"Huh,” the cop said, handing the receipt back to Dixon. Queenie popped her gum. “Strange thing to be hauling around."
No one spoke. They all waited, their eyes shifting from walls to ceiling. Willie stamped his feet. Finally, the cop nodded. “All right. But I think it best you all head on to that church camp—in Tennessee, was it?” He ushered them out of the room.
* * * *
With Dixon on one side and Queenie on the other, Willie carried the bag to the truck.
"Get in,” Queenie said, placing her hand on his elbow and propelling him into the back seat of the cab. Her purse swung down between them, the contents shifting in a slow slip and a hiss. “Here, wipe your face."
She handed him one of Dix's handkerchiefs wrapped around a thin hard object. Willie pretended to fumble with the seat belt while Dixon started the truck. He unfolded the cloth Queenie had given him. A switchblade impressed with the name Billabong slithered out and fell into his lap. Hiding the knife next to the money in his vest, Willie wrapped the monogrammed linen around his neck. He stared at Dixon's back, resisting the urge to plunge the blade between Dix's angry shoulders.
Dixon drove two blocks, turned left, turned left again and parked at the mouth of an alley. A For Sale sign sneered down from the warehouse guarding the entrance. Graffiti sprayed along the wall warned that the end was near.
"Get out,” Dix said. He tapped on Queenie's shoulder with one knuckle. “You, stay here."
Willie picked up the bones and followed Dixon into the shadows.
* * * *
A brisk wind swayed the awnings jutting out over the alley. Willie, defiant and out of options, straddled the bag holding Kardu's bones. In his left hand he waved the knife Queenie had slipped him. Three feet away Dixon raised a pistol and pointed it at Willie's chest.
"I gave you a chance, Willie, to be something more than a sideshow freak. Instead of making that work, you put a move on my wife, help yourself to my savings, and steal the most valuable showcase I've ever owned.” Dixon's eyes swept over Willie's disheveled form and settled on the bag. The blue denim jiggled and swayed.
"I thought Queenie was your most valuable possession,” Willie said.
Dixon pressed forward. He held out one hand. “Queenie's a pleasant distraction. The bones, now, are my upward mobility, my chance to win favor in the world of freaks. Once, I thought you'd serve that purpose. I was wrong."
"You sell out everyone around you.” At Willie's feet the bag swayed. Kardu's humming coursed upward through his body like a train. “You really are a jerk."
"Yeah? Well, I'm the jerk holding the gun,” Dixon said. “Give them back. Now."
"You can't bully me anymore,” Willie shouted, poking the knife at Dixon's waist.
"You got no moves left, little man,” Dixon said. He squeezed halfway down on the trigger. “Checkmate."
Willie swore. Behind him, he heard the staccato of high heels clicking on the asphalt paving. Dixon looked up and winced.
"Nobody owns me,” Queenie said, her voice muffled by the garbage bins lined up at the alley's entrance.
Willie listened to the flapping of discarded papers down the gutter, the rattle-crack of loose shutters. He thought about Queenie, moving him and Dixon around like pawns on a chessboard. He thought about his own need and his greed and the feel of Queenie's body in his hands. By his feet, the bones shifted. A sound like laughter escaped from the bag. Willie sighed. Dix had it figured right after all. He had no moves left. Mum-mum-mum-nal, the bones jabbered. Willie scrubbed at his nose, trying to figure it all out. His lips and tongue tasted like salt. Dixon moved another half step closer and struck at him with the gun.
Willie staggered back, righted himself and stabbed at Dixon. The knife caught Dix under one arm, leaving a long tear in his sleeve. A slim worm of blood tracked its way down Willie's hand. Willie stabbed again. This time he caught Dix below his rib cage.
Dixon stumbled, righted himself, and lifted the gun with both hands. One foot caught in the drawstring of the laundry bag, twisting his stance, and the first shot angled to the right of Willie's head. Dixon pulled the trigger again.
Shaking his head, holding his hands over his ears, Willie fell to his knees. Pulled forward by the blade in his gut, Dixon stumbled, coughing, and collapsed next to Willie. The bag, kicked forward in the struggle, opened. The bones spilled free.
