AHMM, November 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

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  Dell Magazines

  www.dellmagazines.com

  Copyright ©2009 Dell Magazines

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Cover by Joel Spector

  CONTENTS

  Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: A KILLER YEAR by Linda Landrigan

  Department: THE LINEUP

  Novelette: DEATHTOWN by Dick Stodghill

  Novelette: DEATH OF A GOOD MAN by Eve Fisher

  Novelette: THE NECKLACE OF GLASS by Mike Culpepper

  Novelette: RUMBLE STRIP by Loren D. Estleman

  Novelette: DEADLY PASSAGE by Donald Moffitt

  Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Novelette: REGARDING CERTAIN OCCURRENCES IN A COTTAGE AT THE GARDEN OF ALLAH by Robert S. Levinson

  Novelette: RUSSIANS COME AND GO by Scott Mackay

  Department: COMING IN DECEMBER 2009

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  Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: A KILLER YEAR by Linda Landrigan

  It's awards season in mysterydom, and we have several authors to congratulate.

  Jane K. Cleland's “Killing Time” (November 2008), featuring antiques dealer Josie Prescott, was a finalist for the Best Short Story Agatha Award at the Malice Domestic convention in May, and is currently a finalist for the Anthony Award for best story; the Anthonys will be presented at the 40th Bouchercon World Mystery Convention in Indianapolis in October.

  Several other awards are also announced during Bouchercon: the Barry Awards, presented jointly by Mystery News and Deadly Pleasures; the Shamus Awards, presented by the Private Eye Writers of America; and this year the Short Mystery Fiction Society's Derringer Awards, which have already been announced, will be presented at the convention. We're delighted to have finalists or winners for each of these awards.

  G. Miki Hayden's “A Killing in Midtown” (January/February 2008), featuring Ghanian transplants Miriam and Nana, is a finalist for the Barry Award for Best Short Story. And Robert S. Levinson will receive the Derringer Award for Best Long Story for “The Quick Brown Fox” (October 2008); Derringer finalists in the Best Novella category included “Haven't Seen You Since the Funeral” (December 2008) by Ernest B. and Alice Brown and “Panic on Portage Path” (January/February 2008) by Dick Stodghill.

  Earlier this year we had the pleasure of attending the Edgar Awards with David Edgerley Gates, whose story “Skin and Bones” (December 2008) featuring Mickey Counihan, a mob fixer in late forties New York, was a finalist for the Edgar Award for Best Short Story.

  So a round of applause, please, for all our nominees, and for all our authors who keep us supplied with killer fiction the whole year long.

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  Visit us online at www.TheMysteryPlace.com

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Department: THE LINEUP

  Mike Culpepper's story, “How Aunt Pud, Aunt Margaret, and the Family Retainers Kept Me from Hanging,” appeared in July/August 2009.

  Loren D. Estleman is the author of The Branch and Scaffold (Forge); Alone will be published by Forge in December.

  Eve Fisher, the author of The Best is Yet to Be (Guideposts Books), lives in South Dakota.

  Booked & Printed columnist Robert C. Hahn reviews mysteries for Publishers Weekly and the New York Post.

  Robert S. Levinson's novel In the Key of Death (Five Star/Gale) was published in March 2008.

  Scott Mackay is the author of the historical mystery The Angel of the Glade(Severn House).

  Donald Moffitt is the author of the science fiction novel Jovian (iBooks). “Feat of Clay” appeared in September 2009.

  Dick Stodghill's story, “Jack the Tripper,” was published in June 2009. Heblogs at stodg.blogspot.com.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Novelette: DEATHTOWN by Dick Stodghill

  I had forty-seven cents in my pocket when the gas gauge hit empty and I coasted to a stop in front of a roadside diner on the outskirts of a gritty place called Dealtown. I wasn't in the market for a deal, but a cup of coffee sounded good. A decent meal and a place to sleep that night sounded better. So did a tankful of gas.

  The diner looked halfway clean—par for the course in 1940—so I took a stool at the counter and blew a nickel for rancid coffee in a cracked mug. That left me with forty-two cents and little prospect of a decent meal, a place to sleep, a tank of gas.

  Aside from a waitress with a chip on her shoulder and a clapped-out short-order cook there was only one other person in the place. I had taken a few sips of coffee strong enough to bring an elephant to its knees when the other customer whistled between his teeth. I turned to look and he gave his head a jerk in my direction. “Come on over and sit down a minute, pal."

  He was dressed like a dandy—dark blue suit with gold pinstripes, wide-brimmed black fedora, gold- and black-striped necktie—but he had the face and build of a street soldier in Capone's old mob or the Purple Gang in its heyday. The bulge under his left arm enhanced the effect. I picked up my mug and walked over to his table.

  He sized me up at close range for ten or fifteen seconds. “Stranger in town, huh?"

  "Just passing through."

  "Down on your luck, right?"

  "It shows, does it?"

  "To someone who knows people like I do, yeah it shows."

  "So what do you want to do, rub it in?"

  "Do I look like that kind of guy?” He did, but I kept the thought to myself. “No, I was thinking of maybe offering you a job."

  "What kind of job?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "Not much, but sometimes I'm fussy."

