Of Mice and Murderers

by John Stockmyer

  This time, he guessed, it was also because of Susan, the man on the floor a danger to Susan ... in some way.

  Z was breathing more easily.

  Releasing Susan to wipe the sweat from his eyes, he was beginning to remember what had happened.

  The man on the floor had broken in. Had threatened him. The man thought he had the painting that had been stolen from the Nelson.

  Then, Susan had rung the bell .....

  Though Z couldn't remember much after that, it was clear to him what had happened. Enraged because Susan was in danger, he'd overpowered the man.

  He'd also gotten out his detective case; dumped out the coil of nylon rope; tied the man up while the crook was still knocked-out.

  A bloody lump on the man's jaw matched a corresponding ache in the knuckles of Z's left hand.

  Tied the man up. But ... in a strange way.

  Concentrating on the man on the floor, Z saw that the fellow's hands were tied behind his back. Which wasn't the odd part. What was unusual was that there were turns of rope around the man's throat. Too loose to choke him. Just wrapped there. Why?

  Susan stepped away to sit down heavily on the divan. Still too white, she was weeping softly.

  The guy on the floor ... Ah! It wasn't rope that was wrapped around the man's throat. It was the dynamite fuse.

  An open box of kitchen matches was on the floor beside the man. Apparently, before Susan had gotten him stopped, Z had been about to light the fuse -- the fuse to burn round and round the fellow's throat.

  Nasty! A powder burn like the fuse would make was no joke.

  Big Bob Zapolska had been known to do odd things when in a temper.

  On the other hand, even out of control, he realized he must do something to make an impression on the man. The criminal knew Z's address; Z didn't want him coming back. But not by teaching the thug his manners by using up Z's fuse. Dynamite fuse was hard to get.

  "I'm OK," Z said, to quiet Susan.

  "I heard a terrible noise," Susan whispered. "The door was ajar, so I came in. I couldn't make you understand." She was looking up at him with her large blue eyes, dry sobs still shuddering her. "You wouldn't listen to me. You were like a crazy man."

  "I went haywire. I almost never do that anymore."

  "Who ... is that?" she asked in a small voice, pointing at the man.

  "I don't know. He hit me. Then you came. I was afraid for you."

  "Like when my husband shot you."

  She knew. That was the last time Z had blacked-out.

  "If you're in danger, I get violent." Z managed a weak smile. "I'm OK now but I've got to get him out of here."

  "What were you going to do to him?" Susan still looked unnaturally white. Shaken.

  "Don't know. But it's OK now."

  "You aren't going to ... hurt him ... are you, Z?"

  "No." Z didn't know why not; the guy had certainly hurt him!!

  "Don't hurt him. Promise me!"

  "I promise."

  Susan struggled off the divan. Though her knees were weak, at least her smile was stronger. There was more color in her face. "You keep your promises. I think you're the only person I ever knew like that."

  And that was true. A real man never went back on his word. A promise was ... sacred.

  "Give me an hour. Get something to eat. Then come back."

  "I'll need some time to pull myself together," Susan said, agreeing. Z noticed she hadn't unbuttoned her coat.

  "You'll be alright."

  Stepping over to her, he put his arm around her again to walk her to the door.

  Outside, hand-in-hand, they strolled down the back path, the two of them alone in a soft shower of night-silver snow, Z getting Susan safely into her gray-blue Stanza that she'd parked beside the garage, waving to her as she eased off down the alley.

  She would be alright.

  Back in his apartment, Z wiped his feet on the throw rug just inside the door, then got his overcoat; put it on to warm himself after the chilly trip outside in his shirt sleeves.

  Pausing to slug down a quantity of aspirin, feeling better after a time, he busied himself getting the fuse off the man's neck. Found the case. Looped in the fuse.

  The man still out, Z had time to pick up the room and to pack the scattered detective items in the satchel (except for his blackjack, putting that in his coat pocket.) After that, he returned the valise to the slot he'd made under the fireplace then pivoted the fire box back on its base.

