Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  "Three days, I give the story, before somebody else's problems wipes the TV screen of this mysterious business." Again, the knowing grin.

  "Meanwhile, higher-ups have asked me to resume my valuable contribution to the entertainment of the adult community, giving me the respect I should have got before. With words said about how you can't trust newcomers, but have got to stay with those who took you to the dance." John grinned again. "I been bad mouthin' my end of the take, but the fact is that I'm doin' pretty good. Seems like the drug part of the family business has about gone bust. As you might guess, because of foreigners: spics flooding the market.

  "Which leads me back to askin', what was your part in that nigger coming south to total Minghetti?"

  "No part."

  "No? OK. That's the way you want to play it? OK by me. But all talk aside -- and not forgetting for a moment that when the Z-man gets involved, things got a way of being resolved on the side of the angels -- I come to say, I owe you. And one of the things that old-timers like me hold dear, is that a debt is always to be repaid. So I'd appreciate it if you were to think of some favor I could do to get you off the "owing side" of my ledger. Because we're friends, and shouldn't be dealing with each other in terms of debts, but like we always have, in terms of favors given without a favor expected in return. Like old friends from high school."

  Z knew what Johnny meant, but didn't know what to say. He could repeat that he hadn't caused Minghetti's death. Which was true, as far as it went, but a little like maintaining that pushing the first domino in the row has nothing to do with the eventual fall of the last one. Or he could have said he'd done what he'd done for Susan more than for John -- so John didn't owe him -- neither of those things seeming quite right.

  "Anyway, I'm flyin' high again. Not that I was havin' that much difficulty," John added, quickly. "And now I got to tell you the truth. I got to go because this ... place ... of yours is depressing the hell out of me. And I'd feel even worse for letting a friend dig himself into such a hole, except that it's not my fault. Every time I make an offer of work, you turn it down. Nothing rough, neither." John took a deep breath, holding his hand up to keep Z from interrupting.

  "It's your Mama I blame. For feeding you all that crap about honesty being the American way." John shook his head, Z's ignorance saddening him. "The American way is making a buck any way you can, my friend, and that's the real truth. The only people talking honesty are politicians who are trying to back other people away from the valuables so the pols got elbow room to steal." John was working himself up, like he sometimes did. John could speak "good" English; but in a temper, reverted to "wise guy."

  "And the religious is just as bad -- worse, cause a politician is expected to lie and steal in moderation. What your purer-than-piss preacher says is, drop your money in the pot and you'll get a slice of heavenly pie. But do they drop in any coin? Nosiree. They're grabbin' it out with both hands. I watch 'em on TV. And a richer bunch I never saw. Got suits better than me. Limos." John was getting louder and redder in the face. "Gettin' to travel all over the world off poor folks' savings. Don't pay no taxes, 'cause they're livin' off the fat of the religious hog. Breakfastin' with the president. And what do they do for all that money? Nothin', but tell the poor they better shell out their last dime or God'll punish 'em. Like some little old lady did in Bible times." An interesting slant on the parable of the widow's mite, Z thought.

  "Me -- the kind of guy priests spit on -- I give value for the dollar. Want a little adult fun? My girls are ready to provide it for a fair price. I don't threaten hellfire to make people buy what I got for sale, like the preachers do. What I give is honest service for an honest price. Gambling? Sure. And I always win. But everybody knows the odds are set in favor of the house. Pays for the upkeep. Pays the dealers' salaries. I got overhead keepin' cops from bustin' in."

  John was breathing hard now. Sweating heavily. Exhausted.

  Another way John's job "paid off," Z could tell, was in poor health. Booze and broads and cards and being threatened by "higher-ups" were taking their toll.

  To be fair about it, Z's job wasn't all that safe. And to be strictly honest, paid a lot less.

  Maybe Z's Mom had sold Z a bill of goods on the American way. Then, again, maybe she was right.

