EQMM, May 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "How?"

  "Witness protection program. Federal. They can't break it."

  "Suppose I give them just Boylan."

  "No deal. They've already got him through the cop."

  I checked my watch.

  "Time's about up. If the Irishman gets out of the country, you've got nothing to trade."

  He sat there. I had to get him off the dime.

  "One other factor you might keep in mind, Scully. Boylan was spilling his guts when I left. If Boylan can tell them about the Irishman, he'll deal. But he's no half-wit. He'll need protection against the Irishman. What better protection than putting out the word that you were the one who flipped and named the Irishman for Feeney's murder? You know Boylan. You know I'm not bluffing."

  I was sweating bullets, but fortunately nowhere that showed. I was actually completely bluffing, since I knew my taped conversation with the cop, which was rife with hearsay, would not be enough to hold Boylan for more than a few hours. Boylan knew that and was more than likely shut up tighter than an Ipswich clam.

  I took a look at my watch.

  "Time's up, Scully. If I'm not on the street reporting back to the district attorney's office in exactly two minutes, you'll see more cops, the honest ones, coming through that door than you can count. You'll be locked up in the general population. If that's the way you want to leave this earth, you'll get your wish."

  He was frozen. I walked to the door. I gave him one parting line.

  "Hey, Scully. If you still think I'm bluffing, check the street outside."

  He went to the window. Thank God, Billy Coyne had come through. The street was lined with black-and-whites, just waiting.

  He stared for ten seconds, counting police cars before dropping back into the chair at his desk.

  "What do you want, Knight?"

  I made three nonnegotiable demands of Scully. One was a fulfillment of my promise to Billy Coyne to commit Scully to becoming a star witness by putting Scully into contact with Billy over the phone. The second was a call to the Irishman. The third was infinitely more important to me than the other two. It involved Phil's wife. I waited to hear him make the phone calls before I gave the signal at the window to Billy Coyne to come in and take him.

  * * * *

  It was five o'clock when I parked down the block from Hooley's Bar. The police dropped Boylan at the bar five minutes later. I walked in after him and found him sitting alone at the bar. The other rats had apparently sensed a sinking ship and deserted.

  This was the one that counted. Boylan was likely the only one who knew the entire list of big-time contributors to the IRA. That would be my final payback to Billy Coyne. I knew Boylan would be a tough nut to crack when I saw him strutting into Hooley's, fresh from his victorious release by the police.

  I walked in and straddled a seat at the bar two down from Boylan. I ordered a Bushmills and offered him a toast to the Emerald Isle. It was something of a mixed metaphor, since Bushmills is made in Northern Ireland.

  He gave me a sideways glance that said, “What the hell have we here?” But he joined in the toast.

  "Sort of empty in here, Mr. Boylan. Do you know why that is?"

  He favored me with a look and a grunt, but he was in no mood for conversation with me.

  "Suppose I tell you, Mr. Boylan. They must know it's the end of the long, corrupt, degrading life of one of the lowest pieces of bullying scum ever to disgrace the Irish race. That would be you, Mr. Boylan. I'll drink to your health."

  He was speechless. Even his Irish temper couldn't overcome the shock that froze him to his seat. No one had spoken a crosswise word to him since his mother had spoken too few of them.

  "You see, here's the deal, Mr. Boylan. At the very least you're going to be convicted of being an accessory to the murder of your little bagman, Feeney. That last time you were arrested, today, was a show. This one'll be real. It'll be based on the solid evidence being spewed out at this minute by your one-time lieutenant, Mick Scully. As they say, ‘When thieves fall out . . . ‘ “

  His mouth hung open, but he was also getting his legs under him.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "I'm your worst enemy and your best friend. And you don't have many of the latter at the moment."

  "You're dead meat, whoever the hell you... “

  "I haven't come close to the worst news you're going to hear tonight, Boylan. There's a man on his way to see you. Should be here any minute. You better make the most of that minute."

  It was moving faster than he could take it in, which produced a jaw-hanging silence.

