EQMM, March-April 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I put a blank tape in my recorder, put my Glock, with a round in the chamber, in the pocket of my foul-weather jacket with the recorder, and called Chief Dowley. I told him where to meet me and left as the rain turned to drizzle. I had a good idea of who the killer was, but it didn't make any sense. Then again, murder rarely does.

  * * * *

  Lightning flashed and thunder boomed as I walked into the plush empty outer office. The inside door was open and classical music played from hidden speakers. I unzipped my jacket and turned the tape recorder on as I walked through the open office door and closed it. Shawn sat at his clear glass-topped desk; a coke spoon in his hand came down empty from his nose. A small bag of white powder and a revolver sat on the desk.

  "Do you want some?” His eyes stared hard at me, but he smiled.

  "No, Shawn, I have a hard enough time being a drunk."

  "This is better than booze.” He filled the small coke spoon and inhaled it through one nostril. “You have the tapes?"

  "Yeah, I have them."

  "The crazy bastards,” he growled. “I didn't think they'd turn on me."

  "They didn't."

  He looked puzzled for a moment and then smiled again. “What do you mean?"

  "You were right, Shawn.” I moved away from the desk. “Mostly they argued on the tapes. Talked about their smuggling and joked about finding the treasure."

  "They lied about me and my family, I know they did.” He was becoming agitated.

  "No, they didn't, Shawn,” I tried to say calmly. “There are more rumors out on the street about how Key West families got their money from square groupers than are on the tapes."

  "That's what Tony said. I didn't believe him, either."

  "He told you that before you killed him?"

  "Yeah,” he growled again. “Now you're saying he told me the truth?"

  "He wasn't going to write the memoir, he wanted to use the information for a mystery novel.” I moved another step back.

  "That's good news, but it's a little late.” His laugh sounded like an animal's howl. “Of course, it's not good news for you, is it? You know the truth.” He inhaled another spoonful of cocaine. “I have to kill you, and then this will go away."

  "Are you going to run me through with a pirate sword, too?” I stood still and put my hand on the Glock.

  "No, the swords are gone.” He smiled. “Wizard had two of them and Tony made me so angry I just picked one up and drove it through him as he went to sit down."

  "You took the other one with you to kill Lucky?” I wanted it all on tape.

  "Tony told me Lucky was taking the tapes to you, so I went after him,” he said quietly. “I didn't realize I had the other sword with me until I got to my car. I drove around and saw Lucky walk into the Hog and I parked around on Front Street.” His hand was shaking so much he couldn't hold the coke spoon. “I waited for him by the parking lot and when he came downstairs, I confronted him, and I still had the sword. He wouldn't go back for the tapes. Damn fool, he didn't think I'd do it, even after I stabbed him a few times."

  "Shawn, it has to stop. You're connected enough to cop a manslaughter plea,” I said for the tape recorder. “Turn yourself in."

  He howled again and stood up, the revolver in his quivering hand. “It stops when you disappear, no sword, no body."

  "It will be messy in here, Shawn, blood and noise."

  "Let me worry about that,” he said and stepped away from the desk. “Where are the tapes?"

  "On my boat. You gonna go get them?” I watched his gun hand tremble.

  "Unless you want to take me there,” he laughed cruelly, his eyes wide.

  I backed up; I wanted distance between us. “You were wrong to worry about the book, Shawn, and wrong about me, too."

  "Wrong about you, how?” He moved back toward a file cabinet, but held the gun aimed at me.

  "I can kill, Shawn,” I said calmly. “I can't run a sword through an innocent man, like you did, but I can kill to protect myself."

  "Yeah? But I have the gun."

  "Wrong again, Shawn.” I kept calm and smiled. “I have a gun in my pocket and it's aimed at you."

  "Show it to me,” he challenged me angrily. “I don't believe you."

  "Put the gun down, Shawn, and we'll both be alive when the police arrive."

  "I still don't believe you,” and he fired one shot that went past my left shoulder, his hand trembled so. “Damn you!” He fired again and missed.

  The two shots echoed and the room smelled of burnt cordite.