  "I'm goin'. I'm goin'," John said after he'd caught his breath, lurching up. "Just remember, Z, you got a favor comin'. Just don't be too long about collecting, hear?"

  After seeing John out, Z thought that -- all things considered -- Johnny D's situation had resolved itself pretty well. John was safe, at least for the time being. Susan was safe. Z was safe. Safe all around.

  As for Z's old clothes, still in the trunk of John's limo ... no problem.

  Z looked at his asthmatic old wristwatch.

  Plenty of time to dial the insurance company. Tell Susan he'd be by to take her home.

  They'd have to get her bag at the other girl's house, so maybe the thing to do was have Susan tell her friend to expect them later, after Z took Susan to dinner. Though Z didn't know exactly how much money he had, he still had Harry's check in the bank. He could afford a pizza. Maybe even a ritzier meal at the Corner Cafe.

  Taking five more minutes to go over the whole thing once more, the only residue Z could think of to this nasty -- turned dangerous -- business, was the favor John thought he owed to Z.

  Which meant that Z had to think up a favor big enough so John would feel satisfied paying off. But small enough so Z, in turn, didn't feel a debt to John.

  All told, Z's new fear was that picking the right favor might prove to be a bigger problem than the Cristoforo-Minghetti mess.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 18

  Z drove around awhile, the therapeutic ride followed by a long, thoughtful supper. So that it was dark by the time he got home, an unpleasant time for him, the night forcing Z to face his dreams.

  As Z came up the back walk, the blackness mercifully hiding the yard's trash, Z thought again of Johnny Dosso.

  John ran hookers and high stakes games for the organization, apparently seeing nothing wrong with these illegal "activities."

  Prostitution? Gambling? Compared to John's daily illegalities, Z was living the life of a saint. And yet, it was Z who was having terrifying dreams, nightmares so bad he couldn't remember when he'd had a good night's sleep.

  Why was John so guilt-free, Z so guilt-ridden?

  Picking his way up the broken concrete walk, it popped into Z's mind that John's religion might be what was giving John relief. In John's faith, they had what was called confession. As Z understood it, a man could confess his crimes to a priest, the priest honor-bound to keep those felonies a secret. You could tell the priest anything.

  As a child, Z remembered "confessing" to his Mom about some kid's offense he'd "committed." And feeling better after he'd "fessed up," even though his Mom punished him for doing wrong.

  Z had to wonder if John's being able to tell his priest all about his crimes was what made the difference, John able to live comfortably with himself after confession. In Z's case, unable to tell anybody about this Kunkle business could be bottling up enough guilt to produce the nightmares.

  If there was any truth to this line of thought, Z had to ask himself if he could do something along the confession line to help himself? Not talk to a priest; you had to believe in religion for faith to work -- but maybe seeing Dr. Calder. For wasn't it the case that, what a priest was to "true believers," a psychologist was to regular people, psychologists pledged to keep your sins a secret?

  At the very least, Z could ask Calder if Calder kept confidences; if a psychologist was like a priest for ordinary people.

  Z liked the chubby prof from Bateman College, Calder hiring Z, first to see that a building contractor did the job Calder had paid for, then to investigate more "ghostly" matters. Calder had even been responsible for Z getting employment with Bateman College on another "Ghost light" case, Calder recommending Z, Z hired by a shad
y dean named Ashlock.

  In the course of the contacts Z had with the psychologist, Z had found Dr. Calder to be bright, something to be expected of a college professor. But also ... nice. As a for instance, the man had showed concern for Z's problems with Susan; had gone out of his way to say he thought Z was intelligent and that Z should further his education. Should try college, if for no other reason than for Z to prove to himself he was college material. What Calder's suggestions indicated was that the prof was the sort of man who went out of his way to be concerned about others, even a rough and tumble guy like Z.

  Reaching the side of Z's add-on apartment at the back, Z pulled out his keys, when he did so, getting the momentary chill he'd been having lately when entering his apartment at night. Caused, he was sure, by knowing that the crook had broken into Z's home.

