up your cone. It’s time to leave,” Renee said. She grabbed a napkin from the shiny metal holder and wiped some chocolate from Conner’s mouth and chin.

 

“Miss Renee has to run some errands, so I think it’s time you went back to your mommy and daddy. I bet they want to see you again.”

 

Conner said, “Okay. Thanks for the treat. And thanks for playing with me. Will we be able to play again later?”

 

Renee smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. We’ll see.”

 

She walked over to the window of the ice cream shop.

 

“Look, there’s your mommy and daddy sitting right over there. Why don’t you go out and surprise them?”

 

She walked Conner over to the door and held it open. He ran to his parents. Renee quickly exited the shop and walked down the boardwalk in the other direction, ducking into a beach shop. She needed to buy a battery for her camera; she wanted someone to take a picture of her and Ben at the dance tonight.

 

Ben watched Conner run across the boardwalk and sneak up behind his parents.

 

“Boo!” he shouted.

 

Tim and Vicky jumped and then both parents turned and hugged the child.

 

“Oh, Conner. Where have you been? Are you all right? Did they hurt you?” Vicky said, nervously examining her son for any signs of violence, or worse.

 

“I’m fine, mommy,” Conner said with a puzzled look. “I had some ice cream with a nice lady. Are you mad that I spoiled my appetite?”

 

Tim laughed.

 

“No son. Not at all. Are you really okay?”

 

Conner smiled, “You bet. Can I go back in the water now?”

 

Vicky grabbed up her son and held him tight.

 

“No. We have to leave right now.”

 

Conner started to complain, but Vicky interrupted.

 

“We need to go home. But how would you like it if you didn’t have to go back to summer camp. Maybe mommy could take a vacation…a long vacation…so we could have some time together.   Would you like that?”

 

Conner beamed. “That would be great.”

 

Tim took Conner from his wife and lifted him up on his shoulders. “C’mon sport, let’s go home.”

 

Ben watched them leave and then walked over to the newspaper box. He opened the door and pulled out the envelope. Renee walked up behind him.

 

“How did it go?” she asked.

 

“Went fine. I think they got the message.”

 

Renee said, “I hope so. He really was a nice little boy.”

 

They started walking back down to the beach. When they passed one of the big blue municipal trash cars, Ben tossed in the unopened envelope.

 

“Bernie said he’ll see us at the dance tonight,” said Ben. But Renee wasn’t listening. She was watching a mother drag a child along the boardwalk. The woman had a red face and was yelling at the little girl.

The End

Carol jumped away from the living room window as an official-looking car pulled up outside. “Denise,” she called hurrying out to the kitchen, “the cops are out front.”

 

Her sister finished scooping stuffing from the roast turkey’s cavity and looked up, staring. “The police?   Are you sure?”

 

Carol nodded. “I’ve seen a lot of unmarked cop cars in my time.”

 

“We both have,” Denise said.

 

The front doorbell chimed, and Carol’s eyes widened.

“What are we going to do?   What if they have a search warrant?”

 

“Relax. If it is the cops, stall them. I’ll make sure the jewelry’s well-hidden.”

 

Carol hesitated.

 

“Trust me, Carol. Haven’t I always outsmarted them before?”

 

“All right.” Carol left the room, walking slowly until she reached the vestibule. When the bell chimed again she sighed she swung the door inward.

 

“Detective Spanner,” said a tall spectacled woman, flashing her badge through the screen door. “And this is

Detective Ray.” The thickset man beside her nodded grimly.

 

“Yes?” Carol’s mind raced trying to think of something to say, knowing she needed to give Denise as much time as possible. “How can I help you? Is there a problem?”

 

“Yeah,” the male cop snapped. “You could say that.

An old lady named Maggie Adkins is suddenly short of some valuable diamond jewelry this morning.   You and your sister know anything about that?”

 

“Why whatever do you mean?”

 

“You do know Maggie Adkins, do you not?” Detective

Spanner asked.

 

“Well, yes. Why don’t I go find my sister and–”

 

“I’m right here, Carol.” Denise stepped forward, her red lips smiling.   “Yes, we play bingo with Maggie and a number of others almost every week at the church down the road.” Denise pushed open the screen door. “Please, come in out of the cold.”

 

“Your car was seen leaving the scene of the burglary,”

the woman detective said.

 

“Our car? Burglary?”   Denise frowned, and Carol felt her stomach turn over.

 

“Yes. Ms. Adkins’ back bedroom window had been forced and her jewelry case emptied.   She’d planned to spend the holiday at her son’s, but became ill half way there and returned home just in time to see your Taurus pulling away and going down the alley.”

 

Denise blinked. “But I was right here preparing our dinner — roasting the turkey, mashing potatoes, peeling carrots. And Carol was here with me.”

