Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  Sunlight spilled over the twisted ground like molten gold, pushing at the shadows, chasing the night.

  She was still in my arms when I woke up. I stared down at her, not wanting to move, afraid to wake her.

  And then her eyes popped open suddenly, and a sleepy smile tilted the corners of her mouth.

  “Good morning, darling,” she said. Her voice was still lined with sleep, as fuzzy as a caterpillar.

  “Hello.”

  She yawned, stretching her arms over her head in lazy contentment. She took a deep breath and then smiled archly, and I looked deep into her eyes, trying to read whatever emotion was hidden in their brown depths.

  “Your boyfriend,” I started.

  “Carrera?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Her face was serious, so serious that it startled me.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Well, anyway,” I said, “he’s still got my ten thousand.”

  “I know.”

  “I want it back.”

  “I know.”

  “I want you to help me get it.”

  She was silent for a long while. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper. “Why?”

  “Why? Holy Jesus, that’s ten thousand bucks! You know how much work I did to get that dough . . .”

  “Why not forget it? Why not . . . forget it?”

  “Sister, you’re crazy. You’re crazier’n hell.”

  “Carrera will kill you. I know him. Would you rather be dead without your money . . . or would you rather be alive without it? Alive and . . . with me?”

  I hesitated before answering. “Ten G’s is a lot of money, baby.”

  “I’m a lot of woman,” she answered.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well?”

  I shook my head. “If you help me, I can have both. We can do a lot with that money.”

  She considered this for a moment and then asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  “You’ll help?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want to set a trap for Carrera.”

  “What kind of a trap?”

  “Will you help?”

  She moved closer to me and buried her head against my shoulder. Her voice tingled along my skin. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  We gave the sun time to get directly overhead, laying our plan as carefully as the foundation of a cathedral. The idea was to get Carrera out into the clearing. Once he was there, I’d either get the money or put a big hole in his fat face. He could take his choice.

  Linda and I crouched behind the rocks, our heads close together. The sun bore down ferociously, baking the earth, spreading heat over the surface of the land. The sky was as blue as a sapphire, streaked with spidery white clouds that trailed their delicacy across the wide wash. It was the Mexico of the picture books, bright and clear, warm, alive—and it should have been pulsating with the throb of laughter and music, wine and song, fiesta.

  Instead, a funeral was being planned.

  Carrera’s.

  And Mexico, the willing mistress, arched her crooked backbone, thrust up a solid barrier of jagged rock behind which we plotted while the sun watched with a bland, disinterested face. There was a sheer wall behind Carrera, rising like a giant tombstone for some hundred feet, terminating there in a jumble of twisted branches and fallen rock. A few feet from the wall, jutting up like an old man’s browned, crooked teeth, was the outcropping behind which Carrera squatted with his. .45—and with my ten G’s.

  Once Carrera left the protection of that natural fortress, he was in my pocket.

  We got to work. My watch read 12:45, and the sun was hot, probably as hot as it would get all day. The sweat spread across the front of my shirt like a muddy ink blot, staining my armpits, rolling down my face in steady streams.

  Linda screamed, just the way we’d planned it. The scream tore the heat waves into shreds and clung to the jagged rocks like a tattered piece of cloth.

  “Shut up!” I shouted. “Shut your goddamn mouth.”

  “Jose!” she bellowed, her head turned to Carrera. There was no sound from across the clearing. I kept low behind the rocks, wondering if Carrera was listening, wondering if our little act was having any effect.

  “I warned you,” I shouted. “One more word . . .” I cut myself short and yelled, “Hey, what the hell . . . hey, cut it out! Let go that gun!”

  “You lousy filthy scum,” Linda shrieked.

  “Don’t! Don’t! For God’s sake . . .”

  I pointed the .45 over my head and fired two quick shots, the thunder echoing among the rocks like the dying beat of a horse’s hooves. I screamed as loud as I could, and then I dropped my voice into a trailing moan. I clamped my jaws shut then and allowed silence to cover the land.

  It was quiet for a long time.