  I fired the Glock and hit him square in the chest. The cocaine rush kept him standing, but he looked down at the growing bloodstain on his flowery shirt and then back at me. He raised his arm up, ready to fire again. I had the gun out of my pocket and pointed at him. I shook my head.

  "No, Shawn, drop it.” He didn't, and I shot him again, and my ears rang from the noise.

  He fell against the file cabinet and slid to the floor. The door behind me crashed against the office wall as Chief Dowley rushed in, gun in hand. He looked at me and then at Shawn, who died with a cocaine smile.

  "Damn, Mick, I hope you're right,” he said softly. “You just killed an important guy."

  I pulled the tape recorder out of my pocket and handed it to him. I heard sirens from outside. “Yeah, in self-defense and I solved two murders for you."

  He took my Glock, put it on a chair, and then rewound the tape. Two uniformed officers came in, guns drawn.

  "Call the paramedics,” he told them and led me into the outer office. “He confesses on this?"

  "And fired first, it's all there."

  He placed the recorder next to his ear and played the tape. He smiled. “Why didn't you wait for me?"

  "I hoped I was wrong."

  "So why call me to meet you here?"

  "If I was wrong I was gonna buy you a beer."

  He put the recorder in his pocket and talked to the uniformed officer at the door. Then he waved me over and led me outside.

  "Let me buy you a drink. After all, this is Key West, not Miami, and you ain't goin’ anywhere. Hell, Mick, it's been one long day—” He put his arm around my shoulder—"and I can use a beer. Then we have to go see Luis for your statement."

  "The guy hates me, Chief.” I allowed him to tug me toward the street.

  "Yeah, but I still love you."

  "What about my gun?"

  "It's in an evidence bag,” he said and we walked away in the rain.

  Copyright (c) 2007 by Michael Haskins

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  WHEEZE by Michael Z. Lewin

  Probably best known in the U.S. for his P.I. Albert Samson books, of which the most recent was Eye Opener (Five Star/'04), Michael Z. Lewin has pursued many other writing projects over the years. He's a regular contributor of dramas to BBC radio, an author of children's books, and someone who has toured throughout the U.S. with presentations on writing.

  What happens when three very different authors are inspired by the same idea for a short story? Take “Wheeze” and the two stories that follow it in this issue, “Say That Again” and “The Old Story"; they're proof that from a common seed distinctive fictional creations will grow. The article that set all three of these stories’ authors going appeared in the newspaper The Week (Hagen, Germany): "Pensioner gang on trial: Three geriatric criminals have gone on trial accused of carrying out a string of armed robberies across western Germany. Rudi Richter, 74, Wilfried Ackerman, 73, and Lotha Ackerman, 64, have admitted taking part in 14 robberies that earned them a total of 1.3m euros. They began robbing banks in 1988, but were forced to stop the next year when Wilfried was arrested and sent to prison for ten years. In 2000, they reformed, and reached their peak 3 years later, scooping a quarter of a million euros in five heists. Age, however, eventually caught up with them. ‘Rudi couldn't really get up the stairs anymore and we constantly had to stop so he could go to the toilet,’ said Wilfried. At first, police assumed they w
ere looking for younger men; they realized their mistake when a witness reported hearing the thieves wheezing."

  Georgina Bladen was up-stairs ironing. Usually she ironed downstairs when she had the house to herself, in front of the big television. But today there was a chance—just a chance—that Barry would stop home after lunch before he headed for Fraserton. His meeting with Jim Pinney was important, and Barry liked to look right when a meeting was important.

  Mind you, it really depended on how long he spent lunching at Maxie's. As well as looking right, Barry liked to feel good about himself before a meeting, and Maxie's flattery would do that trick. Georgina had long since given up worrying about whether Barry was having a thing with Maxie. In a town the size of Roseville surely someone would have seen them and shared the observation. And, knowing the way Barry thought and operated, Georgina would only begin to worry if he stopped lunching at Maxie's little cafe, dirty as the place was.

  Georgina sighed.

