"So you see how Adolfo ended up,” says Señorita Cali. “With my help. And yours,” she says, her soft voice breaking like a thread.
"So I see,” says Señor Martinez.
She watches him closely, some loose hair falling across her cheek.
"I gave you the information. Then you tracked him down, and you killed him."
"What are you doing here?” Señor Martinez says in a low whisper, his voice threatening.
She sits down.
"I came because I couldn't sleep last night. I was forced to turn in Adolfo. For money. Which you gave me."
"That was our agreement."
Señorita Cali smiles for the first time.
"You're glad you paid me. But I'm not."
Señor Martinez presses a button on the intercom.
"Don't bother calling them,” she says. “Better call a funeral home instead. I used a silencer on the guards. The same one I always use on their kind."
An abyss opens in Señor Martinez's stomach.
"You killed the guards?"
"Yes. Both of them. I asked for you and they got distracted for a moment."
Señorita Cali opens her purse and suddenly there's a pistol in her hand. Her fingers grip it firmly, yet also seem to slide along the metal in a sideways caress.
Señor Martinez barely moves.
"It was complicated with Adolfo. He didn't want to tell me anything, of course. But in the end . . . Well, you know that part..."
Her voice can barely be heard. Martinez coughs lightly and covers his mouth with his hand.
"After I told you what you wanted to hear, I had to stop seeing him. Just before he died, he must have realized that I had betrayed him, don't you think? He must have known that it was me."
Martinez shrugs his shoulders.
"But you've always done what your job requires. You had no other choice. You were committed to doing it,” she concludes.
Martinez doesn't move. The barrel of the pistol dances in the air, then aims at him. Seated at his desk, he knows that the best strategy in this situation is to keep cool. Don't show fear. She wants to keep me alive as long as possible. She wants to talk to me, to listen to my answers, he thinks.
"I gather you don't have any appointments right now."
"No. My secretary—"
"She's not coming to work today. I know that. She's got a cold, hasn't she?"
"That's right."
"That's funny, because you always seem like you're about to catch a cold yourself. You're so thin, with that tiny nose that looks like a safety pin."
"As opposed to Adolfo, who was always a very strong man, I imagine."
Her chin moves, as if she were about to say something about the dead man's health.
"He had his weaknesses as well. He was a romantic. He liked to send flowers, for example. When I called, he sounded really happy to hear from me. I went straight over to his place. A girl was just leaving. He felt very much alone. On top of that, business was bad. He told me that I helped make him feel better."
Her voice flows on like a delicate melody. Martinez nods, as if he wants her to understand that he's paying very close attention.
"He knew that you were going to catch him sooner or later. He said he wanted to give me a big pile of money, and that he wasn't going to go to jail. At least he was right about that. He left me a big pile of money, the money that you gave me, and he didn't go to jail.... “
Her voice is a little shaky.
"In fact, señorita,” Martinez mumbles, “we didn't intend to kill him. But, you know, he put up quite a struggle."
"Of course. He must have known why I went to see him. That's why he gave me the name of the person in Miami so quickly. We had only been seeing each other for two days. He must have an informant somewhere in this building, and he just wanted to end it all. That's why he made love to me the way he did. He already knew. It was all very clear to him."
"It's possible."
For a brief moment, Martinez considers lunging at her and taking the pistol from her hand, but he keeps still. She points it at him again.
"I came here because I wanted to hurt someone. In fact, I left the house in quite a hurry."
She's smiling now.
"That's natural . . .” says Martinez.
Something contracts in the woman's shoulders.
"You killed the guards. You can kill me too if you want to,” Martinez adds, suddenly feeling that he got the intonation of that phrase just right.
He straightens up in his seat.
"That would be standard procedure. After all, I'm a professional killer. Although it didn't keep me from having a little fun with the boys outside,” she answers after a long pause.
Martinez tries to smile.
"They wouldn't have had as much fun as you did."
