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Cover art: H. J. Ward, circa 1938, from the collection of Robert Lesser
CONTENTS
Novelette: THE KILLER CHRISTIAN by Andrew Klavan
Reviews: THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen
Passport to Crime: O CHRISTMAS TREE by Susanne Mischke
Novelette: PRISONER IN PARADISE by Dennis Richard Murphy
Novelette: MOUSE by Caroline Benton
Novelette: SLOW BURN by Simon Brett
Black Mask: THAT KIND OF GUY by Gary Cahill
Novelette: HARDBOILED by Tim Maleeny
Novelette: SNOW BLANKET by Eileen Anderson
Novelette: AN EARLY CHRISTMAS by Doug Allyn
Novelette: THE LOVER AND LEVER SOCIETY by Robert Barnard
Novelette: THE CHRISTMAS EGG by Edward D. Hoch
Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider
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Novelette: THE KILLER CHRISTIAN by Andrew Klavan
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Art by Mark Evan Walker
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Hailed by Stephen King as “the most original American novelist of crime and suspense since Cornell Woolrich,” Andrew Klavan has written many notable thrillers, including Don't Say a Word, which was turned into a 2001 film starring Michael Douglas. His latest novel, Empire of Lies (Harcourt, July 2008), follows a man who risks his life to stop a terrorist plot. The author originally produced the following for limited distribution as a holiday gift for customers of New York's Mysterious Bookshop.
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A certain portion of my misspent youth was misspent in the profession of journalism. I'm not proud of it, but a man has to make a living and there it is. And, in fact, I learned a great many things working as a reporter. Most importantly, I learned how to be painstakingly honest and lie at the same time. That's how the news business works. It's not that anyone goes around making up facts or anything—not on a regular basis, anyway. No, most of the time, newspeople simply learn how to pick and choose which facts to tell, which will heighten your sense that their gormless opinions are reality or at least delay your discovery that everything they believe is provably false. If ever you see a man put his fingers in his ears and whistle Dixie to keep from hearing the truth, you may assume he's a fool, but if he puts his fingers in your ears and starts whistling, then you know you are dealing with a journalist.
As an example of what I mean, consider the famous shootout above the Mysterious Bookshop in the downtown section of Manhattan known as Tribeca. Because of the drama of the violence, the personalities involved, and the high-level arrests that followed, the newspaper and television coverage of the incident ran for weeks on end. Every crime expert in the country seems to have had his moment on the talk shows. Two separate nonfiction books were written about it, not to mention the one novel. And along with several movies and TV shows featuring gunfights reminiscent of the actual event, there was a docudrama scripted by a Pulitzer Prize-winning newspaperman who covered the story, though it was never released theatrically and went straight to DVD.
There was all that—and no one got the story right. Oh, they got some of the facts down well enough, but the truth? So help me, they did not come nigh it. Why? Because they were journalists—and because the truth offended their sensibilities and contradicted their notions of what the world is like.
So they talked about how La Cosa Nostra had been hobbled by the trials of the ‘eighties and ‘nineties and how new gangs were moving in to divide the spoils left behind. They focused on what they called Sarkesian's “betrayal” of Picarone and speculated about the underworld's realigning loyalties and racial tensions. They even unearthed some evidence for a sort of professional rivalry between Sarkesian and the man known as “The Death."
But the truth is, from the very start, this was really a story about faith and redemption—quite a mysterious story too, by the end of it. And that was too much for them—the journalists. They could not—they would not—see it that way. And because they couldn't see it, they put forward the facts in such a fashion as to insure that you would fail to see it too.
It falls upon me, then, to tell it as it actually happened.
Sarkesian, to begin with, was a Christian, a Catholic, very devout. He took communion as often as he could, daily when he could, and went to confession no less frequently than once a week. What he said in those confessions of course I wouldn't know, but it must've been pretty interesting because, along with being a Christian, Sarkesian was also an enforcer—a killer when he had to be—for Raymond Picarone. How Sarkesian reconciled these two facets of his life can be explained simply enough: He was stupid. Some people just are—a lot of people are, if you ask me—and he was one of them: dumb as dirt.
So on a given day, Sarkesian might kneel before the Prince of Peace asking that he be forgiven as he himself forgave; he might listen attentively to a sermon about charity and compassion; lift his eyes with childlike expectation to the priest who handed him the body of his Lord—and then toodle off to smash his knuckles into the mouth of one of Picarone's debtors until the man's teeth went pitter-pattering across the floor like a handful of pebbles. Virtually every journalist who reported the story discounted the sincerity of Sarkesian's beliefs because of the nature of his actions, but they were mistaken in this. Indeed, if it seems strange to you that a man might hold his faith in one part of his mind and his deeds in another and never fully examine the latter in the light of the former ... well, congratulations, you may be qualified to become a journalist yourself.
