by Paul Bishop
O’Farrell had decided not to change his clothes after leaving Bat Masterson, so when he returned to the offices of the Morning Telegraph, he was still dressed for the Yacht Club party.
He met Bat in front of the building as a boxy yellow Pierce Arrow Roadster pulled up. He and Bat got in, and the driver pulled away and headed for New Jersey.
“Find your man?’ Bat asked.
“No.”
“Think he’s in hidin’?”
“I doubt it,” O’Farrell said. “Men with his money—and his connections—rarely go into hiding, even if they are suspected of murder.”
“And is he?”
“He’s on the list,” the detective said. “He was paying the bills for the girl.”
“What’s your interest in this, Val, other than him bein’ your client?”
“I met the girl and liked her,” O’Farrell said. “She shouldn’t have died like that.”
“Like what?” Bat asked.
“She was shot, once, in the temple.”
“Any chance of suicide?”
“The word I got from the cops is she was shot from close range, but there was no gun at the scene.”
“That rules out suicide—unless someone removed the gun.”
“Too complicated,” O’Farrell said. “In my experience, the simplest answer is usually the right one. Once you start factoring in what-ifs, you just muddy the waters.”
“What about the gangster angle?”
“That muddies the waters,” O’Farrell said as if it was a perfect example of what he’d been talking about. “I’m looking for a clean, simple solution.”
“You’re gonna solve this thing?”
“Bat,” O’Farrell said, “I think I already have.”
When they pulled up in front of the Yacht Club there were many vehicles already there—Pierce Arrows, Rolls Royces, even some sporty Stutz Roadsters.
O’Farrell and Bat were dropped in front of the club. A tent had been erected to accommodate all the guests for the party. Festivities seemed to have already begun. A man dressed as King Neptune arrived at the docks on a barge surrounded by twenty women in costumes and twenty black men dressed as Nubian slaves. A second barge brought the beauty contestants in. There were eleven of them, O’Farrell knew, because Georgie Taylor would have been the twelfth.
The contestants were allowed to wear their new risqué bathing suits on the barge, showing lots of skin, but were then whisked away to don something more appropriate for the party.
“It won’t be easy judging the most beautiful out of that lot, tomorrow night,” Bat said, when the girls had gone. “I’d better find the officials and ask what they want me to do.”
“I’ll see you inside the tent, then,” Val O’Farrell said.
“Better stick with me, Val,” Bat said. “At least until I get you introduced to someone in the know.”
That was wise, O’Farrell knew. On his own, he might end up being kicked out before he could find Vincent Balducci.
The pageant officials pinned a button on Bat’s lapel identifying him as a judge and agreed to give O’Farrell a guest button. So armed, both O’Farrell and Bat joined the party in the tent.
There was a stage with a big band on it, playing their hearts out while a male and female singer alternated songs. Guests filled a dance floor or milled about holding champagne glasses or martinis or wine, all of which were being circulated by uniformed waiters. Money had been paid, whether it was for a license or just a bribe, and the giggle juice was flowing freely.
The men were wearing expensive suits and in some cases tuxedos. The women flaunted jewelry—rings, bracelets, even tiaras—and the fashions of the day, some with six-inch hems flying higher while they danced the Charleston, the Shimmy, the Fox Trot, or the Black Bottom. It seemed as if many of the women who were young enough to care thought they had to do something to compete with the bathing beauties, some of whom were on the dance floor. He could imagine Georgie out there, and it made him angry—angrier than he’d been since he first discovered her body.
A male singer started to sing My Time Is Your Time and couples moved in to dance closer together.
“See him?” Bat asked.
“Who?”
“Your client?”
“Not yet.”
“I see somebody you know,” Bat said, pointing to Detective Sam McKeever of the New York Police Department, who was fast approaching with another man in a suit and some uniformed New Jersey police in tow. Right on time.
“Val,” McKeever said, “this is Detective Willoughby of the Atlantic City Police.”
