Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  Dennis sat down on the floor beside the dog and patted it on the head. “Sorry,” he said.

  He took off his shirt, tore it into rags and bound his bad leg with it. It was still bleeding steadily, but not gushing; no major artery had been torn. His ankle wasn’t bleeding as much, but in the dim lantern light he could see that Chum had bitten him to the bone. He used most of the shirt to wrap and strengthen the ankle.

  When he finished, he managed to stand. The shirt binding had stopped the bleeding and the short rest had slightly rejuvenated him.

  He found his eyes drawn to the mess in the corner that was Julie, and his first thought was to cover her, but there wasn’t anything in the room sufficient for the job.

  He closed his eyes and tried to remember how it had been before. When she was whole and the room had a mattress and they had made love all the long, sweet, Mexican afternoon. But the right images would not come. Even with his eyes closed, he could see her mauled body on the floor.

  Ducking his head made some of the dizziness go away, and he was able to get Julie out of his mind by thinking of Morley. He wondered when he would come back. If he was waiting outside.

  But no, that wouldn’t be Morley’s way. He wouldn’t be anxious. He was cocksure of himself, he would go back to the estate for a drink and maybe play a game of chess against himself, gloat a long, sweet while before coming back to check on his handiwork. It would never occur to Morley to think he had survived. That would not cross his mind. Morley saw himself as Life’s best chess master, and he did not make wrong moves; things went according to plan. Most likely, he wouldn’t even check until morning.

  The more Dennis thought about it, the madder he got and the stronger he felt. He moved the chair beneath the rafter where the lantern was hung, climbed up and got it down. He inspected the windows and doors. The door had a sound lock, but the windows were merely boarded. Barrier enough when he was busy with the dog, but not now.

  He put the lantern on the floor, turned it up, found the chair leg he had used against Chum, and substituted it for a pry bar. It was hard work and by the time he had worked the boards off the window his hands were bleeding and full of splinters. His face looked demonic.

  Pulling Chum to him, he tossed him out the window, climbed after him clutching the chair leg. He took up the chain’s slack and hitched it around his forearm. He wondered about the other Dobermans. Wondered if Morley had killed them too, or if he was keeping them around. As he recalled, the Dobermans were usually loose on the yard at night. The rest of the time they had free run of the house, except Morley’s study, his sanctuary. And hadn’t Morley said that later on the spray killed a man’s scent? That was worth something; it could be the edge he needed.

  But it didn’t really matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Six dogs. Six war elephants. He was going after Morley.

  He began dragging the floppy-necked Chum toward the estate.

  Morley was sitting at his desk playing a game of chess with himself, and both sides were doing quite well, he thought. He had a glass of brandy at his elbow, and from time to time he would drink from it, cock his head and consider his next move.

  Outside the study door, in the hall, he could hear Julie’s dogs padding nervously. They wanted out, and in the past they would have been on the yard long before now. But tonight he hadn’t bothered. He hated those bastards, and just maybe he’d get rid of them. Shoot them and install a burglar alarm. Alarms didn’t have to eat or be let out to shit, and they wouldn’t turn on you. And he wouldn’t have to listen to the sound of dog toenails clicking on the tile outside of his study door.

  He considered letting the Dobermans out, but hesitated. Instead, he opened a box of special Cuban cigars, took one, rolled it between his fingers near his ear so he could hear the fresh crackle of good tobacco. He clipped the end off the cigar with a silver clipper, put it in his mouth and lit it with a desk lighter without actually putting the flame to it. He drew in a deep lungfull of smoke and relished it, let it out with a soft, contented sigh.

  At the same moment he heard a sound, like something being dragged across the gravel drive. He sat motionless a moment, not batting an eye. It couldn’t be lover boy, he thought. No way.

  He walked across the room, pulled the curtain back from the huge glass door, unlocked it and slid it open.

  A cool wind had come along and it was shaking the trees in the yard, but nothing else was moving. Morley searched the tree shadows for some tell-tale sign, but saw nothing.