No, Sarkesian prayed with a committed heart and did his job with a committed heart, and that his job included murder everyone who knew him knew. That he did that murder efficiently and without apparent compunction made him much feared by his employer's enemies. It also made him much appreciated by his employer.
"Sarkesian,” Raymond Picarone used to say with an approving smile, “is not the sharpest razor in the barbershop, but when you tell him you need the thing done, it gets done."
Now it happened one day that the thing Picarone needed done was the killing of a young man named Steven Bean. Bean was a minor functionary in Picarone's organization and a sleazy weasel of a boy even for that company. For the third time in six months, Picarone had caught Bean skimming from his profi
ts. He had decided to make an example of him.
So he summoned Sarkesian to his gentlemen's club on West 45th Street by the river and he said to him, “Sarkesian ... Stevie B ... it's no good ... we have to make, you know, a new arrangement.” Picarone had taken to talking in this elliptical fashion in order to baffle any law-enforcement personnel who might be eavesdropping electronically on his conversations.
Unfortunately Sarkesian, being not very intelligent, as I said, was frequently also baffled. “Arrangement,” he said slowly, chewing on the word as if it were a solid mass and blinking his heavily lidded eyes.
"Yeah,” said Picarone impatiently. “Bean and us ... I think we're done ... you see what I'm saying? It's no good ... we've come to a parting of the ways."
Sarkesian blinked again and licked his thick lips uncertainly.
"Kill him!” said Picarone. “Would you just kill him? Christ, what an idiot."
Sarkesian brightened, delighted to understand what was expected of him, and set off on his way.
It was mid December and the city was done up for Christmas. The great snowflake was hung over Fifth Avenue and 57th Street and the great tree was sparkling by the skating rink just downtown. Gigantic ribbons decorated the sides of some buildings. Sprays of colored lights bedecked the fronts of others. And early flurries of snow had been blowing in from the north all week, enough to give the streets a festive wintry air but not so much as to be a pain in the neck and tie up traffic.
So when Steven Bean awoke one early evening in his cramped studio apartment on the Upper West Side, he staggered to the window and looked out at a cheery Yuletide scene. There was snow in the air and there were lights in the windows of the brownstones across the way. There were green wreaths on the doors and the sound of a tinkling bell drifting from where Santa Claus was standing on the corner.
Unfortunately, there was also Sarkesian, trudging over the sidewalk on his way to kill him.
Steven had full awareness of his guilt, as do we all, though he'd managed to push that awareness to one side of his consciousness, as likewise do we all. But seeing Sarkesian plodding along with his great shoulders hunched and his big, murdering hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his overcoat, the guilt awareness snapped back front and center and Steven understood exactly what the killer was here for.
He leapt off the sofa and jammed his scrawny legs into his jeans, his scrawny feet into his sneakers. He already had a sweatshirt on and was pulling a blue ski jacket over it as he rushed out of the apartment. He could hear the front door closing three floors below as he raced up the stairs. He could hear Sarkesian's heavy footsteps rising toward him as he reached the next landing. There was a ladder there leading up to a trapdoor. Steven climbed quickly and pushed through the trap and up to the roof.
Here, the white sky opened above him and the swirling flakes fell cold upon his face. Steven dashed through the chill air, across the shadow of the water tower. He reached the parapet at the roof's edge and leapt over it, flying across a narrow airshaft to land on the roof of the building next-door. From there, he found his way to another trap, down another ladder, to the stairs of the neighboring building. In moments, he was on the street, running along the damp-darkened pavement, dodging the homecoming pedestrians. The streetlamps were just coming on above him as he passed, making the falling snow glisten against the night.
At first, as he ran, he asked himself where he would go, but it was really a rhetorical question. There was only one place he could go: to the downtown theater where he knew he would find his younger sister.
Hailey Bean was in her mid twenties, and was just beginning to realize she was not going to be a successful actress. She was a sweet girl, kind and gentle and loving; practical, down-to-earth, and sane. Which is to say she was completely unsuited for a life in show business.
At the moment, however, she was rehearsing a very small part in a once-popular drama that was to be revived off-off—not to mention off—Broadway. Hailey's role was that of an angel. At the end of the first act, she was to be lowered toward the stage in a harness-and-wire contraption. Hanging in midair, she would then deliver words of prophecy as the first-act curtain fell. It was only a 45-second scene—with another scene about the same length in the second act—but it was pivotal. An elaborately beautiful costume—a white robe with gold trimming and two enormous feathery wings—had been designed to make Hailey's attractive but not very imposing figure more impressive, and electronic enhancements and echoes were going to be added to her pleasing but less than awe-inspiring voice.
