“Vito!” cried Father Michael. “Stop!”
“Fucking maniac,” said Carmine.
“Thought you’d get Joey Mannino, did you?” I shouted at the doppelgangster. “Well, think again, you bastard!”
“This is one of them?” the priest shrieked.
“Yes!” I kept banging its head against the floor. “And it’s gonna tell me who’s behind these hits!”
Its eyes rolled back into its head, it convulsed a few times, and then its head shattered like dry plaster.
“Whoa!” said Tony.
I looked down at the mess. Nothing but crumbled dust, lumps of dirt, and feathers where the thing’s head had been. Then its body started disintegrating, too.
“I think you whacked it, Vito,” said Tony.
Father Michael poured the whole rest of the bottle of wine down his throat before he spoke. “Well . . . I guess this means that Joey is safe now?”
“Not for long,” I said. “Whoever did this will make another one the moment he knows this one has been—wait a minute!”
“Vito? What is it?” said Tony.
“Maybe it’s not a he,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Think about it! Who would hit the Berninis and the Gambones? Who hates both families that much? Who wants all of us dead?”
“You saying the fucking feds are behind this?”
“No, you asshole! I’m saying the one person who hates both families equally is behind this!” I grabbed a handful of the crap that had been Joey’s doppelgangster a minute ago and waved it at these guys. “Feathers!”
“Vito, this is a very serious accusation,” said Father Michael, slurring his words a little. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Huh?” said Tony.
“Just fucking follow him,” said Carmine as I ran for the same exit that the Widow Butera had taken.
I kicked in the door of her apartment without knocking. I’d figured out her scam by now, so I expected the feathers, the blood sacrifices, the candles, the chanting, and the photos of Bernini and Gambone family members.
I just didn’t expect to see my own perfect double rising out of her magic fire like a genie coming out of a lantern. I pulled out my piece and fired at it.
“Noooo!” screamed the Widow Butera. She leaped at me, knocked my gun aside, and started clawing at my face.
“Kill it! Kill it!” I shouted at the others.
Carmine said, “I always wanted to do this to you, Vito,” and started pumping bullets into my doppelgangster while I fought the Widow. Father Michael ran around the room praying loudly and drenching things in holy water. Tony took a baseball bat—don’t ask me where he got it—and started destroying everything in sight: the amulets and charms hanging everywhere, the jars of powders and potions stacked on shelves, the cages containing live chickens, and the bottles of blood. My perfect double shattered into a million pieces in the hail of Carmine’s bullets, and the pieces fell smoldering into the fire. Then Tony kicked at the fire until it was scattered all over the living room and started dying.
“It’s a fucking shame about the carpet,” Carmine said as chickens escaped the shattered cages and started running all over the room.
“. . . blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb . . .” Father Michael was chanting.
“What else can I break? What else can I break?” Tony shouted.
“I’ll kill you all!” the Widow screamed. “You’re all dead!”
“Too late, sister, we’re onto you now. You’ve whacked your last wiseguy,” I said as she struggled in my grip.
“Three husbands I lost in your damned wars!” she screamed. “I told them to get out of organized crime and into something secure, like accounting or the restaurant business, but would they listen? Noooo!”
“Secure? The fucking restaurant business? Are you kidding me?”
“The Berninis and Gambones ruined my life!” the Widow Butera shrieked. “I will have vengeance on you all!”
“Repent! Repent!” Father Michael cried. Then he doused her with a whole bottle of holy water.
“Eeeeeeeeeee!” She screamed something awful . . . and then started smoking like she was on fire.
I’m not dumb. I let go of her and backed away.
The room filled with smoke, and the Widow’s screams got louder, until they echoed so hard they made my teeth hurt . . . then faded. There was a dark scorch mark on the floor where she’d been standing.
“Where’d she go?” I said.
“She’ll never get her fucking security deposit back now,” said Carmine, looking at the floor.
Tony added, “No amount of buffing will get that out.”
“What the hell happened?” I said, looking around the room. The Widow had vanished.
Father Michael fell to his knees and crossed himself. “I don’t think she was completely human. At least, not anymore. She had become Satan’s minion.”
“Huh. I wondered how she kept her good looks for so fucking long.”
“That’s it?” I asked Father Michael. “She’s just . . . gone?”
He nodded. “In hell, where she belongs.” After a moment he added, “Mind you, that’s only a theory.”
“Either way,” I said, “I’m kinda relieved. I know we couldn’t just let her go. Not after she’d hit three guys and tried to hit me and Joey, too. But I really didn’t want to whack a broad.”
“What a fucking pussy you are, Vito.”
“Carmine, you asshole,” I said, “the sit-down was successful. We found out who’s behind these hits, we put a stop to it, and there ain’t gonna be no new war. So now get outta my sight before I forget my manners and whack you just for the hell of it.”
“Did I mention how much fun it was pumping a whole clip into your fucking doppelgangster?”
My cell phone rang, making Father Michael jump.
“Damn.” I knew who it was even before I answered it. “Hello?”
