* * * *
* * * *
Conway's debut introduces Hollywood P.I. Gideon Kincaid, a former cop in L.A. who planted evidence used to convict a man who was certainly guilty—but not of the crime for which he was convicted. That event likewise triggered the end of his marriage to Stacy Wilson, a fellow cop whose career suffered as a result of Kincaid's actions.
Gideon scrapes by on few cases and sets his dreams on his just-published novel Rear Entry, which shows no signs of being the hoped-for breakthrough. But a call from Westside Cemetery changes everything. The remains of fabled movie star Christine Cole, who died an early, tragic death, have been stolen and a two-million-dollar ransom has been set for their return. The kidnapper's note demands that Gideon be the one to handle the payoff.
The perpetrator is failed actor Roy Cooper, whose career consists of heartbreaking near misses. He decides to get even with those he considers responsible for his lackluster career by first extorting money from them and then knocking them off. Gideon's connection to Cooper and his offense will become clear later but meanwhile Cooper has other targets in mind and Gideon is destined to play the role of messenger as Cooper targets various producers and directors and actresses he blames for his failures.
Conway plays much of the novel for laughs, poking fun at the vagaries of show business, Gideon's desire to become a best-selling author, his love-hate relationship with Stacy, and his obliviousness to the affections his lovely young secretary Hillary feels for him. But Gideon also has to contend with the very real killings Cooper is committing, the attempts of his ex-wife's new partner to frame him, and other misadventures. Conway plants some neat twists that should have readers struggling to catch up as Gideon tries to figure out the identity of the kidnapper and save lives.
* * * *
all points bulletin: Deadly Pleasures has announced their Barry Award nominees for Best Short Story, and they include three from AHMM: Doug Allyn's “Thicker Than Blood,” Jeffrey Cohen's “The Gun Also Rises,” and Eric Rutter's “Purge.” Visit www.deadlypleasures.com/news for voting information and to see the rest of the nominees. * SleuthSayers (www.sleuthsayers.org) continues to run regular blogs by many AHMM authors and other short story mystery writers. * Author Eric Cline has launched a new blog: www.cruelcline.blogspot.com. * Hush Now, Don't You Cry, the eleventh book in Rhys Bowen's Molly Murphy series, 2012 from St. Martin's Minotaur; the movie version of Her Royal Spyness is currently in development.
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Fiction: 364 DAYS
by John R. Corrigan
The photograph was fading, its edges turning up. Oil smudges from his fingerprints aged the image. Ten-year-old T. J. Reynolds pressed the picture against his thigh, an effort to flatten its corners, a desperate attempt to add days, hours, even minutes to the life of the photo. For three hundred sixty-four days it was all he had.
He set the picture beside him on the sofa, went back to his Xbox game, Splinter Cell: Conviction, and absently shot three people.
“T. J.,” his mother called from the kitchen, “Marty is coming over at eight to watch a movie. Stay in your room, okay?”
T. J. didn't answer, didn't look up from his Xbox. On the screen, he kicked in the face of an enemy. It exploded like a dropped tomato. The move earned him fifty points.
“Did you hear me?” his mother shouted.
T. J. kicked the enemy again. “Whatever.”
The wall clock read seven forty-five. He paused the game, set the joystick on the sofa, and left the trailer, walking out the front door without telling his mother where he was going. And without her asking.
He wasn't about to watch her kiss Marty at the door again, didn't want to hear them laughing in the living room. Even worse was when the laughter stopped and a long silence followed. His ten-year-old mind ran wild during the silence.
T. J. walked down the dirt road, tattered Champion sneakers his grandmother had bought him at Wal-Mart untied and scuffing, scattering rocks as he shuffled. He didn't like this walk. It was bad enough seeing Leon Landis every morning on the way to school. But he didn't want to be home.
He turned the corner. Before he could catch himself, tell himself to keep walking no matter what they say, just keep walking—he froze.
And Leon Landis saw his hesitation.
