AHMM, July-August 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Shiflett."

  "I'll see if I can find out anything more about these other killings. Miss Tait, your informant isn't going to tell Winston that people are asking about him, is he?"

  "Of course not! I let him know that was not something he should do.” That settled that, of course. Nobody would cross Aunt Margaret. “And I gave him five dollars for his trouble and hinted there might be more if he kept quiet."

  "Good. Well, now we have to wait for Winston to get back and then confront him."

  "Do you think that's wise?"

  "I don't see what choice we have. We don't have enough to bring the sheriff in yet. We need to get him to admit to these killings."

  "That's my job.” The sound of my own voice surprised me. “You won't get anything by threatening this man, but if I give him the chance to gloat, maybe he'll say something we can use."

  Aunt Margaret and Shiflett both started to speak, but Pud interrupted. “Jack's right. He's the one to do it. Jack, you'll need to work out how to approach this man."

  I nodded. “That's mighty brave, Mr. Jack,” said Strother, “Facing a murderer like that.” I nodded again. I was afraid if I spoke I might just hear myself trying to get out of it.

  So, over the next week, I worked out a plan. It wasn't much. I was going to be a storeowner looking to buy prophylactics for under-the-counter sales. Pud dropped a few hints and several outright instructions on how to handle this jasper and I always listened to Pud, of course. But I was full of doubt. What would Winston be willing to tell me? And what good would it do anyway? Still, it was clear that either we proved Winston murdered Noreen or I was going to hang.

  After eight days of waiting, Strother got word that Winston had returned. Shiflett picked me up in his Ford and carried me to town. He said, “It's a good thing Winston's back now. I've been pushing arraignment off, but the judge has scheduled hearings for the day after tomorrow. He'll probably set an early trial date.” He paused, concentrating on the road ahead. “It doesn't look good."

  I knew that. “I better get Mr. Winston to confess then.” My voice didn't crack. Shiflett nodded. He didn't say anything else.

  I got out two blocks from the Strand and walked over. Some folks noticed me and started whispering behind their hands. No doubt they were saying, “There goes the killer!” The women all excited and fanning themselves, working out the way they would tell it to their friends, “Big as life! Just walking down the street! Bold as brass!” and so forth. I didn't feel so very bold when I walked into the Strand.

  I stopped by the desk. I already knew Winston was up on the third floor, but Shiflett said I needed to be seen by witnesses. The desk clerk gawked at me and I tried to imagine him testifying. Winston was in and the clerk sent me up.

  I rapped on the door and looked around. The hall was deserted, just a chambermaid going into one of the other rooms.

  The door opened and there he stood, a pudgy, balding man about thirty-five years old or so. “Well,” he said and his eyes lit up, “why don't you come in?” He giggled a little as I entered, and I knew all my plans were worthless.

  "You know who I am?"

  "Oh, yes. You're young John Tait. I've heard about you!” He had a great grin on his face like a dog choking on a chicken neck. He closed the door and leaned back against it.

  "What have you heard, Mr. Winston?"

  "Why don't you tell me why you're here, Mr. Tait?"

  "Well, a while back, when you were last in town, we ran into each other at the BusyB."

  "Did we?"

  "You came to my table and..."

  Winston shook his head slowly from side to side, and I knew I had it wrong somehow. “Not I. I seldom frequent those places. Illegal drinking, gambling ... and those loose women!” His grin got even wider. “Oh, they can be terrible, you know. That's what my product is all about."

  "Which you sell to the Bee."

  "Well, of course. Who needs it more? But I conduct my business in the office, not in the place where people booze and consort with women.” His lip curled when he said that last word.

  "I know that I saw you."

  "Really? Now, what I hear—and mind you, this is only hearsay, Mr. Tait—is that you were too drunk to see much of anything."

  "I...” I stammered a bit. I was confused.

