The Best American Noir of the Century

by Otto Penzler (ed)

“No, what you do is you put the gun someplace in the house. The kitchen or someplace. Somewhere you couldn’t get it if I ran. You stand at the window, where we can see each other. And I’ll tell you up front. I can run like the wind. I was lettered track and field in college, and I still jog every day of the year.”

  “You know if you run and bring the cops back everything’s gonna get bloody. I’ll kill the first five troopers come through that door. Nothing’ll slop me, and that blood’ll be on your hands.”

  “Of course I know that,” he said. “But if this’s going to work, you can’t think that way. You’ve got to assume the worst is going to happen. That if I run I’ll tell the cops everything. Where you are and that there’re no hostages here and that you’ve only got one or two guns. And they’re going to come in and blow you to hell. And you’re not going to take a single one down with you. You’re going to die and die painfully ‘cause of a few lousy hundred bucks... But, but, but...” He held up his hands and stopped me from saying anything. “You gotta understand, faith means risk.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “I think it’s just the opposite. It’d be the smartest thing you ever did in your life.”

  “What’ll it prove?” I asked. But I was just stalling. And he knew it. He said patiently, “That I’m a man of my word. That you can trust me.”

  “And what do I get out of it?”

  And then this son of a bitch smiled that weird little smile of his. “I think you’ll be surprised.”

  I tossed back another scotch and had to think about this.

  Weller said, “I can see it there already. Some of that faith. It’s there. Not a lot. But some.”

  And yeah, maybe there was a little. ‘Cause I was thinking about how mad I got at Toth and the way he ruined everything. I didn’t want anybody to get killed tonight. I was sick of it. Sick of the way my life had gone. Sometimes it was good, being alone and all. Not answering to anybody. But sometimes it was real bad. And this guy, Weller, it was like he was showing me something different.

  “So,” I said. “You just want me to put the gun down?”

  He looked around. “Put it in the kitchen. You stand in the doorway or window. All I’m gonna do is walk down to the street and walk back.”

  I looked out the window. It was maybe fifty feet down the driveway. There were these bushes on either side of it. He could just take off, and I’d never find him.

  All through the sky I could see lights flickering.

  “Naw, I ain’t gonna. You’re nuts.”

  And I expected begging or something. Or getting pissed off, more likely—which is what happens to me when people don’t do what I tell them. Or don’t do it fast enough. But, naw, he just nodded. “OK, Jack. You thought about it. That’s a good thing. You’re not ready yet. I respect that.” He sipped a little more scotch, looking at the glass. And that was the end of it.

  Then all of a sudden these searchlights started up. They was some ways away, but I still got spooked and backed away from the window. Pulled my gun out. Only then I saw that it wasn’t nothing to do with the robbery. It was just a couple of big spotlights shining on the Lookout. They must’ve gone on every night, this time.

  I looked up at it. From here it didn’t look like a face at all. It was just a rock. Gray and brown and these funny pine trees growing sideways out of cracks.

  Watching it for a minute or two. Looking out over the town, and something that guy was saying went into my head. Not the words, really, lust the thought. And I was thinking about everybody in that town. Leading normal lives. There was a church steeple and the roofs of small houses. A lot of little yellow lights in town. You could just make out the hills in the distance. And I wished for a minute I was in one of them houses. Sitting there. Watching TV with a wife next to me. Like Sandy or somebody.

  I turned back from the window and I said, “You’d just walk down to the road and back? That’s it?”

  “That’s all. I won’t run off, you don’t go get your gun. We trust each other. What could be simpler?”

  Listening to the wind. Not strong but a steady hiss that was comforting in a funny way even though any other time I’da thought it sounded cold and raw. It was like I heard a voice. I don’t know from where. Something in me said I ought to do this.

  I didn’t say nothing else ‘cause I was right on the edge and I was afraid he’d say something that’d make me change my mind. I just took the Smith & Wesson and looked at it for a minute, then put it on the kitchen (able. I came back with the Buck and cut his feet free. Then I figured if I was going to do it I ought go all the way. So I cut his hands free, too. Weller seemed surprised I did that. But he smiled like he knew I was playing the game. I pulled him to his feet and held the blade to his neck and took him to the door.

  “You’re doing a good thing,” he said.

  I was thinking, Oh man, I can’t believe this. It’s crazy.

  I opened the door and smelled cold fall air and woodsmoke and pine, and I heard the wind in the rocks and trees above our heads.

  “Go on,” I told him.

  Weller didn’t look back to check up on me ... Faith, I guess. He kept walking real slow down toward the road.

  I felt funny, I’ll tell you, and a couple of times when he went past some real shadowy places in the driveway and could disappear I was like, oh man, this is all messed up. I’m crazy.