 

Carol nodded. “That’s right. Ms. Adkins, poor soul, must be mistaken.”

 

Detective Ray gave both sisters a sour look. “You expect us to believe that?”

 

“Why shouldn’t you?” Denise asked, her pencil thin black eyebrows raised.

 

“First, because the license plate number she gave us is yours.   And second, because you two have a history and not good one either. You’ve both been arrested for jewelry theft in the past.”

 

“But never convicted,” Denise retorted. She smiled serenely. “We’ve always been innocent. Isn’t that correct, Carol?”

 

Carol bobbed her blonde head. “Oh, yes. We’re upstanding citizens.”

 

“Would you like to prove that?” Detective Spanner asked. Her blue eyes gleamed behind her wire-rimmed glasses.   “Let us search your house and car.”

 

“Hmm.” Denise frowned. “What do you think, Carol?”

 

“I. . .I don’t know. I mean don’t we have rights?”

 

“Sure you do,” Detective Ray drawled. Then he grinned. “But so do we.” He held up a paper. “And we have a search warrant.”

 

“Oh,” Carol said. Oh dear, this was bad, real bad.

 

But if Denise shared her fears she didn’t show it.

“Search away,” she said.

 

So Detectives Spanner and Ray did just that, while the sisters sat in the living room.

 

“Our dinner’s ruined,” Carol complained.

 

“We can warm it up,” Denise murmured.

 

“Yeah, as long as they don’t find–”

 

Denise glared her to silence.

 

The detectives’ muted voices reached their ears as they went from room to room, and then at last Detective Ray strode in. “I need your car keys now,” he said, eyes harder than ever.

 

“Certainly.” Denise replied. She rose to pick up her purse from a corner table.

 

“Empty it,” Ray ordered.

 

“Excuse me?”

“The warrant includes all personal possessions.” He

took the purse from her hands, dumped out its contents, and pawed through them, grunting in disappointment when he found nothing of interest. Then, jiggling the car keys, he headed out to the garage.

 

Detective Spanner remained inside, still searching as well, but also popping her head in on them whenever they least expected it.

 

“Find anything interesting?” Denise asked with a smile when both detectives finally joined them in the living room.

 

Ray gave her an angry look, but Spanner managed to meet her grin head on. “You may think you’ve gotten away with things again, but one of these days. . . .”

 

Denise sighed. “And to think I was contemplating inviting you and your partner to share a bite of cold dinner with us. What a mistake that would have been, eh,

Carol?”

 

“Sure would have.” Carol stomped to the front door and jerked it open. “We ought to sue your whole department. Now get out.”

 

She cackled once they were alone. “We did it, Denise.

Or rather, you did.   Of course, we won’t play bingo with Maggie Adkins any longer.

 

“No,” Denise agreed. “Though it was nice of Maggie to share so much information about her diamond studded jewelry week after week.”

 

“Sure was,” Carol agreed. “Which reminds me – where’d you hide our little stash?”

 

Denise opened her mouth to reply as the doorbell rang, as Detectives Spanner and Ray entered. “There’s one place we didn’t look,” the woman detective said heading straight into the kitchen.

 

“Now just a minute,” Denise began, following with

Carol right behind her.

 

“Bingo!” Detective Spanner pulled a handful of jewelry out of the turkey’s cavity. “Very clever – take out the stuffing and put in something else. When we got in the car and Detective Ray commented on how good that full bowl of stuffing had smelled it hit me. A full bowl of stuffing meant an empty turkey, which meant. . . .” She smiled. “Detective Ray, I think we can now read these women their rights.”

The End

It was two in the afternoon, and we were the only people on the street. There were cars parked on the driveways, but there was nobody out here in the sun. Anybody around here would be indoors, getting chilled by the air-con.

 

“Next street on the right,” said Tony. I glanced at it but keep on driving. “ You missed it,” he said.

 

“Too risky,” I said. “I’ve seen enough to know we hang around here, we’ll get spotted.”

 

“Don’t you want to at least see his house, make sure there’s no problems?”

“His house is gonna be exactly the same as all the rest of them around here,” I said. “They’ll have chosen it so it blends in.”

 

“We should at least check it out,” said Tony.

 

“No,” I said. “We won’t learn much just from driving past his place. We’re sticking out badly enough as it is.”

 

I was sick of this already. All they’d given us was an old photo of the guy, his new address and a description of his car. They hadn’t told us he was living smack in the middle of suburbia.

 

“So how we gonna do it?” asked Tony.

 

“Gonna have to take our chances,” I said.

 

“What? Just turn up and hope he’s there?”