  Linda and I crouched down behind the rocks, waiting, looking at each other, the sweat pouring from our bodies. There was still no sound from the other side of the flatland, and I began to doubt the effectiveness of our plan.

  And then, softly, in a whisper that reached across the pebble-strewn clearing and climbed the rock barrier, Carrera called, “Linda?”

  I put my finger to my lips.

  “Linda?” he called again.

  I nodded this time, and she answered, “It’s all right, Jose. It’s all right.”

  Carrera was quiet again, and I could picture him behind his rock barrier, his ears strained, his fat face flushed.

  “The American?” he called.

  “He is dead,” Linda answered.

  “Tell him to come over,” I prompted.

  She hesitated for a moment and then said, “Come over, Jose. Come.”

  I waited, my chest heaving, the .45 heavy in my hand.

  “Throw out the American’s gun,” Carrera said. His voice was cold and calculating. He wasn’t buying it. He suspected a trick, and he wanted to make sure I wasn’t forcing his woman to play along with me. I bit my lip and stared at the .45.

  “Give me the gun,” Linda whispered.

  “What for? What good would that . . .”

  “I’ll stand up. When he sees me with the gun, he will no longer suspect. Give it to me.”

  “Throw out the gun, Linda,” Carrera called again.

  “Quick,” she said, “give me the gun.”

  I hesitated for a moment, and then I passed the gun to her, holding it by the barrel, fitting the stock into her fingers.

  She took the gun gently, and then pointed it at my belly. A small smile tilted the corners of her mouth as she stood up. My eyes popped wide in astonishment.

  “It’s all right now, Jose,” she said. “I’ve got his gun.”

  “Bueno,” Carrera said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. I’d been suckered, taken like a schoolboy, hook, line, and sinker.

  I slammed my right fist into the palm of my left hand.

  “So that’s the way it is,” I said.

  “That’s the way it is, senor,” she answered. The gun didn’t waver. It kept pointing at my belt buckle.

  “And it’s senor now,” I added. “Last night, it was Jeff.”

  “Last night was last night,” she said. “Now is now.”

  Across the clearing, I could hear Carrera scraping his feet against the rocks as he clambered to a standing position. Linda’s eyes flicked briefly to the right as she heard the sound, too, and then snapped back.

  I studied the gun in her hand, and I listened to the noises Carrera was making as he started across the clearing. I wondered whether I should pull the old “Get-her-Joe!” dodge, or the equally familiar “Who’s-that-behind-you?” routine.

  I decided against both. Linda was no dummy, and she could hear Carrera coming as well as I could. If anyone were behind her, Carrera would see him. And besides, she knew damn well there was no one but the three of us in those lonely hills. No, it had to be something else.


  And it had to be soon.

  Carrera was a fat man, but he was covering ground. I glanced over at him, watching him waddle slowly across the long, pebble-strewn flatland. He was bigger than I’d imagined he was, with a flat nose and beady black eyes that squatted like olives on either side of it. He kept coming, with still a hell of a lot of ground to cover, but plodding steadily away at it. Once he got to me, it was goodbye MacCauley, goodbye ten thousand bucks, goodbye world. And I never liked saying goodbye.

  I started my play then. I began to sweat because I knew what it meant. Nothing had ever meant so much, and so it had to be good. It had to be damned good.

  “I’m surprised, Linda,” I told her. I kept my voice low, a bare whisper that only she could hear. From the corner of my eye, I watched Carrera’s progress.

  “You should learn to expect surprises, senor,” she answered.

  “I thought it meant a little more than . . .” I stopped short and shook my head.

  She was interested. I could see the way her brows pulled together slightly, a small V appearing between them.

  “Never mind,” I finished. “We’ll just forget it.”

  “What is there to forget?” she asked. She wanted me to go on. She tried to keep her voice light, but there was something behind her question, an uncertain probing. Carrera was halfway across the clearing now. I saw the .45 in his pudgy fist and I began to sweat more heavily. I had to hurry.

  “There’s you to forget,” I said. “You, Linda. You and last night. That’s a lot of forgetting to do before I die.”

  “Stop it,” she said softly.

