EQMM, May 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Earl Derr Biggers's last two Charlie Chan novels, Charlie Chan Carries On (1930) and Keeper of the Keys (1932), have been reprinted in handsome trade paper editions (Academy Chicago, $14.95 each). The latter is both the best fair-play puzzle in the series and the one most influenced by the screen version of Chan, but ironically the only novel in the series never adapted for film.

  Hard Case Crime, which recently reprinted a novel by Robert B. Parker (but not the one we know), has concocted another attention-getting stunt. Glen Orbik's cover shows a sexy girl in a flimsy nightgown menaced by a muscular, tattooed man. At the top are the words “inspired by a true story"; printed over the illustration: “They All Answered to . . . The BODYMASTER!” The blurb on the back is headed “Years ago, a P.I. out of Chicago brought justice to a dirty town. Now he's going to pay.” The author, A.C. Doyle, is touted as “Best-Selling Author of ‘THE LOST WORLD’ “ and credited by Entertainment Weekly with an “unconventional, inquisitive imagination.” The title is The Valley of Fear. Yep, it's the fourth Sherlock Holmes novel, a classic repackaged (in a parody of 1950s paperback practice) as something other than what it is. Then, of course, the price would have been a quarter or maybe 35 cents. Now it's $7.99.

  Speaking of the Baker Street sleuth, placing him in other fictional worlds was far less commonplace than now in 1975 when Sherlock Holmes's War of the Worlds (Titan, $9.95) was first published. Apart from H.G. Wells's Martian invaders, the five connected short stories by Manly Wade Wellman and Wade Wellman involve Holmes and Watson with Doyle's science-fictional character Professor Challenger and his own Watson figure, journalist Edward Malone. Longtime readers may recall that the elder Wellman won first prize in EQMM's first annual short-story contest for “A Star for a Warrior"(April 1946). l

  Copyright © 2010 Jon L. Breen

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  Novelette: SNAKESONG by Bill Pippin

  Bill Pippin is the author of Wood-Hick, Pigs-Ear & Murphy, a historical narrative of Potter County, Pennsylvania, the setting for “Snake Song,” his EQMM debut. He currently lives in the mountains surrounding Silver City, New Mexico, where he continues to write essays, articles, and short stories. His work has appeared in Newsweek, Field & Stream, Reader's Digest, and other magazines. When he is not immersed in his own writing, he instructs new writers at the Long Ridge Writers Group.

  I'm not a nice person, which is why Turley asked me to fly to Buffalo and fire Charlie Rush. “You can do it and sleep that night,” Turley said. “I can't."

  Charlie had been with us for twenty-seven years and was doing a fine job, but with the downturn in the housing market chewing up the furniture business, we had to cut back. Charlie wasn't the only manager to go, just the hardest to let go. He had two girls in college, a son in high school, and his wife, Irene, had Parkinson's. Charlie was simply a good manager who was making too much money.

  I flew to Buffalo on Friday morning, rented a car, and met Charlie for lunch. I gave him the bad news as soon as he finished his cheesecake and coffee. Charlie got right up from the table and stumbled to the men's room and I could almost hear him tossing his corned beef on rye.

  When he came back, his eyes were pink. He took a sip of water and sat staring at his empty plate, slowly nodding his bald head. Finally he looked at me the way a pet calf that's just been auctioned to the highest bidder eyes the kid who raised him like a mother. I grabbed the check and walked away without looking back.

  I'd anticipated the whole depressing scenario, which is why I'd arranged to spend the weekend with my old friend Merlin, who lived a few hours away in northern Pennsylvania. Merlin and I'd pretty much grown up together and though I hadn't seen him in several years, we kept in touch. He'd suggested we go rattlesnake hunting, which I thought should be an appropriate activity to keep me from dwelling on Charlie Rush.

