The glass panel in Hagerty's front door had the word “Billiards” on it and was curtained two-thirds of the way up from the bottom. It was as if diminutive Baytowners must be prevented from observing the skullduggery going on inside this den of iniquity. Since day one, Kirby had found it to be a tranquil paradise. The men and boys shooting pool said very little as they sighted along their cues. An occasional prediction was spoken in a monotone. “Pink in the side pocket.” “Black in the corner.” The sound of balls caroming off each other, the squeak of chalk being applied to a cue tip, laughter over a prodigious shot ... these sounds to Kirby were like surf on a beach in his native California.
The job opportunity in Canada had come at a fortunate time. His girlfriend had landed a part in a TV sitcom. She was full of herself and wanted marriage, for which he was far from ready. Oscar Macrobie arrived in Los Angeles on business and took a shine to Kirby, who was assistant manager at the hotel where he was staying. Next thing he knew, Kirby was enjoying Montreal winters and a lot more money.
A bell jingled as the poolroom door opened. At first Kirby did not recognize the man who came in. He was accustomed to seeing Sammy Luftspring in T-shirt, work pants, and sneakers. Now here he was in a dark green corduroy jacket with all three buttons fastened over a white shirt and striped tie. His pale jeans were tailored and he was wearing what Kirby thought of as cartoon shoes—round shiny blue toe-caps and thick laces. The dark snap-brimmed straw hat was tipped at a jaunty angle.
Kirby got off his chair and extended a hand. He said, “Very pretty, Sam. Very GQ."
Luftspring's response was, “What you see when you don't have a gun.” But his tone of voice was cordial.
The front table was not occupied. Sam took a cue from the rack. “Feel like having your butt whipped?"
Kirby began looking for a cue. “You'll have to explain this snooker pool to me. Back in L.A. we played nine-ball."
Sam drove the cue ball into the triangle of reds but nothing went in. “You pot a red. Then you pot a colored ball—yellow is worth two points, green three, brown four. Black is best, it's worth seven. We keep replacing the colored balls until all the reds are gone. Then we sink the colors in order and the game is over. And you pay."
Kirby was feeling confident. “Want to put five bucks on the game?"
"No. I want to put ten."
"You're on. And I'm playing you for that hat."
The Baytowner took off the hat and the shades. His hair was in a medium buzz-cut with golden color on the ends. The expression in the pale green eyes was mild, but his thin lips were set in a determined line.
Back in L.A. Kirby had spent much of his Hollywood High after-school hours in poolrooms. That was years ago, but the time away from the table seemed to have subtracted nothing from his game. He could not miss. The reds went down one after another, followed each time by one of the more valuable colored balls.
As he tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table Sam said, “I'm in with a shark. It's Macaroni Fats."
Kirby laughed as he took the money. “If Mr. Macrobie ever pays a visit, don't let him hear what you've done to his name."
The men played until midnight, then went to get some food at the Paragon. As they slid into a booth, Kirby spotted Isobel Delacourt seated opposite a middle-aged man who was about sixty pounds overweight. He asked Sam, keeping his voice down, “Is that her father?"
"That's Greb, our chief of police."
"Talk about an odd couple."
"Not really. The police station is one block away from the library,” Sam said with Baytown logic.
Over steak and fries the men got onto the subject of the new hotel. “You and your people are mad at the wrong party,” Kirby said. “Your beef should be with the guy who sold the Coronet. Danforth?"
"His wife died last year. They had no kids. He could not hack living alone among all the familiar things and places. We talked about it. So he accepted the Macro offer and took off for Miami Beach."
"The new hotel is a fait accompli. Why not just accept it? I'll be hiring soon. You could land a good job. Pays better than your old one."
"Long after we're both dead and gone, people in town will be mourning the passing of the Coronet.” Then Sam said with mock disgust, "Fait accompli ... you French guys!"