One of Kardu's fingers sprang loose and gouged itself into Dixon's eye. The skeleton's skull rolled over to nestle close to Willie's broad nose. Humming, cajoling, demanding, the skeleton's inarticulate chant claimed kinship, obligation, and command, but Willie had moved beyond the bones’ influence, the dwarf's wide blue eyes gazing up at the crow-black sky.
Queenie stepped out from behind one of the dumpsters. A drumroll of raindrops pelted her head. She brushed them off, then lifted the taipan out of her purse, the snake's restless length still encased in its binding. Humming her notes in tune with the wordless song leaching from Kardu's skeleton, she waited. Dixon looked up. His lips moved.
"Queenie,” he said, struggling to raise his shoulders.
Debating the wisdom of introducing venom into Dixon's bloodstream, Queenie circled the fallen men. The storm-driven wind blew harder, ruffling the fringe on her shawl. Before she made up her mind, Dixon stopped moving.
"Well,” she shrugged, staring at Matey, “guess Dix was right about one thing. No need for snakes."
Bending, she removed the skeleton finger from Dix's eye. She layered Kardu's bones back inside the bag and stuffed the taipan in with them. Twisting the handkerchief free of Willie's neck, Queenie wrapped it around the money inside Willie's vest and dropped the wadded bills in her purse. Checking for shoe prints below and faces above in the few windows that overlooked the alley, Queenie moved off, trailed by the rustle of the taipan and the muffled lament of the bones in the bag.
Copyright © 2011 Janet E. Irvin
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Fiction: WHY by Robert Lopresti
"Come in, Alan,” said Captain Stevens. “That was a hell of a job you did on the Mattocks mess."
"Thank you, sir,” said Lieutenant Poley. He sat down on the worn visitor's chair.
"I mean it. The report you wrote will be the model we use for, God forbid, any future events like that."
"Thanks. There's one more thing.” Poley held out a single page of paper.
"Something you missed? I find that hard to believe because your—” Stevens frowned at the paper. “Are you serious?"
"Absolutely."
"But my God, man. You can't resign. How much longer until you could retire on a full pension?"
"Six months and a week."
Captain Stevens shook his head. “I'm not accepting this. You're just stressed out. Anybody would be."
"I'm not stressed. I'm done."
"My God, Alan. What happened?"
Poley shrugged. His career had ended on Tuesday, the day after Mattocks died. A sense of duty kept him going to the end of the week to finish the report, but now it was time to go.
* * * *
"The final score is four dead, including the shooter,” Shellcross had said at the Tuesday briefing. “Plus three wounded, but they're expected to recover."
"If you use the word score again,” said Poley, “you'll be back in uniform. This was not a sporting event. Are we clear?"
The detective's face went red. “Yes, Lieutenant."
"Good.” He looked around the squad room. Almost twenty cops stared back. “Listen, everybody. This is time for your Sunday morning, church-with-the-in-laws manners. We've got reporters in town from all over the country, probably all over the world, and since they don't have a live perp to point their cameras at some of them are going to look at us."
"Too bad the bastard killed himself,” said Juarez.
"Saved the state a pile of money on a trial,” said Hacker. “Trials are expensive."
"I didn't say I wanted him tried,” said Juarez. She gr
inned. “I just wished we'd had the chance to finish him ourselves."
Poley threw a pencil, which bounced off the table and hit Juarez on the chest. He waited until the cops stopped laughing. They had had a hell of a day yesterday. “That's exactly the kind of thing you can't say in front of a reporter. Does everyone understand that?"
Nods all around.
"Let's talk about live suspects first. Now, is there any possibility of an accomplice?"
"No sign of one,” said Washington. “We've traced Mattocks from his house straight to the travel agency. No sign that he contacted anyone along the way. We're still getting his phone dumps."
"Keep at it. If anyone knew—or had any reason to suspect—what he was doing, we need to know it.” And God help the guy if he exists, Poley thought, because everybody would sure like a scapegoat now, to stand in for the unreachable murderer. Speaking of which—
"Where did he get the guns?"