  Winston leaned back against the door and regarded me through half closed eyes. “Why, let's say now, just for instance—hypothetically, mind! Let's say, for instance, that you managed to get out into the parking lot—maybe you crawled out, maybe a waiter assisted you. Let's say, hypothetically, you were so drunk that you couldn't climb into that big old car of yours. Let's say, perhaps, that the floozy you were with couldn't get you in, either. Let's say, just for argument's sake, that some friendly passerby helped you into your car. Why, if that had happened, I'll bet you wouldn't be able to identify that kind soul. No, I'll bet you wouldn't even remember it happening."

  "I was in the backseat..."

  "Oh, my! I wonder who drove your car away from the BusyB? Perhaps it was that chippy. Perhaps, oh do you think!” He paused for effect, grinning like a jack-o'-lantern. “Do you think perhaps it was that kind stranger passing by who offered to drive the young lady home? Do you think?"

  Then I knew him. I didn't remember ever seeing him before, but deep down I knew the person he was. He was so proud of himself and just itching to let people know how smart he was, and I knew how to handle him. I said, “That sounds like the way it happened, all right."

  I looked around. There were cartons stacked in a corner and a fancy box on the dressing table. Product, no doubt. I sat down in the chair by the dressing table and saw, in the mirror, Winston jump a little and his grin drop. But when I looked up at him he had recovered his expression. “You don't mind if I sit down, do you? I've been on my feet all day and..."

  Winston's eyes narrowed and he yanked the door open and looked both ways. The chambermaid was just leaving a room down the hall, but there was no one outside. He closed the door again and leaned back against it.

  "Why so jumpy, Winston?” I said, “I'm the one going to hang.” He just grinned at me. “It bothers me, though, that I didn't do it. Mind you, I could have done it."

  "You?” Winston sneered. “You really think you could do that?"

  "Sure. I've thought about it lots of times."

  "Thinking isn't doing."

  "No, I suppose not. Still, I'm young yet.” I gestured and Winston started forward. I let my hand drop and he relaxed.

  "You have to start early."

  "Oh? How early is that?” I waved a hand but got no reaction. It was my left hand, the one over the dressing table, that bothered him.

  Winston shrugged. “Maybe the first few don't work out that well. Maybe it takes time to get your plan worked out."

  "Oh. So we don't talk about the early ones, then? They only went to experience? Not part of the final score."

  "You might say that."

  "I don't suppose there's any lack of targets."

  "There's plenty of subject matter swarming about."

  "Swarming like flies.” I said. He nodded. “Like dirty flies..."

  "Filth!” he said. “Disgusting, corrupt..."

  "It's horrible,” I said, “how they twist your needs into their filthiness.” I saw his eyes shutter and knew I was pushing too hard. “Anyway, there's so many, who would miss a few?” He shrugged. Then I understood the problem, he didn't want to talk about his victims, he wanted to talk about himself. “Pretty smart,” I said, “traveling. One here, one there, no one ties it together. Like that one in Germany, Kurten? Who used the trains..."

  "Kurten was a disgusting pervert! A degenerate!” Winston was breathing hard.

  "Not really that intelligent, either, I understand."

  "No! He...” There was a thump in the hall and Winston yanked the door open and ran outside.

  I grabbed the box on the dresser. It was an inlaid wooden workbox, like women keep sew
ing in. It was locked. I snapped open my pocketknife, a gift from the Senator long ago that I always carried. I stuck the big blade under the lid and pried it open. Inside were a bunch of prophylactic tins, different brands, some round and some oblong. I snapped one open and stared at the gray, wrinkled thing inside, not realizing what it was until I saw the red rose stud that was attached to it.

  Winston hissed and shut the door behind him. “So now you know."

  "Oh, I've always known. Why do you think I'm here?” I closed the tin and replaced it. My hands didn't shake very much. “But why keep these?"

  "So I can remember! Each one is a different time, a different ... event!"

  "I see. Well,” I closed the pocketknife and put it back in my pocket. “There you are. Something else to learn.” I rose from the chair. “That's all the lessons for now, I believe."

  Winston latched the door. “I don't think so, Tait.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a sizeable clasp knife. “I think there's one more lesson to go.” He snapped the blade open with a flick of his wrist.

  "Now how are you going to explain this?"