  He even had time to think of a way to impress this thug -- while still keeping his promise to Susan not to hurt the hoodlum.

  Continuing to finalize the details of his plan, he got a Hy-Vee sack from under the sink. Began to put in what he would need: a safety pin and piece of twine from the kitchen's "junk" drawer; also last year's eight-inch-in-diameter Christmas candle, its wick burned almost to the bottom of the hard wax shell.

  Perfect.

  Rummaging in the kitchenette cupboard, he found a quart-sized mason jar to add to the sack.

  Since the idea he'd gotten was an afterthought, he had to retrieve his detective case to get the rubber siphon, putting the flexible tube in the sack, as well.

  Taking his thin skin-tight leather gloves out of the satchel also, he pulled them on before putting the case in its slot under the hearth and dragging the fireplace back on its base.

  A couple of kitchen matches in his left coat pocket ....

  The man on the floor was beginning to twitch as a prelude to waking up.

  Hurrying, Z dumped the contents of the sack on the living room table, returning the jar and siphon to the grocery bag.

  Getting a thin-bladed kitchen knife from the utility drawer, picking up the candle, he bored side-by-side holes through the candle's bottom edge.

  Next, threading one end of the twine through the holes he'd made, looping back the string to tie it to itself, he secured that end of the string to the bottom of the candle. Picking up the other end of the three-foot length of twine, he tied that to the bottom hole of the safety pin, putting the pin-string-candle combination in the sack with the jar and siphon.

  Standing, glancing at his watch, Z saw he'd done all this in ten minutes. If the crook would just wake up, there was plenty of time to finish the job and get back here before Susan returned.

  Z bent down to shake the man. Repeated the "shake" at two minute intervals.

  "Wha ...?" the muscle man mumbled. "What ...?"

  Waking up with a start -- still looking good in his expensive overcoat -- the thug opened his deep-set eyes and rolled them all around, finally seeing Z standing over him.

  The man looked puzzled. Being knocked out wasn't good for anybody.

  The first sign the criminal understood what was happening was when he pulled hard on the rope binding his hands behind his back.

  Realizing he was tied, a look of fear spread across the man's ugly face, his thick eyebrows drawing together in a frown.

  Good.

  At least it was a beginning.

  "You think I stole the Monet. You're wrong." Z could tell the man understood what Z was saying. "So wrong that that idea could get you killed." Z was emphasizing the words but keeping his voice down to his usual rasp. He couldn't talk much louder, anyway.

  All he got from the crook was another groan and a further attempt to pull free. "We're going to your car."

  Not that easily done with the felon's hands tied securely, it taking a knee-straining effort just to get the man up.

  After that, Z carrying the paper sack, it was no trouble to walk the crook out the door and through the heavy snowfall to the man's car in front.

  A rented car.

  Figured.

  Putting the paper bag on top the snow-feathered car, opening the back door, facing the thug toward the car, Z slipped out the blackjack and sapped the crook, at the same time, shouldering the man inside onto the car's back seat.

  A moment to kick in the criminal's legs, and Z was able to slam shut the b
ack seat door.

  None of the neighbors would be looking. Anyway, it was full dark. Plus, the snow was coming down too thick for anyone to see.

  Remembering to retrieve the sack from the car roof, opening the driver's door, he got in and shut the door.

  Brushing the snow off the bottom of the sack, he put the paper bag on the passenger seat.

  Twisting to the back, rolling the man over, Z dug the rental keys out of the criminal's pants pocket.

  Satisfied that things were going well, starting the car, turning on the wipers to clear the windshield, switching on the lights, Z pulled away from the curb.

  Skidding around the next corner, Z drove the new Ford down a cleared-off 72nd.

  Took a right at the light.

  Continuing another mile on Oak, he turned left onto Barry, finding the traffic to be unusually light for that time of night.