  "He's here from Ireland on a mission. He got stiffed by your little gopher, Feeney, who got sticky fingers in the money the man was supposed to take back to his gangsters in Ireland. Feeney made out well. Three shots and he was dead. You may not luck out."

  He was still staring. I moved over to the stool beside him.

  "Mick Scully called the Irishman less than an hour ago. I was standing beside Scully when he made the call. He told the Irishman that Feeney was acting on your orders. He told him you pocketed the money."

  Boylan just sat there shaking his head as if denying it would make it a lie.

  "Scully told the Irishman you'd be at Hooley's Bar at five o'clock. Why do you suppose the police delivered you here? You're a staked goat, Boylan. I wouldn't be in your place for all the Bushmills in Ireland."

  I got up to leave. I threw five dollars on the bar for the drink. I leaned over the bar next to him.

  "You've got one way out, Boylan."

  That pulled him around. His beady eyes were down to a squint.

  "What?"

  "A deal."

  "What deal?"

  "Witness protection. There's a price."

  "What price?"

  "You give them the list of every phony patriot that's pouring money into the hands of the IRA."

  His eyes were like full moons.

  "Are you out of your mind? Do you know what they'd do?"

  My cell phone rang.

  "We're about to find out, Boylan. You're about to meet the Irishman."

  I answered the phone. Billy Coyne said two words. “He's here."

  I clicked the phone shut.

  "I'll leave you two alone, Boylan. The feds are outside that door. Just give a yell if you want to deal."

  I walked out the door, brushing the shoulder of a six-foot-three-inch block of steel on his way in. He had eyes that I'd only seen on a shark in a feeding heat. I thought I'd rubbed elbows with the devil.

  He never gave me a glance, as he riveted those eyes on Boylan at the end of the bar. I passed out the door and headed across the street. I got halfway across when I heard a scream from inside the bar that you could hear in Charlestown. It was Boylan yelling, “Help me! For God's sake!"

  Eight men who looked like feds swarmed through the door. There was one shot, and then silence.

  I got into my car and drove past Hooley's Bar as the feds were walking Boylan out the door and into the nearest car. I could just see through the open door a tall figure lying motionless on the floor.

  * * * *

  There was one last piece of the puzzle. I drove to Phil O'Brien's apartment. The third nonnegotiable demand I made of Scully was to have Mary O'Brien delivered to her husband in perfect health.

  I walked through the door, and Phil looked like the person I knew in high school. He tried to speak, but something clogged his throat, and the tears on his cheeks did the talking. Before I knew it, Mary was there, and the three of us were locked in some kind of bear hug, like three kids at an old-time high school prom.

  Copyright © 2010 John F. Dobbyn

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  Novelette: A SMALL TECHNICAL PROBLEM by Caroline Benton

  Caroline Benton, author of the 2006 novel Path of the Dead (published by Carroll & Graf in the U.S.), has devoted most of her writing time over the past few years to the short story. Her tales have appeared not only in this magazine bu
t in publications in several Scandinavian countries. She left her native England more than a decade ago to live in France, where she renovated a haunted water mill which she currently runs as a holiday home.

  Arthur hummed a tune as he wheeled his bicycle into the barn. An old Elvis number, though one could be forgiven for not recognising it. He was tone deaf, or so his wife kept telling him, which these days seemed to be every time he opened his mouth. That was half the reason he kept doing the job, getting out of the house. Up here he could sing to his heart's content.

  He propped the bike against a wall and picked up a watering can, almost falling over a cat as he turned around. It was a long-haired fluffy thing, tabby and white, some daft breed he'd never heard of with a daft name to match. Simon had once told him how much he paid for it and he'd almost choked. His neighbour had paid less than that for his secondhand van.

  Arthur didn't care for cats. They dug up seeds and left unpleasant surprises in the soil. He stamped his foot and sent it scuttling for cover behind the mower. Nervous, too. Whoever sold the thing, they must have seen Simon coming.