  Still, he was not one for imagination. He had heard something. He went back to the desk chair where his coat hung, reached the revolver from his pocket, turned.

  And there was Dennis. Shirtless, one pants leg mostly ripped away. There were blood-stained bandages on his thigh and ankle. He had the chain partially coiled around one arm, and Chum, quite dead, was lying on the floor beside him. In his right hand Dennis held a chair leg, and at the same moment Morley noted this and raised the revolver, Dennis threw it.

  The leg hit Morley squarely between the eyes, knocked him against his desk, and as he tried to right himself, Dennis took hold of the chain and used it to swing the dead dog. Chum struck Morley on the ankles and took him down like a scythe cutting fresh wheat. Morley’s head slammed into the edge of the desk and blood dribbled into his eyes; everything seemed to be in a mixmaster, whirling so fast nothing was identifiable.

  When the world came to rest, he saw Dennis standing over him with the revolver. Morley could not believe the man’s appearance. His lips were split in a thin grin that barely showed his teeth. His face was drawn and his eyes were strange and savage. It was apparent he had found the key in the coat, because the collar was gone.

  Out in the hall, bouncing against the door, Morley could hear Julie’s dogs. They sensed the intruder and wanted at him. He wished now he had left the study door open, or put them out on the yard.

  “I’ve got money,” Morley said.

  “Fuck your money,” Dennis screamed. “I’m not selling anything here. Get up and get over here.”

  Morley followed the wave of the revolver to the front of his desk. Dennis swept the chess set and stuff aside with a swipe of his arm and bent Morley backwards over the desk. He put one of the collars around Morley’s neck, pulled the chain around the desk a few times, pushed it under and fastened the other collar over Morley’s ankles.

  Tucking the revolver into the waistband of his pants, Dennis picked up Chum and tenderly placed him on the desk chair, half-curled. He tried to poke the dog’s tongue back into his mouth, but that didn’t work. He patted Chum on the head, said, “There, now.”

  Dennis went around and stood in front of Morley and looked at him, as if memorizing the moment.

  At his back the Dobermans rattled the door.

  “We can make a deal,” Morley said. “I can give you a lot of money, and you can go away. We’ll call it even.”

  Dennis unfastened Morley’s pants, pulled them down to his knees. He pulled the underwear down. He went around and got the spray can out of Morley’s coat and came back.

  “This isn’t sporting, Dennis. At least I gave you a fighting chance.”

  “I’m not a sport,” Dennis said.

  He sprayed Morley’s testicles with the chemical. When he finished he tossed the canister aside, walked over to the door and listened to the Dobermans scuttling on the other side.

  “Dennis!”

  Dennis took hold of the doorknob.

  “Screw you then,” Morley said. “I’m not afraid. I won’t scream. I won’t give you the pleasure.”

  “You didn’t even love her,” Dennis said, and opened the door.

  The Dobermans went straight for the stench of the spray, straight for Morley’s testicles.

  Dennis walked calmly out the back way, closed the glass door. And as he limped down the drive, making for the gate, he began to laugh.

  Morley had lied. He did too scream. In fact, he was still screaming.

  The Triangle />
  by Teri White

  The Triangle not only won the Edgar in its year, it is generally considered to be one of the best novels of its decade. It certainly foreshadows what White would do in future years—offer us a very Graham Greene-like sense of America’s mean streets . . . a spicy admixture of sass and sorrow. Soon enough her work will be recognized for its own very special attributes.

  First published in 1982.

  Prologue

  The baby blue BMW glided almost silently through the alley, stopping finally behind a modest brick apartment building. A moment later the car door opened and Johnny slid out of the passenger seat. He pushed the door gently and it closed with a muffled thud. The man behind the wheel lit a cigarette and slid down in the seat a little.

  Johnny walked with long strides toward the building, his soft-soled shoes making no sound against the brick surface. The morning felt clean, somehow filled with newness after last night’s rain. It was Johnny’s favorite kind of day, and he took a couple of deep, satisfying breaths, smiling with quiet pleasure as he moved.