* * * *
An hour later, Kirby used his key to let himself into Isobel's cottage. He found her seated at the kitchen table with a copy of the Baytown Banner spread in front of her. She did not appear to have been reading. Without preamble she said, “Chief Greb and I are old friends. His wife died two years ago."
"So I heard."
"He's a nice man."
"And it's a fine thing that you're out there ministering to the bereaved."
"You're feisty tonight. How much beer did you drink?"
"I was in Hagerty's shooting pool with Sam Luftspring. He's another nice man. Pool players are nice people."
Isobel Delacourt folded the newspaper and set it aside. “The Coronet Hotel was a landmark in this town. It was unique. The Danforths ran it with class and distinction. You've no idea the pain it caused when your wrecker's ball smashed it to rubble and dust. And what will you put in its place? A ten-story carbon copy of numberless hotels around the world. There'll be good plumbing but no character."
Kirby waited for her to go on, but the librarian had no more to say. He headed for his room. “I'm tired,” he said. “I'm turning in. And no, thank you, I won't have a nightcap."
* * * *
Oscar Macrobie summoned Kirby back to Montreal for an important meeting. When he got off the train, the metropolis seemed crowded and noisy. Was Baytown turning him into a rube, a hick? The boss covered a few topics he could have mentioned on the telephone. Then he got up and closed his office door and came back saying, “Here's the reason I called you in. The Sam Luftspring problem has been taken care of. I spoke to Ziggy Cappelini."
"Oscar, that isn't necessary."
"You've done nothing but complain about how he's organizing the demonstrators."
"Yes, but the work is going ahead."
"I know what I'm doing, Jason. Macro Tower is only the beginning. I have plans. We're going to expand the arena. Put in an artificial ice plant. Get a franchise for an International Hockey League team. They'll be a farm club for the Canadiens. I intend to put a roof over the market square. It'll be the town's first mall."
Kirby said nothing.
"I know small towns. Everybody knows everybody and nothing happens. I'm giving that place a kick-start.” Macrobie tipped back in his swivel chair and propped his boots on the desk. “Anyway, you can forget about this Luftspring character. His contract is bought and paid for."
* * * *
The conductor called “Baytown!” and the train rolled through freight yards approaching the station. Kirby grabbed his overnight bag and edged between seats to the doorwell. He was first one off and was confronted by Sammy Luftspring as soon as he came through the waiting room and emerged onto the parking lot.
"Sam, I'm glad you're here."
"Your phone call said it was urgent."
"Better safe than sorry, man."
They sat in Sam's pickup truck as Kirby explained Macrobie's decision to have the hotel organizer killed. “He said the contract is bought and paid for."
"I thought things like that only happen in movies and crime novels."
Kirby explained, “He came out of the construction business. There was always a mob affiliation. He's done this before. He gets it done so he remains in the clear."
"Telling me can't be doing you any good."
"It's in my interest to protect you, Sam. I need somebody to beat at snooker."
The few passengers off the train had come straggling onto the parking lot. The men in the truck cab watched the last of them drive away. Then Sam said, “I need something from you, Jason. You have to tell me when it's going to happen."
"I don't know, and it's hard to ask Macrobie. But it will be sooner rather than later.
He wants the agitation to stop."
Sam turned the key and started the engine. “Then I'd better drop in at Hagerty's right now. Talk to some of the boys who hunt."
* * * *
Kirby drove to Isobel Delacourt's cottage and went inside. The place smelled of beef roasting in the oven. Isobel met him in the kitchen doorway wearing an apron. She said, “Supper is ready in about twenty minutes. We have time for a cocktail before we eat."
"To what do I owe this hospitable behaviour?"
"I've heard how you're conducting yourself with Sam Luftspring. Wash up and meet me in the dining room."
Back from the bathroom, accepting a dry martini, Kirby said, “Sam is in trouble. I just told him what's coming from Montreal.” He explained about the contract and Sam's reaction—meeting force with force in the shape of friends with guns. “Somebody is bound to get hurt,” he concluded, “if not killed."