  I got there in time for a scotch before Merlin slapped a couple of steaks on the grill. He lived in a rustic cabin of his own making on treed acreage bordering a forest road. He had the true mountain-man look: long and lanky with a grizzled gray beard and deadpan eyes that upon provocation could spark with madness. A self-taught plumber and carpenter, Merlin picked up odd jobs here and there, making just enough to live on, leaving most of his time free to canoe the white water in Pine Creek and hunt and fish. Like me, Merlin had been married more than once and doubted he'd make that mistake again.

  We caught up with each other that evening out on the porch. Next morning, after a late breakfast, we headed for the west side of the mountains above Cross Fork, where the annual June snake hunt would be held in a week. Merlin knew where to find snakes—under a brush pile, curled on a big flat rock, catching rays on a ledge. He'd grab a rattler behind the head with his aluminum snake-snagger and stretch it out for me to measure.

  "Smell those cucumbers, Pete? That's rattlesnake you smell."

  "Hold on to that sucker. I don't care to get bit."

  "No big deal,” Merlin said, “long as you keep cool. Shock is what makes a snake bite bad. The shock sends venom racing to your heart. It's the shock that kills you. Just keep calm if you get bit."

  "You bet I will."

  By the end of the day, we'd found nine rattlesnakes of varying colors and sizes. Merlin kept a gold-black-gray one that measured a skosh over sixty-seven inches from fangs to rattler tip, a likely contender for the longest-snake trophy. The rest we turned loose.

  Merlin slid our keeper into a gunnysack, wound a wire around the sack's neck, and laid it gently in the back of his Ford pickup. The sun was sinking low when we drove into the mountain village of Germania and were reminded by the lit-up Genesee beer sign in the window of the Germania Hotel that snake hunting can work up a thirst.

  Except for busty Brenda behind the bar, the place was empty. But we'd hardly swallowed our first sip of Ginny draft when two fishermen strolled in: one narrow-hipped and broad-shouldered, wearing tight chinos and sunglasses; the other looking like he might've anchored somebody's defensive line at one time, wearing a long-billed cap more suitable for swordfish than trout, fatigue pants, and a sweat-stained Phillies T-shirt.

  The locals called them flatlanders. Once I'd been called that myself. For some, it was an affectionate term of disparagement, but for the slob hunter or fisherman who showed disrespect for God's Country, flatlander was a synonym for dirtball.

  The two men sat at the other end of the bar and Brenda called down, “What'll you guys have?"

  The handsome one kept his sunglasses on and gazed around with his chin at a critical jut, seemingly seeing everything but us. The muscular one set a grimy paper cup on the bar and drummed his thick fingers. I could see he had a sizable chew in his jaw. Brenda stayed down at our end drying beer glasses until Handsome pulled out a wallet and dropped a fifty on the bar.

  "Shot and a beer,” he said to no one in particular.

  Muscles spat into his cup. “Same here."

  For the next ten minutes or so, between tossing shots and sucking beer, they grumbled about the poor fishing in Kettle Creek. I noticed that Handsome kept glancing up at the wall behind the bar where a rattlesnake, skinned and splayed on a varnished plank, had been hanging for decades. Eventually he took off h
is sunglasses for a better look.

  "That's some snake,” he said as Brenda poured him another shot. “From around here?"

  "Long time ago."

  "What'll you take for it?"

  Brenda glanced up at the snake and back at Handsome.

  "Twenty bucks?” Handsome said.

  "I only work here,” Brenda said. “Ain't mine to sell."

  "Easy twenty. You can say somebody walked out with it when you weren't looking."

  Brenda wiped the bar and avoided looking at Handsome.

  "We're outta here first thing in the morning,” he said.

  Brenda picked up some of his money and went to the register. When she brought his change back she didn't say anything.

  "Twenty bucks.” He tapped the twenty. “More than that mangy skin's worth."

  "Gotta agree with you there,” Brenda said.

  Handsome picked up his change, not leaving a tip. “Hell, keep the damned thing then."