  “And the promise,” I went on. “That’ll be the hardest to forget. The promise, Linda, You and me . . . and ten thousand bucks. You and me, Linda . . .”

  “Stop it!”

  “You and me without Carrera. Don’t you see, Linda?” I pleaded. “Can’t you understand what I’m telling you. Isn’t it all over my face? What do I have to do to make you . . .”

  “Jeff, no,” she said. “No, please.” She shook her head as if trying to clear it.

  I took a step closer to her. Carrera was no more than fifty feet away now. I could feel the sun on my shoulders and head, could hear the steady crunch of Carrera’s feet against the pebbles.

  “Look at him, Linda,” I said, my voice a husky whisper. “Take a look at the fat slobbering pig you’re doing this for.”

  “Don’t . . .” she said. She kept shaking her head and I could see her eyes beginning to glaze over.

  “Take a look! Look at him, go ahead. There’s your boyfriend! There’s Carrera!”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she said, anguish in her throat.

  “Your boyfriend,” I repeated. “Carrera, fat . . .”

  “My husband,” she said. “My husband, Jeff, my husband.”

  He was almost on us. I could see his features plainly, could see the sweat dripping off his forehead. I took another step towards Linda.

  “Leave him,” I whispered urgently. “Leave him, darling. Leave him, leave him.”

  She hesitated for a moment, and I saw her lower lip tremble. “Jeff, I . . . I . . .”

  She lowered the .45 for an instant, and that was when I sprang. I didn’t bother with preliminaries. I brought back my fist as I leaped and uncocked it as the .45 went off like a skyrocket. I smelled the acrid odor of cordite in my nostrils, and then I felt my fist slam against her jaw. She was screaming when it caught her, but she stopped instantly, crumpling against the ground like a dirty shirt.

  Carrera was running now. I couldn’t see him as I stooped to pick up the .45, but a man his size couldn’t run on pebbles without all Mexico hearing it. I scrambled to my feet, lifting my head over the outcropping.

  He fired the minute my head showed, his bullets chipping off rock that scattered like shrapnel, ripping into my face. I covered my eyes with one hand and began firing blindly.

  Carrera stopped shooting as soon as I cut loose. I uncovered my face, then, and got him in my sights. He wasn’t hard to hit. Something that big never is. I fired two shots that sprouted into big red blossoms across the white cotton shirt he wore. He clutched at the blossoms as if he wanted to pick them for a bouquet, and then he changed his mind and fell flat on his face. The ground seemed to tremble a little—and then it was quiet.

  I looked over my shoulder at Linda. She was still sprawled out on the ground, her hair spread out like spilled blackstrap under her head. I climbed over the rocks and walked to where Carrera was decorating the landscape. I rolled him over and unfastened the money belt. Carefully, slowly, I counted the money. It was all there, ten thousand bucks worth. Carrera’s eyes stared up at it, still greedy, but they weren’t seeing anything any more. I picked up his .45 and tucked it in my waistband. Overhead, like black thunderclouds, the vultures were already beginning their slow spiral. Carrera would be a feast, all right, a real fat feast.

  I walked back to the rocks, my .45 cocked in my right hand.

  She was just sitting up when I got there. Her knees were raised, and the skirt was pulled back over them, showing the cool whiteness of her thighs. She brushed a black lock of hair away from her face, looking up at me with wide brown eyes.

  Her voice caught in her throat. “Carrera?” she asked.

  “He’s dead,” I said.

  “Oh.” The word died almost before it found voice. She stared at the ground for a moment, and then lifted her head again. “Then . . . then it’s all right . . . you and me . . . we . . .”

  I shook my head slowly.

  A puzzled look crept into her eyes. She looked at me with confusion all over her face, and the lip began trembling again.

  “No, baby,” I said.

  “But . . .”

  “No,” I repeated.

  “But, you said . . .”

  I turned my back on her and started walking down the twisting path, anxious to cover the long distance to the Olds.

  “Jeff!” she cried.

  I kept walking. Over my shoulder, I said, “You’re Carrera’s woman, baby. Remember? Go back to him.”

