21 Tales

by Dave Zeltserman

  “These are good friends of mine,” she said after a while, her voice sounding odd and distant. “It’s bad enough Richard had to bring that girl into our lives, but to blackmail my friends and to make those tapes? My son went too far this time, Mr. Lane, he just went too far. I don’t want you showing those tapes to anyone else.”

  I was taken aback by that. “Your son believes one of those men murdered Susan and fixed it so his blood would be found at the crime scene. I have to tell you, whether or not that happened those tapes would create plenty of reasonable doubt.”

  She was shaking her head. “None of those men murdered that girl and the police did not plant Richard’s blood on her body. I was lying before. Richard was not here the night that girl was murdered.”

  “Any idea where he was?”

  “Richard was probably in that motel room murdering her. Who knows, maybe she had tried blackmailing Richard herself. Maybe she threatened to tell my friends about Richard’s involvement. What I do know is I’m not going to make excuses for my son’s behavior anymore.”

  She stood up and walked over to where her pocketbook was lying. She picked it up and took out a checkbook and a pen from it and then sat back down.

  “My husband committed suicide when Richard was only four,” she said. “Maybe it was my fault, but my son never adjusted to it. He was always acting out. He never showed any concern with who he hurt. I’m through protecting him, Mr. Lane. I’m not going to continue ignoring the awful things he does.”

  She tore out a check and started to fill it in. “You were promised a bonus if you exonerated Richard,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve done everything that I could’ve asked of you. I’m paying you in full, including the bonus. I also expect this matter to be kept private.”

  She handed me a check for twenty thousand dollars. I guess it was worth it to her to keep the matter out of my ‘Fast Lane’ column. I thanked her for the check and left, leaving her the tapes.

  When I got home there was a message from my fan at the adult bookstore. I called him back and he told me he had found another tape with Susan. “It’s a different label,” he said, “something called ‘Naughty Girls’, but it’s really wild.”

  I was already paid in full and off the job. As much as I didn’t feel like it, I headed off to East Colfax. I was too curious not to check it out. The clerk at the store had the tape waiting for me. “This one is really something,” he promised.

  When I got back home, I plugged the tape into my VCR and turned the set on. I was about to play the tape when I caught the tail end of a breaking news story, and it stopped me cold. The body of Denver businessman, Chase Powell, had been found in the mountains. The police believe he was killed elsewhere and had his body dragged to where it was discovered.

  It finally clicked why Richard had left Chase Powell’s name off the list and why he didn’t tell me about the ‘Bedroom Eyes’ tapes. I called a few police detectives that I was friendly with and was filled in with what they knew so far. Powell had had his head bashed in with something heavy and was last seen Friday, the same day Susan was murdered. The medical examiner now had Powell’s body. After five days of being exposed to the elements the body was kind of ragged and it was doubtful how much they’d find. The last cop I talked to was out of homicide. He asked if I had anything. I told him I wasn’t sure, but I’d let him know in a few days.

  I tried to think it through. It seemed that Richard was involved with Chase Powell’s death, but it didn’t answer how Susan ended up strangled with Richard’s blood on her fingers. I tried to work out different scenarios where he ended up killing both Sue and Powell, but nothing quite made sense. Most likely Powell found out about the videotapes and confronted Richard, but I couldn’t connect that with Richard then killing Susan.

  The thing of it was, I still felt Richard had told me the truth – that he really believed he was being framed for Susan’s murder. After a while the whole thing started to give me a headache. I gave up on it and played my new videotape.

  The clerk was right. It was wild. The tape had Susan in the same motel room with yet another middle-aged man, the guy being somewhere in his fifties or early sixties. He was thin and tall with gray hair and a thick gray mustache. And he was wearing an old-fashioned suit and the type of derbies they made thirty years ago. Susan got out of her clothes and then started to undress this guy – except it wasn’t a guy. By the time Susan got the suit jacket and shirt off it was obvious her companion was a middle-aged woman with a fake mustache. By the time the pants were taken off I realized who she was and I just started laughing. It wasn’t really funny, but I just couldn’t help it. I just kept laughing until my sides ached. Because the thing of it was I now knew the big joke Susan Laem had over all the rest of us. And I knew why the preliminary DNA test matched Richard Dover’s blood.