  When he reached the back door of the apartment building, he paused, taking a narrow length of steel from his pocket. It took exactly five point six seconds for the lock to click open beneath his slender fingers. Without turning, he lifted one hand in a V-for-Victory gesture over his shoulder.

  The door opened at his touch and he slipped into the dim coolness of the hallway. As expected, it was quiet. Sunday was the best time to work. Somehow, no one ever seemed to anticipate anything unpleasant happening as he digested his eggs and comic papers.

  Johnny knew exactly where he was going. Nothing was ever left to chance during these operations, and he had complete faith in the plan as it had been explained to him. Apartment eleven was at the far end of the hallway and Johnny didn’t even pause until he was standing directly in front of the door. He knocked firmly with his left hand, at the same time reaching his right inside the worn corduroy sport coat to grasp the gun that hung at his side. The eight-inch barreled piece of blue steel rested easily in his grip as he waited patiently for a response to his knock.

  The door opened finally and Papagallos stood there smiling, a plump grey-haired man wearing a red silk robe and black patent slippers. The smile lost a little of its brightness as he realized that this visitor was not whom he had expected to find on his threshold this particular Sabbath morning. His expression, however, remained genial. Johnny often noticed that same reaction on other faces. People just seemed to trust him on sight, even people like Papagallos, who had reason to fear every stranger at the door.

  One day, after Johnny had given a great deal of thought to the whole matter, but was still unable to figure out why everyone seemed to trust him so implicitly, he went to Mac for an explanation. Mac, who usually had all the answers, only shrugged. “You just have a nice face,” he said absently. That wasn’t much of an answer, but Mac seemed satisfied, so Johnny accepted it.

  Papagallos obviously felt no fear, no sudden pang of apprehension. No premonition. His apparently somewhat nearsighted gaze swept over the tall blond man in the doorway, seeing the battered running shoes, the much-faded, too-tight Levis, the bright yellow T-shirt topped by the brown cord jacket. And then he noticed the gun, but by then it was too late, because the bullet was already on its way toward him.

  The jacketed hollow point slug collided with Papagallos’ forehead. Blood, fragments of bone, and lumpy pieces of grey brain matter splattered against the seagreen brocaded wallpaper of the foyer as Papagallos, still smiling, slid to the floor.

  It was not until then that Johnny saw the other man inside the room and the sight momentarily confused him. Papagallos was supposed to have been alone for at least another hour. The confusion didn’t last long, however. His instructions had been drilled into him time after time. No witnesses. A linger pressed against the trigger once more, the silenced gun popped, and the gangly redhead flew back against the chair, blood gushing from his chest.

  Carefully avoiding Papagallos’ body, Johnny reached in to pull the door closed, wiping the polished brass knob with the sleeve of his jacket. He tucked the gun back into his holster before walking swiftly, but calmly, back down the hall.

  Emerging into the sunshine and fresh air again, he paused, giving a sigh as light as the gentle spring breeze, then moved briskly back to the car. Mac already had the engine purring softly. “Everything go okay?” he asked, as always.

  Johnny ignored the question, resting back against the seat, his eyes closed. The car pulled out of the alley, slipping neatly into the flow of traffic. For nearly five minutes, the two men rode in silence. Finally Johnny straightened. He took off his tinted aviator glasses and began to clean them with a crumpled tissue. “Do you know what I’d like?” he asked dreamily.

  Mac’s grip on the steering wheel relaxed. “What?”

  “A strawberry ice cream cone.” Johnny put the glasses back on, settling them precisely on his nose, and peered at Mac. “Could I get one, please?”

  “Sure, if we can find a place open this early.”

  Johnny smiled.

  It took a little searching, but they managed finally to locate a small dairy store with an OPEN sign stuck in the front window. Mac pulled the car into the parking lot and stopped. “Strawberry, you said, right?”

  “Yeah. Two scoops.”

  “Coming right up.” Mac got out of the car and walked into the grimy little store, his hand-tooled western boots making sharp clicking noises on the linoleum floor.