  With Barry's shirts done, she thought about taking a break before going on to his undershirts and boxers. Maybe a cup of the chamomile tea that Floella brought back from her last trip out of state would be calming. Not that Georgina felt she needed calming, but it was good to experience new things. She could make the tea and then call Flo to report how she'd liked it. Yes, that would work. Downstairs making tea, she could easily hear Barry's car if it did pull in. She could be upstairs again before he got into the house. Not as fast as he used to be, Barry.

  Not that he minded her having a break or being downstairs. It was having her ironing equipment clutter up the living room in front of his High Definition that bothered him. It made no sense to Georgina but it wasn't worth rowing about again. She switched the bedroom TV off and turned to the door.

  And she heard something.

  Her first, shocked, reaction was that it was Barry. But it couldn't be, not yet. Could it? She looked at the alarm clock. No, no. So maybe it was one of those creepy creaky house sounds.

  But then she heard the sound again and it was human. A wheeze.

  Barry might not be as young as he liked to think he was, but he didn't wheeze. Especially not since he'd lost weight and started going to the gym.

  Still, Georgina doubted herself. How could she be hearing a wheeze? If Barry were here, in the bedroom with her, and she asked him to go downstairs, he'd tell her not to be stupid.

  Was she being stupid?

  And then she heard the wheeze again.

  Who could it be? The house was always unlocked, as they mostly were in Roseville, but no one popped in without calling out a greeting as they came through the door.

  And no one Georgina knew wheezed. It was a real puzzle. Surely it couldn't be a burglar or anything big-city like that. And if it was, what did one do?

  She picked up the iron. She went toward the bedroom door, but the iron jerked, and almost fell out of her hand. Silly Georgina. It had to be unplugged before she could hit somebody with it.

  At the bottom of the stairs, iron in hand, Georgina heard more sounds, from her dining room. Or maybe they came from beyond it, in her kitchen.

  "Hello?” she called. “Who's there?"

  Her grip on the iron grew tighter. It was absurd to think she was in danger—not in Roseville—but you never knew. Look at all those murders they covered on those CSIs. Sometimes more than one in a show. She shivered.

  "Hello?” she called again.

  In the doorway between kitchen and dining room Georgina found an old woman.

  The old woman wore a brown fabric coat. A little blue hat sat on her gray head. As Georgina saw the woman, the woman saw her.

  "Fredericka?” the woman said.

  "Who?” Georgina said.

  "Fredericka? Is that you? You look so different.” Some foam appeared at the corner of the old woman's mouth.

  Georgina felt a moment of panic.

  "Fredericka,” the old woman said again, but this time there was hostility in her voice, anger. “What have you done with Connie? She's only three, you know.” And the woman began to move forward, waving the hand that wasn't holding her floppy cloth shoulder bag.

  What is wrong with her? Georgina thought. And then she realized what the problem must be. Oh, the poor thing.

  But what should she do about it? Oh God. Oh God!

  It was just then that Barry's car pulled into the driveway.

  The old woman peered at Georgina. “You're not Fredericka,” she said.

  "No, dear. I'm not."

  "So what are you doing in my house? Are you collecting for charity, because I'll tell you now...” And the old woman stopped to catch her breath. “Howard gives at the office."

  With Barry about to come in to help, Georgina felt a wave of confidence and even a protective feeling about this poor old person. Like as not, Barry would call the police, or chuck the poor drooling old dear out on the street. How frightening that would be for her. Georgina sympathized.

  She moved forward to put her sympathetic arm around the old lady. It was then she saw a piece of paper fastened with a safety pin to the brown coat. It read, “If you are reading this, then my wife must have gotten out of the motel room. I'm real sorry she's been a bother. She's no harm, but if you give me a call or drop her at the Sunset Motel on Danforth Street, Room 116, I'd be beholden.” The note finished with a phone number.

  "What have you done with Fredericka?” the old woman asked.

  * * * *

  Barry was not in a good mood. He'd been just fine as he left Maxie's—Maxie treated a man with a bit of respect. But now, to have to make this godawful stop at the Sunset Motel on his way to see Jim Pinney ... Who knew what consequences there'd be for his equilibrium, his judgment at the meeting? Never mind that the Sunset was on the very route he took to drive to Fraserton. A man had to be on his absolute tippy-tippy toes to get the better of Jim Pinney.

