Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  Show time.

  Z's light pinning Kunkle to the chair, Z slowly turned the beam toward himself, allowing the little man to see the very definition of a black-masked menace.

  "A warning," Z hissed, his voice even more strangled when squeezed through the close-knitted ski mask. "Bud Izard is connected."

  Z had seen The Godfather; was pretending to be a member of the mob: an enforcer, shooter, bopper, button man, hitter. Z was even using Johnny Dosso's Americanized accent -- without much success. "One warning. No more."

  With Kunkle bound as he was, it was hard to tell if the "mummy man" was getting the message. On the other hand, you'd have to be pretty stupid not to know you were in one hell of a hole when you awoke to find yourself as naked as the day the world was born; tied hand and foot in your own chair; being threatened by everyone's nightmare of a terrorist. (A promising sign, Z thought, was that Kunkle was sweating, his dark eyes opened wide.)

  Now for the clincher.

  Padding up to the little man, Z extracted the Bic lighter from Z's pants pocket and flicked on the flame, in the glow, seeing genuine fear in Kunkle's eyes.

  Good.

  Reaching above Kunkle's head, Z lit the wicks of the five upside-down candles.

  Ah!

  A lovely light!

  Z had always been fond of fire................

  Wrenching himself back to the situation at hand, Z found that the inverted flames were already licking into the wax, the candles beginning to melt, the first drops of wax pattering down on Kunkle's head.

  Hot. But hardly hot enough to burn the man -- even on his bald spot. At least, not seriously.

  The first drip of wax was now oozing down Kunkle's forehead -- slowing -- congealing -- another drop sliding down, traveling a little farther before it, too, solidified.

  With the medical "dog collar" holding Kunkle's head, the man's body lashed tightly to the chair, Howard was trapped under what would soon be rivulets of molten wax.

  Z visualized what had to happen. By the time the candles had burned down (up) enough to melt through the plastic sack of water at the top, the water running down to put out the candle stubs, Howard's upper face would be encapsulated in a hardened shell of paraffin. Probably stick his eyelashes together before long. Seal his eyelids shut.

  All in all, a terrifying experience.

  At least Z hoped so.

  His mission accomplished, Z could not help but think about the excesses someone less dedicated to peaceful persuasion might have performed on Kunkle's body. Shook his head. For Z's money, there was too much violence in today's world.

  Going further, Z was prepared to defend the position that there was no excuse for brutality: not when other methods could obtain the desired result.

  Considering this night's work again, Z's judgment was that Howard Kunkle would cease to harass Bud Izard. Going further, Z wouldn't be surprised to hear, in the near future, that Kunkle had moved to Mexico. Even to the moon.

  All business now, Z picked up his satchel and glided swiftly to the front door, leaving the little man behind to struggle feebly to free himself, all the while the recipient of a steady rain of molten wax atop his head. By the time the tapers had melted, Howard should look like a drip-wax bottle in a fancy Italian restaurant.

  Through the door, pulling it shut behind him, remembering to take off the ski mask, Z sat on the stoop to unsnap the case and put the mask inside. He also took off his gloves and shrugged out of the increasingly hot jacket, tucking the gloves into the satchel, folding the jacket over his arm -- no one on such a warm evening wearing more clothing than necessary.

  Closing the case, up again, slipping past Howard's car, Z went down the walk to turn left on the hardly-more-prosperous side street where he'd parked the Cavalier, all the while feeling good, like he always did after doing his best for a client. In a couple of hours, he'd call in an anonymous tip to the cops about strange goings-on at the Kunkle place, Z leaving Howard's front door unlocked to make it easy for the police to enter. (Like any public-spirited citizen, Big Bob Zapolska tried to aid law enforcement when he could.)

  Nearing his car, only one thought troubled him: a situation similar to the Arthur Conan Doyle mystery about the dog that didn't bark. (Z had read all the Sherlock Holmes stories: Holmes techniques plus what Z learned from other detective novels, the only "formal" training Z had to be a private eye.)

  Thinking back, Z had been surprised not to have found the one item that should have been in Kunkle's car; or certainly, in the secret drawer.