"It would be so easy. First I kill you, then I put the pistol away, then I head out to the street. Then I go to my house and pour myself a drink. Then I watch some TV. It would be easy, wouldn't it?"
"Sure it would."
"Killing becomes a natural thing, once you've done it. It's just that—"
For a fraction of a second, Señorita Cali lets her eyelashes droop.
"I'm tired, Señor Martinez. Of people like you."
Martinez keeps looking at her.
"I don't blame you."
"Yes. Of course. You're very understanding."
The sound of a car horn drifts through the silence.
She looks aside and shrugs her shoulders.
"It must be nice to live the way you do in this office. You must feel very important. Running so many people's lives from this little wooden rectangle. Right?"
"It's not that easy."
"Do you have children, señor?"
Martinez coughs.
A long furrow runs across the woman's forehead, as if it were pressing down on her eyes.
"Yes. Two."
"Are they still in school?"
"They're still in school. In the United States. At a university."
"You must be very proud. Your wife, too."
Martinez breathes.
"I don't know how proud I am. In any case, they haven't given me any trouble yet."
"And the little woman? Does she give you any trouble?"
"No. She's a good woman."
"Does she know you sit here giving orders that get people killed?"
"No. I don't think she knows. In any case, she hasn't said anything about it."
"Fine, but it's time for me to say something to you, señor. We can't stay like this forever, me with my gun and you sitting there like a terrified animal trying to pretend that everything's all right. If I hadn't killed the others, I certainly would have killed you. That's what I wanted to do. Do you know why I won't do it, Señor Martinez? Do you know why I can't kill you?"
"No."
"Because I left the house in a big hurry and I didn't bring enough bullets. I used up what I had outside. Don't you think that's funny? I guess I'm not as professional as I thought."
Martinez raises his eyebrows. Don't believe it. It's all part of the game. She can't face what her life is going to be like. Killing me is all she has. She's going to prolong this moment. It's a game.
"But it doesn't matter now,” she continues. “Nothing matters. A lot of time has gone by. Adolfo was more important to me than I thought. I just didn't know it. When I accepted the job, I didn't know you were going to kill him. Or at least, I didn't think about it. I thought that I had forgotten about him."
"I'm sorry. Really."
Her eyes have barely moved, but something new sparkles in them. Martinez pushes a button underneath his desk. Someone will hear the alarm. Two rings means they'll wait for her on the sidewalk.
"You see, I came to hurt you and I end up telling you my life story. You should be proud. I don't tell my life story to just anybody, señor. Let me tell you something. The last time I came here, I thought you were handsome. That's why I kissed you. I hadn't planned to do it, I jus
t felt like it. And this time I came to kill you for what you did to Adolfo and me, and I can't. Funny, don't you think? It's easier to kiss someone than to pull the trigger. Isn't that strange?"
Martinez barely moves.
"Answer me, you son-of-a-bitch. Isn't that strange?"
"Si, señorita,” says Martinez.
The tension around his mouth relaxes. She's about to break. Be careful. Here comes the finale.
"It was pretty stupid of me to run out of bullets. I used too many on the guys outside. There are none left for you. Or for me. You wouldn't have an extra pistol you could lend me?"
"I'm afraid not."
"No. Right. You don't have one. You don't have any weapons here. Of course not, of course not."
"Pardon me, but I think I heard the buzzer. Somebody must be outside."
"That's not true. There's nobody outside. But if it's all the same to you, I think I'll be going now,” she says.
She lowers her head, shaking it, then Señorita Cali says something that Martinez doesn't quite catch, gets up, and goes to the door. Two identical lines crease her cheeks. Suddenly she raises the pistol and points it right at Martinez's eyes.
Then her hand turns toward herself and tenses, forming a claw with her thumb and index finger.
Martinez stays seated, not moving. When he hears the noise, he blinks. Señorita Cali is still there in front of him.
"I already told you. I'm out of bullets."