  The other woman in the video was Margaret Dover. I watched for a while the pure amusement that sparkled in Susan’s eyes as she positioned Dover into different sex acts. Dover moved awkwardly, her own eyes reflecting at times lust and at other times unadulterated shame. After about ten minutes of it, I started to fast-forward through the rest of the tape. There were a total of five segments with Susan and Margaret, all with the older woman initially in disguise. Each segment was wilder than the last. And with each one, I could tell it was getting harder for Susan to keep her joke to herself.

  I stopped the tape. The segments must’ve been recorded over several weeks. I wondered what went on in the motel room that last time. My guess was Sue tried blackmailing Margaret. Or maybe she just couldn’t keep her joke to herself anymore. Anyway, it ended with Susan having her life choked out of her.

  I doubted Richard had any idea of what Susan and his mother were doing. If he did, he could have simply been patient and waited for the more accurate DNA test results to come back from Washington. No, he believed he was being framed which is why he was so anxious to have me hired. Of course Margaret had to go along with it. It would look damn funny if she didn’t. And who knows, maybe she thought I could corroborate an alibi for him. But the blackmail and the videotapes spooked her. She couldn’t get me off the case fast enough after that.

  I thought about the whole thing and then wrote a letter detailing what I knew and what I suspected. I put the letter and the videotape in an envelope. After the twenty thousand dollar check cleared, I would deliver the envelope to the police. It only seemed right that I earn the money Margaret paid me. I was going to exonerate her son of Susan Laem’s murder. Of course, it’s a hell of a thing to have one murder be your alibi for another.

  The police still had plenty of work to do to tie things up, but I was sure if they stuck at it they’d get it done. Richard was arrested the same night he had murdered Powell. He probably didn’t have time to clean the trunk of his car. I was sure there was forensic evidence to find there. And I was sure there was other stuff to find. Richard would end up convicted for Powell’s murder. And there was no doubt that the blood found on Susan would match Margaret’s DNA.

  I took out a bottle of bourbon and had a few drinks. I then started writing about mother and son Dover for my ‘Fast Lane’ column. When I was done I read over my column and decided there wasn’t a chance in hell I could use it. It wouldn’t do my business a bit of good. The whole thing was just too damn unseemly. As much as I hated the idea of disappointing Braggs, the only thing I could do with my Dover column would be to line the bottom of my desk drawer with it.

  It was almost midnight. I poured a few more shots of bourbon and thought about the day I had just finished.

  Forever and Ever

  When I originally sold this story to Hot Blood, I thought it would be an interesting contrast for them to have something as devoid of eroticism as a story could possibly be. Well, they wanted sex added, and I shoehorned it in as best I could, but it never really fit the story. Here’s the original version as it was intended to be—pure noir with a bit of a nasty streak.

  I no
ticed Morrisey eyeing the fudge brownies Luanne had sent me. "Anything I can help you with?" I asked.

  Morrisey, the weasel, tried to give me a friendly smile, showing off badly formed, yellowed teeth. He scratched behind his ear and asked if he could have one.

  "Of course." I held the box out to him. "Three dollars. Cash up front."

  He kept the smile going. "Come on, be decent, man. You're not going to eat them all anyway."

  "Probably not," I agreed.

  "You'll end up throwing them out."

  "No I won't," I corrected him. "Not after waking up a few nights ago and watching you pick through the garbage for my last leftovers. When I'm done with these, one way or another, they get flushed down the toilet."

  The smile drained from his face. He shrugged and moved back to his bunk. I put the brownies down and picked up Luanne's folder and took out her picture. It had been sprayed with a flowery sweet five buck perfume. I felt a lump form in my throat as I studied it. She was a doll. Big brown eyes, long flowing black hair, soft full lips. I knew her lips had to be soft. I tried to imagine how they would feel.