 

“No other way,” I said. “We park here for two minutes the cops will know about it. Nothing at the back of his house but more houses so we can’t go in that way.”

 

“Yeah but the guy will be going out sometime,” said Tony.

 

“Like when?” I said. “They’ll have told him to stay inside as much as possible. He might go shopping but where? We ain’t got the time for that crap. We go there, if his car is there, we go in and hope for the best.”

 

“Hell,” said Tony. “This ain’t good.”

 

I took the next right and had us heading back to the motel.

We had ended up at some place one suburb over. Just a block of ten rooms by a major junction. We got out and I locked the car. He looked over at me. “I’m going to get something to eat at the Chinese place. You coming?”

 

I shook my head. “I’m gonna make a call, see if they can give us any more info on this guy, maybe give us an angle.”

 

“Fair enough,” he said.

 

I watched him walk off, and then headed back to my room. I was hungry but my gut was getting too tight for eating much. I wanted to be away from Tony for a while as well. It had been a long drive getting here. The last thing I wanted was to hear more of his voice. He was a fan of Hong Kong Triad movies, get him anywhere near a Chinese restaurant and he’d start telling me about the latest ones he’d seen. I must have heard the plot of every one of them by now. They all seem to be just gangsters stabbing each other if they weren’t given respect.

 

As soon as I entered my room I turned on the air-con. I slammed the door behind me and collapsed on the bed. I should have taken a shower but I had the air con up high, that would dry me out enough I reckoned. I lay there looking at the ceiling, turning the situation over in my head, looking for a way for it to work. I’d told Tony I was gonna make a call but I wasn’t going to. Anything like that would be regarded as weakness, and that would end up with the wrong people thinking the wrong things. It was going to have to be hit and run. It was sloppy, but the only way it could work. I brought my gun from under my belt and placed it beneath the bed. I threw my mobile on top of the TV, and then fell asleep still thinking what to do.

 

I was woken by someone knocking on the door. I just assumed it was Tony and closed my eyes again. I really didn’t want to speak to him now. I’d tell him later I was fast asleep. The knocking continued, getting louder.

“What?” I shouted, still lying down.

 

“Open the door,” said a deep voice. It wasn’t Tony. I sat upright, straight away looking for my gun. I was still half asleep and didn’t know if it was in the car or not. Then I remembered where I had left it.

 

The knocking was getting louder. I staggered to the door leaving the gun where it was. It was probably only the manager I thought.

 

I opened the door, adjusting my eyes to the bright light. There were two men there dressed in suits. They didn’t need to show me their badges for me to know they were cops, but they did anyway.

 

“Det Sgt Harwood,” said the cop in front. He was in his fifties but still had a hardness to him. I didn’t like his eyes. “This is Det Con Ivec,” he said, indicating the cop behind him. Ivec was a big pasty guy. He looked at me like he was watching a TV.

 

I decided to keep up the half-asleep act. “What’s the problem?” I asked, trying to sound like a normal citizen.

 

Harwood pushed me back into the room and Ivec closed the door behind him.

 

“There’s no problem,” said Harwood. “Least there won’t be if you get back in your car and leave.”

 

“I don’t get you,” I said.

 

Ivec came forward and gave me a punch straight in the gut. I landed back on the bed. I doubled over and then gradually tried to get up. The cop put out his hand held me there.

 

“We know why you’re here,” said Harwood. “But he isn’t at the safe house any more. We had him shifted long before you even crossed the border.” He looked at my face for a reaction. “Surprised?” he asked.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

 

Ivec gave me a quick slap across the face. For a big guy he moved fast.

 

“We don’t appreciate this sort of thing here,” he said. “If we searched this room and your car we wouldn’t find anything suspicious at all? Would we,” said Harwood. He smiled. “Of course we wouldn’t find any guns or information on a certain protected witness.” He dropped the smile. “You’re out of your league,” he said. He stared at me letting it sink in.

 

He saw my mobile on the TV, and walked over and picked it up. He checked the last number I’d dialled, and then he pressed a few more buttons reading off the phone’s number. Then he placed the phone back on top of the TV and looked at me.

 

“Things aren’t quite working out the way you had planned are they?” he said.

 

“Okay,” I said. “You’ve made your point. I don’t understand half of what you’ve said, but if you want me to leave then I’ll leave.”

 

Then his mobile beeped. He looked down at it and read the message. “Time to go,” he said. He started walking towards the door. Ivec pulled me up and walked me to the door behind Harwood.

 

Just outside the door Harwood turned and looked at me. Then he did something strange-he held out his hand for me to shake. I looked down at it in disgust, I’d never shaken a cop’s hand in my life and I wasn’t gonna start now. Ivec grabbed my arm and pinched a nerve behind my elbow, forcing my hand up for Harwood to shake.

