AHMM, March 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "You really believe it makes that much difference to them?"

  "It's television. What else do they know at their ages?"

  "What's their ages?"

  "Four and five."

  "You sure?"

  "Or thereabouts."

  Katy sighed. She drank from her beer, finishing it. “You want another?” She stood up. “Same again?"

  "And why are we sitting out here?” Morrison said. He gestured around the small garden.

  "Because it's a nice evening?"

  "Instead of in there. You see anybody else out here because it's a nice evening?"

  "Just as well, considering what you're asking me to do."

  "It's just that it's not that nice an evening, that's my point,” Morrison said. “Only tourists would sit out here else by choice."

  "You're just after the ten-percent discount."

  Morrison shrugged. “I'm not a rich man. But that's not the point."

  Katy carried his glass and her own to the back door of the public house.

  "It's not the point."

  She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, knowing he would see it as she headed indoors for the bar.

  "It's not the point,” Morrison said to himself. “I got me a chance to go on the television, and all I'm asking is a little help."

  A few minutes later a young couple came to the door of the garden. The woman pointed to the other table and asked, “Is that table taken?"

  "Yes,” Morrison said. “A family. With grandkids. Sorry."

  The young couple retreated into the interior of The Sun and Moon. A moment later Katy came back out. She glanced back, probably seeing the retreating couple. “They wanted to be alone,” Morrison said. “Didn't want a table next to some old codger."

  Katy sat down. “And his old lady friend."

  "You're not old."

  "I'm as old as you."

  "No you're not."

  "Because I'm eleven months younger? That's near as makes no difference at our age, Mo."

  "You don't look it."

  "Thanks, I suppose."

  "And you don't act it. You move like a gazelle."

  She laughed. “How would you know how a gazelle moves? Especially an arthritic one."

  "You're going to tell me you know about gazelles? All that glamorous life you've led. Adventures this part of the world and that."

  Katy tilted her head as if she might contest the idea that she'd had adventures. Instead she said, “Hardly glamorous."

  "You've been all over the world. Where have I ever been? Not even on the telly."

  "I haven't been that many places."

  "Africa?"

  "Well..."

  "Far East?"

  "Sitting in an Army office most of the time."

  "Sitting. Oh right. Not doing anything. I believe that. And the Earth is flat."

  "It is."

  "What is?"

  "The Earth. Flat."

  He stared at her, his hand around his new pint.

  "In places.” She laughed.

  "Ha bloody ha,” he said. He lifted his glass. “Cheers."

  They touched glasses. They both drank.

  "I know you can't tell me all what you did,” Morrison said. “Not even now. Not even when there's nobody I could tell it to anyway."

  "I signed the Official Secrets Act,” Katy said. “There's a lot don't take that seriously now, but I do. It's an oath."

  "And I respect you for that."

  "I'll tell you this much, though,” she said after a deep drag on her drink. “If I was a young woman now, the adventures I could have, same kind of career, they'd leave what I actually did in the dust. They're in the SAS now, you know."

  "Who?"

  "Women. There's about nothing that the blokes in the Army do that the women don't do now.” She shook her head.

  "There's some been killed in Iraq,” Morrison said. “Women. Soldiers."

  "The risk is part of what they pay you for."

  "Anyhow, you wouldn't have been much good undercover against the Mau Mau. Or in Korea. Or Suez."

  "The SAS isn't about undercover. It's about getting in there to do a job and then getting out again without being caught."

  "Or Malaya.” He drank.

  Katy sat quietly.

  He said, “Northern Ireland...” He looked at her. “You could have been over there. You were over there."

  "Strictly in an administrative capacity,” she said. “But if it was going on these days, the job I could have done as a woman ... There are things women can do that the men couldn't. They've finally learned that.” She sighed, a sigh for the glamour and adventure she'd missed out on because she'd been born at the wrong time.