  Morrisey said something. I carefully put Luanne's picture back in her folder and turned and stared at my cellmate.

  "I'll pay you fifty bucks if you let me use your photo," he said, repeating himself.

  I kept staring at him.

  He shifted his small black eyes away from me. "Seventy-five," he offered weakly.

  I shook my head. "I'd like to take your money," I said. "I'd really hate to pass it up, especially how my picture wouldn't help you one damn bit. But I’ve got a reputation to think of."

  "Come on, man, you don't need it anymore. You're out of here in three weeks."

  "That's not the point."

  Morrisey started to argue. The way he saw it the only reason I brought in the money from the personal ads was because of my looks and if he had my picture he could do just as well. I tried to explain the obvious to him. “No matter what you convinced the ladies you looked like,” I told him, “ you still wouldn't be able to squeeze a dime out of them. You want to know why?"

  A shadow seemed to fall over his small black eyes, darkening his features. For some reason it annoyed the hell of me.

  "Because it comes down to intelligence." I continued. "You should quit deluding yourself and stick with what you do best, sniveling and sneaking through the trash."

  Morrisey's eyes glazed over as he looked at me. Then he lay down on his back, hands clasped behind his greasy little head. I had to fight back the impulse to get up and kick the crap out of him. Most of the cons in the joint regarded my accomplishments with awe, but there were a few, like Morrisey, who acted as if it were all nothing but luck. Like they could do the same thing.

  I pulled out from under my bunk the cardboard box I use as a file cabinet and put Luanne's folder back with the others. Morrisey wouldn't have a prayer of running the type of operation I run, juggling thirty-seven women at once. My success was partly due to treating it like a business instead of just a quick score. Being organized, keeping folders on each "client", running credit checks on them. But again that's only part of it. The way I played them was the key. Squeezing every last dime out of them. Having them all hocked up to their lonely little necks. All but Luanne ...

  I found Marge Henke's folder and took out her picture. She was blond, a little overweight, plain. For the most part a typical patsy except for one thing. A credit check showed she was worth three million, and I had her hook, line, and sinker and dangling from the end of my line.

  A low convulsing sound came from Morrisey. His black eyes sparkled as he stared at me. I watched as he shook uncontrollably and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

  "And what do you find so funny?" I asked.

  "A joke," he said. "Ha ha."

  He was smirking at Marge Henke's picture. I felt a hotness flushing my cheeks. "She certainly isn't much to look at, is she?" I asked, forcing a smile.

  He didn't say anything. He just kept laughing. A soft, raspy, wheezing laugh.

  "I guess not," I admitted. "But three weeks from now I'll be marrying her and thanks to California's community property laws I'll be worth a million and a half. And we both know what you'll be doing in three weeks. Same as usual. Rotting away. And you'll still be ugly as a stillborn weasel."

  "I'll be laughing my ass off," he snickered. "Because it's a pretty funny joke. Ha ha ha."

  He kept laughing. I felt the hotness spreading, tightening the veins in my throat. I closed my eyes. I had two choices, ignore Morrisey or kick his teeth in, and I knew if I started I wouldn't be able to stop. And if that were to happen I wouldn't be marrying Marge and her three million net worth. I squeezed my eyes shut, squeezing tighter until I could hear the blood rushing through my head. Until the sound drowned out Morrisey's soft, convulsing laughter. After a while I was able to ignore him completely.

  # #

  Luanne visited me twice during the next three weeks. My heart ached just to look at her. She was so young and sweet and fresh. So damn beautiful. She knew I was getting out but the way I explained it to her was I needed time alone on the outside to find myself, but we would continue to write and after no more than a year we would be together. She pleaded with me to live with her right away. I almost broke down and agreed. I had eighty-two thousand in a bank account thanks to my enterprises and I weighed it and Luanne against the million and a half Marge Henke offered. Watching Luanne's soft brown eyes moisten with tears almost did it for me. I came within a hair's breath of throwing away Henke's money when common sense kicked in like a mule. After all, it would only be a year, maybe less. Then Luanne and I would have all the time in the world together. And we'd have the money to enjoy it.