“Vito,” said Joey, “I’ve been sitting here in my car, not going anywhere, just like you said, for a whole hour. Now, do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
I looked at the scorched spot the Widow had left in the floor and tried to think of the best way to break the news to him. “So, Joey . . . would you still want to marry the Widow Butera if you knew she’d been trying to whack you and everyone you know?”
Mixed Marriages Can Be Murder
Will Graham
Will Graham is the pseudonym of a private investigator in Texas specializing in computer forensics and electronic evidence. This is his first short-story sale.
I looked at my cigarette as the flame caught, while the coffee finished brewing. It was an old trick, but still a fun one, and I liked being able to do it after all these years. Another beautiful day. Leaning against the counter in the kitchen, I glanced out the tinted window to see the city before me. Critics be damned, San Francisco had a magic all its own. We’d been here for many years, and it still struck me that some cities can truly hold you in their spell. The faint streaks of predawn were appearing. I fought a yawn.
A noise behind me made me turn. Emma came in from the living room, her white fur robe belted tightly around her, auburn hair spilling loosely around her shoulders. “Darling,” she said. “Must you?”
I smiled at her. “It keeps me human. So to speak.”
She wrinkled her pretty nose and looked at me with a combination of irritation and fondness. She doesn’t like my smoking, she never did, but as I’ve pointed out to her, I smoked when she married me, so she has no real grounds to complain. It’s a game, an old one, a familiar one, the type that people who have been together forever and a day can play with each other.
I turned, reached into the cabinet, and got her favorite cup. Precisely one spoon of sugar (raw, imported from Jamaica), mixed well. Her newest fad was heavy cream, delivered every morning. A heaping splash of that, again mixed well until blended into the coffee. When it was ready, I put th
e cup on a saucer and presented it to her with a flourish. I could see into the living room, the heavy curtains moving as a breeze came in from the open window.
She took a sip, smiled, and said, “You’ll do. I think I’ll keep you.”
“I certainly hope so.” I took my own coffee to the table and joined her. If it matters, I like mine black, no sugar, but I’m not fanatical about it. Over the years, I’ve had everything from nectar of the gods to stuff that tasted like it leaked from a broken crankcase in a truck from Kentucky. Coffee is coffee is coffee, and I’ve loved it from the first time I ever had it.
“Well,” she said in a teasing tone, “there are things you are good for.” Her smile widened. “Such as the other night . . .”
“That’s enough about ‘the other night,’” I said in reply. Her smile grew even brighter, and it amazed me, as it always does, that she could still take my breath away, to use a cliché.
She looked over my shoulder at the sun rising. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It always is. But then, it’s not the only beautiful thing I see.” I gave her my own version of a sex-crazed leer.
She fought a blush. “Now, darling . . .”
“‘Ah, to be young and in love . . .’” I let it trail off.
A perfect morning. The sun rising, the woman I loved with me, in our home, safe, warm, and secure. It was all perfect.
Well . . .
Except for the body in the living room.
Just a week ago, we’d been working a case.
We’d met the client at a small restaurant, a favorite of ours called Café Elégant.
“Mr. and Mrs. Steele, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said as he stood to greet us.
“And you, sir,” I replied as we shook hands. It was obvious that he was instantly and forever dazzled by Emma, but she has that effect on most men. We sat down after he asked us to do so.
Arthur “Call Me Art” Harrison was unremarkable in every physical way—average height, average weight, average hair loss, average glasses—but for some odd reason he reminded me of a weasel. He had the air of someone who had deciphered the meaning of life and the secrets of the cosmos. After spending ten minutes with him, I could almost believe that he had indeed.
“You come highly recommended,” Art Harrison said. “Your reputation is remarkable.”
“We’ve had some luck,” Emma said as the wine steward approached. Harrison ordered the single most expensive wine on the list, without even wondering if it would go with our meals. Since Emma and I had been regulars here over the years, the sommelier brought only two glasses, setting one before Emma, the other before Harrison.
“You don’t drink, Mr. Steele?” Harrison asked.
“Not wine,” I said with a small smile.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Emma fighting the giggles. We’d been through this before, and it always amused her. Why it did was beyond me, but any man who claims to understand a woman, any woman, is either a liar or living in fantasyland. Ever since she bought me that silly movie with the actor and his sillier Hungarian accent . . .
Harrison explained his situation. Nothing major, but someone had come up with a new twist on an old twist in the computer software arena, and competitors were out to steal it before it could reach the production phase.
“That is impressive,” Emma said. She had the marvelous ability to focus on someone so totally and completely as to give the person the feeling that her day would not be complete without their having met. She was sincere about it. People fascinated her, and always would. I was a more private type of individual, preferring to stay at home with her, my books, a bit more distrustful of people. The clichés are true: opposites do indeed attract, and it’s a wonderful thing when it works.
“How long will you need us?” I asked as the dinner was served. Harrison had ordered lobster flambé, Emma and myself steak Diane.
“A week,” he replied. “One week of your time is all we need.”
I nodded. “It will be expensive.”
“As they say, cost is no object.”
Emma nodded to him, acknowledging the compliment. “As I mentioned, we’ve had some luck.”
“Luck has little to do with brilliance,” Harrison said. “I had the two of you researched.”
