EQMM, May 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I'll need a gun."

  She nodded and hugged my right arm tightly, raising it up over her breasts. The thought of a nice chunk of change in her future seemed to turn her on.

  "And a place to stay. I don't have much money with me.” None, actually, but I saw no reason to let her know that.

  "You can stay in my room if you don't let anyone see you,” she said, which was exactly what I'd hoped. She caressed my arm in long, slow strokes and I wondered if she could feel me pressing into her lower back. I cupped her breast gently and did a little stroking of my own as the sun met the horizon and sent a river of gold streaming across the water's surface toward us. A few nuzzling kisses on her neck just below her right ear and she turned into putty.

  "Can you spot me some cash for the gun?” I whispered into her ear.

  She moaned a response that I interpreted as assent. My left hand slipped under her short skirt. Her breathing accelerated quickly and her entire body trembled against mine a few minutes later, sealing the deal. I could have asked for a Learjet.

  * * * *

  The next morning I awoke an hour before dawn. Jet lag still had me messed up and I hadn't managed much sleep, what with tracking down a gun and keeping up with Jane and all. When I stirred, she rolled against me and tried to get something going again but I pushed her gently back onto the sheets and rewarded her with a long kiss before sliding out of bed and into the shower. Always leave them wanting more. I learned that long ago. Later, when she woke up fully, her body would be alive with energy, nerves tingling, lust lighting a furnace in her belly. My every wish would be her command.

  During a quiet interlude at about three in the morning, Jane had outlined the day ahead. After breakfast, the bus would depart for a scenic drive on the Kancamagus Highway through White Mountain National Forest. Before lunch, we'd pull off onto a scenic overlook—the perfect spot for a hijacking.

  The shower's warm pulse reenergized me. When I emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Jane was awake, leaning on one arm, a thin sheet draped enticingly across her naked torso. I sat on the bed beside her for a moment but when she got that dewy look in her eyes I waggled my thumb at the clock and told her I had to go. “You don't want the sheep seeing me sneaking out of here.” She stuck out her lower lip, but nodded.

  I stole her pillowcases for loot, tucked the pistol in my waistband, gave her a smoldering kiss full of promise, and crept out of the room like a thief in the night. Not far from the truth, I guess.

  I made a phone call, then had breakfast, a hearty buffet with lots of meat and grease to keep a body going, charging it to Jane's room. She sauntered in after everyone else was seated and adorned her plate with fruit and a croissant—enough food to last me about ten minutes. We exchanged one lingering glance before I returned my attention to the Milton Dreyfuses of Wichita, Kansas. He was a retired investment counselor. The gaudy gems his wife wore made me upgrade my estimate of the potential windfall by another ten grand.

  My heart took on a familiar rhythm, beating rapidly but solidly in anticipation of the day ahead. Adrenaline was my friend. I never felt quite as alive as I did when the job was about to go down.

  Jane kept her distance once everyone was on board the bus. We'd agreed it was best if people didn't see us together too much from that point on. She struck up conversations with several passengers and laughed easily at whatever they said. She was glowing, and I knew it wasn't just from the sex. It was the thrill of the hunt. Once the gun came out, she'd pretend to be as alarmed as everyone else, but hot blood would course through her veins. She'd be thinking about our rendezvous later that night, where she'd count the money several times and try on some of the jewelry. High on adrenaline, her heart beating twice as fast as normal, she would momentarily cast thoughts of the booty aside and reward me until the sun came up.

  Of course, by the time she got to the motel where we'd agreed to meet, I'd be back in Boston, swapping gems and electronics for cash with the guy who'd sold me the gun the night before. Her confusion would turn to panic—and then to fury when she realized that not only did she not have ten or twenty grand coming her way, she was out a few hundred for the gun.

  And then she would start answering the police's questions.

  The East Coast wouldn't be big enough for the two of us after that, so I had a reservation on Lufthansa. Ten hours after the heist I'd be in Munich, where I knew a guy who knew a guy who'd set me up for a while. I'd settle with El Gordo and use whatever I had left—fifty or sixty grand if all went according to plan—to enjoy the mountain air and Bavarian beer for a few months.