  Arthur blinked as he came back out into the afternoon sun. Another scorching day. Made for a lot of extra work, what with all the watering, but at least his joints didn't play up so much. He glanced towards the lawn where a sprinkler was shooting water over the lush grass, and wondered what would happen if they brought in a hosepipe ban. Knowing Simon “Moneybags” Markham, he'd ignore it and pay the fine if he got caught; anything to save his precious lawn. These media types could get away with murder. Still, the grass had had enough for now. He would turn it on again later.

  He disconnected the hose at the outside tap and replaced it with the watering can, rubbing his back as he straightened. He rolled his shoulders and stared towards the house, screwing up his eyes against the glare from the white walls. Georgian, they said it was. The Old Rectory. He could remember it when it was just The Rectory, with fetes in the garden every summer and a boys’ club on Wednesday nights, a tradition that had been going since he was a lad. Not that he'd ever gone, his family were strict Methodists, so he'd never got to play with the rector's electric train, a fact that still rankled.

  Still, all that was history now. The chapel had been turned into a luxury home by some big-shot architect, and the new rector lived in a shoebox in the neighbouring parish. No time for religion in this day and age.

  He was turning off the tap when two figures emerged through the open French windows. Simon Markham was on the left, big and blustery, still under forty yet already running to fat. Too much good living—booze, women, and food, and probably in that order. Beside him was his writing partner, Ben, a weedy little tyke by comparison, who always looked like he could use a good meal. Always ready to stop for a chat, though, he'd give him that. They'd been writing partners for ten years, since before Simon bought the rectory, a regular crime slot on the telly, Inspector Jake Steele. It was a good series, too, the stories believable, which was more than could be said for some of the rubbish they put on.

  But recently, whenever he saw them together, they seemed to be arguing, just like they were now, judging by the way Simon was waving his arms. Arthur cocked his head, frowned. Once he might have heard what they were saying, but he was getting deafer by the day, according to his wife. Mind you, the way she carried on sometimes, that could be an advantage!

  Chuckling, Arthur returned to the barn to fetch the wheelbarrow and tools.

  * * * *

  "I tell you it won't work.” Simon marched across the terrace.

  "Then make it three feet.” Ben was hurrying to keep up. “In fact, three's better. It's got to be a shallow grave, he's in a hurry."

  Simon was shaking his head. “No good, Benny boy. They still wouldn't hear."

  "You don't know that. You're just being bloody-minded."

  Simon spun round. “I'm trying to be accurate. You really think Jake's going to hear him knocking under three feet of earth?"

  "One foot on top of the trunk."

  Simon shook his head and set off towards the barn.

  "For Christ's sake, Si . . . “ Ben scurried after him. “The whole damned plot hinges on that scene and they want the script tomorrow."

  "So?” He caught sight of the gardener pushing a wheelbarrow along the path, and waved. “Morning, Arthur! Everything okay?"

  The gardener nodded but didn't reply.

  Simon laughed. “Deaf as a post. Our number-one fan, though. Never misses an episode."

  "The grave, Simon!"

  "Look, what d'you want me to say? Idon't buy it, and if I don't, nor will the punters. Anyway, I don't know what you're getting so steamed up about. It's just a small technical problem."

  "Small?" The shorter man bristled. “God, you're getting to be a real pain, you know that?"

  "No, Ben—it's you who's getting careless! Credibility, remember? Since the very first episode we've not used one idea that wasn't plausible, not one, and I don't intend to start now."

  "You don't intend."

  "That's right. And as long as there're two names on that contract... “

  Ben looked away, eyes blazing. “It's because of Kathy, isn't it?"

  "What?"

  "This sudden rubbishing of my ideas."

  "Oh, for... “

  "It's true! It really got you, didn't it? The beautiful Kathy and a little runt like me... “

  "Ben, this has nothing to do with Kathy!” Simon rolled his eyes. “It's about our reputation. We want another series, don't we?"

  Ben didn't answer. Right now he wasn't sure he did, not if it was always going to be like this. The trouble was, Jake was still getting good ratings—the last series they'd actually gone up. Back out now and he'd be cutting his own throat.