  Past the U.S. Super on Barry, past the new bank building and the Metro North shopping mall, he made a left to travel up a narrow road that trailed through lightly wooded land toward the modern black and yellow metal-paneled police station on top the hill. (Not Ted's Gladstone station. This was far enough north to be K.C. cops.)

  Trees hiding the car from the police station a half-mile ahead, Z pulled off to park in a wide spot in the scrub brush lined road.

  Put the car in park.

  Switched off the motor and the lights.

  Cars rarely used this road anymore, even when it wasn't packed with snow. Like the cops, people took the access road to the new highway, the concrete two-lane down the hill's other side.

  Back to the ... experiment. No sense in getting the man out of the car until the final preparations had been made.

  Sitting there in the dark, the thick fall of snow quieting the world, Z steeled himself. He hated this part. If they could put a man on the moon, you'd think someone would invent a way to siphon gas without the risk of getting it in your mouth!

  Finding the dome switch where he thought he would, he snapped on the ceiling light so he could see to get what he needed from the sack. Took out the flexible rubber siphon and the mason jar.

  The dome light still on, he got out with the tube and jar, shutting the car door with a crisp thunk.

  A bed of leaves by the roadside giving him surprisingly good footing, he circled the back of the car, at the passenger side rear, flipped out the gas flap and unscrewed the cap.

  Wiping a clean space on the trunk lid, he set the cap there -- top up -- to keep snow from sifting inside the cap. This was no time to risk water in the gas tank -- no matter how little.

  Next, Z poked one end of the thin tube down the throat of the gas tank, snubbing up on it to push it past the spring-loaded inner seal, the inside "lid" designed to prevent fumes from escaping if you forgot to put the gas cap on after filling the tank.

  Feeding in the tube until he was certain the end of it was below the level of the tank's gas, squatting, setting the jar beside him in the snow, he put the other end of the tube in his mouth.

  Sucked gently.

  Damn! As careful as he was being, he still got a raw, cold sip!

  Gagging, he stuck his tongue over the tube end.

  Quickly reaching inside his mouth, he capped the end of the tube with his thumb, even more quickly, spit the oily-tasting gas into the snow. Bending down further, using his free hand, Z swiped snow inside his mouth, spitting and spitting until he'd washed away the worst of the gasoline taste.

  Picking up the jar but keeping it low, placing the end of the tube inside it, he took his thumb off the tube end.

  And waited ...... until he'd siphoned off a quart of gasoline.

  Good. Almost ready.

  Lifting the tube above his head to break the flow of gas, Z set the open container of gasoline on the ground, making sure the jar was well out of the way. Standing, he pulled the tube out of the fuel tank, spun the gas out of the thin siphon, coiled the rubber piping and slipped it into his right coat pocket. .... No. ... He didn't forget to replace the gas cap and close the aerodynamic flap. Big Bob Zapolska had always been good at remembering details.

  Opening the back door of the car now, he got a hand on the crook, tumbled as he was, half on the seat, half on the floor, and dragged him out, the man sprawling on the snowy ground.

  Using his foot, Z rolled the man face up, the man lying at a crumpled angle because his tied up arms were underneath his back.

  Wanting to get this over with before a stray car came down the road, Z bent down to scoop snow on the bully boy's face, the crook groaning.

  With the criminal moving restlessly, on the way to waking up, Z opened the front passenger door and rummaged around in the bag again. Got out the safety pin -- tied to the twine -- the other end of the string tied through the hole in the bottom of the fat, hollowed-out candle.

  Setting the candle and twine beside the man, Z reached down and pinned the safety pin to the lapel of the gangster's coat.

  Since the man was starting to function again, at least enough to stand, Z hoisted him to his feet, the man leaning back on the car to keep from falling. As for the candle, it hung upside down at knee level, dangling there at the end of the pinned on string.

  Seeming to be fully awake at last, the crook's shadowy face took on a wild look in the feeble glow coming from the Ford's dome light.

  Good.

  Without explanation, Z jerked the crook off the car and marched him the five steps it took to lean him back against the trunk of a spindly tree.