  "Oh, please," Georgina had said. “I'm sure I can't handle something like this by myself. And you can just drop her at reception if you don't want to look around for Room 116."

  Barry looked at the gray lumpy figure in the passenger seat of his nearly new low-mileage Escape. The old woman was staring straight ahead, as she had since being loaded into the car.

  Oh well. As long as there wasn't a problem getting her out. As long as 116 wasn't empty when he knocked.

  * * * *

  They came to the motel and Barry pulled in. For the first time his passenger turned from staring straight ahead. “Lipstick,” she said.

  "What?"

  The old woman turned back to stare through the windshield.

  Barry pulled up in front of Room 116. No need to ask where it was—he knew the layout of the Sunset. He unhooked the old woman's seatbelt and went around the car to the passenger door. Opening it, he prised the woman out easily. He directed her by a shoulder to the room and knocked, fully prepared to dash away if no one responded.

  But a moment later the door opened and a stout, bald old man said, “Gladys! Thank God! Oh, thank you, sir, thank you."

  Barry suddenly felt he'd been needlessly petty. “Not at all,” he said. “It was on my way. Pretty much."

  "Wherever did you find her?"

  "On Redfield Drive—halfway across town. She was in the house, frightened the life out of my wife.” Barry nearly mentioned the drool, but decided not to.

  The old man's eyes teared. “I'm so sorry.” He took Gladys's hand and led her gently into the room.

  "Fredrick?” Gladys said. “What's happened to Connie?"

  "I don't know what I'm going to do,” the old man said to Barry. “I just don't know."

  Barry said, “Maybe ... get some help?"

  "But where?” The old man retreated into the room and the door closed.

  Barry went back to his car and settled himself in the driver's seat. He flipped the mirror down and checked his tie, and his hair. And then he checked the side of his neck.

  There was, indeed, a small spot of Maxie's lipstick.

/>   * * * *

  Ollie Cornbach was late for work. He leapt out of his car, pausing only to straighten his tie and his jacket. He headed into the Sheriff's Department. Debbie Fry didn't speak as she passed him going the other way. Stuck-up bitch, Ollie thought.

  She was such a sore loser. Not his fault if she hadn't actually asked him if he was married before she hopped into the sack with him. In fact he'd probably helped her out, in the long run. She'd know in the future not to try to sleep her way to a promotion in the first week of a new job. She'd know next time to wait awhile, wait till she knew how the guys in the hierarchy were fixed. Till she knew the lay of the land, so to speak.

  The lay of the land. That was good. Ollie would try to remember to tell it to Lou in the diner mid-shift. Lou, his best friend from Roseville High. He'd gone away for a while, Lou. But now he was back. And maybe when his convictions had expired Ollie could get him onto the force. Maybe in Debbie's place, if the stuck-up bitch held on to the job for that long before transferring to pastures new.

  Ollie strode into the deputy's office. “Sorry, sorry, Wayne. Last-minute emergency at home."

  "So last-minute you forgot to zip up afterward?"

  Ollie looked down and checked his fly.

  "Gotcha,” Wayne said, rising from behind the desk. “But I think you just told me more than I want to know about why you were late."

  "A man's gotta do...” Ollie said with a grin.

  "Well, a man's gotta do a lotta paperwork tonight,” Wayne said.

  "Yeah? What's happened?"

  "Crime wave."

  Ollie perked up. Was it his chance to crack a big one at last? He had ambitions to work for the state police, but without a degree he'd be stuck in the slow lane forever unless he could crack a big one.

  "Mrs. Parriton had her jewelry box emptied this morning."

  "Mrs. who?"

  "And the Larovics lost cash and some kinda old Indian artefaction."

  "The who?"

  "And John Baker came home to find some Olde English figurines gone, and his jade cufflinks missing, and a gold Mexican dish vanished. What's a gold dish? D'ya know?"