I kept my face impassive, but felt Emma stiffen just a touch. She always got a little nervous when people started asking too many questions. “What do you mean?”
Harrison smiled, pleased with the chance to show off for us. “Jonathan and Emma Steele, private investigators. Low-key, quiet, but a one hundred percent success rate. Rumor has it that the FBI uses you as consultants occasionally, and it’s a known fact that Mrs. Steele worked for the CIA at one point.”
Emma relaxed. Unless you knew her very, very well, it would have been impossible to detect either the sudden tension or its release.
“I was in Hungary for a time, true. But I was nothing more than a student, out to see the world,” she said with one of her most dazzling smiles.
Harrison gave her a look that, verbalized, would have been, “Okay, we can play the game if you wish. But I know better.” “Then there was the business with that killer, the serial killer who ate his victims. He escaped from the state hospital he was being held in. Is it true that you left him bound and gagged on the steps of the police station?”
I shrugged. “You know how rumors are, Mr. Harrison.” I shut my mind to the memories that came rushing back. For the first time in a long time, I had been actually frightened when all that happened.
“Call me Art, please,” he said with a smile as he forked some more lobster from his plate. “According to the story, whatever happened with that man has left him quite quiet, subdued, with a serious sudden interest in religion. Did you really shave his head and paint it bright orange?”
I shrugged again, pretending I didn’t see the look in Emma’s eyes. “Who knows what made him do what he did? And who knows what made him change his ways?” I ignored the question about head shaving and orange paint; Emma does have her moments of whimsy.
“You two are the best there is,” Harrison said after he swallowed his food, “and that’s what we want. The best.”
“Well, we’ll see what we can do for you,” I told him.
He reached into his pocket and handed me a check. The zeros on the end made my eyes blink several times. “That’s what it’s worth to us,” he said with a satisfied smile.
Emma leaned over just enough to see the amount, then turned back to Harrison. “I believe we can accommodate your needs, Mr. Harrison.”
“Call me Art,” he said again, and looked around for the waiter.
Alistair came out, discreetly removing the dinner plates. Emma’s was almost spotless. If there’s one thing in this world she adores, it’s steak Diane.
Dessert was, as always, an event. Bananas Foster, prepared table side. I pushed it around on my plate, not actually eating any.
Emma patted her lips with her napkin, then smoothly stood. “If you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment.” She left us at the table, and I gave Harrison credit for trying not to watch her as she walked away, long legs flashing. As I mentioned, she does have that effect on men.
He and I sat quietly for a few moments, then began discussing the nuts and bolts of the matter at hand. While I could appreciate the importance to him, it was a simple case of industrial security. We’d done this sort of work many times before, and I felt confident it would be easily handled.
Emma returned to the table, joining the conversation. We came to the agreement that we would start the next evening.
It was a pleasant night, and we walked Harrison to his car. After reassuring him that things were under control, Emma and I decided to walk to our home rather than ride. Harrison started his gleaming Porsche and took off with tires squealing. As the taillights rounded the corner, I looked at Emma. “He was showing off, of course.”
“Of course, darling. Do you find t
hat annoying?”
“Amusing, to be honest. If he only knew . . .”
She laughed with me, her perfect teeth flashing. “Yes. If he only knew. Are you hungry? You didn’t eat much tonight. You never do, but tonight seemed different.”
“Just not in the mood, I guess.”
And we walked home, arm in arm in the moonlight. “It’s still beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked me, glancing upward.
“Most of the time,” I replied.
She giggled. “Three-quarter time?” she asked, pointing at the three-fourths moon.
“That, too.”
She hit me with the full force of her eyes, and I was mesmerized. Come to think of it, that’s how she got me to fall in love with her. In all my years, I’ve always marveled how men plan, plot, scheme, romance, and seduce. When a woman makes up her mind that a man is hers, a wise male simply accepts it, as there’s no use fighting. A mutual friend once asked me when I had fallen in love with Emma, and my immediate response was, “As soon as she told me to.”
We were silent for a time, enjoying the night, then she tightened her grip on my arm. “Mr. Steele, I do believe there’s something in the air.”
“Indeed there is, Mrs. Steele,” doing my best Sean Connery imitation. “Something’s come up.”
Her hand slid up and down my arm, and she looked at me with the eyes that a woman saves for the man she loves. “Well, we’ll see what we can do about that.”
And when we got home, we did.
The next night we were ready.
Four days passed with nothing happening. Nothing at all. On the fifth night . . .
Shortly after midnight, there was a delicate sound of breaking glass from the foyer. Emma had been lightly dozing, and her eyes snapped open. She was alert and on her feet in the space of a heartbeat. Knowing each other well enough, we had no need for words as we moved to our respective hiding places. One of the things Harrison insisted upon was that we identify the thieves.
A scratching sound told us someone was trying to pick the lock to the front office door. I’d been tempted to leave it unlocked, but decided against being too obvious about the setup. I had an infrared camera ready, and as the door opened, I hit the button to start the film rolling. Specially modified to be completely silent, it did its job perfectly, recording everything from that moment on.
Murder by Magic Page 6