The Landis family lived at the corner of Ridell Road and Main Street. There was no getting downtown without passing the Landis home. Leon was in the driveway (theirs was paved), and Leon was shooting baskets, a light-skinned African-American boy in T. J.'s class, bigger than the other boys; his father had steady work on the assembly line at the Hyundai factory. “Those rich people wouldn't have no car doors,” he often reminded his peers, “if it weren't for my father.” And, as if the very mention of fathers triggered Leon's memory, he routinely swung the conversation—and its finger of ridicule—to T. J., swiftly turning a roomful of boys against him.
This evening it was just the two of them.
“Where you going?” Leon said, dropping the ball and walking to the edge of the driveway.
The thump of the bouncing ball grew quick, then died like a heartbeat, turning rapid before the end.
“Store,” T. J. said.
“How's your father?”
T. J. started walking again, stride now elongated, pace quickening.
“I know what tomorrow is,” Leon said.
T. J. stopped ten feet away. “You know?”
A crooked smile, one corner of Leon's mouth rising. “Your face even paler than usual. Tomorrow you going to Garriston, right? See your old man.”
T. J. nodded. Leon was three inches taller. Somehow he now seemed much larger.
“How come you only go in there once a year?”
T. J. shrugged. Here was unfamiliar territory: Leon seemed genuinely interested.
“My mother don't take me,” T. J. said.
“Ain't you afraid to go in there?”
“Sort of.”
“I knew it,” Leon said, the seriousness leaving his face. “You afraid of your own father. ‘Cause you know he ain't never getting out. And guys who ain't never getting out got nothing to lose. My father told me that. My father got a good job. See my new bike. Cost a hundred dollars. Where you get that shirt? Salvation Army? Too small for you.”
“We're going to Disneyland when he gets out,” T. J. shouted and started walking again, not knowing why he said it. It wasn't a retaliatory insult or even a defense.
This time, the audible sounds of Leon's words grew faint, but his statements did not.
You afraid to go in there? Afraid of your own father. He ain't never getting out.
* * * *
Southerland had one traffic light, the parking lot at the town hall had never been paved, and the post office had only three employees. Flanking the traffic light was Jay's Country Store, cluttered and smelling of meat from the deli counter in the back. To the left of the front door, freezers lined the wall, holding ice cream, beer, milk, and TV dinners. The aisles contained an assortment of food products (both snacks and staples) and toys, everything from baseballs to bikes.
The worn floorboards hadn't been swept. The dirt beneath T. J.'s shoes scraped like sandpaper against the wood. Jay was cutting meat for Mrs. Tortorella, T. J.'s fifth-grade teacher. Jay's wife, Carlene, worked the counter and smiled at T. J. when he pushed the door open and the bell chimed against the door.
“Hi, T. J. How are you?”
He didn't want to talk, only nodded. Started toward the arcade in the back. Then he paused, looking at a silver BMX bike near the door.
“It's a GT Mach One,” Carlene said. “Your friend Leon Landis was in here and wanted to sit on it. Bunch of kids have. That's not allowed.”
T. J. looked at the bike, saw the $219 price tag dangling from the handlebars.
“Here to play Super Mario?” she asked.
Nod.
“You okay, sweetie?”
“Fine.”
“Your mom know you're here?” She glanced at her watch.
“No school tomorrow.”
“But it's getting dark. She drive you here?”
T. J. looked at the floor. He could hear Jay and Mrs. Tortorella talking, could smell chicken; his stomach burned. He hadn't eaten since lunch.
“Jay can drive you home again,” Carlene said to T. J.'s back, as the boy walked toward the dark arcade.
* * * *
The next morning, the gymnasium was filled. Green jumpsuits lined the bleachers on one side, across the basketball court a sea of purple RETURNING HEARTS DAY T-shirts.
T. J. beamed when a man in a blue suit stood at a podium near the basket and read “Hank Reynolds.” One green jumpsuit stood, took the bleacher steps two at a time, met T. J. on the gymnasium floor, and swept him up in his thick arms. The tattoos on his forearms moved like dancing purple worms as he squeezed T. J.