  "Pays to be that way. This is just routine. Collect a little money from a few people that owe me, an odd job here and there, that's all."

  "So what happened to your last enforcer?"

  "He had a little accident."

  "You mean somebody killed him."

  "If you want to put it like that."

  "What's the pay?"

  "Hundred a week. Maybe a little bonus now and then. Interested?"

  "Maybe. When's my first payday?"

  "How about right now with a little extra thrown in. What do they call it, a signing bonus?"

  He took a fat wallet from his pocket and laid four fifties on the table. I had myself a job.

  He had watched me coast into the lot and figured I was out of gas. He called somebody from a pay phone on the wall and ten minutes later a pickup truck pulled in next to my ‘36 Ford. The driver took a red can from the back and started pouring gas into the tank.

  In the meantime my new boss and I got around to exchanging names. He told me to drive downtown to the hotel and say Arnie Scarno sent me. “Tell ‘em I said to fix you up with their best room and put it on my tab."

  He said to take a day or so to just wander around, get to know the layout. And get a new suit, something fitting my position. I had to stifle a laugh because half an hour earlier my position had been down and out. He gave me the name of his tailor and said the suit should go on his tab. To some men, running tabs is a way of showing power. Arnie Scarno fit the image.

  The room at the Deal House overlooked the main drag and had a private bath. I stretched out on the bed and wondered what in hell I had gotten myself into. All my wishes had been fulfilled, but Scarno wasn't the kind of man to give someone a helping hand out of the kindness of his heart. If a
man was down, kick him, that would have been more like it. Sometimes it doesn't pay to do a lot of thinking, so I didn't.

  * * * *

  When I went downstairs there had been a shift change and a young woman, a knockout, was working the desk. I turned on my warmest smile. “They've got you on nights? Seems kind of dangerous for a woman."

  She raised her eyebrows and gave a little shrug. “Day or night, it doesn't make much difference in Deathtown."

  "What did you say?"

  "Day or night it—"

  "No, I mean the name of the town."

  "It's Dealtown, but some people call it Deathtown."

  "Nice. Makes a stranger feel right at home. So why the moniker?"

  "People are always dying. Sixty-seven out at the coal mine a few months ago, fifty-three last year. Somebody always getting killed on the highway. You know, all the hills and curves. A dozen murders in the past nine or ten months. Seems like death never takes time off around here."

  "Great little place to settle down. Got a boyfriend?"

  "Are you propositioning me?"

  "No. Dinner might be nice, though."

  "I'm working at dinnertime."

  "Lunch, then."

  "You're a fast mover, aren't you?"

  "Sometimes it pays off. But I was thinking about a little talk. You filling me in on the town, that sort of thing."

  Her soft brown eyes twinkled easily. “Okay, what's to lose?"

  "Tomorrow?"

  "You are fast, but why not. I'll meet you here at noon."

  * * * *

  She told me the name of the best restaurant in town and that's where we had lunch. In a city of any size the joint would have been out of business in a month. It wasn't food I was interested in, though. Mary Dawkins—I didn't learn her name until we were seated at a table—filled me in on some of the things I wanted to know about Dealtown and some of its big shots. After hearing a few names and why they were important I said, “How about Arnie Scarno?"

  I picked up on her all but imperceptible shudder. “He's not a nice man."

  "I'm not looking for a character reference. What does he do?"

  "Owns a roadhouse, a dime-a-dance place outside the city limits. He's a thug."

  "Most men who own roadhouses are. So what else does he do?"

  "Why do you want to know about him?"

  "Just curious."

  "And I suppose you pulled his name out of thin air."

  "Ran into him yesterday, that's all. So what else can you tell me?"

  "He's half owner of the coal mine. As if that isn't enough he's a loan shark, a bookmaker, anything else that offers the chance for a fast buck."

  I couldn't suppress a grin. “Aside from all that you hate his guts. Why?"

  She lowered her eyes. “I just do."

  "Were you one of his ten-cents-a-dance girls?"

  "Not for long. Not after he ripped my clothes off after work one night."

  "He forced himself on you?"

  "That's one way of putting it."

  "Did you report it to the cops?"

  "Are you serious? He owns the cops in this town."

  "In Deathtown, as you call it. So how come he lets you work at the hotel?"

  "He doesn't own the hotel, just the rest of the town."

  "He sent me there. To the hotel, I mean."

  "I know. I checked you out last night. You've gone to work for him, haven't you?"

  "Needed a job. Needed it bad."

  "You'll last about a month. Then you'll die like they all do."

  "Thanks for the word of encouragement, kiddo."

  "If you're working for Scarno, don't bother to call me again."

  "I never have called you."

  "You know what I mean."

  I did indeed. And I knew she wasn't kidding. Those soft brown eyes could shoot daggers and a few of them hit me where it hurt.

  * * * *

  It was late in the afternoon after I'd been wandering the downtown streets for a couple of hours that I found out the name of the mine was the Dawkins-Scarno. When Mary came on duty at the hotel I risked a rebuff and stopped by the desk. “Is your old man Scarno's partner at the mine?"