Without looking at him, she whirls around and goes to the door, which she had left slightly open.
Señor Martinez leans over his desk and picks up the phone. He heaves a sigh and looks at the glass-covered photo of his family. His wife smiles at him.
He speaks briefly and hangs up.
When he opens the drawer, he sees the photo of Cavero Schon hugging Señorita Cali.
He hears a noise from outside the window.
Copyright © 2010 Alonso Cueto; translation ©2010 by Kenneth Wishnia
[Back to Table of Contents]
Novelette: THE WHITE DOOR by Stephen Ross
* * * *
Art by Mark Evans
* * * *
Stephen Ross is currently the only New Zealand writer regularly contributing to EQMM. His hometown, he says, is Hamilton, the “city of the future,” but he sets his fiction in far-flung places: this time, Los Angeles. In addition to being a mystery writer, Mr. Ross is an occasional newspaper and magazine columnist, and a long time ago, he says, he wrote jokes for television. Like most short story writers, he has a day job; he works in the IT industry as a copy/technical writer and as a programmer.
* * * *
John Huston once told me there's no such thing as a perfect murder. He'd said it seated at the bar in the Happy Squirrel, a small drinking establishment on Sunset frequented by screenwriters.
It wasn't that Mr. Huston had practical experience in the crime, but he'd made a picture or two with it as the central theme, and he'd given the matter a writer's consideration.
"Writing should reflect the real world,” he'd said, whiskey in one hand, a cigarette in the other. “And in the real world, nothing is perfect. Nothing ever works out the way you want it."
He didn't say any of this to me personally—I was a pup screenwriter, seated at the bar along with five others, all of us soaking up the man's wisdom—but I took it to heart.
That was back in 1948, just after I arrived in Los Angeles. Now, four years later, I had seven rewrites, three additional dialogues, and two original screenplays under my belt. I wasn't exactly a veteran, but the work was steady and I was getting a name in the business beyond the two crime novels I'd written before I came out to the coast.
Therefore, to celebrate the completion of the final draft of my third screenplay—an edgy two-hander about a woman who murders her childhood nemesis—I got religiously intoxicated with the Mexican couple that lived in the apartment above mine.
And why not? I had a boss who liked me, a bank manager who grinned, and Claire Trevor had read an early draft of my script and had asked for the female lead.
I explained all of this to the police officer.
In my merriment with the Mexicans, I had gotten naked, traveled across the city, and at dawn the next morning had punctured the W in the Hollywood sign with three clips of bullets.
The police officer wasn't interested in the machinations of the motion picture industry, but he liked my gun—he carried the same model.
It turned out we had both made sandcastles on Omaha Beach on a certain day in June back in the summer of ‘44. How about that? He loaned me a blanket, drove me home, and before he left, he made me the strongest pot of black coffee I'd ever met in my life.
* * * *
ACT TWO
So, at eleven-thirty a.m. on a Wednesday, feeling rather fine despite a hangover patented by Satan, and while sitting at the window in my apartment watching the traffic drive by, I got the strangest phone call I'd ever met in my life.
"Is that Jack Gloucester?"
"Yes."
"This is Miranda."
"I know, Mrs. Taunton. I recognized your voice."
"Can you keep a secret, Mr. Gloucester?"
"Sure."
"I want you to help me commit a murder."
"What kind of murder?"
"A perfect murder."
If my life had been a screenplay, that phone call would have been the beginning of the second act.
Her name was Miranda Taunton. She was an actress. I barely knew her. I did know her name wasn't Miranda—it was something no one could ever remember or spell. She had an accent. She was originally from Prague, or someplace like that. Her husband was Torrance Taunton—the movie producer, and one of the most powerful men in the business. Him I knew well. He was my boss.
Torrance Taunton, or TT, as he liked to be known, was a veritable blimp of a man. Fat and ill-tempered, with a taste for the finest in all things—particularly women. As a movie producer, he was best known as the discoverer of a seemingly endless line of fresh young female talent. Talent he brought to the screen by way of his office at the studio.