The embrace wiped away everything T. J. hated about the place: the grinding noise the fifteen-foot metal gate made as it opened (T. J. told his mother it sounded like something from Avatar and reminded him of an open mouth preparing to bite), the metal detectors beeping and flashing; the search of his mother's handbag, and the confiscations of her mace,which she kept for her nightly walk from the 7-11 back to her car. He hated the way the hulking, blank-faced guards insisted that all visitors wear the purple returning hearts day T-shirts, which T. J. knew was only so guards could tell the inmates from guests. More than anything, he hated the way the guards walked with a hand near their holstered pistols. That made him worry about his father because his father wasn't afraid of anyone. At night, when he lay in bed thinking of his father, he was ashamed for backing down from Leon.
“When I get out,” his father told him again, squeezing his shoulder as they walked into the yard, now converted to a carnival, “no matter how old you are, we're going to Disneyland.”
“I know.”
Holding T. J.'s hand now, he said: “I promise.”
Around them, laughter, shouting, even sobs.
“Daddy, are you crying?”
He nodded.
“I didn't think you cry.”
“Cry a lot, late at night. But that's different. Let's pet those horses.”
At the petting zoo, his father asked, “How you doing in school?”
T. J. shrugged.
“I guess it don't really matter,” Hank said, knowing well what it was like to be the son of a convict. “Kids good to you? Don't push you around, do they?”
T. J. looked his feet. Could feel his face reddening.
“Listen to me, T. J. All you have is dignity. You don't let no one take it from you. You don't let no one push you around.”
“It's hard, Dad. I wish I was with you.”
“And I wish I was with you. But you gotta understand how things work, why things happen. You ain't got money, you can't control what happens in life. You do your best, and sometimes you end up inside, in here. All you got is the respect you can get from other people. Don't let no one take that away. It's all you got, boy.”
They were near the softball toss when T. J. started to cry.
“We moved to a trailer across town. Leon, that's his name.”
Hank took T. J.'s arm and gently steered him to a bench.
“He says about how you're in here, and how I'm afraid to visit.” T. J. wiped his eyes.
“It ain't nothing being in here,” Hank lied. “Don't worry about that. Don't be afraid to visit.” He felt his chest constrict, like the day they told him his father had been shot. “Don't ever be afraid to visit.”
T. J. nodded.
“This some rich kid giving you a hard time?”
“No, he's like me, except black.”
“A black kid? Some coon? Listen to me, T. J., you got to know how to handle them. We ain't got much, but we got more than them. Don't you forget that. Next time, he teases you, you tell him this.”
* * * *
Sunday afternoon, T. J. walked, alone, down Main Street. Past the burned-out remains of Finnigan's, the scent of charred wood still in the air. Past the broken glass littering the sidewalk in front of Manny's Liquors, jagged edges of a bottle jetting from a paper sack, wine soaking the pavement like blood. Past a group of boys playing basketball, three on three, shirts and skins. The pavement was cracked; only one rim had a net.
“How was Garriston?”
T. J. recognized the voice, turned, looked Leon Landis in the eye but said nothing. Leon had a long, lean frame. He had been the lone all-star on T.J.'s Little League team. T. J. had watched with envy each time the ball had shot off the end of Leon's bat, clearing the fence.
Skeet McCrory stood next to Leon. He'd been on T. J.'s Little League team too. He was usually nice. But now he was with Leon.
“Went to see your dad, T. J.?” Skeet asked.
T. J. nodded.
The remaining four boys continued the game, Leon and Skeet moving to the side.
“Scared when you was in there?” Leon said.
“No.”
“You lying.”
“Wasn't scared. I was with my father, Leon.”
“Your father scare everyone. He was scared, Skeet.”
“I don't know,” Skeet said, “T. J. say he wasn't scared. Maybe he wasn't.”
“Who you going to believe?” Leon glared at him.
Skeet looked away, then at T. J. “Guess you right, Leon.”
“I wasn't scared,” T. J. said. “See this hat? My father won it for me.”
“He steal it for you? That what you saying?”
“Leon, you're a nigger. You'll always be one. So I'll always be one up on you ‘cause I'll always be white.”