“What did you find out?” O’Farrell asked McKeever after tossing Willoughby a nod.
“She was killed sometime Thursday night. Both doormen have alibis,” McKeever said. “They were both seen on duty by other tenants.”
“They could have slipped away long enough to kill her,” Bat offered.
“You’re muddying the waters again, Bat,” O’Farrell said. “There are three logical suspects for this crime.”
“And you’ve cleared the doormen?” Bat asked, looking at McKeever.
“Yeah,” McKeever said, then, “Hey, you’re Bat Masterson.”
“At your service,” Bat said.
One of the uniformed policemen said to the others, “That’s Bat Masterson.”
O’Farrell saw Bat’s chest inflate until another officer said, “Who’s he?” and a third said, “Newspaperman, I think.’
“Did you manage to keep this from Lieutenant Turico?” O’Farrell asked.
“Yeah, but he ain’t gonna like it.”
“I wanted you to get the collar,” O’Farrell said.
“Wait a minute,” Bat said. “You said there were three logical suspects.”
“Actually four,” McKeever said. “But I’m clearin’ Val, here.”
“If you’ve cleared Val and the two doormen,” Bat said, “that leaves—”
“There he is,” O’Farrell said, cutting Bat off. He started to push through the crowd, causing several people to spill their drinks.
“Follow ’im,” McKeever said to the other cops, and Bat followed them.
O’Farrell was faster than they were and was not being careful about who he bumped. As he got closer, Vincent Balducci turned and saw him coming toward him. The millionaire was impeccably turned out in a black tuxedo and was holding a champagne glass. He was chatting with some people—one of whom was a matronly lady covered in jewels that did nothing to hide the fact that she was not one of the contestants. He frowned when he saw O’Farrell coming toward him, then saw something in the detective’s face he didn’t like. He turned and started pushing through the crowd. O’Farrell increased his speed, leaving McKeever and Bat and the other police to struggle through the crowd behind him.
The band started playing an up-tempo number, and people started doing the Charleston again. Balducci was trying to run now, and as he burst out onto the dance floor, a heavyset woman trying to keep up with the music slammed into him with her hip and sent him flying across the floor. He bumped into a man whose arms and legs were flailing about in an obscene caricature of the dance, and they both fell to the floor. The man shouted, but Balducci—in excellent physical condition—jumped up and began running again. He got a few steps when a slender but energetic girl in a flapper’s dress banged into him with a sharp-boned hip and knocked him off balance. He managed to stay on his feet, and finally made his way across the dance floor to the exit next to the bandstand.
O’Farrell, following in his wake, managed to avoid all the traffic Balducci had encountered and was right behind him.
It was dark out, and Balducci headed for the marina. O’Farrell wasn’t even sure why the man was running, but he took his 45 from his shoulder holster just the same.
The millionaire ran to the end of a dock, then turned to face O’Farrell.
“You can’t shoot me!” he cried out, waving his hands. “I’m not armed.”
“Why
would I want to shoot you, Vincent?” O’Farrell asked. He holstered his gun. “In fact, why are you running from me?”
Balducci was sweating so much some of the dye from his hair was running down his forehead.
“Why were you chasing me?”
“Was I?” O’Farrell asked.
“You came at me. From the look on your face, I thought…”
The man was too fit to be winded from running. He was out of breath for another reason.
Suddenly, there was a small automatic in his hand. O’Farrell cursed himself for holstering his gun.
“I didn’t mean to,” Balducci said. “She told me about the sex and I just went crazy. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Is that the gun?” Georgie had been shot at close range with a small caliber gun. “Where’d you get it?”
“It was hers,” he said. “I gave it to her for protection. I-I never thought she’d try to use it against me.”
“You must have frightened her.”
“She...she was mine! She wasn’t supposed to be with anyone else.”