  So ... where was the gun Kunkle had used to shoot at Bud?

  Not that it really mattered. Most likely, Kunkle's shot had scared the little guy more than it had Bud Izard, Kunkle going on to deep-six the pistol for fear that the next time he pulled the trigger he'd shoot himself.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 2

  There was never a pattern to the work that came Z's way, the Kunkle case an example of how a job could sneak up on you. Not much of a payday, Z had to admit, but a piece of work that had produced a hundred he wouldn't have had if he'd stayed home two days ago like he'd wanted.

  As Z headed off for Bud's Tavern that Monday afternoon, driving past the North Kansas City turn-off he'd taken Saturday, Z had little to do but remember how he'd felt just two days ago. Remembered the heat. Remembered his unreasoning fear!

  * * * * *

  Bob Zapolska -- Big Bob Z to anyone he was likely to meet this Saturday afternoon -- was shaking.

  Fear would do that to you.

  To add to his troubles, his armpits were sweaty, the heat causing at least some of the moisture -- though 90 degrees wasn't bad for Kansas City on the 5th of August.

  This was ridiculous! In the course of his work, he'd been threatened by experts, chopped in the larynx enough times to pound his voice to a whispered purr, and been knocked unconscious. It hadn't been that long ago that he'd picked up a slug in the lung that had nearly finished him, his old body taking longer to heal with each new violation.

  By contrast, today's "danger" was nothing compared to the real threats of the P.I. business. All he had to do was pry himself out of his faded blue Cavalier, cross the cracked concrete sidewalk, and enter the park.

  Z -- as he called himself -- wondered if he was dressed properly. He'd done his best, putting on his medium blue poplin short-sleeved shirt, the one Susan had given him for his birthday. Also his light-weight black slacks, another present from Susan.

  If that didn't get it -- to hell with them!

  Now that he'd slid to a gravel-crunching stop in the line of parking spaces flanking Macken Park, the air inside the car was building to the heat of a brick shithouse in July. Through the rolled-down window, he smelled gravel and dirt and tar and bark and old, tired grass, and rusty steel.

  Looking to his left, Z saw men and women climbing out of other cars. Old people for the most part. In clothing that could only be called "deliberately casual."

  Just inside the park's six-foot chain link fence, was a black asphalt path, farther in and to the left, a rusty jungle gym, three pipe-bars to swing on, each at a different height. Behind one of several white-bark trees with bug-chewed leaves, was a silver-painted swing set, its chain swings with red plastic seats, children in short pants and cut-down shirts either pumping themselves into the hot blue yonder or yelling at harried parents to swing them. Please!

  Twenty feet more would get him to the first of several open-sided pavilions, each with rusty, brown-painted steel supports holding up a wood-braced roof, the center one to be today's meeting place.

  Beyond the park's people-worn grass were ballfields, one with low bleachers.

  Time for Z to go in.

  And still he sat as others continued to get out of cars; slam doors; cross the sidewalk to enter the park.

  Men. Women. The men dressed any which way, the women in colorful silk skirts and loose, bulge-hiding blouses.

  Shorts and shirt people were walk-jogging on the running
path, one determined sixty-year-old thumping along heavily as others passed him, his wrinkled upper body a sheen of sweat, his face a pleasant shade of purple. A nearly naked teenager with tiny earphones on his head flashed past on black, in-line skates, skillfully weaving in and out of the walkers, flipping to skate backwards, all the while fiddling with his belt radio.

  Far to the right, over the trees, Z could just make out the tops of the buildings of his old school, Northtown High.

  A year or two as a high school football star ... and they threw your bare butt out into a kick-ass world.

  Damn Susan, anyway!

  In the first place, it was Susan's fault he was here at all, in the second, it was her miscalculation that he was here alone. (Not that Susan knew she'd be called in to work today, though Z thought she could have told her boss to stuff it if she'd wanted.)

  Susan liked her job at the insurance company. Imagine! A bright, beautiful girl like Susan working for an insurance company!............

  Z felt guilty.

