EQMM, May 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Put up or shut up,” Garth said.

  Annette took her cards. “Well, I'm sure as hell not going to shut up."

  "That'll be the day,” Garth said with a laugh. He looked at his own cards. “The sublime to the ridiculous."

  "I'm hearing flannel again,” Annette said.

  "Well, what do you expect me to do? Accept the hand I'm dealt and shut up about it? Do nothing about it?"

  She looked at him. There was passion in his voice.

  "Because that's not the kind of guy I am."

  "And it's not the kind of gal I am either."

  "So it begins,” Garth said.

  "We need to be careful."

  "You're not wrong there."

  "Because it's not just us. Can you imagine what they'd say?"

  "Or think of us. No, care is very important."

  "But we also can't hang about. Suppose The Beast does get him to knock her up."

  "We must work it all through. Alibis, everything."

  "Better than having an alibi is not to be suspected."

  "I'll drink to that,” Garth said.

  They clinked glasses and fixed eyes on each other as they drank.

  "Cheers,” Annette said.

  "I've been thinking hit-and-run for your Darren's Beast,” Garth said. “Go over there. Watch her movements for a week or two. Check her routine."

  "Your Tracey's ‘beast’ won't be so hard. Pub to bookie to house. But I'll go there and check out his routines anyway."

  "Thank you."

  "Hit-and-run for him too, do you think?"

  "I prefer a mugging,” Garth said. “With a baseball bat."

  "Oh?"

  "I so want to hit him, like he's hit Tracey."

  "It's your poetic-justice side. Only it'll be two bats. And two in the car that does for her. Or rather, It."

  "Which beast first?"

  "I don't want to be greedy,” Annette said, “but I'd say we should do It first, while the nights are still long. If we can hit her and run at night, there'll be less likelihood of anyone seeing clearly."

  "Though each extra day does mean there's more chance that Tracey..."

  "I know, Gar.” Annette put a hand on his wrist. “But we're not going to hang about with either of them, are we? It is put-up-or-shut-up time."

  "I'll put up."

  "So will I. And Tracey will be all right for a bit. He isn't going to kill his golden goose."

  "She's going to be so much better off,” Garth said.

  "As Darren will. Once he gets over the shock."

  "They'll each be grateful that fate took a hand."

  "When they've had time to think it through. To feel how much better off they are."

  "Tell you what,” Garth said. “Whoever wins the game gets to choose who's first."

  "You're on,” Annette said.

  "Life would be so much simpler if only they'd listen,” Garth said.

  "If only they'd listen."

  Annette and Garth picked up their cards. l arth stopped at the bar and offered cards and a cribbage board to Annette. But she said, “It's my turn."

  "Is it?"

  She tipped her head forward and raised one eyebrow—indicating what was understood between them: that her memory was better than his. Garth leaned back. “You scare me when you do that."

  "Do what?"

  "Look right through me.” He left her at the bar and took the cards and board to a corner of the pub where they would be well away from other patrons. He sat and shuffled.

  Annette arrived a couple of minutes later with two pint glasses which she put on the table. “Thank you,” Garth said. Then he squinted at the beer.

  "No Butcombe today,” Annette said as she slid into her seat. “So I got Old Peculiar."

  Because they hadn't played cards in the pub for several days, Garth fanned the cards on the table. Annette picked one, an ace. Garth shook his head and conceded the deal. Aces are low in cribbage and the first dealer in a new series of games is the person who picks the lower card.

  Annette gathered the cards and shuffled them for herself. Garth said, “How's it going?"

  "The cops still won't let poor Darren leave town."

  "They don't suspect him, surely."

  Annette sighed. “It must be just a precaution."

  "Precauting their backsides?"

  "I don't know whether he would come here to stay with me, but he must want to get away somewhere, after what happened. Otherwise he's just stuck in the flat he shared with her. That can't be healthy.” Annette offered the cards. “The cops are giving him a hard time because he has no alibi."

  "Most people have no alibi most of the time. They spend time with spouses, with friends, and who believes them in court?” Garth cut. “But Darren's car must be clean—no dents, no blood. What's he supposed to have run her down with? His bicycle?"

  "He says they think he might have stolen a car to do it with."

  "Does your Darren know how to steal cars?"

  Annette shrugged as she dealt. “I can, though."

  "A woman of mystery."

  "Well, I can get into a locked car. Some locked cars. Astras, for instance."

  "Oh, that trick with looping doubled-up packing tape around the door lock?"

  She nodded, picking up her hand.

  "But can you get the car started and drive it away once you're in?"

  "Sure,” she said.

  "Impressive."

  "As long as the key's in the ignition."

  Garth chuckled. “That's about what I'd be up to, too. And your Darren never hung out with lads who stole cars, did he?"

  "A bit of shoplifting's all I ever knew about. A good lad, my Darren. I hate it so much when he's not happy."

  "He's a real credit to you.” With a sigh Garth dropped two cards into Annette's crib. “What's life worth if you never take chances?"

  "Are you talking about the cards you're giving me?"

  "What else?” He began the play-phase of the hand by putting down a four. “Let me get this straight. The police think Darren stole a car, ran down his girlfriend as she was crossing a street, and ... and then what?"