 

“Well,” he said, smiling at me. “Nice to have sorted everything out so quickly and so painlessly. Hopefully we’ll never see each other again.”

 

“Yeah,” I said, trying to talk through the pain. He kept holding onto my hand and shaking it. I was wondering when he was going to stop when around the corner came Tony. We all turned to look at him. I saw from Tony’s expression he knew straight away what they were. No I wanted to shout, it isn’t what it looks like.

 

Tony froze for a second, then made it look like he was lost and turned and walked the other way.

 

Harwood finally released my hand. “Lets go back inside and talk some more,” he said.

 

I shook my numb arm, trying to get some feeling back into it. “You’ve set me up,” I said. “You did it on purpose to look like I’m working for you.”

 

“Well, obviously,” he said, as though I was some sort of retard. He pushed me back into the room, and I went back to my old place on the bed.

 

“What do you reckon your mate is thinking now?” he said. “Nobody but you two and your boss are supposed to know you were coming up here. First time he leaves you alone, he finds you shaking hands with a couple of cops. Not good. Probably on the phone right now.”

 

I said nothing, but glared at him.

 

“What do you reckon your boss will say? Reckon he’ll give you the benefit of the doubt?” He formed a smile and stared at me. “Well?” he pressed.

 

“I don’t know,” I said.

 

“I know,” he said. “You haven’t got a hope in hell. He’ll tell your mate to waste you and come on home. That’s what I reckon. What do you think?” he said to Ivec.

 

“You’ve got no chance,” he said to me. “Seems we’re looking at a dead man about now.”

 

“Yeah,” said Harwood. “You really haven’t got much of a chance. I think there’s really only one way out for you now.”

 

I looked up at him.

“He thinks you’re helping us,” he said. “The only way out is to actually do that.”

 

“What, become a grass?” I said. “No way.”

 

“Think about it,” he said. “All we want are Tony and your boss, Brent. Just testify against them and then you walk. I’d hardly say they’re big enough to cause you trouble once they’re inside.”

 

I said nothing but looked down, shaking my head.

 

“I think maybe he has a problem with it,” said Ivec.

 

“Life is never easy,” said Harwood. “But if you want to stay alive, it’s the only way.” They stood there in silence letting me think it over. “You ready to do it now,” he asked finally.

 

“Never,” I said.

 

He sighed. “Don’t do it the hard way.” He reached into his suit pocket and drew out his card. He placed it on top of the TV. “We’ll leave you alone for a few hours to think about it, and make a few phone calls. Won’t do you any good, though. When you’ve had enough give me a call.” They walked out and closed the door behind them.

I gave it a minute then opened the door, just to make sure they’d gone. They weren’t around, and I went straight back inside and reached for my mobile. I rang Tony’s number but it was engaged. He didn’t have a message bank, but I wouldn’t have left a message anyway. I tried phoning Mr Brent, and that was engaged as well. The obvious thought came straight into my mind- Tony was phoning him. I’d been with Brent for five years. Would he believe me over what looked like obvious evidence?

 

I kept the door open and kept looking outside. I rang Brent’s number over and over until finally it connected.

 

“Boss,” I said. “We’ve got big trouble.”

 

“Yeah, Tony has just been telling me. What’s going on?” he said. His voice was too calm for what was happening. He was playing a game, trying to draw me in.

 

“It’s the cops,” I said. “They’ve set me up. They knew when Tony was walking past and they forced me into a handshake.”

“Looks bad,” he said. “I hear they do this thing all the time.”I didn’t believe him.

 

“Look,” I said. “If I had sold out to the cops, would they have come round here and risked us being seen together. I’d have called them from a payphone.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“You don’t believe me do you?” I said.

 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I probably won’t know until I’ve looked into your eyes.”

 

That was a set up and I knew it straight away, trying to get me back home.

 

“What about Tony?” I asked.

 

“He’s excitable,” said Brent. “He’ll start calming down in a while. Maybe then he’ll start thinking things through.”

 

“But he reckons I’ve become a grass.”

 

“Yeah he does,” said Brent. “I’ll have a word with him later and try to calm him down. Get him thinking straight.” It was no use.   “Okay,” I said. “You gotta believe me though, this is all a set up to actually make me become a grass, but I’m not doing that.”

 

“I’m starting to believe you,” he said. “I’ll speak to you later.” He hung up the call. His voice had the same emotionless tone all the way through. Even if he weren’t sure, would he care anyway and just waste me to be on the safe side?

 

I dialled Tony’s number. Once again it was engaged. I kept on trying until it rang. It rang twice and was then disconnected. I tried it again and the same thing happened.

 

“Time to move,” I said to myself. I hastily grabbed my bag and gun from under the bed. He wasn’t even taking my call. I had to get out of here before he came back.