"Working on that, Loot,” said Garsh. “Everything he carried he could have been purchased legally, assuming he filled out his paperwork and observed the waiting period. We're checking that."
"What about our procedures?” Poley asked. “Who's making sure that we did everything right?"
"Rat Squad,” said Atchison.
"I don't mean Internal Affairs. I want some of us to check our procedures. See if they were followed and recommend changes if need be. But make sure you cooperate with Internal too. We have nothing to hide."
Poley sighed. “Okay, now the big one. Any progress on motive?"
Silence.
"Come on. Who's in charge of that?"
Francey stood up. A big man, he took up a lot of room. “I've been compiling it, Loot, but it's mostly a stack of negatives. The survivors at the travel agency swear they never saw Mattocks before. He has no known connection with any store on that block."
"There's got to be some reason he went in there and started shooting people,” said Poley. “Ideas?"
"Was he married?” asked Hacker.
"Divorced last year."
"So he was mad at his wife. Maybe was she about to take a trip?"
"He wasn't angry. The divorce was his idea. Said he was bored and wanted a change."
"Who was the girlfriend?” said Juarez. “Men don't leave until they have a new cook and housemaid ready."
"You're leaving out the most essential service,” said Atchison. People laughed.
"No sign of a new romance,” said Francey. “No sign he was stalking anybody at the travel agency either."
"Did he have problems with some other travel agency?” asked Kelly. “My in-laws went on a cruise and got so sick they had to be hospitalized. Couldn't get a cent back."
"Family says he never used travel agencies,” said Francey. “Most vacations they took were by car."
"Two of the employees were Japanese,” said Washington. “Any chance this was a hate crime?"
"No evidence in that direction. The techies are going through his computer, but they haven't found any hate sites. No evidence of drug abuse, by the way."
"The man was a bore,” said Atchison. “Maybe that's why he did it."
"Work problems?” asked Garsh.
"Boss says his job was as secure as anybody's is these days. No trouble with co-workers."
"Jesus,” said Juarez.
"That's a point,'” said Katz. “This guy have any religious hangups? Maybe he thought travel was sinful."
"Went to church on Christmas and Easter,” said Francey. “What else?"
Twenty cops sat in silence.
"Hell,” said Poley. “Maybe there wasn't any motive. Maybe the guy was just nuts."
* * * *
Captain Stevens scowled at the gun and badge Poley had placed on his desk.
"Damn it, Alan, I said I don't accept your resignation. Take a month off. You've earned it. When you come back, if you want I'll put you in charge of records till you can retire."
"The burnout squad?” said Poley. “No thanks. I really do appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm through here."
Stevens raised his hands helplessly. “For Pete's sake, why?"
Poley shook his head. “Motive,” he said, “is overrated."
* * * *
After the Tuesday briefing Poley had gone home. He was too tired to eat, although he knew he should be starving. The photographs of Mattocks's victims had finished any appetite he could have raised.
He took a beer out of the fridge. Before opening it, he unloaded his pistol and locked both gun and ammo in the small safe in the hall closet. He had started doing that just before the first baby was born and never failed to do it now, even though Janey had left with the kids years before.
Somehow that thought brought Michelle Bedeker to mind. That had been the only time he had fired his weapon in more than twenty years of service.
Afterwards, he had gone to the department's psychologist, because that was policy. Just a formality, he figured, but he was astonished when the shrink wanted him to come back for another session. “Maybe several. We're just starting here, Sergeant."
"You don't think it was a righteous shoot? Everyone else does."
The shrink was a thirtyish guy with a sour lemon face. “I don't like that phrase, but yes, you did the right thing. Ms. Bedeker had a knife at a child's throat. You saved the boy."
"So what's your problem?"
"My problem is that youdon't think it was justified. Don't tell me otherwise, Sergeant. Your body language calls you a liar every time you mention her."
Poley had sighed. “Tell me what I need to do to go back on duty."
"We need to talk more. See what your real problems are."
"From where I'm sitting, Doc, it looks like you're my problem."
"How's your marriage, Sergeant?"