  I almost panicked a few times and bolted for the Smitty but I didn’t. When Weller got down near the sidewalk, I was actually holding my breath. I expected him to go, I really did. I was looking for that moment— when people tense up, when they’re gonna swing or draw down on you or bolt. It’s like their bodies’re shouting what they’re going to be doing before they do it. Only Weller wasn’t doing none of that. He walked down to the sidewalk real casual. And he turned and looked up at the face of the Lookout, like he was just another weekender. Then he turned around. He nodded at me. Which is when the car came by. It was a state trooper. Those’re the dark cars, and he didn’t have the lightbar going. So he was almost on us before I knew it. I guess I was looking at Weller so hard I didn’t see nothing else.

  There it was, two doors away, and Weller saw it the same time I did.

  And I thought, That’s it. Oh, hell.

  But when I was turning to get the gun, I saw this like flash of motion down by the road. And I stopped cold.

  Could you believe it? Weller’d dropped onto the ground and rolled underneath a tree. I closed the door real fast and watched from the window. The trooper stopped and turned his light on the driveway. The beam — it was real bright — it moved up and down and hit all the bushes and the front of the house, then back to the road. But it was like Weller was digging down into the pine needles to keep from being seen. I mean, he was hiding from those sons of bitches. Doing whatever he could to stay out of the way of the light.

  Then the car moved on, and I saw the lights checking out the house next door and then it was gone. I kept my eyes on Weller the whole time, and he didn’t do nothing stupid. I seen him climb out from under the trees and dust himself off. Then he came walking back to the house. Easy, like he was walking to a bar to meet some buddies.

  He came inside and shook his head. Gave this little sigh, like relief. And laughed. Then he held his hands out. I didn’t even ask him to.

  I taped ‘em up again with adhesive tape, and he sat down in the chair, picked up his scotch, and sipped it.

  And damn, I’ll tell you something. The God’s truth. I felt good. Naw, naw, it wasn’t like I’d seen the light or anything like that. But I was thinking that of all the people in my life — my dad or Sandy or Toth or anybody else — I never did really trust them. I’d never let myself go all the way. And here, tonight, I did. With a stranger and somebody who had the power to do me some harm. It was a pretty scary feeling, but it was also a good feeling.

  It was a little thing, real little. But maybe that’s where stuff like this starts. I realized then that I’d bee
n wrong. I could let him go. Oh, I’d keep him tied up here. Gagged. It’d be a day or so before he’d get out. But he’d agree to that. I knew he would. And I’d write his name and address down, let him know I knew where him and his family lived. But that was only part of why I was thinking I’d let him go. I wasn’t sure what the rest of it was. But it was something about what’d just happened, something between me and him.

  “How you feel?” he asked.

  I wasn’t going to give too much away. No, sir. But I couldn’t help saying, “I thought I was gone then. But you did right by me.”

  “And you did right, too, Jack.” And then he said, “Pour us another round.”

  I filled the glasses to the top. We tapped ‘em.

  “Here’s to you, Jack. And to faith.”

  “To faith.”

  I tossed back the whiskey, and when I lowered my head, sniffing air through my nose to clear my head, well, that was when he got me. Right in the face.

  He was good, that son of a bitch. Tossed the glass low so that even when I ducked, automatically, the booze caught me in the eyes, and man, that stung like nobody’s business. I couldn’t believe it. I was howling in pain and going for the knife. But it was too late. He had it all planned out, exactly what I was going to do. How I was gonna move. He brought his knee up into my chin and knocked a couple of teeth out, and I went over onto my back before I could get the knife out my pocket. Then he dropped down on my belly with his knee —I remembered I’d never bothered to tape his feet up again — and he knocked the wind out, and there I was lying, like I was paralyzed, trying to breathe and all. Only I couldn’t. And the pain was incredible, but what was worse was the feeling that he didn’t trust me.

  I was whispering, “No, no, no. I was going to, man. You don’t understand. I was going to let you go.”

  I couldn’t see nothing and couldn’t really hear nothing either, my ears were roaring so much. I was gasping, “You don’t understand you don’t understand.”

  Man, the pain was so bad. So bad ...

  Weller must’ve got the tape off his hands, chewed through it, I guess, ‘cause he was rolling me over. I felt him tape my hands together, then grab me and drag me over to a chair, tape my feet to the legs. He got some water and threw it in my face to wash the whiskey out of my eyes.

  He sat down in a chair in front of me. And he just stared at me for a long time while I caught my breath. He picked up his glass, poured more scotch. I shied away, thinking he was going to throw it in my face again, but he just sat there, sipping it and staring at me.

  “You... I was going to let you go. I was.”

  “I know,” he said. Still calm.

  “You know?”

  “I could see it in your face. I’ve been a salesman for twenty-five years, remember? I know when I’ve closed a deal.”

  I’m a pretty strong guy, specially when I’m mad, and I tried real hard to break through that tape but there was no doing it. “Goddamn you!” I shouted. “You said you weren’t going to turn me in. You, all your goddamn talk about faith...”

  “Shhhh,” Weller whispered. And he sat back, crossing his legs. Easy as could be. Looking me up and down. “That fellow your friend shot back at the drugstore. The customer at the counter?”

  I nodded slowly.

  “He was my friend. It’s his place my wife and I are staying at this weekend. With all our kids.”