  Playing a seven, Annette said, “Ditched the car and came home to watch the television."

  "Have they found a ditched, dented, bloody car?"

  "Obviously not."

  "So what do they think he did with it? Buried it in the woods? Or drove it off a cliff-top? And how's he supposed to have got home afterwards? Called for a taxi to come to the quarry he'd just pushed the car into?” Garth played another four and pegged two points for making the total of the cards they'd both played add up to fifteen.

  "Apparently the police are trying to make something of the fact that he didn't report her missing.” Annette played an eight.

  "Hmm."

  "And when he told them it wasn't unusual for her to stay out all night without telling him where she was, they decided that gave him a motive."

  "They didn't know the bitch, did they?” Garth said.

  "It would be suspicious for any normal woman, but she was odious."

  "The Beast."

  "An It and not a she," Annette said. She took a long drink of her beer. “And good riddance."

  "I suppose the cops are paid to doubt people.” Garth's six made the total twenty-nine.

  "But all you have to do is look at Darren and you can see he'd never do anything like that." An ace made the count up to thirty. “He's my own son, but he just doesn't have the brass balls to kill someone. However odious It is. However badly It's treated him."

  "Go,” Garth said, meaning he couldn't play another card without taking the total over thirty-one.

  Annette, however, played another ace and pegged four, two for the pair and two for making thirty-one exactly.

  "But it's going to work out for Darren, surely,” Garth said.

  Annette raised an eyebrow. “It's not like they're going to find the car, is it?"

  "No."

  "T
hat's all right, then. And how's your Tracey taking the dramatic events in her life?"

  "Not well, I must say. She can hardly believe that random violence of the kind she'd only ever seen on television actually took place in her own world."

  "But the police up there don't think that she had anything to do with it, do they?"

  "No, no. She's just the widow.” Garth frowned. “Can you call yourself a widow even if you never married?"

  "She had his children. She lived with him for years."

  "She was the one he beat the hell out of,” Garth said, looking gravely across the pub table.

  "They probably have some special phrase for them these days. Like ‘the significant survivor.’ Or ‘ex-punching bag.’”

  "I don't like to think about that, please, Nettie. Even now it's over."

  "Sorry."

  "Anyway, the police aren't giving her a thought. Besides, she tells me the cops reckon that two people attacked him."

  "They have witnesses?"

  "Not that I've heard about. Tracey says that it's something about the pattern of the injuries."

  "Oh."

  "They think the weapons used were baseball bats."

  "Oh."

  "But Tracey is feeling better, as of the last few days. Beginning to get over the shock, I think. She has a friend who lives next-door who seems to have been quite helpful."

  "Isn't Tracey relieved not to be hit every other day?"

  "She can't bring herself to say it,” Garth said, “but each time I talk with her I hear more strength in her voice. She's getting some victim-support through the police, as well as help from the neighbours. It's like a veil of fear and oppression is gradually being lifted from her day-to-day routine. Each day she believes a little more that life is better."

  Annette nodded. “Good. Yes, good. And is she all right for money?"

  "I sent her some even though she said she doesn't need it. Plus—you'll like this—the evil bastard's parents are giving her money, too. For the children.” Garth played a six and took a point for playing the last card. “Sorry, you've been waiting for me to play."

  "Money from the parents ... Reparations?” Annette said. “Yes, I do like that."

  Before they began to score their hands, Garth said, “And how are you doing? In yourself."

  "Fine."

  "Really? No dreams? No shakes?"

  "It was all a bit unsettling at first, but now I'm sleeping well. I must be like one of those fanatics who thinks she had God on her side."

  "I'm getting images sometimes. They pop into my head."

  "Of?"

  "The way he looked when we left him."

  "It was no worse than what they show on Casualty or HolbyCity."

  "I know.” He sighed. “It's ER for me."

  "How about you?” Annette asked. “Are the images affecting your sleep? Are you feeling anxious?"

  "Surprisingly little."

  "Not worried about getting caught?"

  Garth shrugged and shook his head. “How much would I lose at my age? Would spending the rest of my time in jail be any worse than having done nothing when I knew full well what that bastard was doing to my Tracey over and over?"

  "Even so. What we did..."

  "And if I can stop that and not go to jail ... Well, the truth of the matter,” Garth said, “the real truth is that I feel elated more of the time than I feel worried. Sometimes I even think I'd welcome the chance to tell the world. It might just make another bastard living with someone else's daughter think twice."

  "I know exactly what you mean,” Annette said.

  "You do?"

  "I protected my child. And after a while, once he gets his life back, his head back, he'll be the child I used to know."

  "So you're glad we did it."

  "Thrilled."

  Garth picked up his beer glass. “Here's to ... problem-solving."

  Annette clinked her glass against his and drank.

  "Problem-solving tastes good,” Garth said. “Even if it's not Butcombe."

  "What have you done with your car?"

  "I told them at the garage that I hit a badger."

  "And?"

  "They fixed it, charged me a fortune, and didn't think twice."

  "I want to pay half the repair bill."