  "The Falklands. The two Iraqs,” Morrison said. “There's always some bloody war or ‘nother. If it isn't us fighting as ourselves, it's as part of the U.N. And women are in them all these days."

  "You're not wrong about that. But you know what?"

  "What?"

  "You know the demilitarized zone they left in Korea after they stopped? Barbed wire across the whole peninsula, however many miles wide?"

  "What about it?"

  "It's nature reserve now, good as. They've got species thriving in there that are rare in the rest of Korea. It's all because they're safe in that strip across the country because nobody's allowed in there. I read about it the other day."

  Morrison smiled. “War is good for something, then."

  "Unresolved war is. Speaking of which, did you know that the Second World War didn't end till 1989?"

  Morrison's eyes narrowed.

  "It's true,” Katy said.

  "That's silly."

  "The war was against Germany, wasn't it? The whole of Germany. Well, it wasn't till the Berlin Wall came down and Germany was reunited that the war against Germany—the whole of Germany—could officially end.” She lifted her glass. “It's true."

  He scratched his head. “You're full of information tonight,” he said with some admiration.

  "I just read. Keep my eyes and ears open."

  "And it keeps you young. I'll bet if I was to tell my great-grandkids that, about the war, they'd be impressed. I'm sure they would. They could pass on true facts that their great-grandfather told them to their pals. And it's not as if they're going to have their great-grandfather around forever now, is it?"

  "Seventy-eight isn't that old these days."

  "Farty Freddy's ninety-two,” Morrison said.

  "My point exactly."

  Morrison was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “How are they in there?"

  "Where?"

  "Don't play dumb,” he said. “It doesn't suit you. On the bench, of course."

  "They're fine."

  "All present and correct."

  "Freddy's there."

  "And all the others?"

  "Bert and Mike."

  "Not Jack?” Morrison's eyes lit up a little.

  "Don't get excited. They haven't called for an ambulance. There was a drink in his place. I'm sure he just went to the gents."

  Morrison nodded, having a natural sympathy for any man past a certain age who needed to go to the gents. “Freddy talking to himself?"

  Katy nodded.

  "And farting?"

  "There was ... an air about him."

  "He doesn't even change his clothes, you know. He'd still smell, but not half so much if he'd at least bloody do that."

  "I don't know why you want a place on the bench so badly."

  "Yes you do."

  She looked around, although they were alone in the small garden area. The habit of caution built up over a lifetime? “If you want it so badly, why don't you do it yourself?"

  "I don't have the expertise, do I?"

  "A frail old geezer like that. How much expertise does it take?"

  "I've thought about it, Katy."

  "Well then. Resolve is half the battle."

  "That sounds like something written over a coat of arms. Or on
a medal."

  "If you want it done so badly, why don't you just do it?"

  "He'd never let me in his flat."

  "That's the problem?"

  "He lives down the road. He doesn't even have to cross a street to get to the pub and back. If he had to cross a street it would be a different matter altogether."

  "It would?"

  "I could rent a car. I could take him at the intersection."

  "Do you have a driver's license these days?"

  "I could steal a car."

  Katy rolled her eyes.

  "It doesn't matter, does it? Freddy shuffles home. Two minute walk, takes him fifteen minutes. Doesn't even cross a street."

  "Fifteen minutes?"

  "Okay, six or seven. But the point is, he walks along a busy road, but doesn't cross it. The only thing he does in his whole life is walk to the pub and back. Everything else they bring to him."

  "Who brings what to him?"

  "I told you, he doesn't have kids. Had a boy once—he'll tell you about it if you get close enough to talk to him."

  "Thanks but no thanks."

  "Boy got run down himself. Decades ago. Now he's got nobody. Social services bring him his shopping, take him to the doctor. They ought to bloody see he changes his clothes and gets fumigated, but no such luck."

  "You're absolutely sure he has no family?” Katy said.

  Morrison blinked. “Yes.” He began to ask why she'd asked but instead said, “He'd let you inside, no problem. A bit of disguise in case someone saw you at the door, but he'd just take you for one of the social service busybodies."