  I tried to sleep, but people kept stopping by to chat. Everyone acted as if I'd been with the group all along instead of just since the day before. Jane kept a respectful distance, though she batted her eyes at me on the way to the back of the bus to get brochures for one of her sheep.

  At the two-hour mark I started getting antsy, ready for the whole thing to be over. Before boarding, I'd transferred the gun to one of the pillowcases, which would soon be filled with cash and other valuables. I thrummed my fingers against the armrest and chewed on the inside of my mouth, habits I used to sucker people at the poker table but which were difficult to control at times like these.

  Twenty minutes later, Jane made another trip to the rear of the bus for brochures. She dropped one in the aisle next to my seat and knelt to pick it up without looking my way. My five-minute warning. I looked out the window at the scenery and realized we were reaching the top of Kancamagus Pass. The view of the White Mountains was impressive, I suppose, but I had no time for that now. I grabbed the pillowcases and made my way to the front of the bus.

  The driver looked at me like I was crazy when I showed him the gun and told him to pull over at the scenic overlook. “I was planning to,” he said.

  I waved the gun at Jane too, for show. She flashed her eyes in mock panic, but I could tell she was working to suppress a grin. I would have bet good money that her nipples were as hard as the bullets in my Glock.

  When the bus stopped, I told the driver to hand over the keys. I pointed the gun at Jane again and told her to pass me the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to try something a little different today.” A murmur of curiosity ran the length of the bus. Jane shielded her mouth with her hand.

  "There's some lovely scenery off to the east, but what I'm more interested in seeing is everything green and shiny you own.” That brought confused silence.

  "You see, this is what's known as a stickup. Lovely Miss Jane is going to make a couple of trips down the aisle with these pillowcases. I want each and every one of you to hand over your wallets, purses, credit cards, traveler's checks, watches, rings, necklaces, cell phones, money belts, earrings, BlackBerries, MP3 players, anything of value. I'll be watching in this big mirror here.” I indicated the parabolic reflector above the driver's head. “Please don't make me go back there. Cooperate and this will all be over before you know it."

  I kept an eye on the driver in case he wanted to be a hero while Jane filled first one pillowcase and then the other. During her second pass down the aisle, I winnowed out the junk that wasn't worth carrying. I emptied the wallets and purses and tossed them into a pile. Some of the jewelry was crap but several pieces were worth serious coin. The growing stack of cash astonished me. I couldn't believe people carried that much money.

  Bless them, every one.

  I called a couple of passengers by name and reminded them of specific items. Mrs. Carmody's emeralds and Mrs. Dreyfus's jewels had to be worth forty grand alone.

  The bus got so quiet you'd think everyone was watching a movie. Shocked by the unexpected turn of events, I suppose. Trying to figure out how they could have been taken in by such a nice young man.

  Jane uttered calming words as she moved among them, playing her part to the end, but no one else said a thing. In ten minutes I was ready to go. I glanced at my watch—my ride would be along shortly.

  That's when the New
Hampshire State Police showed up. I never found out whether they'd been following us all along or had responded to a signal from Jane. One car pulled in front of the bus, lights flashing, and another boxed us in from behind. Standing in those big plate windows at the front, I was the perfect target.

  I briefly considered taking a hostage, but I'm not a violent man and I didn't want to end up on the business end of some sniper's rifle. The jig was up. I raised my hands so the gun-wielding cops could see them. I still had the Glock in my right hand, dangling loosely from my index finger.

  El Gordo would have to wait for the rest of his money.

  The bus driver popped the door open and cops swarmed up the stairwell. They relieved me of the gun and forced me onto my stomach while they cuffed and searched me. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Jane tucking a thick wad of cash under her jump seat. Good for her. The rest would end up in evidence, so it would be a while before anyone noticed the shortfall.

  While the cops were dragging me off, I heard her call my name. The name I was using, anyway. I dug my feet into the loose gravel to slow us down and turned as far as I could to see Jane standing beside the bus.

