by Ron Goulart
“I ought to kill you,” Joe Carver announced.
“That would not be wise.” I shifted uncomfortably, leaning heavily on my walking stick. “We’re about to have company. Very powerful and very mean company who won’t like what you did to Aunt Peck. And then we’re going to find the money.”
It was a stab in the dark, but his response told me I’d guessed right.
“How do you know about the money—” he gasped out.
“I work for Bruno Tortelli’s son.”
Joe sagged, all the fight gone out of him. He sat on the porch steps and began to sob quietly.
Just as he managed to compose himself, a black car pulled into the driveway, tires crunching on the gravel. It parked beside the pink Cadillac, and two stocky men in dark suits climbed out. Both carried handguns in shoulder holsters.
“Mr. Geller?” asked the driver.
“That’s me,” I said. “Is Mr. Smith coming?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” I turned and limped toward the front door. “Let’s wait inside. My feet are killing me. Oh, and don’t let Mr. Carver leave.”
* * * *
The mantle clock showed 3:10 when I heard another car pull up in the yard. One of the guards got up to check. He returned a moment later with Mr. Smith.
“This had better be good,” Smith said even before I’d managed to pull myself to my feet. He looked tired and rumpled and unhappy at being dragged out here.
“I think you’ll be pleased,” I said.
He folded his arms. “Proceed.”
“Surely you remember Joe Carver from your childhood days here.” I indicated Joe with a nod of my head.
Smith frowned. “The handyman?”
“Correct. But this story starts in 1963. Your father stole some money and brought it out here. Somehow, he talked Reverend Peck into holding onto it for him—together, they hid it inside the house. I believe Joe can corroborate that part of the story. Joe?”
“Yeah,” Joe said sullenly. “That’s what happened.”
“Unfortunately,” I went on, “your father was killed before he could return for it. And Reverend Peck refused to touch the money because it was stolen.”
“Go on,” said Smith, looking interested.
I said, “Decades passed. Somehow, Joe heard about the money—”
“Joshua was dyin’,” said Joe Carver. “Out of his head, just babblin’. He thought I was Bruno Tortelli, and he began arguin’ with me. Said he couldn’t keep the money here. Said he wanted it gone before Bessie found out.”
I continued, “So that’s when Joe decided to take the money for himself. His wife died sick—it probably left him deep in debt. He wanted to clear himself so he could remarry. I’m sure he had the best motives.”
“Where does my aunt fit into this?” Mr. Smith asked.
“She doesn’t believe in locking doors or windows,” I said. “Joe has been coming at night and searching for the money. She attributed the noises and disturbances to ghosts and angels. But Joe couldn’t find the money. Now he thinks it may be hidden under the floorboards. This afternoon, he drugged your aunt—probably with one of the medicines his wife used to take—and he came out tonight planning to rip up the floorboards.”
Smith looked around. “Where is Aunt Peck?”
“In the hospital. I found her drugged, so I called an ambulance. She’s a strong old girl; she’ll be fine.”
“She better be.” Smith gave Joe a dark look. “If anything happens to her.…”
“Right now,” I said, “I think we should look for the money. I’m willing to bet Joe got it right. It’s under the floor. But not in the dining room.”
“Where, then?” said Joe.
“Did you noticed,” I said to Joe, “that the steps to the second floor don’t squeak?”
“No. But what of it?”
“In a house this old, the steps should squeak. All the other floorboards do. I think someone took the staircase apart and put it back together more firmly. And someone has been giving the steps extra attention over the years to keep them in tip-top shape.”
“All this time…,” Joe muttered. “All this time, and I never even suspected!”
“Of course, I could be wrong.” I pulled myself to my feet. “Mr. Smith? Shall we have a look?”
“Certainly!”
Joe Carver fetched a crowbar from his toolbox and brought it to the staircase. He hunted around the first step, looking for the right spot, then deftly inserted the thin end of the crowbar and pried.