  Z had seen it on TV. That being burglarized made people feel unsafe in their own home, an emotion he was now feeling.

  When Z had discovered the break-in, he'd felt .... violated. That was the word he'd heard on a couple of TV news programs. Violated.

  Following the chill, Z experienced a wave of ... anger. Neither emotion making any sense now that the criminal was headed for the tall timber.

  In control again, no longer needing to look for a hair in the doorframe, Z fumbled his key in the lock. Turned the bolt ....

  To hear ... no click.

  Learning the hard way that, when something seemed wrong it generally was, Z backed away from the door, at the same time, slipping to the side to put himself in the deeper shadow of the third floor gable.

  No ... click. Meaning .....?

  That the door was already unlocked.

  A careful search of Z's memory told him he'd locked up when leaving for the office that afternoon. He locked the apartment every time he left. Night and day. Rain or shine. In sickness and in health. 'Til Death ....

  The chill was back! With a vengeance! As improbable as it seemed, there was now every possibility the thug -- Cristoforo -- was not only still in the country, but also inside Z's place, waiting to pay Z back for the disastrous "game" Z had played with the crook's mind. Nor was there a doubt that Cristoforo played for keeps. What had Johnny D said? That the punk's boss, Minghetti, had been shot in places a man didn't want to hear about?

  Sweating. Z was sweating again.

  And getting angry, a flush creeping up his neck, into his cheeks!

  How dare this punk break into Z's home! Not only once, but twice!

  Anger banishing fear, Z crouched low; padded back to the door.

  Still at a half-squat, Z rocked the door handle.

  Eased in the door.

  With a quick leap, was inside!

  Still keeping low, slipping to one side, Z froze in the rectangular shadow pool beneath one of the silent air conditioners.

  Dark.

  Though darker inside than the star-gleamed backyard path, Z's eyes were already adjusting to the even greater blackness, Z beginning to see ... shapes, the dark/light coming through the open front door outlining lumps of furniture.

  No artificial light inside. And there would have been, even if someone prowling around was using the pinpoint beam of a penlight.

  Had Z come too late, the criminal here and gone?

  Reason told Z to hope that was true. On the other hand, rising anger made him wish Cristoforo was still lurking about.

  Mentally, Z's mind lay in a twilight region of dead calm, a state he entered before completely losing his temper. A good feeling, really. The feeling of being ... God ... about to right eternal wrong with a fork of divine fire!

  From his crouched position under the window, Z sniffed the air, detecting all the usual smells. Dry ashes from the fireplace. Bread crusts in the firebox, toasted but not entirely burned. Old furniture. Dust. ... And ... something more.

  Hard to define.

  Ever since Z had regained his sense of smell, he'd used it in his work, sometimes felt himself more bloodhound than man.

  Scent, but no ... sound in the apartment, except the occasional creak of the old house in the nightfall breeze.

  A minute.

  Two minutes.

  Waiting long enough to establish that nothing was likely to happen to him, Z began to inch forward, slowly, silently; knowing every floorboard; avoiding those that squeaked; creeping through the living room, a space too small for a man to hide.

  Past the firebox, no one in the small kitchenette to the left.

  Right, to enter the short hall.

  If the intruder was still in the house, he had to be either in the small bedroom -- in the closet or under the bed -- or in the bath.

  Hardly breathing, lowering himself to his hands and knees, low as a stalking leopard, Z stuck his head into the bedroom. Found the smell ... to be stronger.

  Sweat.

  Body odor.

  Coming from ....

  Raising his head, Z drew air into his nostrils, delicately. Turned his head from side to side.

  The scent was coming from ...... Z's closet!

  Creeping forward, edging past the side of the bed, Z could tell, even in the sable black of that inner room, that the closet door was open. Inside, hiding behind the clothes hanging from the rod ....