 

I left the key on the bed. I kept my hand on my gun hidden beneath my shirt and walked towards the car. I took another look around for Tony, then got in and started it. I came towards the exit. Would he be there ready for an ambush? I drove fast cutting into traffic, causing some guy to brake heavily and hit his horn. I just started driving, staying there would be death. Now I had to start thinking. I realised I had kept the cop’s card in my pocket. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

 

I didn’t know where to go. There was no point in heading out of the city. I knew I’d have to stay here and try and sort things out. I crossed the river to the north side and drove until I found a motel which had a car park you couldn’t see from the road.

As soon as the door closed behind me I collapsed on the bed. I couldn’t fall asleep, and I kept my hand on my gun the whole time. I needed a shower pretty bad by now, but I couldn’t force myself to it. I knew I needed to do something but didn’t know what. The mobile rang. Straight away I answered it.

 

“Hows it going?” said Harwood.

 

I closed my eyes and said nothing. I was getting closer to doing what he wanted, and that scared me.

“You there?” he said.

 

“Yeah I’m here,” I said. “I’m not going to do it so why don’t you just leave me alone?”

 

“No, that’s not in the plan,” he said. “I’m getting tired of waiting.”

 

I was about to reply when he broke in. “If you delay any longer I could always phone your boss and tell him you’re at the Starlight Motel.”

 

My gut constricted when he said this. I felt cold all over despite the heat.

 

“You can’t get away,” he said. “You’re either gonna be killed by them or you’re gonna help us.”

 

“I need more time,” I said. almost stammering.

 

“You haven’t got much time left,” he said. He could tell I was getting ready to crack. “You’ve got two hours,” he said.

 

“Okay,” I said. He didn’t reply but cut the call. I lay back on the bed, then sat straight upright again and tried to stop shaking.

 

I stared at the wall and tried to come to accept that I was going to be a grass. Everything I’d been taught to hate. Something every one of my friends hated- friends that would hate me now. I looked at the gun lying on the bed and thought of shooting myself. There were only two options now, I wondered which I would have the guts to take.

 

The phone rang again, going right through me. It couldn’t have been two hours. I looked at the screen-it was from Mr Brent. I answered it.

 

“It’s been a busy day,” he said.

 

“Yeah,” I replied. I was just hoping for the truth now, was I in or out?

 

“This whole thing has been a mess from the start. I’ve told Tony to come home,” he said. “Of course with you we got bigger problems. I believe you, but he doesn’t and he’ll be putting the word around.”

 

“What then?” I asked.

 

“I’ve just heard something,” he said. “They’re taking the guy out of the city. They’ll be stopping at a rest area on the Bruce Highway about 50 k’s out of the city. If you can be there and get to him, then everything will be square, even Tony will have to believe you’re cool after that.”

 

“How many cops with him?” I asked.

 

“No idea,” he said. “It ain’t gonna be easy, might have to take them out as well. Ordinarily I wouldn’t chance it, but I figured you need a chance badly enough.”

 

“I’ll do it,” I said. “I don’t care what I have to do, I’ll get it done.”

 

“Good man,” he said, and ended the call.

 

I looked down at the gun. Now I had a way out of this, I might not make it, but at least I had a chance. I brought my stuff out to the car. I was then hit by a thought. They’d known I was here. Had they put a tracker on the car? I didn’t even know if the cops used these things. Well whatever, even if they had, I wasn’t going to look for it here.

I pulled out of the motel and started heading towards the highway. I kept checking my mirrors all the time. I headed off the main route and into suburbia. I soon spotted them. We were the only two cars on the road. I floored it and began snaking through all the side streets. As soon as I came to a main road I started heading for the freeway again. If they’d been following that close they’d didn’t have a tracker on me. I was hoping now it was just two rogue cops trying something. If they had a network of cars strung out I’d never spot them all. I shrugged it off. I’d done enough worrying and I was probably going to die in the next few hours anyway.

 

My mobile rang again.

 

“You made a decision yet,” said the cop. His voice wasn’t so cocky now, but seemed angrier.

 

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve decided to tell you to shove it. I’m getting out of here.”

 

“Not a wise move,” he said. “They’ll find you sooner or later.”

 

“I’ll take my chances,” I said.

 

Lets see what they are going to do now I thought. I found the freeway and started heading north. The rest area was less than fifty k’s but it was the only one I’d seen so far. Just to be sure I went ahead for another twenty then circled back.

I parked near the entrance, but a couple of rows back. This way I could see everybody who came in. My plan was to wait until they parked and got out. Then I’d do a drive by, and then be straight on to the freeway. From there I’d take the first turn off and head onto the country roads where they wouldn’t find me.