  I heard the sob that escaped her lips, but I didn’t look back. I kept walking, the sun still high, the sky a bright blue except where the vultures hung against it like hungry black dots.

  HOMICIDE HAUL

  Robert Carlton

  The taxi meter was ticking . . . but not the passenger’s heart!

  A night cabby is liable to find almost anything in the back seat.

  The past five years I’ve found some dillies, including a gent’s wig, size seven, a ladies’ South African love charm, and the keys to Tyler, Texas. Once I found a live duck-billed platypus, and I don’t blame the guy for losing it. But I’ll never forget the date—September 12th—I found a corpse.

  The day drivers get the ordinary customers, the businessmen, the shoppers, the old ladies frantic to catch a train. The night cabbies, especially the graveyard shift, ride the characters—the great lovers, the part-time millionaires, and the deluxe drunks.

  This Nelson Claredon was a lush, and a back-seat orator. He talked. About everything—his brokerage business, education, health, his grandmother’s funeral, the ponies, politics, and his future. Mostly, he talked about his wife, Mona. He said she was earth’s most beautiful creature, and he loved her beyond words.

  But when I asked if Mona returned his love, Mr. Claredon fell oddly silent. Then he’d talk about Jed Sever, and I got it Jed Sever was a skunklike cousin of the platypus I’d found. Mr. Claredon stated all artists who induced other men’s wives to sit for midnight portraits were wicked. He further asserted Jed Sever was uncouth, immoral, no gentleman, and low. He said all Sever’s ancestors were degraded; that Sever should be shot, then hung.

  From this I got it Mr. Claredon did not like Mr. Sever. And since it is not a hackie’s job to raise a customer’s blood pressure, I asked no more. But I put two and two together and got four, so I wasn’t surprised to learn Mr. Claredon was not divorcing his wife for such a so-a
nd-so. Among other things I can say Mr. Claredon was a prophet, but here is exactly what happened.

  It was the night of September 12th, or the morning of the 13th, if you start your day at midnight as I do. At one a.m. as usual, I parked Five-Twelve outside the Clover Club. I had a standing order six nights a week to pick up Mr. Claredon at the club. Since Mr. Claredon was a folding-money tipper, I was on time.

  He wandered out of the dine-dancegamble joint, listed to port, and trailed his expensive topcoat across the sidewalk. His black homburg teetered precariously over his thin face, and his big dark eyes regarded me broodingly.

  “Joey,” he said thickly, “I’m tight.”

  I touched my cap and helped him into the rear seat. “Six nights a week, Mr. Claredon. With you it’s a career. What do you do on Sunday night?”

  He flopped back on the cushions. “On Sunday night I pray.”

  I closed the door and climbed behind the wheel. I’m not tall, only five-six, and I use a cushion for better visibility. As I sat down, I felt the Stilson under the cushion. I was aware the riding public looked questioningly at drivers who carried wrenches in the front seat, but considering the hazards of a night driver’s life, I’d adopted a public-be-damned attitude. I slipped the DeSoto in gear. As we coasted away from the curb, Mr. Claredon leaned forward and rested his elbows on the window’s edge.

  “Pray, Joey,” he repeated. “I’m no good. My heart is no good. My soul stinks. Prayer is all I have left. You know how I got my start in the brokerage business?”

  I eased the cab into the right-hand traffic lane. They talk better if I drive slow. “Sure. You worked hard and saved your money.”

  “Like hell I did,” Mr. Claredon retorted. “I sold worthless bonds, Joey, to people with faith. Little people—widows, small businessmen, retired conductors, fruit peddlers. I got them to stick their life savings in bum stocks, and left them with the sack.”

  “So?” I stopped for a red light. “It’s a rough old world, Mr. Claredon. Dog eat dog. Big fish gets the little fish. You did the best you could.”

  “No, Joey.” I glanced in the rear vision mirror as Mr. Claredon’s voice broke. Tears streaked my fare’s pallid face. Mr. Claredon had started his crying jag. “No. And now I’m without hope. The Man Upstairs is paying me off. You ever wonder why I go to the Clover Club six nights a week?”