  "Make sure they wake you up for meals,” she called. Her eyes shone more brightly than any gem I'd ever held in my hands. I chuckled and would have flashed a finger pistol at her if my hands hadn't been cuffed behind my back. I had to settle for a knowing wink.

  "Enjoy your retirement,” I called to her before the cops wrestled me into the back of their car and slammed the door.

  ©2009 by Bev Vincent

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  Fiction: DUMMY by Brian Muir

  Brian Muir may have been in L.A. for two decades, working in movies (as production assistant to Roger Corman and as a writer of screenplays), but he has not forgotten his home state of Oregon. In fact, he began a series in EQMM in 2004 about a Portland private eye whose sex is never explicitly mentioned and he's now completed a novel-length case for her.

  The idiot. I told him to stay away from her. I said, ‘You're an idiot if you keep seeing this girl. A Grade-A dummy.’ But did he listen? That was a rhetorical question, by the way."

  "Thanks,” came the sarcastic reply from Detective Stockel. He'd seen the blood spatters on the wall.

  Stockel and his superior, Detective Perrone, questioned their witness, seated before them as they stood.

  "He was infatuated with her,” she continued.

  Stockel shot a weary look to Perrone, “Come on, man. The paperwork on this case is going to bury me. How long do we got to stand here and listen to this?"

  "Just let her talk,” said Perrone, and that was that.

  The woman nodded to Perrone. “Thank you, Detective,” making a “hmph” sound in her throat, muffled as if by too much phlegm.

  "I'd like to talk,” she said, pointy chin chittering away. “I want to talk. I've kept this bottled up way too long. I realize perhaps I should have come to someone sooner, and I'll never forgive myself for that. I should have told someone about my son. He's had ugly thoughts for some time now."

  She blinked large eyes, blue as bird eggs behind round glasses.

  "Forgive me for being indelicate,” said Perrone, “but would you say your son has been ... unbalanced for some time now?"

  She stared up at him without saying anything.

  Stockel, impatient: “He means did you always know your boy was a nutjob."

  "You're a rude man, Detective."

  "Maybe. But I never killed anybody with a screwdriver."

  "Perhaps your mother should have taught you proper manners."

  "Like you did with your boy, you mean?"

  "That's enough, Ray,” chastised Perrone.

  Stockel took a breath through his nose.

  "Jimmy was a good boy, when he was young,” she continued, hands folded in her lap. “But he was never the sharpest knife in the drawer. His father and I had an act long ago: Mr. & Mrs. Santoni; a little comedy routine, witty banter and such. We played Caesars, did USO tours in the Seventies. We were even on The Mike Douglas Show. See those photographs on the wall over there? See us, posing with Mike and Dinah Shore?” Her head rose on her thin neck, proud.

  "Yes, ma'am,” said Perrone. “I think I saw you and Mr. Santoni on Douglas when I was a kid."

  "You should understand that Jimmy's father and I weren't married. That was merely our act. He was married to a woman named Margaret, a lovely woman, Jimmy's mother. I'm not proud of it, Detectives, but Jimmy's father and I, working together as often as we did, spending so much time alone ... we grew quite close, if you catch my meaning."

  Stockel gave another sidelong glance at Perrone, but the older detective didn't acknowledge it. “We hear this type of thing often, ma'am."

  "Well, that doesn't make it right, of course. But he and I were in love and he eventually left Margaret for me. I don't think Jimmy ever forgave him for that. It took the boy and me a long time to reach an understanding, but that's the way these things go."

  "And Mr. Santoni?” asked Perrone.

  "Oh, he died five or six years ago. Unpleasantly."

  "I'm sorry for your loss,” interjected Stockel, but his tone was anything but commiserate.

  "Thank you,” came the old woman's flat response.

  Perrone surveyed the one-bedroom apartment. The sparse furnishings appeared well-dusted. A painted sign, about 4x4, leaned against one wall. It read: Santoni & Mom.

  "I take it that after his father died, Jimmy took over the act and the two of you came up with a new routine,” surmised Perrone.