  There was no one in the place except a pimple-faced teenage clerk, who gave Mac a look of complete boredom. “Yeah?” he said around a wad of gum.

  “Double dip of strawberry.”

  “Cup cone or sugar?”

  “Ah, sugar,” Mac said absently, never able to remember which kind Johnny preferred. He turned around to stare through the dirt-streaked window. Sunlight reflected off the hand-polished finish of the BMW. Johnny sat slumped in the seat, his glasses catching rays of the golden light, making it look as if he had a bright halo around his head. The sight bemused

  Mac and the clerk spoke twice before he really heard him. “Huh?”

  “Sixty cents, mister,” the kid repeated wearily.

  He tossed some coins down onto the sticky counter and took the cone carefully, grabbing a couple of napkins from the dispenser at the same time.

  Johnny greeted his return with another smile, reaching out to take the cone. “Thank you,” he said.

  Mac only grunted a reply as he got behind the wheel again and headed the car back toward the motel. Johnny was quiet during the ride, eating the ice cream with studied concentration.

  It took only fifteen minutes for them to reach the Welcome Inn. Their room was undoubtedly a depressing place to inhabit, with walls that were painted an indeterminate color somewhere between brown and grey, and painfully utilitarian furnishings, but the type was so familiar that neither one of them even noticed the quality of their surroundings anymore.

  Mac stood at the window, watching the traffic on the busy street just beyond, and listening to the crescendo of the shower running in the bathroom. Behind him, the fuzzy black-and-white TV flickered soundlessly as a white-haired video preacher exhorted the masses to spiritual awakening. Mac smoked three cigarettes in a row as he waited for the shower to go off.

  Johnny came out finally, barefooted and shirtless, his Levis sporting damp patches, his face flushed. “Someday you’re going to boil yourself alive,” Mac said sourly. Johnny only shrugged, turning up the volume on the TV.

  “. . . and Jesus Christ wants you to accept His offer of eternal life.”

  Mac turned to stare at the screen. “Why do you listen to that crap?”

  “ ‘Bonanza’ comes on after,” Johnny replied. “Little Joe might get hung.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and moved his shoulders slightly. Mac crushed out his just-lit fourth cigarette and came over. Using both hands, he began to massage the tense muscles in Johnny’s neck
and shoulders. “So?” he said shortly. “What’s the matter?”

  “There was somebody with him,” Johnny said after a moment.

  Mac’s hands paused briefly in their movements, then resumed the massage. “Yeah?”

  Johnny nodded. “A skinny redheaded guy. You told me Papagallos would be by himself.” It was an accusation.

  “Sorry.” Mac never wasted much time regretting what couldn’t be helped. “So?”

  “I shot him.”

  Mac’s fingers moved efficiently through still-damp blond curls clinging to the back of Johnny’s neck. “Well, you had to.”

  “Yeah, I know. I know.” Johnny’s voice sounded old and very tired. He moved away from the massage abruptly and stretched out on the chenille bedspread, covering his eyes with one arm.

  Mac watched him for a moment, then picked up a faded green windbreaker and pulled it on. “I’m going out,” he said. “I probably won’t be gone long.” He waited for a response, but when there was none, he left the room, shutting the door carefully behind himself.

  BOOK 1

  Chapter 1

  They had been humping through the bush for three days now, and nobody really knew why. In fact, no one was even sure just where the hell they were. Mac just kept them moving, following a map that must have been drawn by an idiot with one thumb up his ass. He figured that the simple momentum of their journey would sooner or later provide a motive for the trip.

  Needing to piss, Mac stepped off the path and let the line of men continue to move past him. As he sprayed the nearby plants, his mind was trying to dredge up the title of an old song made famous by Nat King Cole. Something he used to play all the time on the jukebox in the Hi-Time Cafe back in Okie City. Years ago. Must have played that damned song two thousand times, he thought, zipping his trousers. Why can’t I remember the fucking title? He wiped his hand on the seat of his trousers. Wonder if maybe I’m losing my mind?