 

It wasn’t a great plan. I knew I was expecting a lot- like he’d actually get out of the car, like I’d have a clear shot. I might not even recognise them and they’d go straight by. They’d be in unmarked cars and would be trying to blend in.

 

I just hoped that when they did turn up, I’d suddenly get a better idea and improvise something. It sure wasn’t looking good. I checked my watch. Forty minutes until they were due to show. Which could mean realistically they could be here any time in the next four hours.

 

A car pulled in and parked on the opposite side of the car park. I’d had a glimpse of the driver and was hoping it wasn’t who I thought it was. I slipped a bit lower in the seat and tried to look across at the car, waiting for the driver to get out. I saw him get out with his back to me as he locked the car. Even from here I could tell it was Tony. It all fell into place then. They’d never believed me, or even thought of giving me a chance. I was lured here and Tony was gonna take me out, simple as that. I always thought I was smarter than them, that I wouldn’t fall for something so obvious if I ever did get set up.

I watched him as he walked over to the rest area block. It was just a restaurant, toilet and two shops. He was probably going to get a drink and go the toilet. Then he would be back in the car waiting for me.

 

My first thought was to peel out of there, get going somewhere. I would have a short amount of time before Tony realised I wasn’t showing. Forget it, I told myself. I’d had enough of this. I could never go back to my old life, but I was gonna leave them with the knowledge that I was a stand-up guy.

 

I got out and walked over to Tony’s car, and then sat down a car behind. I was hoping he wouldn’t be too long heading back. If I sat out there for too long somebody would report it.

 

I kept looking around the edge of the car. I was suddenly hit with the fear that he’d be waiting for me inside. I sat back against the car. I couldn’t try something in there next to the restaurant. It was too much I thought sitting back. This was the only way and if he took too long, and I got security coming round that was too bad.

 

Then I saw him walking back. I kept hidden as he came up to the car. I heard the beep as he turned the central locking off. This was gonna work. I held my gun low and edged around to the passenger side.

I had the door open and my gun aimed straight at him before he knew what was happening. I sat down and slammed the door shut. I held the gun low but where he could see it. Tony was in shock for a second, he didn’t know what to say.

 

“Drive,” I said. “I don’t want to hear anything you’ve got to stay.” I jabbed him in the ribs. “Move it,” I said.

 

He started the engine and pulled out onto the highway. I could see him thinking, trying to find a way out of this. He looked over finally.

 

“So Brent told you they’re stopping somewhere else? He said you might turn up.”

 

I shook my head slightly. “Is that the best you can do Tony? Brent got me out here so you could kill me, isn’t that it?”

 

He opened his mouth. “Shut it,” I said. “I don’t want to hear it.” I should have told him then what I had planned, but I figured he deserved to sweat a bit. After a while I told him.

 

“I’m not gonna kill you Tony,” I said.

 

He looked over at me doubtfully.

 

“For real,” I said. “I’ve never liked you, but I can see why you tried to kill me.”

“Guess they don’t want you to, hey?” he said.

 

“They?” I said incredulously. “You still think I’m with the cops. I’ve come out here, and we’re driving alone, and you still think I’m with the cops.”

 

“Brent said they’d let you come out here, looking like you were gonna do the hit for us, but there’d be no danger because they knew the guy wasn’t coming here. Then you’d say you tried and that you were still with us.”

 

“So what am I doing this for then?” I said. “If I’m with the cops, why aren’t you in ‘cuffs already?”

 

“Well..” he said, and I could see him start thinking things through. I couldn’t be bothered waiting till he’d sorted it all out for himself.

“Slowly get out your gun, and stick it on the floor,” I said.

 

I watched him while he did it, still keeping his eyes on the road.

“Now your mobile,” I said.

 

After he’d dropped the mobile I told him to pull over. He drove onto the grass and stopped. “Now get walking,” I said. Trying not to rush, he opened the door and got out. I watched as he walked away. When he was far enough away I slid over to the driver’s seat. I grabbed his mobile and called Brent.

 

“You’ve done him,” he said, expecting Tony.

 

“No he hasn’t,” I said. “But don’t worry, he’s still alive. I’m getting far away now,” I said.

 

“We’ll find you,” he said.

 

“Don’t bother,” I said. “If I was with the cops I’d be in protective custody now. If you find me it proves I was never with the cops. So there’s no point looking. Think about it,” I said and ended the call. That was the first time I’d ever hung up on him. It felt good. I threw the mobile through the window and pulled back onto the freeway.

The End

The doorknob rattled violently, the blind above it shaking in time to the beat. Someone was in a hurry and didn’t have a key. I did, and I wasn’t. Waiting patiently for events to unfold was a big part of a PI’s life, running away wasn’t. At least not this time. I knew what to expect, and how to expect it, so I sat back in my chair, picked up my forty-five, and waited for said events to unfold.