  "Disguise, not getting caught, none of that would be a problem,” she said.

  Morrison nodded. If what Katy'd been saying about her life and her background was even half true ... But did she still have the bottle?

  "The problem would be figuring out why on Earth I would want to take out an old man like that?"

  "Air pollution?"

  "Seriously."

  "As a favor to me?"

  "That's the problem, see, Mo. You say it's all about getting yourself on the telly."

  "I've explained that."

  "Your Becky isn't going to let you back in her life just because your face is on the box."

  "The reporter would talk to me. I'd say something about her. I'd wave to her. And the kids."

  "If you really wanted to do something to get a place back with her, you'd sell that house of yours. Give her some money. Get her out of the hole she's in."

  "Sell my house?"

  "If you really wanted to do your granddaughter and her kids some good, that's what you'd do."

  "They already get it in my will."

  Katy shrugged.

  Morrison snorted. He thought it was quietly to himself, but it was a sharp sound, louder than he expected. Then he said, “Okay, I'll do it. I'll sell the house."

  "Really?"

  "If you'll just get me on the telly."

  * * * *

  Charlene Brockman of Today In The West said, “And now we have a story that we thought was going to be a lighthearted tribute to our postal service."

  "Oh yes?” Paul Worthy, her cohost, asked rhetorically.

  "But it's been colored by unexpected tragedy. Nadia Norris has the details for us this afternoon."

  The young and attractive face of Nadia Norris came up on the screen. “I'm standing outside The Sun and Moon public house in Bath,” she said. “It's one of the city's oldest and most traditional pubs. And they really do value their traditions here."

  The picture changed to a wooden bench inside the pub. “And this is one of them. This simple bench, the closest seating to the bar, is known as ‘Death Row.’ Now that isn't meant to be as chilling a name as you might think. It's just that space on the bench is traditionally reserved for the pub's oldest regular customers. The Sun and Moon's landlord, Keith Waters, knows the story."

  The camera drew back to include the face of the landlord, who said, “It was called Death Row long before I came to the pub, about eight years ago. But we were happy to continue the tradition and show a bit of respect. So our oldest regulars get a special bench—the closest to the bar, so they don't have to walk so far. And they also get a little discount off their drinks."

  Back to Nadia. “It's been such a tradition at the pub, and so well known, that they even get post.” She held up a card. “Here is the latest delivery, a postcard from a member of the staff who's on holiday in Scotland. Look, all that's on the address is Death Row, Bath."

  The camera closed in on the postcard, showing the brief address.

  "Yet,” Nadia said, “the card was delivered to the pub only two days after it was posted. I've got Howard Hilsomely, the postie for the street, here to explain how it happened."

  The camera turned to Hilsomely, who said, “When the card came into the sorting office some of the new lads thought it was a creepy joke. But a lot of us know about Death Row, and the pub has been on my route for years. So, no problem."

  "Not rain or sleet or snow or the most minimal of addresses can stop the Royal Mail,” Nadia said, now back inside the pub. “And when you got the card, Keith, what did you do?"

  "I thought people might be interested in knowing what a fine postal service we still have here,” the landlord said. “So I invited Howard in and rang you folks at Today In The West."

  "Cheers,” Howard, the postie, said, lifting a glass.

  "However,” Nadia said, “before we could get our camera crew over to Bath to cover the story, The Sun and Moon's Death Row was hit by tragedy."

  "It's a bit of a blow,” Keith said, again on camera. “Our oldest member of Death Row, Freddy Loriner, unfortunately died in his sleep day before yesterday. He hadn't been well, and he was ninety-two.” Keith lifted a pint. “Here's to you, Freddy, mate."

  "Without becoming morbid about it,” Nadia said, “you must be used to occasional deaths among the members of Death Row."