With a groan, the nails pulled free. Then the step popped up…and in a dusty little hole under the first step, I spotted three dusty canvas bags. Each had been stenciled with “Manhattan Federal Trust” in dark blue letters.
Smith pushed Joe aside, took out the bags, and dumped neat stacks of twenty dollar bills wrapped in paper bands onto the floor. Fifty-five bundles of bills—not so much these days, but in 1963 it would have been a fortune.
Smith tossed me one of the stacks. I flipped through the bills slowly: fifty of them, exactly one thousand dollars.
“The serial numbers are non-sequential,” I observed. “This money has been circulated. And there are a few gold certificates in here. They may be worth more to collectors than the face value of the bills.” I tossed the bundle back onto the pile. “Probably safe to spend.”
“Dad knew his stuff,” Mr. Smith said.
“What are we going to do with it?” Joe asked him. “Divide it up?”
“Return it to its rightful owner,” said Smith.
Of course, he meant himself. But Joe didn’t know that.
“Is there a reward?” Joe asked, sounding desperate. He licked his lips. “Maybe…a finder’s fee?”
Smith frowned. “Trying to steal from my aunt was a stupid thing to do. Drugging her was worse. This—” He sneered at the money. “This is nothing. It’s hardly worth my time. But to protect my family—my flesh and blood—I would happily give ten times as much.”
He nodded to his men. They grabbed Joe’s arms in vice-like grips. Joe yelled in sudden panic as he realized how things had suddenly turned against him.
Smith smiled at me. “Once again, Pit, I’m impressed. You gave me more than I expected. Now, please wait in my car. This won’t take long.”
I swallowed hard. Suddenly I had a very bad feeling inside.
Carefully, Smith took off his coat, folded it neatly, and set it onto the hall table. Then he removed his cufflinks and slipped them into his pants pocket. Slowly he began to roll up his sleeves.
“You won’t kill him,” I said.
“Not as long as my aunt recovers.”
I nodded. I understood—even if Joe didn’t. Family came first with Mr. Smith.
“One more thing you should know,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“As long as you’re keeping it in the family…Joe is going to be your uncle. Your aunt is in love with him.”
Then I turned and walked out. Mr. Smith’s chauffeur had been waiting for me; he held the door open, and I slid into the back seat to wait.
* * * *
About five minutes later, the two goons came out, looking unhappy. They got into their car and drove away. A few minutes later, Mr. Smith came out. He had put his coat back on. And he didn’t look happy.
He got in next to me, then motioned for the driver to proceed. We pulled out of the driveway and headed back for the turnpike. He opened the little compartment with the martini glass on it and poured himself a glass of generic ginger ale.
“Want some, Pit?”
“No.”
He took a long drink. “You must be wondering,” he finally said, “what happened inside.”
“I assume you gave him a wedding present,” I said, “and welcomed him to the family.”
Smith hadn’t carried the money out. I would have noticed something that bulky.
“We also set a wedding date,” Mr. Smith said, frowning. “He has a mont
h to get his affairs in order. And he knows what will happen if he ever steps out of line again.”
I leaned back with a half smile. “There’s still the matter of my fee. For twelve hours’ work, you owe me fifty bucks. I’ll take it in chips next time I visit your casino.”
“I think,” said Mr. Smith slowly, studying me, “that you might be the most dangerous man I’ve ever met, Pit.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said. Then I closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep.
My legs hurt less that way.
WHAT IS COURAGE? by Mack Reynolds
The bartender was drawing a beer as I came in. The head foamed over the top of the glass and he cut it off with his spatula. He looked up and said, “Hello, Jeff.”
“Hello, George,” I said and went down to the end of the bar where I could see who entered the door.
George slid the beer over to his customer, rang up the ten cents and walked down to me.
“What’ll you have, Jeff?” he asked.
“Rye.”
As he poured the drink, I looked down the bar. Except for one stranger, the usual afternoon crowd was there. The stranger stood alone, reading a tabloid he had spread out on the bar.