Over the roast beef with new potatoes, baby carrots, and small onions, accompanied by a New York red wine, Isobel said, “There could be an answer to this."
"I'd be glad to hear it."
"You'll have to find out when and where the assassin is going to show up."
"Not easy, but possible."
"Then it's a matter of learning from a famous event in history. I was reading about it last week in the library. Maybe you saw the movie."
"I see a lot of movies."
"This one is a classic. Kirk Douglas played the title role. Spartacus."
* * * *
Kirby seldom telephoned his boss in Montreal; the communications usually flowed the other way. “What's going on?” Macrobie challenged him. “Are you in trouble?"
"I was thinking about the contract."
"Not on an open telephone line. Are you stupid?"
"The contract for the architect. I need to know when he will arrive in town."
"Why do you need to know that?"
"Because the guy the architect wants to see is not easy to find these days. I can be of help with that. I can bring both parties together. So the meeting will be quick and clean."
"Got it. He leaves here tomorrow morning. Should arrive early afternoon. Be at the construction site. He's got your name."
Kirby went looking for Sam. He found him at Hagerty's poolroom. A four-hander of pea-pool was in progress, so Kirby had to wait. One player shook a leather bottle containing the peas, which were small and made of wood and had numbers on them. These were distributed to the players and were kept secret; the number you received was your ball. If a player potted your ball, you paid him a dollar. If you potted your own ball, the game was over and everybody paid you five bucks.
Sam won and was folding the cash he had collected when he came to sit beside Kirby, who said, “I have good news."
"Say on."
"There won't have to be any shooting. There's a better way to handle this."
"I already lined up the hunters."
"You'll still need them, but without guns. Did you see the movie Spartacus?"
Sam had seen it, so the explanation was easy. All that was needed was a place for Sam and his friends to congregate. They decided on the arena, which was close to the police station. This would make it convenient for Chief Greb to come over and make an arrest.
"You said tomorrow?"
"Early afternoon."
"It's a cute trick you've figured out,” Sam said. “I hope it works."
* * * *
The hit man showed up looking like a tourist, right down to the pork-pie hat with a few fishing licenses pinned to it. Kirby introduced himself and said, “He's around the corner at the arena. I'll take you there."
"Then disappear. It's better if nobody sees it happen."
Kirby walked the gunman to the arena entrance. “He's in there. I told him a union organizer was coming from Montreal to help sort out a compromise with the demonstrators."
The gunman went inside. Kirby waited a few moments, then opened the door quietly and moved to where he could have a clear view of the roomy interior. The ploy was underway. The fake fisherman was looking up at rows of empty seats. Halfway up was a congregation of about twenty young men. Sammy was among them.
"I'm looking for Sam Luftspring,” the confused stranger said. “The rest of you better get lost."
Sam stood up and said, “I am Sammy Luftspring."
The man next to him rose and said, “I am Sammy Luftspring.” A man in the top row echoed the statement: “I am Sammy Luftspring.” The tempo of the voices increased as man after man got to his feet. “I am Sammy Luftspring.” “I am Sammy Luftspring."
While this was going on, the door opened quietly behind Kirby and in came Chief Greb in full uniform and looking very authoritative. By now, all the men were standing and continuing to insist, “I am Sammy Luftspring.” Their voices reverberated in the empty arena.
"There's your man,” Kirby told Greb. “The one with the gun in his hand."
The chief unholstered his own weapon and approached the assassin from behind. He pressed the muzzle of his gun against the stranger's back. “Stand very still,” he said. “You are under arrest.” With his free hand, Greb took possession of the other gun. “You mustn't come to Baytown and threaten people. I have an empty cell at the station. You can cool your heels while I decide what to do with you."
* * * *
Kirby showed up at the library late in the afternoon. He reported to Isobel the success of her Spartacus deception. The hit man had been photographed and documented and then escorted well along the Montreal highway by Chief Greb himself on a motorcycle. The chief would later say it was the most fun he had experienced in years.