  With a roar, Z was up and lunging through the clothes, colliding with a body standing back of them.

  Enraged, losing control of mind and body, Z hit with the force of a maddened rhino; had the man by the throat; was pounding him senseless .....

  * * * * *

  Driving home in the Cavalier that night, all Z could recollect was a blur of images: dragging the unconscious man out of the closet; Z getting his case from its place of concealment under the firebox.

  Z remembered pulling the dynamite fuse from the satchel, tying the man's arms with the fuse, gagging him.

  Z had fleeting images of how the man had frightened Susan; could recall cold anger at that thought, anger and rock hard determination the man would never do that again!

  With effort, Z recalled the drive to the Antioch Mall; how he'd parked away from the cars of late evening shoppers.

  All this came back to Z as he was driving home.

  Fragments of scenes flickering behind his eyes, he found himself thinking of ... fireworks ........

  As a child, Z had blackouts when he'd gotten angry. On the rare occasion that his rage blazed up these days, still had trouble remembering what he'd done when he'd "lost it."

  That's the way he'd gotten to know Susan. Angered that Susan's ex was trying to gun her down, Z had thrown himself at the little man, taking a bullet as a consequence. Later, in the hospital, Z could barely recall that foolish charge.

  Rage like Z's could get you killed!

  Continuing to pilot himself home through the street-lighted dark, forcing himself to take deep breaths as a way to cool off, Z was still far from clear about what he'd done.

  Once, when Z's former wife had made him angry, he'd stripped her naked and used an indelible marking pen to write obscene suggestions on her body -- before throwing her out into the night.

  He shouldn't have done that.

  Nor have burned Paula's clothes and mailed the ashes to his ex-wife's mother.

  Anger like that balanced a man on the knife edge of insanity.

  Stopped at the light at 72nd, little traffic to distract him, Z recalled a plastic bag. A plastic bag of ... white powder.

  Turning left on 72nd, not wanting to go home yet, headed for Oak, the word "drugs" came to mind, the greatest evil of modern society.

  Z didn't smoke.

  He rarely drank.

  He never took drugs.

  Coming back to Z in a flash was the knowledge that the man who'd broken in had done so to plant drugs in Z's apartment. Z was clear about that now; could see the transparent plastic bag of white powder on the floor of the closet where the man had been hiding.

  The man was seeking revenge by planting "controlled substances" in Z's apartment.

  That (
in additional to fear that the criminal would menace Susan,) was what had caused Z's blackout.

  In his mind's eye, Z could see his rage taking hold ....

  Like with Paula, Z had stripped the man naked, going further to tie up the man's hands with dynamite fuse .......

  Again, Z saw the sparkle of fireworks in his mind.

  At the shopping center, pushing the man out of the car, Z had lighted the fuse and let the man go.

  The man was running. Running away. Naked. The dynamite fuse sputtering fire in the dark.

  Fireworks.

  Z tried to concentrate.

  Again, had a vision of the man running with lit dynamite fuse tied around the man's wrists, a trailing end of fuse stuck up the man's bare ass ...........

  Stopped for the light at Oak, cross-traffic streaming by, Z was shaking. Knowing what he'd done.

  All he could do now was hope that the fuse -- lit somewhere in the middle so that it sputtered two directions -- had burned through the knot tying the man's hands before flaming between the man's legs and up his ......

  When the light turned green, Z pulled across the four lanes of Oak, the road narrowing to two lanes, headed as it was for the post office turn.

  Striving for tranquility, Z tried to emphasize what was positive about the situation. First and foremost, that the man was unlikely to bother Susan again. Z might go a little crazy when he lost it; be unable to remember exactly what he'd done, but his actions -- even when unconscious -- got results.

  One more thing popped up to puzzle him. Now that Z could remember ... more ... it seemed to him that the man he'd found in the closet was a small, thin man, certainly someone other than the gunman who'd picked Z's lock before. Certainly not the thug, Cristoforo.