She was in the back of the small theater discussing these embellishments with the stage manager when Steven Bean burst through a rear door. Trying to keep a low profile, he planted himself in a dark corner—where he proceeded to make himself ridiculously conspicuous by gaping and whispering and waving frantically in an attempt to get his sister's attention.
The differences in character between Hailey and her brother can probably be at least partially explained by the fact that they were, in fact, only half-siblings. Steven had endured his parents’ vituperative divorce, whereas Hailey had grown up in their mother's second, more stable and loving household. Hailey was aware of her advantages and she felt compassion for her brother. But she also knew he was corrupt and reckless and dangerous, incapable of feeling anything more for her than a sort of puling, hissing envy and a fear of her decency which could shade over into hatred whenever she refused to give him whatever it was he was trying to get out of her at the time.
Still, he was family. So, as soon as she politely could, she excused herself to the stage manager and went over to see what he wanted now.
"He's after me,” were the first words he gasped at her.
"Calm down.” Hailey touched his arm gently. “Who's after you?"
"Sarkesian. He's coming to kill me."
The sister caught her breath and straightened. She didn't bother with any expressions of disbelief. She believed him well enough. “What do you want me to do?"
"Hide me!” Steven whined.
"Steven, where can I hide you? My apartment is the first place he'll look."
"You must have friends!"
"Oh, Steven, I can't send you to my friends with some thug coming after you."
"Well, give me some money at least so I can get away!"
"I don't have any more money."
"I'm your brother and I'm going to be murdered in cold blood and everything's fine for you and you won't do anything for me,” Steven said.
Hailey sighed. She knew he was just trying to make her feel guilty but it didn't matter that she knew: She felt guilty anyway. Especially because, as she was forced to admit to herself, she wasn't being completely honest with him about the money.
Hailey was a clerk during the day at the Mysterious Bookshop, a store specializing in crime fiction, located downtown on Warren Street. Because Hailey was pretty and efficient and meltingly feminine, she had become a favorite of the avuncular gentleman who ran the place. Sympathetic to her situation, he'd supplied her with an apartment in the brownstone over the shop and so her rent and expenses were fairly cheap. Thus, while it was true that Steven had all but cleaned out her savings six months ago when he'd gotten himself in trouble with Picarone's bookies, Hailey, by working overtime and scrimping on luxuries, had actually managed to save up a little more since then. The trouble was, she had a strong feeling she was going to need that money pretty soon. In a sort of semi-subconscious way, she had begun making plans to give up her acting career and go back to school.
She hesitated another few seconds, but she couldn't stand up to Steven's terrified eyes and his accusatory wheedling and her own guilt. Finally she said, “All right. I can't leave now. But come back at nine when the rehearsal is over and we'll go to the bank and I'll give you whatever I have."
Steven whined and pleaded a little more, hoping to convince her to go with him right away or even to let him use her bank card, but she stood firm and at last he slunk back out
into the snow.
On some other evening, he might well have persuaded her to come with him. But as it happened, this was the night of a special technical rehearsal dedicated almost entirely to her character. An hour after their conversation, Hailey was dressed in her winged robe of white and gold, trussed up in her harness and dangling in midair about ten feet off the stage.
She was alone. The other actors had gone home for the night. Only the director and the stage manager were left, and they were shut away in the booth at the back of the balcony. They had finished perfecting the echo effect for Hailey's voice and were now discussing their various lighting options, but where Hailey was, their conversation was inaudible. The theater was silent around her. For long periods, it was dark as well. Then, every so often, a spotlight would appear and catch Hailey dangling there in her magnificent winged costume. It would hold her in its glow for a moment as the director judged the effectiveness of the light's color and intensity. Then it would go off again as he and the technician fell to discussing their options once more.
For Hailey, it was a boring process. And since the harness dug into the flesh under her arms, it was kind of uncomfortable, too. To distract herself, she tried going over her part in her mind but as she only had four lines, her thoughts soon began to wander. She thought about Steven, of course, about the danger he was in and the troubles he had had as a child and the sad mess he had made of his adulthood. She thought about the money she was going to give him and how hard she had worked to save it and how long it would take her to save some more. She fretted that she would never find a way to improve her life. Ironically, if she could have peered only a little more than a decade into the future, she would've seen herself the mistress of a large house in the northwestern corner of Connecticut, the cheerful mother of no less than five children and the wife of a man who felt more love and gratitude to her than I can rightly say. But for the present, all this lay obscured within the mists of time, and she hung in the darkness anxious and troubled.
EQMM, January 2009 Page 1