She’d wandered in a few times before, always late at night, and always in the same tight red number. Took a pew at the bar, lit up a long and narrow one, and ordered a tall glass of something with ice. Drank like a fish, laughed up a storm, and let on that she was everybody’s party girl. Which she was until it was actually time for the party. At that point she’d blow them all a lot of kisses and be out the door and gone.

Not that this was anything so unusual. From where I was sitting, I’d seen it all before. You didn’t miss much from the back of the bar, my usual haunt. I was a wharf rat born and raised. Watched my old man get killed bringing in a union, even walked a beat here for a time before going the PI route. To me, this was home, and she was just another tourist.

But a tourist with a difference. She had those eyes, the deep and mysterious kind that came alive every time the light caught them. Angel eyes I called them. Eyes with a look that you knew was only meant for you, even though the place thick with cigarette smoke and jammed to the rafters with warm bodies.

And I never missed getting that look. I caught it at least once or twice a week, whenever she was in. Yeah, I knew it wasn’t meant for me, but somehow it seemed to round out my day. Even started looking forward to it, although I’d only admit that to myself and my scotch.

The navy was in town tonight, every bar for miles full of sailor boys and their fancy white uniforms. That meant the usual fights and stabbings which kept the locals busy. Me, I stayed out of it as much as I could. Not that I couldn’t take care of myself, but a PI had to be more like the Shadow than Robin Hood. I didn’t go looking for trouble unless someone paid me to. I figured the forest could take care of itself.

And playing the forest tonight was my red honey pot, perched on a barstool not a peanut’s toss from me. I couldn’t see all that much of the action but I sure could hear it. Hi how are ya sailor where ya been all my life buy a poor girl a drink sure baby what’s your pleasure not where that hand’s going bozo shove off aw c’mon honey I haven’t seen a dame in six months yeah well it’s gonna be seven months if you don’t let go so what’s your name dollface…… for what seemed like an eternity.

And then she was gone, a red cork in a sea of white. One second the life of the party, and the next, she was the party. It   was moving on, and she had been invited, whether she wanted to be or not. I raised my glass to her as she sailed out the door. You’re a braver man than I am Gunga Din.

The glass weighed heavily in my hand as I contemplated downing the whole thing and calling it day. The show was over and the crowd was thinning out but I just couldn’t get that face out of my mind. I’d gotten the look alright, but a look with a difference. Instead of liquid magic it had been one of pure panic.

I’d kinda gotten used to seeing her around. Maybe I liked her, maybe I was ready for my own party, maybe I just wanted to buy her drink and hear more of her life story. But for whatever reason, something inside me wouldn’t let me sit there any longer. Unpleasant things were about to happen, and I didn’t know if I liked that or not. Just felt different somehow. More personal.

I shot back my scotch in one gulp, tossed a bill on the table, and wandered out the way I’d come in. Her way. My instincts, drunk as they were, proved to be right. The second I hit the street, I could hear a lot of yelling and cheering close at hand, mixed in with a smaller amount of screaming and unladylike cursing.

I rounded the corner into the alley and found that the party had started without me. A circle of about ten swabbies filled the alley about halfway down, under the one working streetlamp. They were hooting and hollering to beat the band, and shouting encouragement to some unseen pal of theirs. But from what I could hear and see, the friend didn’t seem to be too impressed by all the attention. Whoever it was right in the middle, and pleading for her life.

A step or two closer and I could see what I could hear. She was having the party of her life, but not the one she’d had in mind. She no longer had her red dress on, and from what I could tell was about to lose what was left, and whatever else they wanted from her. She was drunk, she was terrified, and she was being passed from sailor to sailor like a football in a scrimmage.

It was reflex. My piece came out, I snapped a round into the chamber, and lurched over to where the action was. At first they didn’t notice me, my hey you’s lost in sea of cheers and tears. It was the slug that I fired into the night that got their attention. One look at me waving my hardware around and they all took off. Next think I knew I had a warm body pressed up tight against me, tears pouring down shirt front, and more kisses raining down on me than a Rockettes farewell.

What could I say. Wasn’t it was every man’s dream to be hugged by a cute brunette in a slip in the middle of the night.

“You ok?”

“Uh huh.”

“Friends of yours?”

“No.”

I peeled the head away from my shoulder and looked down at her intently. Those big brown eyes, running with tears that were smearing her makeup, reached up and grabbed me like never before.