  "Of course,” Keith said, wiping foam from his lips. “One reason we carry on the tradition is to make the last years of our older customers a little more comfortable. But, when it does happen, well, we know we've done our bit."

  "And what happens when a spot on the bench becomes vacant?"

  "The existing members shuffle along—we keep people's places in strict order of age."

  "And the new place?"

  "Goes to the next oldest regular on the list."

  "You keep a list?"

  "Oh yes."

  "So who has filled Freddy's place?"

  "Well, unfortunately, that's another sad story. The next regular on the list was Morrison Mason. Unfortunately, Mo was hit crossing the road on his way home just last night. It was a hit-and-run and he was killed immediately, poor old bloke. I know he was particularly looking forward to meeting you today, Nadia."

  Nadia turned to the camera. “So our lighthearted story has a tinge of tragedy.” She held up a photograph. “If any of our viewers in Bath, or driving through Bath last night, saw this man at the corner of Lansdown Road and the London Road, and saw what happened, we—and the police—would be very grateful for the information."

  "So would we,” said Keith, off camera.

  "But tradition is tradition,” Nadia said. “Although traditions do evolve over time."

  The camera pulled back.

  Nadia said, “I have Katy Butterworth here with me. And I have to say, you don't look nearly old enough to qualify for a place on the bench, Katy."

  "Thank you,” Katy said.

  "But you are, aren't you, the newest member of Death Row?"

  "I am, and proud of it. Although it's awful that poor Mo wasn't able to take his place for more than the one night. I know for a fact that it meant a lot to him. And I know that if he'd been able to appear on your program he'd have sent his love and best wishes to his granddaughter, Becky, her two kids, and to his grandson, Colin."

  "You're seventy-seven years old, Katy, if you don't mind my saying so."
r />   "That I am."

  "How do you stay looking so young?"

  "Clean living. Regular exercise. And a pint or two of Keith's excellent ale."

  "And you are—this is right, isn't it?—you are the very first woman ever to take a place on Death Row, aren't you?"

  "I believe I am,” Katy said. “It's a pleasure and a privilege. In its way, the fulfilment of a lifetime's ambition."

  Copyright (c) 2007 by Michael Z. Lewin

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Department: REEL CRIME by Steve Hockensmith

  Just as the English have Boxing Day after Christmas, when everyone sweeps up the torn wrapping paper and ribbons, Hollywood has “Dumping Month.” Only instead of throwing out the trash, the studios book it into multiplexes across the country.

  Yes, it's no coincidence the only good movies out in January are the holdovers from November and December. Tinseltown's execs figure you're not going to bundle up and dig the car out of a snow drift to get to the theater—and then they make sure you won't by releasing nothing but dreck.

  That's where we come in. Every winter—well, last winter and this winter, anyway—we've asked ask top crime writers to recommend the mystery and thriller DVDs that'll help you while away the weeks until the weather (and the selection at the cinemas) improves.

  Here's this year's flurry of AHMM Winter Film Fest picks:

  * * * *

  Megan Abbott, author of the noir thrillers Queenpin, The Song Is You, and Die a Little

  * * * *

  Betty Grable, Carole Landis, and Victor Mature in I Wake Up Screaming.

  * * * *

  I Wake Up Screaming (1942), based on Steve Fisher's eponymous crime novel, is a dark little gem that's remembered today mostly as a proto-film noir—it's half Betty Grable pic, with its beaming fresh-faced star, glittery nightclub scenes, and jaunty banter, and half dread-drenched noir, complete with crossbar shadows, a wrong-man plot, and a slithering perversity at its core. But genre history aside, its pleasures are manifest: the hard-candy loveliness of Carole Landis (a real-life Hollywood tragedy: dead by suicide at twenty-nine) as the murder victim; baby-chick Grable teetering in prim hat and heels through epic seediness, floridly handsome and knowing Victor Mature at her side; and sublimely creepy Laird Cregar reminding us that, behind the glitter, there lies a darkness.