  I just stared at him. His friend? What was he saying?

  “I didn’t know—”

  “Be quiet,” he said, real soft. “I’ve known him for years. Gerry was one of my best friends.”

  “I didn’t want nobody to die. I —”

  “But somebody did die. And it was your fault.”

  “Toth...”

  He whispered, “It was your fault.”

  “All right, you tricked me. Call the cops. Get it over with, you goddamn liar.”

  “You really don’t understand, do you?” He shook his head. Why was he so calm? His hands weren’t shaking. He wasn’t looking around, nervous and all. Nothing like that. He said, “If I’d wanted to turn you in, I would just’ve flagged down that squad car a few minutes ago. But I said I wouldn’t do that. And I won’t. I gave you my word I wouldn’t tell the cops a thing about you. And I won’t.”

  “Then what do you want?” I shouted. “Tell me.” Trying to bust through that tape. And as he unfolded my Buck knife with a click, I was thinking of something I told him.

  Oh man, no ... Oh, no.

  “Yeah, being blind, I guess. That’d be the worst thing I could think of.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “What’m I going to do, Jack?” Weller said. He cut the last bit of tape off his wrists with the Buck, then looked up at me. “Well, I’ll tell you. I spent a good bit of time tonight proving to you that you shouldn’t kill me. And now...”

  “What, man? What?”

  “Now I’m going to spend a good bit of time proving to you that you should’ve.”

  Then, real slow, Weller finished his scotch and stood up. And he walked toward me, that weird little smile on his face.

  <>

  * * * *

  1998

  LAWRENCE BLOCK

  * * *

  LIKE A BONE IN THE THROAT

  Lawrence Block (1938-) was born and raised in Buffalo, New York. After attending Antioch College in Ohio, he moved to New York City, working as an editor at the Scott Meredith Literary Agency, then at Whitman Publishing Company. His career as a professional writer began early, with his first story, “You Can’t Lose,” being published in 1957, when he was nineteen, and his first novel, Death Pulls a Double Cross, in 1961, when he was twenty-three. As prolific as he is talented and versatile, he can be ranked with such contemporaries as Evan Hunter (Ed McBain) and Donald E. Westlake in all three categories. They all reached the hundred-book mark, under their own names and numerous pseudonyms; Block’s pen names include Chip Harrison, Jill Emerson, and Paul Kavanagh. His bibliography illustrates his versatility: his finest work, the hard-boiled mysteries featuring Matthew Scudder; the much softer and funnier series about a bookstore-owner-cum-burglar, Bernie Rhodenbarr; espionage stories (as Kavanagh); outlandish humor in the Evan Tanner thrillers; soft-core erotica (as Emerson); fantasy (Ariel, 1980); and nonfiction books about the writing craft. His excellence as a writer has resulted in numerous honors, including eleven Edgar Allan Poe Award nominations. He has won the Edgar four times: once for Best Novel,-A Dance at the Slaughterhouse (1992), and three times for Best Short Story, the only writer to win three times in that category. In 1994 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, for lifetime achievement.

  “Like a Bone in the Throat” was first published in the anthology Murder for Revenge (New York: Delacorte, 1998). While it is surely the most noir of his stories (can you imagine a darker one?), readers should also seek “By Dawn’s Early Light,” which won the Edgar in 1985 and is one of the modern classics of the mystery genre. It was written specifically for the first Private Eye Writers of America anthology, The Eyes Have It (New York: Mysterious Press, 1984), but first appeared two months earlier in the August 1984 issue of Playboy.

  ~ * ~

  T

  hroughout the trial Paul Dandridge did the same thing every day. He wore a suit and tie, and he occupied a seat toward the front of the courtroom, and his eyes, time and time again, returned to the man who had killed his sister.

  He was never called upon to testify. The facts were virtually undisputed, the evidence overwhelming. The defendant, William Charles Croydon, had abducted Dandridge’s sister at knifepoint as she walked from the college library to her off-campus apartment. He had taken her to an isolated and rather primitive cabin in the woods, where he had subjected her to repeated sexual assaults over a period of three days, at the conclusion of which he had caused her death-by manual strangulation.

  Croydon took the stand in his own defence. He was a handsome young man wh
o’d spent his thirtieth birthday in a jail cell awaiting trial, and his preppy good looks had already brought him letters and photographs and even a few marriage proposals from women of all ages. (Paul Dandridge was twenty-seven at the time. His sister, Karen, had been twenty when she died. The trial ended just weeks before her twenty-first birthday.)

  On the stand, William Croydon claimed that he had no recollection of choking the life out of Karen Dandridge, but allowed as how he had no choice but to believe he’d done it. According to his testimony, the young woman had willingly accompanied him to the remote cabin, and had been an enthusiastic sexual partner with a penchant for rough sex. She had also supplied some particularly strong marijuana with hallucinogenic properties and had insisted that he smoke it with her. At one point, after indulging heavily in the unfamiliar drug, he had lost consciousness and awakened later to find his partner beside him, dead.