  I thought about Luanne a lot my last three weeks. About whether I could go a year without seeing her. Of all of them, she was the only one to have ever visited me. Twice a month, as allowed by prison policy, for the last two and a half years. None of the others had ever seen me except for the photos I sent, not even Marge Henke. At times some of them would suggest coming to the prison, but it would be easy enough to talk them out of it. Deep down inside they wanted me to talk them out of it. It was safer that way than to risk having their fragile make-believe worlds shattered by the hard cold truths of a con.

  # #

  On my last day, as I was being led out of my cell, Morrisey made some crack to me about kissing my new bride for him, and then he broke out laughing. I told him to go to hell and that only made him laugh harder, his ugly face twisted in mirth.

  When I was let out the front gate I found Marge standing there waiting for me. The sight of her made me instinctively step back towards the prison. The picture she had sent me was a bigger fraud than anything I'd ever attempted. It had to have been taken decades earlier and even still had to have been doctored. She was blond, or at least the stuff on her head had been dyed blond, but that was about all she had in common with that picture. The woman in it was a plain, slightly overweight, thirtyish year old. What was standing before me was closer to fifty and more than double the size. But it was the expression on her face that freaked me, though. Like I had caught her in the act of twisting the heads off puppies. And I don't know how I could've possibly been prepared for that smell. There was nothing in the pen like it.

  "Marge, darling," I said and forced myself forward. I caught a stronger whiff of her and somehow kept from gagging.

  "Honeypie," she offered demurely. She was caked in makeup. A heavy glob of blood red lipstick had been smeared across her lips, and thick pinkish rouge was layered over her cheeks. She tilted her cheek towards me, expecting a kiss. As I pulled away, I couldn't help tasting the rancid sweetness that came off her. My breakfast started to come up. I lunged forward, grabbing my duffel bag and hurrying away. "Let's go, darling," I murmured, trying to keep the sickness down. "Let's get married."

  I ran through the parking lot with her trotting behind me. By the time we reached her car, a battered nineteen s
eventy-eight Chevy Chevette, she was out of breath, gasping for air. After getting in the car I rolled down the passenger window. Her smell had saturated the cloth seats. After six years of prison life I thought I could deal with anything, but not that. It was like onions and garlic and dirt and sewage and sweat all mixed together. Like sickness and rotting flesh. I could barely stand it.

  She drove the three hour trip to Sacramento. Every few minutes I'd catch her sneaking a peek at me. As we approached the city, she pulled into a fleabag motel off the highway, telling me she had booked a room there and she needed to freshen up before the wedding.

  After we checked in, Marge again tilted her cheek towards me for a kiss. "Honeypie," she offered coyly. "After we legally marry, I'll let you do more than just that." And then she disappeared into the bathroom.

  As I sat on the bed waiting, a feeling of longing for Luanne overwhelmed me. All I wanted was to be with her. I wanted it more than I ever wanted anything. I closed my eyes and could see her the way she was during our last visit. In my mind’s eye I could see her standing in the same yellow sundress she had worn. The way her hair fell past her bare shoulders, how slender her hips looked, the way the dress outlined her thighs and then ended a few inches above her knees …

  Marge Henke's monotone humming filtered in from the bathroom and knocked Luanne’s beautiful image out of my head. I got up, found some paper, and wrote Luanne a letter expressing how much I needed her and how it was only a matter of time before we would be together and when we were it would be forever. All the pain inside drained out of me and onto that letter.

  The bathroom door creaked open. I folded Luanne's letter and slipped it into my inside jacket pocket. Marge Henke stepped out and I noticed all she had done in there was apply more makeup. Her stench was as strong as ever.

  "I have to put on my dress," she announced irritably.

  I told her that I would go take a shower. Inside the bathroom, I put the water on full and scrubbed myself, trying to get her smell off me. After a half hour I could still smell faint traces of her on my skin.