  Big Bob Zapolska was ready at last.

  "Listen as if your life depended on it. Because it does."

  Z reached down now, and picked up the candle. Righted it. Brought it up to the crook's eye level so the man could see it.

  Z dug the matches out of his coat pocket.

  Shifting the candle so that Z had it under his right arm, he transferred one of the matches to his other hand.

  A match in each hand, he struck the match heads against each other, the heads flaring, making quite a light on that dark night, Z putting both matchsticks side by side to hold them in one hand, the double match burning nicely.

  Transferring the candle to his other hand, he tipped the candle so he could push the flaming heads of the matchsticks inside it, the wick near the bottom softening, then catching fire.

  Throwing away the matches to hiss out in the snow, Z held the lighted candle upright, the wick blazing higher, the flame glowing merrily through the candle's translucent shell. As Z had figured, the candle's wax casing protected the candle flame from what feeble wind gusts blew on that silent snowy night.

  Though there was too little candlelight for him to see the criminal's black eyes beneath the man's deep brow ridges, the rest of the ape man's face looked puzzled.

  Carefully, Z lifted the lighted candle and balanced it on the man's head, the string, tied to the candle's base, trailing down past the thug's face to the safety pin pinned to the man's coat. .... Too much slack in the string.

  Gathering the twine in the middle, Z tied a loop-knot there to tighten the line.

  Turning away, Z walked back to the car, bent down, picked up the jar of gas, walked back to the criminal, and carefully sloshed the volatile liquid down both the front and back of the gangster's coat, the cold, thin fuel quickly soaking to the crook's skin.

  The fumes from that much gas made quite a stench, even in the air of all outdoors.

  "Hey ...!" the man cried, the upward rush of poisonous vapor choking off his voice.

  "Here's the game." Even Z's hiss could be clearly heard in the thick air. "The candle's fastened to the string, the string to the safety pin, the safety pin hooked to your coat. If the candle falls off your head, the string swings the burning candle back against your body, touching off the gasoline."

  "You're fuckin' crazy, man!" the thug said hysterically, his voice cracking like a teenager's.

  "Something you should remember," Z said, dryly. "If you get out of this alive."

  At la
st, he had the man's attention. "Got the candle balanced on your head?" The man rolled his eyes. "Good. It's half a mile to the police station." Z pointed. "Make it without the candle falling off your head, and you stay alive. If the candle falls, it touches off the gas."

  "You can't do that ...." It was the criminal's turn to have lost his voice.

  "And remember this. Even if you make it, you're roasted if I see your face again."

  The man just stood there, trembling, trying to catch a breath without coughing, his eyes rolled up as if to see the candle on his head.

  "There are other ways to play it." Big Bob Zapolska liked to be as fair as possible in these situations. "You can stand right here until the gas evaporates. Might freeze your balls off first.

  "Or, you could fall down; hope the flame blows out on the way.

  "Me, I don't care."

  His job over, Z's final glimpse of the thug came after swinging the Ford around, the rear view mirror showing the man standing as rigidly as a Christmas tree with a lighted star on top, exactly where Z left him.

  Whatever decision the criminal made to get free, Z felt reasonably certain the tough would never trouble him again. The bottom line of this whole deal.

  All that remained was to ditch the car in some parking lot, call a cab, and get home for his delayed date with Susan.

  Thinking of Susan, Z was glad he'd kept his promise to spare the hoodlum.

  Susan was right. Big Bob Zapolska did make a special point to keep his promises!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 15

  Susan had come back later that night but it hadn't gone well. For his part, a throbbing head, the constant need to pass bloody urine, and the sore, red and blue bruises on his lower back had made lovemaking difficult. (Being kicked in the kidneys was no better for you than being hammered on the head.)

  Susan was not herself, either.

  The next morning over breakfast -- Susan just had toast -- Z could tell she wanted to talk; but was still so disturbed she couldn't. Seeing his dark side again had shaken her.

  The detective business was pulling them apart.