“You want water with that, Jeff?” George asked.
“Yeah.”
“How’s business going?”
“Slow.”
He saw I didn’t feel like talking and went up to the other end of the bar to listen in on an argument about Louis and Conn.
I was trying to remember how long it had been since we had had a decent case when this kid came in the door. No one else saw him until he said, “This is a stick-up.”
You could see he was scared stiff. It must have been his first caper. His face was kind of pale and the .38 he held was shaking a little.
“You guys all put up your hands,” he commanded.
George and I got our hands up fast. Kids on their first job are bad. The last thing an old-timer wants to do is hurt anybody, but an amateur is too nervous to do the job right.
“Okay,” said George. “Take it easy.”
The kid tried to sneer, but he still looked scared and it spoiled the effect.
Everybody had their hands up by this time except the stranger with the newspaper. He hadn’t even looked up from his reading when the kid first spoke. He either hadn’t heard him or must have bought it was a gag. When he noticed the rest of us, he looked a little surprised and turned around to take a look.
The kid walked over toward him and tried to look tough.
“That goes for you too,” he said. “Stick ’em up.”
The guy didn’t even move. He just looked at he kid without saying a word. For a minute I thought he was going to turn his back and go on reading his paper.
The kid got paler and I considered going for my shoulder holster. Not that I cared if the nut was killed, but I was afraid that if the kid started shooting, he might hit some of the rest of us.
“Stick up your hands, wise guy,” he said again, “or I’ll let you have it.”
He was jittery and his gun hand was trembling, but he was too near to miss.
The stranger let his eyes go down slowly to the kid’s gun and then right up to his eyes. He didn’t say a word and didn’t move a muscle. I never saw such gall in my life. I expected to see the punk start blazing any second.
They stood there like that.
George started to lower his hands. He had probably decided to go for the old service .45 he kept under the bar. A woman gave a short hysterical laugh.
The kid looked more scared than ever and then suddenly turned and made a dash for the door. I could have shot him in the back if I had felt like it.
Nobody said anything for a minute. Then George looked down the bar at me, and I thought there was a question in his eyes.
“If you want him, chase him yourself or call a cop,” I said. “It isn’t my kind of work.”
“I don’t want to chase him,” George said. “I could’ve shot when he was running out the door.”
He went over to the stranger and said, “What’ll it be, buddy? It’s on the house.”
Everybody started talking at once. Most of them thought we ought to send for a cop. One guy looked out the door to see if the kid was still in sight.
The stranger waited a minute and then asked for whiskey.
George poured him the drink. “I’d think you’d need it,” he said and then walked over to the pay phone to report to the police. He left the bottle on the bar.
I looked at this guy. “Buddy,” I said, “you either got more gall or less brains than anybody I ever saw.” I was mad.
He just looked at me.
“I been in the private dick racket for a long time, and I’ve seen plenty, but I never saw anybody take such a long chance,” I said.
He looked at me for a minute more, then drank his whiskey and poured another one.
“I was so scared I couldn’t move,” he said.
JUST THE FACTS, by Meg Opperman
Monday, 10:55 A.M.
“Excuse me? We need some help.” The husky voice belonged to a short black lady, maybe five years my senior. She stood near a tanned blonde pushing a shopping cart.
“Who, me?” My voice came out an octave higher than usual. I cleared my throat and moved out from my hiding place behind a pile of printer boxes.
“You do work here?” The husky-voiced lady smiled.
“I…” A nervous tic pulled at my cheek.
“Not much of a talker,” she said. “Like that in a man. Got height, too. Mmm-mmm. What’s your name, tall-man?”
“M-Mike Blontine.” Why did I tell her my name?
“Well Mike, you should wear your nametag.” She tapped me on the chest where a nametag would hang. “My friend wants a laptop for her kids, but there’s so many to choose from. Everyone says Digital Delights has the best deals. What do you suggest?”