O’Farrell felt bad about that. Maybe if he hadn’t slept with Georgie, she’d still be alive now. Or maybe it would have happened later, with someone else.
“Come on, Vincent,” O’Farrell said. “If you shot her by accident, you’re not going to shoot me deliberately.”
“You know,” Balducci said, “I knew it when I saw your face. I can’t let you tell anyone.”
O’Farrell wondered where the damned police were. And where was Bat Masterson? He was wondering how close he’d get to his gun if he tried to draw it now.
“Vincent—”
“I’m sorry,” Balducci said. “I had no idea it would come to this when I hired you. I’m so sorry.”
Balducci tensed in anticipation of firing his gun, but before he could, there was a shot from behind O’Farrell. A bullet struck Balducci in his right shoulder. He cried out and dropped his gun into the water, then fell to his knees and clutched his arm. O’Farrell turned to see Bat Masterson standing at the end of the dock with an old Colt 45 in his hand. He turned to check Balducci was neutralized, then walked over to Bat.
“Thanks, Bat.”
“I still got it,” Bat said.
“Where’d you get that?”
“All the guns in my desk aren’t harmless replicas, you know.”
Behind Bat, Sam McKeever came running up with the other policeman.
“Damned Charleston,” he said. “How’d you get across that dance floor without slamming into somebody?”
“I’m graceful.”
“Did he do it?”
“He did it,” O’Farrell said. “He confessed. I’ll testify, but I don’t think I’ll have to.”
The other detective, Willoughby, waved at his men and said, “Go get him.”
“You’ll need divers,” O’Farrell told both detectives. “The gun fell in the water when Bat shot him.”
“The same gun?” McKeever asked, surprised.
“Yeah,” O’Farrell said. “For some reason, he was carrying it around. He said he gave it to her for protection.”
The uniformed police helped Balducci to his feet and started walking him off the dock. When they reached O’Farrell and the two detectives, they stopped.
“I’m sorry I slept with her, Balducci,” O’Farrell said. “It just happened, but she shouldn’t have died for it.”
Balducci’s mouth flopped open and he said, “You slept with her, too?”
As they marched him away, McKeever said, “One of the doormen. Apparently, he went up there when Balducci wasn’t around.”
“He didn’t know about her and me?” O’Farrell said.
“He does now,” McKeever said.
“And so do we,” Bat said.
“You dog,” McKeever said.
“I wonder if his money will be able to buy him out of this?” Bat asked.
“Don’t matter to me,” McKeever said. “My job’s just to bring ’im in.”
Bat and McKeever started after the other policemen. Let them rib him, O’Farrell thought, bringing up the rear. It wasn’t his fault she was dead. That’s what counted. Now he could be sad for her and not feel any guilt.
The Last Ride
Brian Drake
Brian Drake has a wicked sense of humor. He makes me laugh every day, except if he’s gone too far yet again and been virtually grounded and sent to his room by Facebook or Twitter. I keep expecting his next book to be titled Anarchy For Dummies. However, he seems far too busy writing his Scott Stiletto thrillers or another entry in the fast action Team Reaper series. On his way to breaking into the big time, Brian wrote an entry (Copper Mountain Champ) in the Fight Card series I created and edited. It has been inspiring to see him keep punching at the keyboard as his writing has gone from strength to strength. He was a natural choice for inclusion in this anthology...
The Last Ride
The bullets dropped into the revolver’s chambers with sharp clicks. Eddie Milano liked the clicks so much, he took the cartridges out and slipped them back in again one by one. In the silence of the messy living room that followed, Milano rolled the cylinder slowly left, right, then snapped it closed. It made a louder click this time, but he didn’t like it as much.