Poley's face went blank. “That's got nothing to do with this."
"Give me a chance. Maybe I can help you."
After half a dozen sessions the doctor gave up. Janey left anyway.
Poley sighed. He ought to go to bed, but he knew he wouldn't sleep. Instead he went to the bathroom to let out some beer.
He looked at himself in the mirror. He thought about Juarez and wondered again why her husband had left such a terrific-looking woman. She was the one who had suggested that Mattocks's motive might be a girlfriend on the side. Funny, now that he thought about it.
Poley's reflection frowned back at him.
Washington, the only black on the squad, had suggested that it might be a hate crime.
Hacker thought the killer might have been having marital problems. Poley had caught him sleeping over in the crib room last month.
Garsh, who had more write-ups than most of the squad together, had asked if Mattocks had had work problems.
Atchison, the compulsive joker, guessed that the man had done it because he was a bore.
Nobody saw the killer at all. Mattocks was just a fun-house mirror.
At the press conference a reporter from the financially shaky local paper had asked if Mattocks had been laid off. The local TV newsman asked if he was stuck in a dead-end job.
"And what did you say, Lieutenant?” he asked the face in the mirror.
Maybe the guy was just nuts.
Copyright © 2011 Robert Lopresti
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Fiction: THE CALCULATOR by Mithran Somasundrum
"I am a calculator.” That was the first thing he said to her. Can you imagine? The two of them in the McDonald's at Chidlom, central Bangkok. The place so crowded on a Saturday afternoon that when they took adjacent tables at the far wall they were effectively sitting next to each other. Atiya thought he was asking for a calculator and passed her Nokia across. He looked at it sadly ("Like he felt sorry for it,” she said.) and shook his head. “No, that's not a calculator.” Pointing to himself. “Me, I'm a calculator.” And he could prove it. The cube root of a six-digit number? No problem, rattling off the answer to ten places when the Nokia
could only reach nine. Or how about picking a random seven-digit number and then doubling it continuously? He could get further in fifteen seconds, in his head, than she could furiously keying the numbers into her phone. After that she laughed and conceded. “Okay, you're a calculator."
Was he trying to pick her up? I wondered aloud. Atiya was in her mid twenties and had the classic heart-shaped face, dark eyes, and full lips that brought men to Thailand. Or if her looks didn't, they were at least responsible for keeping them here. She shook her head. No, definitely not. She knew all about displays of male plumage. She'd come to our Chinatown office directly from work and was still in the light purple blouse and dark purple skirt of Siam Commercial Bank. When they put her at a counter it happened all the time: Some rich, middle-aged guy who thinks she must be impressed by the stack of cash he's just handed over decides she'll make the perfect mia noi (minor wife). She was used to requests for her phone number and used to batting them away. But The Calculator (Anthony, apparently) wasn't like that.
"So what was he like?"
"Very thin, very white, very lost."
It really did seem to her that he just needed to talk, and so she listened while he told her he came from London, was unemployed, had been in the kingdom four days. It's got to be said, there are more ambitious pickup lines.
As a reward for not hitting on her, she suggested they meet the next day, same place, and she'd take him to see the Temple of the Emerald Buddha. I raised my eyebrows at that. “Because?"
"He needed a break. Stop thinking about his competition.” This was the World Human Calculator Championship—what else? I'd never even heard of it, but apparently it was going on in Bangkok right now. He'd showed her the events page of The Bangkok Post (she hadn't heard of it either) and said, “That's what I should be doing.” Anthony looked so stressed that she said, “No, you need to relax.” Atiya shrugged. She was the one putting her younger sister through college. It was her doung* to be responsible for other people. So the next day she turned up at the McDonald's, took a corner table, sucked her way through two vanilla milkshakes, and after an hour realized he wasn't coming. “I have a feeling about these things. When my mother died, I knew. It was the same stretch of road she took every month, here to my uncle in Rayong. But that evening, suddenly I knew. I sat by the phone and when it rang I thought, ‘I have to look after Fon now.’ It's the same. Something bad happened to him."
AHMM, May 2011 Page 4