  He was lucky to have Susan; any way, any time. Gorgeous Susan. Long legs that led right up to heaven; figure of an "enhanced" starlet; full, red lips; tousled black hair shining even in the moonlight. Teeth not too daddy-daughter-sent-to-the-orthodontist straight. Hell, she was even stunning with her clothes on!

  Susan Halliwell.

  What she saw in an ugly old man like him, he'd never know, face all cracked to hell, eyes the color of lukewarm spit.

  She was too good for him on any day he'd ever lived. A class act. Too bright, too stunning to be the girl of a big, dumb fuck like Bob Zapolska!

  Z felt another wave of guilt. Z's Mother -- may she rest in peace -- wouldn't approve of Z using language like that, or in this case, thinking language like that. Dead all these years, Z's Mom still had a say in her son's life. All Moms did.

  Now, even his hands were sweating!

  High school reunions would do that to you.

  "You'll never forgive yourself if you don't go to your reunion," Susan said. In bed at the time, Susan had emphasized her words by "gesturing" with her hands. "I remember my first high school reunion," Susan continued, her sexy low voice like the rumble of distant thunder in his ear. "Seeing all my friends. Remembering the good old days."

  They'd already discussed why this was Z's first reunion, Z explaining he and the other kids, as a joke, had elected dumb Harry Jenner as class president. Decades was as fast as Harry's brain could arrange a party.

  Z's thoughts returning to his oven of a car, Z looked left, then right, to see a number of expensive automobiles parked down the line, luxury vehicles that had to be the "goin'-to-the-reunion" chariots of the successful members of the class.

  And there Z sat, in his old Cavalier. Useful for surveillance work, but not for making the "right kind" of reunion-impression.

  On the other hand, if no one saw Z slide out of the little blue econo-box, some might think he belonged to the black Mercedes three cars down. Or the British-racing-green Jag after that. Or the cherry red Caddy. Or -- my God! -- the silver Rolls!

  Z had already mailed in his fifty bucks -- far from loose change in Z's world -- the money paying for today's catered lunch in the park and this evening's sit-down dinner.

  Saying he wasn't going without her when Susan told him she'd been called in to work, she'd called him a coward .....

  And that did it!

  Even cowards wanting to seem brave.

  Now or never, Z popped the door latch and swung the door as wide as it would go, levering his leg out, groaning like he always did when his foot hit the ground.

  Bracing his bad knee, keeping it stiff, he eased his two-hundred-twenty pounds out and up.

  Grateful for what little breeze there was, Z slammed the tinny door.

  Better. He was feeling better for having thought up a strategy. Though Z tried to tell the truth -- part of the Zapolska code he'd made for himself to follow -- a guy didn't have to go overboard in the honesty department, the code allowing him to tell Susan he'd gone to the reunion without saying how long he'd stayed at the party.

  To hell with the lunch!

  To hell with the dinner!

  He'd get in, find a corner to hide in, and get the hell out.

  Behind him and to the left, Z heard a heavy crunch of gravel, the smell of disturbed rock-dust coming to him a moment later. Down the line, a black stretch limo was pulling in, followed by a squeal of brakes and a bump as the huge car's tires rammed the cement barricade between the parking and the sidewalk, the car jolted to a stop with a heavy rocking motion.

  Hadn't Z seen that ... bus ... before? Something about it ....

  Johnny Dosso!

  One of the Three Musketeers. At least that's what Z's "gang" had called themselves back in high school.

  Big Bob Z. Johnny D. And Teddy Newbold.

  Good! Particularly since Z now had the excuse of waiting for John to get out of the "stretch" before Z approached the party.

  While waiting ... remembering.

  Z had gone to grade school with Johnny, Ted joining as the third musketeer when the three of them went out for football their freshman year. As seniors, they were on the winning Northtown football team: Johnny the quarterback, Ted playing back, and Z where he was needed. In those days, you played both ways, not the sissy platoon football favored by today's pros. You think modern players got tired? Think they got hurt? They ought to try playing both offense and defense!