For a moment, no one spoke. T. J. heard a crow caw on the power line overhead. Then a paper bag skittered past like a rustling leaf. How proud his father would be: He'd said it exactly as his father had told him. And Leon stopped dead in his tracks, just as his father had predicted.
“You shouldn't have said that, T. J.,” Skeet said slowly, his eye on Leon.
T. J., too, turned to Leon, and saw the same expression. Still glad he followed his father's instructions, he knew what would come.
* * * *
“What in God's name . . .” His mother didn't finish her question, running to meet T. J. at the front door.
His right eye was swollen shut, his lip was cut, and blood soaked the front of his T-shirt.
“I'm okay.”
“You can barely walk. You're swaying. Come here.” She put her arm around him, steered him to the living room sofa.
“It ain't nothing.”
“Just sit there,” she said and went to the kitchen to get a wet dishtowel, which she pressed gently to his eye. “No big deal? Who did this to you?”
“No big deal,” he repeated, and flinched at the sting of the facecloth. “I talked it over with Dad.”
“What? How? Yesterday?”
“Yeah.” The room looked fuzzy, and T. J. blinked and squinted.
“Your father told you to let this happen?” His mother leaned back against the sofa, arms folded sternly across her chest.
T. J. held the facecloth now but was no longer focused on the icy sting. He heard anger in her voice. “No, just . . . You won't understand, Mom. Just forget it.” He stood to go to his room.
She caught his arm and pulled the ten-year-old back onto the sofa.
“Listen to me, T. J. I know this isn't easy, but your father is no good. And he's in jail for the rest of his life because of it.”
“No.”
“He's no good, T. J. The sooner you realize that—”
“No. No! He's getting out. And we're going . . .” He stopped then, confused by his mother's sad frown, her shaking head, and leaped to his feet. “No! He is getting out. Anyway, he's better than Marty will ever be!” He ran out of the room, slamming his bedroom door. His Little League cap, which had been hanging from a hook on the back of the door, fell free.
He sat on his bed, knees drawn to his chest, staring at the door, glad he didn't hear the trailer floor creak: His mother wasn't coming to his room. He didn't need her anyway. Just like she didn't need him. She had Marty. And she sure didn't need his father. So she didn't—couldn't possibly—understand what was between them. This was father-son stuff. His father understood, knew all about people like Leon. He knew just what to say, didn't he? His father would have been tougher, though, wouldn't have lost the fight.
T. J. hadn't anticipated Skeet jumping in, hadn't expected the look on Skeet's face when T. J. said it, didn't think Skeet would be angry too. Skeet didn't understand, just like his mother. Neither of them understood his father.
T. J.'s head ached. So did his ribs, where Leon kicked him. He wished his father were there now. He'd ask him if he'd done well, what he could have done differently. And his father would explain it all to him.
* * * *
Monday, recess didn't go well. Leon ran the playground, so he chose who played four square and then basketball. Other kids knew this, had heard of the slur and ensuing fight. T. J. was a playground leper.
“Hey there, T. J.,” Mrs. Tortorella said. “Don't feel like playing today?”
“Not really.” He was leaning against the brick wall. Studied a stone on the pavement, nudged it with the scuffed toe of his sneaker.
“You okay?”
Nod.
“T. J.?”
He looked up at her.
“Did you get to see your dad this weekend?”
“Yeah.”
“How did you get the black eye and bruises?”
“Huh? Oh, I fell down.”
She sighed, blew out a long breath. “Five times?”
He didn't say anything. He'd always liked Mrs. Tortorella, liked her genuine smile, her jokes, even her bright yellow sweaters. Wished his mother wore them. But he wouldn't talk to her about this. This was father-son stuff. And no one seemed to understand it. Just his father.
Mrs. Tortorella moved away, and T. J. stood staring across the playground at Leon and Skeet and the others playing basketball.
* * * *
That afternoon, T. J. stopped at Jay's Country Store, put his backpack down, and sat on the GT Mach One, rubbing his hand over the smooth finish of its frame. His bike, leaning day and night against the trailer, was cancered with brown rust spots, which often rubbed off on his pants in the winter and his bare legs during summer.
AHMM, July/August 2012 Page 19