  I could see Brenda didn't like his tone. She turned and leaned her butt against the back counter, crossed her arms under her breasts, and stared at Handsome with brown eyes turning black. Merlin took a long drink of beer, squinting at her along his glass. I knew if trouble started we'd be right in the middle of it. Then Merlin turned to the two flatlanders and asked, “Wanta buy a snakeskin?"

  "Can you sell it to me?” Handsome asked.

  "We got one better,” Merlin said.

  "How much?"

  Merlin turned to me, scratching his beard. “I'd say . . . fifty. What you say, Pete? Twenty-five for each of us?"

  I assumed Merlin was trying to divert Handsome's attention from Brenda, thereby saving him from getting a bottle upside the head from her or an ass-kicking from Merlin.

  "Thirty,” Handsome said.

  "I'm talking five feet of prime rattlesnake, friend."

  Handsome stared at the snakeskin on the wall, then asked Muscles, “What d'you think?"

  Muscles spat into his cup. “What the hell you want with that thing, man?"

  "In my den. I got all them heads, now I need a snakeskin.” Handsome looked at Merlin. “Better be all of five feet."

  "Trust me,” Merlin said.

  "With a head?"

  "With a head."

  "All the rattles, fangs, everything?"

  "Fully equipped."

  "Where?"

  "Out in my truck,” Merlin said.

  "Bring it in so I can see it in the light."

  Merlin slid off the stool and went out the door. I had no idea what he had in mind, unless he meant to dispatch our snake and skin it on the spot. His leaving gave me a better look at Handsome, who I'd been thinking looked familiar. It was slowly coming back to me.

  In a few minutes Merlin returned and with him came that locust-swarming sound of one pissed-off rattlesnake. Stopping near the door, Merlin undid the wire. The rattlesnake keening was scary enough, but the sight of that gunny- sack with its bulging sides trying to go in all directions at once captured those two flatlanders’ full attention. Muscles turned on his stool and stared. Handsome jumped up, waving both hands in an effort to stop Merlin.

  "You got a live snake in there, man?!"

  They both tiptoed sideways around Merlin and right when they were closest, he yanked the wire free. The rattler's head shot up from the gunnysack like a singing jack-in-the-box, all eyes, fangs, and Hannibal Lecter tongue.

  A sound like a baby mewing came from one of the flatlanders. Dancing and shuffling and swapping places, they worked against each other at first, then together, to squeeze as one past Merlin and out the door. We heard a rapid clumping on the wooden porch, scurrying shoes across the parking lot, the roar of a truck engine, tires spinning in gravel, then tires squealing on asphalt.

  Merlin gave the gunnysack a little shake and twisted the neck tight again. “Well, hell, there goes fifty bucks."

  "That crap ain't good for business, you guys,” Brenda said.

  I could place the two flatlanders now. They took me back nearly twenty years to when I was in my teens. My family owned a rustic log cabin on six sloping Potter County acres bordering Pine Creek, about an hour's drive from our home in Williamsport. Our little piece of God's Country was where we spent most of our free time, tapping maple trees to make syrup in a sugar shack down by the creek, fishing, hunting white-tailed deer, hiking the trails, canoeing white water. We spent every Christmas in that cabin, every Independence Day, every Thanksgiving, every hunting and fishing season. I spent my summers there with my mom while Dad commuted back and forth to Williamsport. That's how I got to know Merlin.

  I had a dog I loved, a black shepherd-Lab mix named Licorice. A one-boy dog who liked to swim in the creek and chase squirrels and groundhogs, a dog with an arrogant strut that earned him the nickname Slick Lick.

  Across the winding road in front of our cabin and up the hill a ways was an older camp, painted tacky blue, owned by a Philadelphia family. Dad tried to make friends with them but they seemed to resent us building our cabin on land that stood between them and Pine Creek. They were flatlanders like us, but their camp had been there longer, making us intruders in their eyes. Two brothers from that other camp who looked to be in their twenties often tramped across our land to fish Pine Creek. I never knew their names. They enjoyed eating their lunch down by the creek and leaving their trash for us to clean up.