He swallowed another gulp of whiskey. It burned down his throat, with some of the liquid dripping down his chin. They joined the larger wet spots already covering the front of his thin t-shirt. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, winced as he touched the still-raw cut caused by his gun. He’d gone out to the lake to practice a few shots with the shiny Dan Wesson .44 Magnum the morning before, holding the gun at the waist like John Wayne always did. When he fired, the gun had snapped back and struck his chin, nearly knocked him over. His dog had been watching, and Eddie could have sworn the animal laughed. His three-day stubble irritated the cut as well, but he had more on his mind than taking care of himself.
He sat back on the stained couch with the .44 in one hand, the whiskey bottle in the other, and stared at the digital clock on top of the dusty TV. He drank some more whiskey but didn’t dribble any this time. He felt much calmer now. No turning back.
A framed picture of a sandy-haired woman sat on top of the television. She stood in a small boat in the middle of the lake, holding up a fishing line with two freshly caught trout dangling from the end. Big grin, wide forehead. She was short, thick in the middle, with wide hips. Milano’s bowling buddies always said you could show a movie on her forehead. Milano always said her forehead wasn’t where he focused his attention.
He drank the rest of the whiskey and flung the bottle across the room. It tumbled end-over-end until it smacked the picture right off the television. The bottle cracked the picture’s glass cover, and both clunked onto the carpet. He laughed, stood up, jammed the gun into his pants, and grabbed the keys to his truck.
If he’d bothered to look at the cracked picture, he’d have seen that one of the cracks cut right across the woman’s neck.
The weatherman on the radio said it would be cloudy, cold, with snow in the mountains. As he lay in bed, Dean Rowe was listening with one ear, the other was tuned to his wife knocking around in the bathroom. It always snowed in the mountains. He decided the weatherman was either a rookie—or stupid. He’d had enough of both lately and hoped the bad weather would bring a better day. He could use a break from the robberies, traffic violators, DUI stops, and domestic disturbances he had to deal with as a patrol officer. His trainee could also use a break, especially after their misadventure the day before.
“I’m done, sweetie,” Steffie said, returning to the bedroom. She tossed her bathrobe on a chair. Rowe watched her dress. She pretended to ignore him. He waited until she’d wiggled her hips into a skirt that was too small a year ago but she was too stubborn to get rid of before rolling out of bed.
He stifled a groan as he stood up. His left leg wouldn’t cooperate. The bullet that had smacked through bone and muscle five years ago
had been removed and the damage repaired, but the leg was always stiff when he awoke. It really bothered him when it was cold out. He hoped it wouldn’t be so cold today as to cause a problem.
Steffie had his toast and eggs ready when he finished his shower and shave. However, she left before he did, telling him to make sure he washed up and wiped down the counter because the ants were coming back. He lingered over a second cup of coffee while thinking about his trainee and what the two of them would face once they hit the street. He didn’t want a repeat of yesterday.
Police trainee Tony Fallon didn’t want a repeat of the day before, either. As he laced up his boots, he was glad he learned not to strap on his bulletproof vest before he put on his boots. You couldn’t reach the boots with the vest on, sitting or standing, because of the vest’s bulk. Rowe had supplied the correct formula after Tony had made the mistake his first day—boots first. That was assuming, of course, Tony had already put on his uniform pants and shirt. But Rowe had given him credit for doing that much.
Tony wasn’t the only officer in the locker room. The area was buzzing with conversation, slamming locker doors, steam and running water from the showers. There was also an odd odor, which grew throughout the day despite air fresheners and air conditioning. Gray walls and concrete floors with drains here and there contained the smell, making the place interchangeable with a pile of manure. Tony could never get his uniform on fast enough.
There were several other officers dressing in his aisle. None said a word to him. However, when Tony heard the booming voice of Sergeant Harrison the hassles would begin.
“I guess I lost the bet,” Harrison said to Tony, opening a locker two spaces down. “Some of us weren’t sure you’d show up for work today.”
Tony forced a smile, didn’t look at the bulky, bald-and-goateed Harrison. Tony pulled a leather pistol belt from his locker then checked the compartment for his pepper spray, handcuffs, extra magazines, and cell phone.