There was a joke that went about town; it was perennial and it never made it into the movie magazines or gossip columns, and certainly never into the ears of polite company. It described the two well-worn patches of carpet, side by side, about the size and shape of a knee each, to the left of where Torrance Taunton sat at his desk. The punch line of the joke was: “If you want to get into the movies, you have to know where to pray."
Miranda Taunton invited me over to her house in Pacific Palisades. One p.m. sharp. She told me nothing on the phone other than she wanted to commit a murder and she needed my help in doing it. Would I come? How could I not? And keep it a secret. Yes, ma'am.
Driving up to her house, it occurred to my alcohol-infested brain that maybe it was me she was planning to perfectly murder. After all, for the last eleven months, I had been living under the assumption the woman loathed me.
I pulled into her driveway at one sharp and parked near the front door. The Taunton house was a big sprawling number that boasted, among other things, sixty-two bedrooms, eighteen bathrooms, five kitchens, three bars, a movie theater, an art gallery, and a golf links. I'm not kidding. In the basement was a full-sized three-hole golf course, complete with sand traps, flora and fauna, and a lake. There's money in the motion picture business, in case you hadn't heard.
Miranda Taunton met me at the door in person. She was dressed like someone's kid sister. I was in my jacket and striped tie. We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. It was cordial, if somewhat muted. She then led me to “someplace quiet to talk."
Miranda was twenty-nine and looked a treat, both on-screen and off. She was almost as tall as me and had short, dyed blond hair, a slim figure, and a pair of beautiful hazel-colored eyes that had inspired many a man to run ice water in his bathtub.
TT had first noticed Miranda in a magazine advertisement. She was looking youthful and demur
e and holding a bottle of French perfume. TT's wife had shoved the magazine under his nose and said, “I want some of that.” TT agreed with the woman.
He immediately had the girl shipped to California. He gave her a new name and a prominent role in a film about the French Revolution. He personally supervised the scene where she rode the horse naked—they spent a week and a half filming it.
TT was divorced the week the film opened, and he and Miranda were married before shooting began on the sequel.
Since then, Miranda had appeared in ten pictures. Her popularity at the box office was alchemic. Put her in any costume, any role, and people would flock to see her.
It was often said folk would pay money to see her in a movie even if all she did was sit in a chair and read aloud from a list of auto parts. Which would have been just about right, given that Miranda Taunton was an actress who couldn't act. Not to save her life. She was as wooden as a telegraph pole.
Eleven months earlier, I'd made an off-the-cuff remark about her acting abilities. It had been at a swanky post-premiere party. It had been the kind of snippy aside screenwriters like to make amongst themselves after a skinful. Among other derogatory witticisms, I suggested her specialty as an actress lay solely in walk-offs and crowd scenes . . . with her at the rear.
Unfortunately, the lady had been in earshot. To my surprise, she didn't say a word. She sought out the tongue that offended, stared at me with eyes like daggers, and then walked away with silent dignity.
That taught me a lesson.
I got no sleep that night. I tossed and turned on my conscience. Insulting a woman was not the act of a gentleman. The next day, I drove out to her house to make a formal apology.
She accepted it, coolly, and told me to forget the matter. The door was closed in my face and that had been the end of it. Upon reflection, I was lucky to have still had a job.
That had been my last encounter with Mrs. Taunton, until that phone call.
"Won't the staff talk?” I asked her.
"This is the only room in the house in which I am assured of privacy,” Miranda answered me.
The someplace quiet to talk was her bedroom.
Miranda Taunton's bedroom was on the third floor. You could have turned a Greyhound bus around inside it. The décor was pink and soft—that went for the cushions, pillows, rugs, chairs, and the bed. And it was the biggest bed I had seen in my life. You could've strung up a net and played tennis on it.
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