  The old lady slowly turned her head to view the sign. “That's right, Detective. But truth be told, we've never really been able to make a go of it. I'm the first to admit that our comedy is rather antiquated. Perhaps too much so for today's audiences."

  Her big eyes swept the room as if scanning for eavesdroppers. She lowered her voice to a raspy whisper. “And unfortunately, Jimmy never had the talent of his father."

  "I understand,” said the detective.

  The lady raised her voice again, anger creeping into it. “That needn't be the case, if he'd listen to me when I try to teach him something. I know best. He's never realized that. The dummy."

  "We got that, ma'am,” said Perrone. “You don't think your son is very bright."

  "I don't mean to sound harsh, Detectives. I'm trying to look out for the boy but he's somewhat ... impressionable. Easy to fall in with the wrong types. Take this woman, for instance."

  "You mean the decedent?"

  "Mm-hmm. It may be improper to speak ill of the dead, but she was nothing but a hussy, if you ask me. And I told Jimmy so, straight out. Not that he'd listen, of course."

  "Why don't you tell us how they met."

  "It was perhaps a month ago. We'd been out trying to pick up new bookings. I realize we don't have the clout to fill a showroom—like his father and I used to—but we're very comfortable in the smaller venues. At any rate, we were interviewing at hotel casinos and lounges. We traveled to Henderson and went up to Reno. That's where Jimmy met her."

  Perrone consulted his notes. “Serena Mayes. Cocktail waitress at the Mule Kick Saloon."

  The old woman pshawed. “Cocktail waitress. By day perhaps, but at night she drove down here to Vegas to work in one of those ‘gentlemen's clubs.'” She made finger quotes, not so much with her fingers but her whole hands, flopping in the air like limp, tired birds.

  "She was a stripper,” finished Stockel.

  "Slut,” she said. “Pardon my language, but I could tell she wasn't right from the start. After we'd auditioned for the manager, Jimmy and I were having lunch in the saloon—a very nice establishment, by the way—when the two of them locked eyes, Jimmy and the girl. I could see the sparks immediately, and admittedly she's got the most vibrant green eyes...” She stopped, reconsidered. “Well, she had the most vibrant eyes, before..."

  "Before the screwdriver, you mean.” Crow's-feet tickled the corners of Stocke
l's eyes as he held back a smile. “I understand it was a Phillips head."

  "You seem to be taking perverse delight in this, Detective."

  "Don't mind him, ma'am,” said Perrone. “Please, continue."

  The old woman kept staring up at Stockel, unblinking.

  Perrone said, “Say you're sorry, Ray."

  "I'm sorry, Ray,” replied Stockel.

  "HA!” burst out the old woman, her thin lips not even cracking a grin. “The dust on that one's a foot thick, Detective. That wouldn't even make it into the act I did with Jimmy's father."

  "That's why I went into police work. I got no sense of humor,” said Stockel.

  Perrone interjected, “If you could, ma'am, tell us what happened with Jimmy and Serena."

  She cleared her throat. “Of course. Shortly after they met, he began making trips to Reno to see her at the saloon. And when she drove down here to dance at the club on weekends, he'd go in to see her, spending all of his hard-earned money on her. Spending all of OUR hard-earned money."

  "So he was a customer,” said Perrone.

  "I suppose that's what you would call it. But he and the girl got along outside her work as well. They often saw each other during the day, went to UNLV ball-games, that sort of thing. But I've no doubt her intentions were improper."

  "She was just after money, is that what you mean?"

  The old woman nodded, her head bobbing pistonlike on her brittle neck. “It may not look like it, but we do have a little bit socked away for emergency. I didn't want her getting her hands on it. I voiced my opinion, but Jimmy wouldn't listen. Honestly, Detective, though I didn't care for her, it was the girl I was trying to help."

  "How's that?"

  "As I said, my son has issues. With women, I mean. There have been incidents of violence in the past. I'm not proud to admit it, but there it is. He's got a police record for domestic violence and stalking."