  "Oh, the murderer came to my room, threatened me with a knife. This knife.” He waved it around and it looked big as a cavalry sword. “In the struggle, Mr. Tait was stabbed. In your pocket they'll find that last little souvenir and realize what a monster you are. Were.” He grinned. “I hate to lose it, but,” Winston shrugged, “I'll still have the others hidden away."

  I made a little move and Winston jumped, then crouched with the knife out. But I had seen him flinch. He was afraid of me. He was a fearful man, that's why his victims were small and weak. He was a bully. I knew about bullies. I remembered Billy Thurston on the Miller Creek Bridge. I gathered myself and charged right at him.

  Winston swung the knife at me and I felt a tug on my jacket as the knife slashed it open. I slammed him against the wall, then felt his right arm come around to stab at me. I grabbed his arm with both hands and yanked. Winston flew across the room and fell face forward across the dressing table chair. I jumped on his back and hammered on him with my fists, battering his head. There was a crash behind me then and hands grabbed me and pulled me off Winston. Sitting on the floor I looked up and saw Montgomery Shiflett. Sheriff Moomaw and Billy Thurston had hold of Winston.

  "The box on the dresser!” I yelled. “That's where he keeps them!"

  Moomaw reached in the workbox and opened a tin. I saw him recoil. Then he opened another. And another. He looked over at Shiflett. “You say you know about these?"

  "We think we know about a few of them. And we know where to ask."

  Moomaw nodded and looked down at Winston. “You got the knife, Billy?"

  "Right here, Sheriff."

  "Then put on the cuffs and let's take him on down."

  I sat on the floor holding my head. I tried to take it all in. I asked Shiflett, “How'd you know I was in trouble?"

  "Jack, people here have been listening out for you since you got here.” Then I remembered the chambermaid, and there would be the bellhop, the janitor, all the colored people that whites ignore. “The only problem was getting Moomaw to listen to me and come over. But when we heard you fighting, well, Deputy Thurston decided to come right in.” He gestured at the room door hanging from a smashed frame.

  "I guess I owe him something.” That big thick body of his was good for something after all. I got up. “Damn! I think I broke a knuckle on Winston's head!” But Shiflett was staring at my middle. I looked down and saw the blood staining my shirt.

  "We have to get you to a doctor!"

  "It's nothing. He just broke the skin is all."

  "Even so, if I don't get you to a doctor, your aunts will skin me!” He started laughing then. Me too, all relieved that it was over. Together, we laughed like fools. Then Shiflett looked at me and said, “Jack, your father would be proud."

  Everybody fussed over me for a day or two until it got really boring. So one night I walked out to the garage and checked out the Packard. It was all spic and span. Colored folks cleaning up white people's mess again. I thought maybe I'd go for a drive. Maybe it was time I took a look at the fields being worked, find out what was happening with the tenants and how they were making it in these hard times. But tonight what I wanted to do was go see the cotton blossom in the moonlight. The blooms only last a few days and they open at night. They're creamy white, mostly, but sometimes you'll see a blue one. They turn pink and then red right before they dry up and the cotton makes. Sometimes you can smell them, not a real sweet smell, but one that draws you.

  I heard Strother, behind me, shift his seat on the old feed box. “Going out, Mr. Jack?"

  "I thought I might drive down and see the cotton bloom.” I waited. Strother was silent. “Why don't you come with me?"

  "Oh, I don't know, Mr. Jack. I don't expect so."

  "Come on, Strother, just a little moonlight spin.” I paused. “I won't be stopping at any roadhouses, Strother.” I turned to face him. “I'm done with that."

  He thought for a minute. “Well, Mr. Jack, I suppose I might come if that's all right.” He climbed down and started to get in the back seat.

  "Why don't you sit up front with me, Strother?"

  "Oh, now, Mr. Jack, folks might not understand. I'll just stay back here."

  "Strother, did you ride up front with my father?"

  "I suppose I did, sometimes. Yes, I did."

  "Well then, I'd be honored if you rode up front with me."

  He chuckled. “You put it that way, Mr. Jack, I expect I have to.” He climbed up in the seat beside me and we drove off into the night.