  "You paid for the baseball bats.” He took the six points in his hand to close the subject. “I was hoping for a five,” he said of the turn-up card, a seven. “But you drew."

  "They were softball bats, though I don't know what the difference is meant to be,” Annette said. “Twelve, if very oddly.” She pegged her score.

  "We don't see that shape very often,” he said of her eight, pair of sevens, and pair of aces. “Nice, though."

  Annette turned over her crib. A jack and queen from Garth, a three and four from herself, and the seven turn-up. There were no scoring combinations. “I didn't want to rub your nose in it,” she said.

  "One, actually,” he said, pointing. The jack was of the same suit as the turn-up card.

  She pegged the point. “At least not too deep in it."

  Garth gathered the cards and split them to shuffle. Then stopped.

  "What?” she asked.

  "Is that it?"

  She cocked her head. “Meaning?"

  "Any other problems you want to solve?"

  "Oh.” Then, “I see."

  "Just a thought,” Garth said. He riffled the two halves of the pack together and pushed them to make a whole.

  "Got a taste for it now, have you?” Annette asked.

  "I don't mean killing anyone else, necessarily, although I do like the fact that I got off my posterior to make the world a better place.” He shuffled again.

  "So do I."

  He stopped. “And so, my dear, what else would make the world a better place, do you think?"

  He offered her the pack of cards. She cut them and said, “Or who would the world be better off without?"

  After a moment holding each other's gaze, they both picked up their glasses and drank, a silent—secret—toast.

  Copyright © 2007 Michael Z. Lewin

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  SWIFT AMONG THE PIRATES by Edward D. Hoch

  Art by Allen Davis

  * * * *

  "I envisioned this as the thirteenth and last Alexander Swift tale,” Ed Hoch told EQMM, “but I've never really ended a series yet, so it's possible that Swift might return sometime. As usual, the story is a mixture of fact and fiction. Jefferson did send frigates to the Barbary Coast in May of 1801, but of course the frigate Saratoga and its crew are fictitious."

  Christmas of 1799 was a bleak season for Alexander Swift. His good friend and mentor, George Washington, the new nation's first President, had died on the night of December 14, less than three years after handing over the reigns of government to John Adams and retiring to Mount Vernon. Swift and his wife Molly had attended the funeral and burial in the family vault four days later.

  With the dawn of a new century, he tried to think of the future, of their son George and the young country into which he'd been born. But his thoughts always returned to Washington, and to the traitor Benedict Arnold. One evening Molly asked what was troubling him. “I suppose the fact that Arnold is still alive, living free in London. Washington should have had at least the satisfaction of knowing he'd died."

  "It's over. There's nothing you can do about that now."

  "I could go to England and kill him myself."

  "But you wouldn't,” she said. “You're a good man, Alex. You couldn't kill someone in cold blood, not even Benedict Arnold."

  And of course she was right.

  Still, through the year that followed, as he went about his government duties, his mind kept returning to it. Not a cold-blooded killing, perhaps, but a duel. He knew they were still legal in England. Occasionally at night he'd waken from a dream, having imagined himself on a grassy meadow, dueling pistol in hand, facing off against Benedict Arnold at la
st.

  John Adams served only one term as President, and the 1800 election brought Thomas Jefferson into the new presidential mansion following a bizarre tie vote between Jefferson and Aaron Burr in the Electoral College. The election was finally decided by the House of Representatives, with Burr becoming Vice President. It was some weeks after taking office in March 1801 that Jefferson summoned Swift to his office for an informal meeting.

  "Washington always spoke highly of you,” he said. “You never let him down when he called on you.” Jefferson was a tall man with freckles and sandy hair beginning to turn gray. At times a bit more awkward than Washington in his speech, he still conveyed a commanding presence.

  "I let him down once. I was never able to bring Benedict Arnold to justice."

  "Perhaps someday that can be remedied,” he told Swift. “Meantime, there is another matter. Since our nation won its freedom from Britain, we have been paying an annual tribute to the pasha of Tripoli to protect our commercial ships from attacks by pirates. The pasha has now informed me that the tribute must be raised to two hundred twenty-five thousand dollars a year, and I refuse to pay it. Next week, on May twentieth, I am dispatching a squadron of six frigates—all that we can spare—to cruise the Mediterranean and blockade the port of Tripoli, defending American vessels from attacks by Barbary pirates. I would like you to accompany them."

  Alexander Swift smiled at the thought of it. “Twenty years ago I would have eagerly accepted such an assignment, sir. Now I fear my fighting days are past."

  "For God's sake, no one is asking you to fight! You would act only as an observer, reporting back to me. Any fighting would be carried out by the crew and by detachments of Marines on board each ship."

  "I don't know. It would mean leaving my wife and son for an extended period."

  "Two months at most, perhaps less. If our ships have to remain longer, we'll find a way to bring you back."

  Swift smiled at his words. “Maybe by hot air balloon?” But he knew he'd accept the assignment from President Jefferson, just as he had so many times from President Washington.

  * * * *

  Molly wasn't pleased at the news of his forthcoming absence. “What about little George?” she tried to argue. “He looks forward to your bedtime stories."

  "I'll be back before he knows I'm gone."