  One day during doe season Dad stood in front of our cabin and watched the two blasting away at whitetails on the hill behind us. They were shooting right over our roof, so intent on hitting a deer they didn't notice Dad. The boom of those deer rifles echoing across the valley and off the surrounding mountains sounded like artillery fire. When the two brothers did notice Dad, they ran inside. Dad called the game commissioner, Ned Jolley, and he came out and gave them a lecture.

  The following April, when trout season opened and the two brothers headed across our property for the creek, Dad went out to cut them off. I'd never seen him take a confrontational stance before, but on this day his cheeks hollowed as he told the brothers, in a quiet voice, that they were trespassing.

  Both men were bigger than Dad and at first they kept on walking. When Dad jumped in front of the biggest one, the other brother went on as if expecting his sibling to swat Dad aside like a fly. I was standing on our deck and seeing the look of menace in the bigger man's eyes I started toward him. Dad and I together wouldn't have been much of a match for him, but I couldn't just stand there and watch.

  Then Licorice came around the corner of the cabin with his back hair standing up like a brush. When the smaller brother heard Slick Lick growl, he turned and edged back up the hill. The bigger brother was obliged to break eye contact with Dad and look down at the dog. Licorice was going for him when Dad sharply spoke his name. Licorice stopped and stood eyeing the man until he turned and went after his brother.

  They could still fish the creek, of course, they just had to find another way to get down there. Dad thought that would be the end of it, but not long afterward I let Licorice out one afternoon and watched him take off after a groundhog, running toward the creek and into the woods. That was the last time I saw him. Dad hung his picture in the post office and offered a reward. We searched the woods for days. We knew Slick Lick hadn't been stolen. He didn't take to strangers.

  Months later Dad ran into a guy who'd helped build our cabin, a guy named Sutherland who told Dad he'd been drinking one night in the Ox Yoke with a couple of flatlanders who lived right across from us. They bragged about killing a “vicious dog” and burying him back in the woods. Sutherland didn't let on that he knew us. He asked why they did it and one of them said because the opportunity presented itself.

  Dad reported the crime to Ned Jolley, who said he'd like nothing better than to arrest both brothers, but without a corpse there wasn't much he could do.

  Not long after that, Dad spotted the two brothers fishing behind our place. We walked down there and Dad asked them if they knew what might've happen
ed to our dog. They looked at each other and smiled, then went back to their fishing.

  You wouldn't think the loss of a dog could disrupt a family's life so, but it did ours. We'd lost a member of the family and we all felt responsible, especially me; I was the one who'd let Licorice out that day. I tortured myself wondering if it had been a shot to the head or a gut-shot. I wondered if Licorice had been buried wounded yet still alive. I wondered if the brother who shot him had smiled.

  We never got another dog. Dad's thinking was we'd been unable to look after Licorice so we didn't deserve another dog. He couldn't stand to look across at that other camp and eventually he sold our cabin. It just wasn't much fun coming to God's Country anymore.

  When Merlin and I left the Germania Hotel and headed home, I asked him to drive past our old place. When we got there he stopped on the shoulder of the road. The moon was out and we sat looking down the hill at the fir trees Dad had planted along the drive, big enough now to partially hide the log cabin from view. I could just make out the lights in the windows, the roofline, the stone chimney, and part of the wraparound deck.

  Behind the cabin I could see the wide lawn Dad had enjoyed cutting on his Wheel Horse, sloping down to the woods and Pine Creek. I pictured Slick Lick trotting up the slope, tongue lolling after chasing a groundhog. Then I turned my head to look across the road up to where lights showed in the neighboring camp.

  "Merlin,” I said, “when you went out after that snake, you get a look at what those two flatlanders were driving?"

  "Toyota,” Merlin said.

  "White pickup?"

  He nodded.

  I got out and grabbed the gunnysack from the back and walked across the road. Hard rock music was coming from inside the cabin as I climbed the steep gravel drive, which made one switchback and ended at a shelf bulldozed to provide parking for several vehicles. Only one vehicle was parked there now, a white Toyota pickup.