  Copyright © 2009 Mike Culpepper

  * * * *

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  Fiction: SCAVENGER by Elaine Menge

  Just before noon, Monday, while the wind still whipped, Ernest fell out of bed. His right shoulder bore the brunt against the not so fluffy shag carpet, but at least he'd escaped the giant tarantula he'd been wrestling in his dream.

  Someone was banging on his door. He lurched into the living room, fluttered an eyelid against the cloudy peephole, turned the deadbolt. The source of the hullabaloo was Mike Doucet, next apartment over.

  "My canoe's by the fire escape.” Mike's barrel chest heaved as if he'd just won a gladiatorial bout. “Slide it out and shove off if you have to. Some radio jock says the 17th Street Canal might'a broke!"

  Ernest pushed his wiry arms out wide and executed a jaw-wrenching yawn, glad to give Mike a sample of morning breath. “It over yet?” He ran a hand through his dirty blond hair.

  "S'what over?"

  "This hurricane thing."

  "Hurricane thing?” Mike double-punched the door frame with the sides of his fists. “Your sis and mom's in Dallas, right? Get your ass there. I'll ride you far as Baton Rouge. And yeah, worst of the wind's over, maybe, but this one's serious. They say the lake's pouring in."

  Chicken, Ernest thought. Even Mike—tough outdoorsman—was cutting bait.

  "Treat my canoe nice if you do use her."

  "I'll treat her like the best date I never had.” Ernest flashed his most sincere, squinty smile and shut the door.

  Despite the habitual squint, Ernest looked years younger than fifty-two. Folks who struck up a conversation often remarked on that, thinking him no more than thirty-five. He always said he still felt like ten. “Best year of my life, I spent as a ten year old,” he'd boast. At that bit of information most listeners tilted away, whether perched on a bar stool or bus seat.

  The crazy whistling sounds outside brewed confusion in his head. Ernest popped off the cap of another Corona. Hurricanes didn't scare him. Lots of wind, but then he'd spent the worst hours three sheets to the wind himself. If not for Mike's knock, he would have missed the whole thing.

  Later in the day, after another deep sleep during which he battled a
gorilla, Ernest peered out of his bedroom window and saw that the filling station gas pumps he'd always looked down on were no longer there. Couldn't believe it. Had he drunk more beer than usual? Then it hit him. The pumps were still there, just not visible under all that stinking water.

  So this one—Katrina—wasn't a “shoo-shoo"—his word for a damp firecracker—after all. It was more like Hurricane Betsy, a cherry bomb. Neat. He'd loved Hurricane Betsy. Dear old 1965—swimming in the street, getting all excited about water snakes and garfish and tales of people being sucked underground where manhole covers were missing. No big deal, especially since the water had only come up to the third step on his family's house.

  He tossed back a few more beers. Slept.

  Next day he took a tour in Mike's canoe. For his purposes, he wished it weren't bright yellow, but closer to the putrid brown of the water itself. He did appreciate the life preserver tucked inside, though, even if it was bright orange. Ernest couldn't swim.

  He paddled across Robert E. Lee Boulevard, to the lakefront homes where richer beings lived. Though situated near the lake, most of those houses were dry. New Orleans was a bowl, and those lucky mini-mansions were perched on the bowl's north rim.

  He'd heard about looted stores on the radio, people stealing sneakers, flat screen TVs, stereos. He didn't care about that junk. But gold, diamonds, your better jewelry? He could grab handfuls to hock at a later date. For that matter, he wasn't all that interested in profit. It was just pretty neat to walk around in those houses, laugh at the walls. His own private way of getting even.

  New Orleans was ruined, and he was glad.

  New Orleans could have been Houston or Pittsburgh, Seattle or Opelika, Alabama. If any of those places had been his hometown, he'd be equally ecstatic. Way he saw it, he'd suffered a lot at the hands of New Orleans and the people in it, ever since grammar school. If he'd been born in Pompeii, he'd do a monkey dance on the ruins—just so long as he wasn't home when the mountain blew its top.

  He found some choice champagne in one of those lakefront homes. Tuesday night passed in a blur. Wednesday morning, he felt okay. Not great, but up to new challenges.