“You sure? They didn’t…”

“No. They were going to though. They kept saying what a piece I was and how they were going to enjoy getting a piece each. I tried to run away, I really did, but there were too many of them, and then they took my dress off, and then……” The tears started to flow again, and I clutched her even more closely to me,

“Yeah I know, and then… But it won’t happen now I promise. OK? Come on, let’s get you inside and all fixed up.”

“Ok.”

She was cold and shivering by then. I guess a slip doesn’t offer much protection, even on a warm summers night. I whipped off my jacket and hung it over her shoulders, which she acknowledged with a grateful smile and a good solid sniff. I fished the hanky out of the breast pocket and handed it to her as any gentleman would for a lady. We were neither, the two of us, but we had found each other in this darkest of moments, and it was going to get better. I promised.

With my arm around her, I steered her back up the alley towards the street and to life. Along the way I picked up her little red number and purse, both tossed aside like they didn’t count for nothing. Well, they counted for me.

We didn’t go back into the bar we’d just left. That would have been asking for more trouble. Instead we wandered over to a place I knew of that wouldn’t ask too many questions, or give us any trouble. My lady and I were going to have a quiet drink together and then I was going to see her home. And maybe see her again, if this was going to work out the way I was hoping.

It was dark and smoky, like any good bar should be at 2 am, so it wasn’t difficult to get in, get a table in the back, and send her off to the powder room. When she came back, she didn’t look like a million bucks anymore, but it was close enough for me.

We sat around for a while, had a few drinks, shared a few laughs, and then she had to go. But this time she wasn’t getting away. I had her by the wrist and yanked her close, those big brown eyes of hers wide open in surprise. I fished my card out my pocket and tucked it gently into her cleavage. A wink, a slap on the butt when she turned to leave, and it was all over. A wink from her spoke volumes. I was hers.

It wasn’t even a day later when the phone rang. I was getting ready for my nightly prowl, although I was hoping it would end up as more of a date. I was determined to walk up to her this time, buy her drink, and dinner or something afterwards. Our little escapade of the night before had been playing on my heartstrings all day. And it had been music to my ears. I wanted more of this, and of her. But I was going to do it right this time. Step by step.

“Yeah.”

“Freddie? It’s me Doris. You know, from last night.”

“Hey doll face. Glad you called. I was just thinking about…”

“Freddie I gotta see ya right away. I’m scared, Freddie, really scared, he saw us last night.”

“What do you mean. Who saw us last night……”

“Johnny B, and he’s really steamed about it. I never saw him get so mad before. He knows about us. He’s gonna do something stupid, I just know it. You gotta help me, Freddie, you just gotta.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, sure, honey, help is on the way. But look, what’s Johnny B got to do with any of this. All we had was a coupla drinks, and coupla laughs. What’s he so pissed about. It’s not like you’re his girl or anything. Hell, I pulled you off the street myself , and I didn’t see one of his goons anywhere.”

“Yeah I know, but I took off on him last night. I gotta to get away from him once in awhile, you know. A girl’s gotta get out and do things only he won’t let me. That’s why I go to that same bar all the time, I figured it would be safe. It’s miles from where I work but a coupla his guys saw us last night. They were in there. You know, the place you took me to. And they saw us and now he’s out to get me, and you. You don’t know what he’s like when he gets like this.”

“Are you kiddin? Half the town knows what he’s like, and that’s the half he doesn’t own. But I still don’t get how he make the connection. I’m a nobody to him.”

“He was so mad he ripped up my purse. All my stuff, it was all over the place, and he started jumping on my things and…….

“Your purse? You mean…..oh man, don’t tell me.”

“Look, I got no more time to explain. I gotta go. Just wait for me, okay? Promise? I’m leaving right now. Oh my god he’s here…..” And the line went dead.

So, what had started out to be the beginning of a hot little time with a hot little number was all of a sudden gonna end with a hot little bullet in my hot little brain. And not in my pants where it should have been. And all I did was buy a dame a drink.

Figures. The one woman I really fall for is the one who sets me up for it. I’ve had dames offer me everything but the kitchen sink to get them out of one sweat or another. And I gotta say I didn’t turn them all down, but Doris was special. At least that’s what it had felt like. Something popped the first time I’d laid eyes on her, and I couldn’t get her out of my mind after that. That’s why I’d kept going to the bar every night, long after my case was over. All I needed was a second alone with her and my life would have been over. Well I gotten my second, and I’d told her my life story, but this wasn’t the ending I’d had in mind.

The doorknob rattled violently, the blind above it shaking in time to the beat. Someone was in a hurry but didn’t have a key. I did, and I wasn’t. Waiting patiently for events to unfold was a big part of a PI’s life, running away wasn’t. At least not this time. I knew what to expect, and how to expect it, so I sat back in my chair, picked up my forty-five, and waited for this event to unfold.

The End