  It was in the Raytown game for the championship that Z hurt his knee. More accurately, had help from the Raytown players in hurting his knee. For Z was the Northtown star. As a back. As a receiver. On defense. The kind of player you took out any way you could -- when you thought you could get away with it.

  Those were the glory days, Z less than a year away from a college football scholarship. At least, that was the plan -- about the only plan a poor boy had of going to college -- especially way back then.

  It was something other than the Raytown game that reminded Z of the three musketeers, however -- though Northtown had won the championship; Z making the difference, even though he had to be hopped to the sidelines late in the fourth quarter, never to make another play in that -- or any other -- game.

  It wasn't football that had united the three of them, but the trouble they almost got into when they were juniors. (Anyone who thought today's kids were dumb and dumber ... didn't know much about yesterday's kids.)

  What made them the Musketeers -- all for one; one for all -- was that day after football practice in the fall of their junior year. Giddy-tired, they were helling around the Northland in Ted's old car, looking for girls, wishing they could get a beer without running the risk of being caught breaking training.

  It had been so long ago Z couldn't remember whose idea it was; to fake a murder as a way of scaring someone on the street.

  To simulate a killing, of course, they needed a gun -- which should have been the end of that stupid idea. And would have, if any kid but Johnny Dosso had been involved.

  As it was, it hadn't taken Johnny five minutes to go into his expensive house on Enrico and return with a revolver, the gun's silencer having a lot to say about Johnny's family.

  Laughing like fools, they'd driven to the seedy part of the northern Kansas City suburb of Riverside, arriving just before dark, soon finding what they were looking for: a family sitting on the front porch of a house near the road, taking the air like folks did who couldn't afford air conditioning.

  As Z remembered, John and Ted had made up the plan while Z drove, the three of them passing the family to stop a half-block farther on to let Teddy out.

  Z then turned the car around to wait while Ted walked back down the block toward the family on the stoop.

  Ted drawing abreast of the family, Z had come roaring back, screeching to a stop opposite Ted, Johnny sticking the gun out the window and firing.

  As planned, Ted crumpled to the sidewalk, Johnny scrambling out of the car to drag Ted's "body" into th
e back seat, Johnny jumping in the car, Z peeling out of there.

  A block later, Ted making a miraculous recovery, the three of them drove off laughing fit to kill at having scared the pee out of the people on the porch.

  Good, clean, old-timey, stupid fun. To be replaced -- the world going steadily into the shitter -- by today's drive-by shootings.

  Nothing like an "almost" crime to bind the old "gang" together ... just dumb white boys, playing hit man in the "hood."

  Funny, how the three of them turned out. Ted with the cops. Johnny with the robbers. Z ... somewhere in between?

  The past relived (wasn't that what reunions were for?,) Z was still waiting for Johnny Dosso -- if that's whose car it was -- the man in the limo still inside.

  Maybe it wasn't John after all; maybe it was a successful lawyer, coming back to lord it over guys like Z; probably screwing a teeny-bopper to get himself in the mood to bugger the rest of them.

  Damn, Z wished Susan was on his arm! With something that juicy standing next to him, he could face them all!

  No help for it. Z would have to go it alone.

  Pivoting on his good leg, careful to avoid limping on the bad one, Z stepped over the curb and crossed the parking to the uneven sidewalk, there to step through one of the entrances to the park.

  Crossing the jogging track, veering left on the park's patchy grass, Z found himself in the company of older folks, the others headed in the same direction, the men balding, the women fixed-up, but with wrinkled faces.

  It was another ten yards before Z realized these other people were headed straight for the open-sided pavilion in the center of the park. His own destination.

  My God!

  These faded people around him were his classmates at Northtown High!

  Z was suddenly embarrassed. Embarrassed to be a witness to the decline of these ... others.

  Z, himself, had grizzled gray hair, sure, but at least had a full head of it. He also had lines in his face. Had to admit that. But couldn't look as ... bad ... as these unrecognizable others.

  Trying his best not to limp over the people-scarred grass, Z (and five or six others) entered the open-sided pavilion to wander through the press of summer-clothed, tag-wearing men and women, Z knowing none of them.