I could feel sweat beading on my forehead. Oh man, where was Slick Danny when I needed him? My partner, Daniel Jackson Lee, could smooth-talk the spots off a leopard. Not me. Being a private investigator with Asperger Syndrome means I’m no good with people. But I know how to assemble facts.
And I know for a fact I shouldn’t be standing here talking to someone I’ve been tailing. Well, tailing the blonde. Sandra Montebella. We’ve been following her for four days now.
“You do know about computers?” The husky-voiced lady sighed. “I like a man that knows computers.”
Sandra elbowed her friend. “Evania, please.”
“What? I do. You mind your own business, Sandy.” She turned to me. “Now, Mike, can you help us, or what?”
I nodded. I looked at the neat rows of computer screens and took a steadying breath. “You need one of the new i7 processors, the 940 is a good one, because it runs at a clock speed of 4.2 Gigahertz, and has an 8 meg L3 cache. You’ll want about 16 gigs of DDR 3 RAM, with a clock speed of 1866 Megahertz, a GeForce GTX 68M video card for games and other graphics—and this one has one of the new solid state drives, basically there are no moving parts, so the data access time is a lot less, and also uses less power, so you’ll get a better battery life—and don’t get the warranty, ’cause it doesn’t really cover what it needs to, and even if something should fail, the computer will be out of date by then anyway.”
“Oh my. That’s a mouthful.” Evania stepped closer. “Well handsome, which one of these has all that?”
“Uh, those two.” I pointed to the end of the aisle. “But really you should go to Everything Electronics. They’ve got the best prices.” I smiled. Man, I was good.
Evania chuckled. “Didn’t think you were supposed to send us to the competition.”
“I…I’m a terrible liar.”
“Good to know, Mike.” Evania moved even closer.
Sandra shook her head, turned, and pushed her cart down the aisle. She stopped in front of the two computers I’d recommended.
“So, what time doe
s your shift end? Maybe we could get together later?” Evania said.
“What for?” I asked.
“How about a drink? Or dinner, if you’re game.”
“Uh…” My palms started sweating. Was she asking me out? “I’ll be right back,” I squeaked.
I rounded the aisle, sprinted out the automated door, then paused outside to catch my breath.
I’m no good with women. That was a fact.
* * * *
Monday, 2:15 P.M.
“Damn, that’s as cold as my ex-wife’s heart.” Slick Danny’s southern accent echoed through Global Investigation’s hallway. He laughed, ran a hand down the front of his silk tie. “Mistaken for a Digital Delights employee. You gotta dress better.”
I looked down at my black Izod shirt and khaki pants. What was wrong with them? Clothes were supposed to be comfortable.
“They didn’t know I’m a P.I., though.”
“Nope, you’re right on that account, but I wouldn’t go bragging about it.” He paused beside a soda machine. “Got a dollar?”
I reached in my wallet and gave him the money. He never seemed to have change. Co-workers kept passing us in the hallway. Most were snickering. Several called out:
“Hey Blontine, didn’t know you were moonlighting at Digital Delights. Can you hook me up?”
“Me, too, Mike, I’d like a new computer…for my kids.”
“Hey, how come you’re not wearing a nametag? I might have to report you to the manager.”
I glared at Slick Danny.
He shrugged. “Sorry, Michael, but it was just too funny not to share.”
I stomped into our office and sank into my chair. I was always the butt of some office joke.
Slick Danny entered almost six minutes later. “I told them to knock it off, okay?”
I spun the chair so my back faced him.
“Come on, Michael, I said I was sorry. Have a sense of humor.”
I turned around. “No one makes fun of you. And you didn’t have to help.” I picked up the Montebella file and thumbed through it. Phones rang, and the copy machine hummed. Global Investigation’s other PIs were busy with their cases and I needed to be, too.
“Who cares what they think? Most of them are so dumb, they could throw themselves on the ground and miss.”