  "My father ran off with a B-girl at the roadhouse when I was ten. I haven't seen him since. My ex owns half the mine."

  "You're divorced?"

  "I'll say this for you, not only are you a fast mover, you're a quick thinker."

  "Look, kid, let's bury the hatchet. Lunch again tomorrow?"

  "Scarno might forgive you for having lunch with me once. Twice, uh-uh."

  "Look, I need a little dope on what goes on out at that mine besides methane gas explosions."

  She glanced around to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “They've got union trouble. It's a wildcat mine and the union's trying to muscle its way in. John—that's my ex—wants to go along with it, but Scarno says nix. He's not about to pay union wages, and on top of that there'd be safety inspections."

  "I thought the state handled inspections."

  "It does, but that doesn't mean a thing if you have the inspector on your payroll."

  "After two explosions and more than a hundred dead you'd think—"

  "You don't get it, do you? Look, the manager just came in so here's your room key. Now scram before I'm in trouble."

  * * * *

  After breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall diner where the smell of stale grease permeated the air, I took another stroll around town. There were a few empty storefronts and boarded up windows but not as many as some places I'd been. The Great Depression was winding down so there were people on the street who looked like they might have a buck or two in their pockets. That meant a little business was being conducted, and not only in Dealtown. I wandered through the courthouse, an ancient structure that could have been a refugee from a gothic novel, and was heading back to the hotel when a mug with cauliflower ears and a nose that had been flattened more than once tapped me on the shoulder. “Arnie wants to see you, sport.” The words came out sounding like he was gargling with gravel.

  "Where is he?"

  "I'll drive you."

  "I'll drive myself. Where is he?"

  "If that's the way you want to play it, sport. He's out at the roadhouse."

  It turned out to be a little nicer than I expected. Red carpet except on a high-gloss dance floor, a well-stocked backbar, everything in decent shape for that kind of dive.

  Arnie was at a table in a dark corner. With him were three strong-arm punks who looked me over like I'd crawled out of a sewer. My escort joined them. Arnie, all smiles, held out a cigar for me. “So, what do you think of our little town now that you've had a chance to size it up?"

  "I've seen worse."

  He winked and leered in a way I didn't like. “Hear you've been stepping out with a broad."

  "Word travels fast."

  "Watch your step. She's dynamite in a pretty package."

  "I can take care of myself."

  "You wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could. Ready to go to work?"

  "Just name it."

  He did, and for me it began a couple of weeks of doing jobs any high school kid could have handled after the last bell. Collecting money from shopkeepers who opened the cash register as soon as they saw me coming in the door, picking up the receipts from half a dozen bookies after the last races of the day had been run and the newspaper's final edition was on the street with the closing numbers on Wall Street. Not the kind of work that paid a hundred bucks a week. I was curious to know when I'd really start earning my keep and what it would involve.

  My evenings were spent at the roadhouse. The dime-a-dance girls were easy on the eyes and looked a lot cleaner than most of the guys with them out on the floor. Not too surprising for a coal mining town that also had a steel mill and a few smaller factories. The place was hopping every night with miners and steel puddlers eager to hold a pretty girl in their arms. A place like Arnie's offered the only opportunity many o
f them would ever have.

  The girls gave me a wide berth and Arnie's four strong-arm boys kept their distance. There had been no introductions, formal or otherwise, so I tagged them Stan, Ollie, Curly and Moe. One night they decided to see what was going on at another joint so I said, “Maybe I'll ride along."

  A husky one with a tic in his right eye, the one I called Moe, seemed to be their leader. He shook his head. “No room in the car."

  The car so short on room was a Hudson town sedan that seated three in front, three more in back, but I wasn't all broken up about not being wanted.

  A few nights sitting around a dive like that gets to be old stuff. Arnie wanted me there so I stuck it out by reading a paperback mystery. That alone was enough to set me apart from the crowd. Good sense told me I should take my next paycheck and hit the road. Sometimes curiosity wins out over good sense.

  Arnie and his four plug-uglies came to attention the night a dapper stranger came in, picked out a redhead, and hit the dance floor. He was medium size with a pencil-line mustache and a smirk that showed everywhere except on his face. I was seated next to the boss so I said, “Who's the new shooter, the dude in a hundred-dollar suit?"

  "Union man. He's got guts coming in here."

  "One of John L. Lewis's organizers?"

  "You called it. Look, I got a message for you to deliver when he leaves."

  "What kind of message?"

  "Nothing serious. Take the ball bat over against the wall and kneecap him."

  "That's all, huh? So how's he going to drive out of the lot after that?"

  "That's his problem."

  I wasn't keen on the job, but as things turned out it didn't matter. He left on the stroke of midnight and a car with three goons inside was waiting at the door. So close to it that there wasn't room for me to step outside until he slipped into the front passenger's seat.

  Arnie didn't look happy when I was back so fast. Before I could open my mouth, Curly, who had been outside all the time, hurried up beside me. “It was no go, boss. Some of his pals pulled up so close to the door they shoulda had to pay a cover charge."

  Arnie brought a fist down on the table. “So it was a setup. They were playing games with me. Tomorrow we're gonna teach ‘em one they haven't played before."