  He stiffened as Simon draped an arm around his shoulder and waited for the inevitable wheedling.

  "Look . . . “ Simon coaxed obligingly, “we go back a long way, you and me. We're mates, right? A good team. So let's not argue, hm?” He gave Ben a friendly punch. “Right?"

  Ben relented and managed a halfhearted smile.

  "That's better."

  "But you still don't like it."

  Simon threw up his hands and marched on.

  "So what do you suggest instead?” Ben fell into step beside him.

  "Give me some time, all right?"

  "We don't have time! I'm going to be up all night as it is. Why can't we just run with it? I still say it would work."

  Simon came to a halt in front of the barn. “You do, huh? Okay, convince me.” He disappeared inside, came back carrying two spades and held one out to Ben.

  Ben stared at it in disbelief. “You're kidding! You want us to dig a grave?"

  "It's what we always said, isn't it? Any doubts, we check, double-check, test things out. So let's test it. If the knocking can be heard, we use the idea, if not... “

  "And who's the mug who's going to get buried alive?"

  Simon smiled and stared off along the path.

  "Not Arthur... “

  "Of course not Arthur. It's your idea, Benny boy."

  "Me? No way!” He shook his head wildly.

  "I believe it's known as suffering for one's art."

  "You suffer, then. You're the one who wants proof.” Ben folded his arms. “Anyway, aren't you forgetting something? Like the trunk?"

  Simon grinned and disappeared back into the barn.

  Ben glared after him for a moment, then followed. He squinted into the gloom. “Si?"

  "Over here.” There was a grate of metal and something fell heavily to the ground. “My old school trunk. Used it when I moved. Well, don't just stand there, grab the other handle."

  Together they hauled the trunk outside and dumped it on the ground. Simon yanked open the lid.

  "Well, look at that. There's even a blanket to curl up on. Want to test it for size?"

  Ben backed away, a look of horror on his face. “I'm not doing it, Si. I mean it. You want to find out? You g
et in."

  "Are you crazy? I'm twice your size."

  "I believe it's known as suffering for one's art."

  "Oh, very droll!” Simon slammed down the lid. “Okay, we'll toss for it, even chance. That's fair, isn't it?” He tapped his pockets. “D'you have a coin?"

  "No, I don't have a coin!"

  Simon grinned. “Then I suggest we go and find one."

  * * * *

  Back in the drawing room, Simon took a two-pound coin from his wallet. “Your shout,” he told Ben, and spun it in the air. He caught it on the back of his hand. “Why didn't you call?"

  "Floor."

  "What?"

  "Drop it on the floor."

  Simon laughed. “Don't trust me, huh?” He waved the coin in front of Ben's face so he could see both sides, then tossed it again.

  Ben crossed his fingers. “Heads."

  The coin landed on the rug and the men bent over. The queen's face stared up at them. Simon swore under his breath and walked away.

  Ben kept staring, unable to believe his luck. Slowly he began to smile. “Looks like it's your funeral, Si. Any requests for flowers?"

  "Very funny!” Simon turned to the French windows. “What the hell—it was a stupid idea, anyway."

  "No, no, you're right. Credibility, remember?” Ben was relishing his partner's discomfort. “Oh, better take these,” he added, hooking a six-pack of beer from the table. “It'll be thirsty work, digging."

  * * * *

  The heat hit them as soon as they went back outside. Never mind being buried alive, Ben thought wryly: Just digging the hole would probably kill them. Not that he expected to be digging for long. He was fit enough himself—hadn't he just run the London marathon?—but Simon would probably give up before they'd cracked the surface, reduced to a heap of blubber, his skin burning in the blistering sun. Still, he was happy to go along with it until then. It was a matter of pride that Simon should be the one to back out.

  "So where d'you want the grave?” he asked when they were back at the trunk.

  "Hole, Ben—it's a hole, okay?” Simon scanned around. “Side of the barn. There's some rough ground behind those bushes.” He snatched up a spade.