"So you've done well, Isobel. And now I need something else from you. Would the library have a photograph of the Coronet Hotel as it looked in the good old days?” Within a few minutes she was able to produce a coffee-table book of Baytown landmarks. She turned the pages and showed Kirby a panoramic view of the hotel's facade, its neon sign, and its canopy leading to the brass-plated front doors.
"Perfect,” Kirby said. “Can I take this away for a few days? I want to show it to my boss."
"Of course. But all it shows is what's been taken from us."
* * * *
Oscar Macrobie stared at the giant book laid open on his desk. “What's this supposed to do for me?"
Kirby explained, “The hit man failed. You've already said you can't go down that road again. But you're still faced with the opposition of the Baytown population. And it won't go away."
"What's your point?"
"We still proceed with the construction of the ten-story tower. But at ground level, we reproduce this facade exactly as you see it here. And you call the place the New Coronet Hotel. The people will love it. And they'll love you for being so caring of their feelings."
The tycoon lit a new cigar. He said, “But I've always had my name on my hotels."
"You've got more things happening in Baytown than the hotel,” Kirby said. “How about the Oscar Macrobie Arena!"
* * * *
Years later the newest Baytowner, Jason Kirby, was settled in a smart cottage on the south shore. His wife Isobel, still radiant following ten days in Montreal to celebrate their second anniversary, said over breakfast, “How does Sam like being manager of a major-league hotel?"
"He says a hotel is a hotel. Much of the staff are the old-timers from the Coronet. And he says hotel guests remain in two divisions: those who pay in advance and those who do a moonlight flit."
"That's vintage Luftspring."
"I'll tell him you said so."
"Are you seeing him today?"
"At three-thirty. When I chair the monthly meeting of all the heads of Macrobie Enterprises."
The meeting went well. Heading the boss's corporation was easy work. And best of all, he got to live in Baytown. He cornered Sam after the meeting and said, “Feel like a couple of beers?"
"You know me,” Sam said. “And later on we can head over to the Macaroni Arena
and catch the hockey game."
Kirby smiled to himself. The boss could tie him to a chair and torture him ... he would never reveal that name.
Copyright © 2007 William Bankier
[Back to Table of Contents]
2006 READERS AWARD
* * * *
Doug Allyn
* * * *
L. Leigh
Photo by Charles Libby Photography, Orlando
* * * *
Edward D. Hoch
* * * *
Genre-fiction magazines have been responsible for launching the careers of dozens of authors who went on to shine in their various fields. EQMM's Department of First Stories began in the 1940s as a space reserved for newcomers in a magazine that regularly featured the “big names” in mystery. We've continued that tradition through the decades, and the series entries include some short-story gems.
For most editors, pulling the work of an unknown author from the slush pile and bringing it into print is one of the most gratifying experiences of the job. When the readership responds by seeing what we've seen in the story, it's even better. Your choice this year for the top Readers Award spot was a Department of First Stories tale by Leigh Lundin, a Floridian who wrote under the pseudonym L. Leigh. In “Swamped” (August 2006), Mr. Lundin took readers on an Everglades adventure featuring characters that he says are “not entirely whole cloth. The trapper in the story, Max, died just days after learning that this story had been published. As for the professor, let's just say that he is a composite.” The story's animals are also very familiar to the author, who has “raised foxes, ferrets, flying squirrels ... and yes, an alligator named Albert."
Until 1991, Leigh Lundin was a high-end software designer whose programs were purchased by airlines, car companies, clothing manufacturers, and other major corporations. By age fifteen, however, he had already sold his first newspaper article and he always continued to write. In 1991 he closed his computer consulting company and became a full-time freelance writer, producing articles for technical and sporting magazines. After selling “Swamped” to EQMM, he completed the first in a projected series of mystery novels, Whirlpool (as yet unpublished), set in the mythical Florida town of Palmetto Beach, with a soft-boiled police-chief hero.
EQMM, May 2007 Page 19