Pop the Clutch

by Eric J. Guignard

  “Take it easy,” she said. “The doctor’ll be glad to see you’re awake.”

  Foley moved his eyes, took in the bright window, the bouquet of flowers on the sill, the small TV hanging in the corner.

  He drew a shaky breath and exhaled. “How long have I been out?”

  “It’s Friday morning,” Katie said.

  Friday . . . He tried to remember. The otherworldly battle at the drive-in had been what? Wednesday night?

  Then he had another thought.

  “You were in my dream,” he said.

  Her eyes twinkled. “The one where I saved you?”

  “No, a different dream. The other day, when I was sleeping at my desk in the office—”

  “That’s because I was the one who woke you up.”

  “No. Someone walked to me through the sand, to my beach chair.” He paused, and swallowed. He hadn’t realized it, until now. “It was you. You were there with me.”

  Blushing, she said, “Billy, I think you’re still a little groggy—”

  He shook his head. “I’m fine. Just thinking out loud.” Wishing out loud, he thought. But there was something else they needed to discuss. “Are we alone?” he asked.

  She looked at the door. “Right now we are.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Katie let out one of those it’s-a-long-story sighs. “You did it,” she said. “That’s what happened. You killed them, Billy. You killed all of them, at once.”

  “No—I mean, what happened, exactly.”

  She leaned forward and gently squeezed his hand. “Well . . . I saw you fire the flare gun, heard you yell at me to duck. I did, and you landed on top of me, and just as one of those things leaped at us—it all stopped.”

  “Stopped?”

  “They disappeared. All of them. I heard—felt—the blast, and they just vanished. Like you must’ve thought they would. When the building blew up, with the film reels—so did they.”

  He nodded, thinking about that. His last-ditch gamble had worked. “Were you hurt?”

  “No. You shielded me. You’re burned pretty bad, but they say you’ll be okay. Your shirt was on fire, and it took me a minute to realize it, and when I did I rolled us over and put it out. Before that, though, you got hit, and passed out.”

  “Hit with what?”

  “You won’t believe it. When the fuel cans blew, they took out not just the building but the car parked next to it. You were struck in the head by a lug wrench from Greg’s trunk.” She looked as if she might cry. “Could’ve been worse. His cruiser’s hood landed two feet from us, and I heard that old TV set we saw in one of the rooms was blown right through the middle of the movie screen, seventy-five yards away. Went through it like a slug through a bullseye.”

  A silence passed. He thought for awhile, then focused on her. “They’re really gone?”

  “They really are. You destroyed their source,” she said. “Bill Foley, monster hunter.”

  He broke out a smile. “We ain’t ’fraida no ghosts.”

  “No, we ain’t.”

  Another silence. “What about our story?”

  “Good point,” she said. “We need to make sure we agree.”

  “What’s your version?”

  “A mix of truth and lies. I told them a guy smoking a cigarette in a long black coat came out as we approached the building, we shouted a warning, he shot at us, we returned fire, some of our rounds probably hit the stored fuel drums, and his cigarette must’ve blown the place up.”

  Foley thought that over, and nodded. “That’s good. I’ll say the same.”

  “At first I worried because they’ll only find Greg’s remains, not my made-up villain’s—but the state experts say the temperature in there was hot enough to melt bones. Our story should work. I told them we might never know whether this man committed all three murders or only that of our deputy.”

  Both of them fell silent. In a hushed voice he said, “I still can’t believe Greg’s dead.” And that I was the one who suggested he get out in the field more. Foley wished he’d told his deputy never to leave the office again.

  She nodded, tears shining in her eyes. “But we also know—you and I, at least—that there’ll be no more killings.”

  After a moment Foley asked, “What about our mashed-up car?”

  “It was inside what they’re calling ‘the blast radius.’ Its gas tank exploded. Nothing left.”

  “And the guy the old man saw, in the football jacket?”

  “I didn’t mention that to ’em,” she said, “but it’s in our earlier notes. They’ll probably be searching for him.”

  “I’ve heard teenage werewolves are hard to find.”

  Katie sniffled, smiled, and then turned serious. “It’s a shame, in a way. We know what really happened, you and I, and even though it’s the truth . . . we’ll never be able to tell anyone.”

  He smiled too. “Never say never. It could be a horror novel. Change the names, different city and state, different people, use a pseudonym . . . ”

  “You really are delirious,” she said. “Who would write this masterpiece? You?”

  “Why not? I even have a title: The Starlite Drive-In.”

  She barked a laugh. “Fine. But I think I should be co-author.”

  “That makes sense. Both of us’ll need something to do down there.”

  Her face changed, and went very still. “Sheriff Foley,” she said. “Are you asking me to go with you? To Jamaica?”

  He looked into her eyes. “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  He grinned. “Can you make a mango daiquiri?”

  * * *

  JOHN M. FLOYD’s work has appeared in more than 250 different publications, including Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, The Strand Magazine, Woman’s World, The Saturday Evening Post, Mississippi Noir, and The Best American Mystery Stories. A former Air Force captain and IBM systems engineer, John is also an Edgar Award nominee, a three-time Derringer Award winner, and a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. His seventh book, The Barrens, is scheduled for release in fall 2018.

  * * *

  DR. MORBISMO’S INSANITERRORIUM HORROR SHOW

  by Lisa Morton

  This new era wanted thrills, not gentle wonder . . .

  * * *

  THE TRUCK COVERED IN COLORFUL SIGNS touting, Dr. Morbismo’s InsaniTERRORium Horror Show! pulled up at 11:20 a.m. before the Rialto Theatre in Ginmill, Texas. They’d made the drive from the motel in San Antonio in three hours, expecting to find a dusty, dying small town with a ramshackle theater that held maybe two hundred. But Ginmill seemed active, and the Rialto was, surprisingly, an honest-to-Abe old-fashioned movie palace, complete with a long, ornate marquee, glass displays on either side of the six-door entrance, and a ticket booth outside.

  There were three people in the cab of the truck; all three stared out at the Rialto as if they’d just seen snow in a Panhandle summer. The older man on the passenger side asked, “Jean, are you sure this is the right theater?”

  The woman who rode in the center of the truck, one skirted thigh pressed up against the gear shift, pulled a lined notebook out of a case on her lap. She read notes scribbled down on a page and then looked out the window. “No, this is it—the Rialto at 120 Main Street in Ginmill.”

  The driver, a tall thirty-year-old named Sam with a flop of auburn hair that a lot of women liked, said, “Why, hell, Doc, this might be the biggest joint we ever played!”

  “Don’t swear in front of Jean,” the older man grumbled.

  “Papa,” Jean said, addressing Doc, “I may only be twenty, but I’ve already heard plenty of swearing.”

  Doc glowered at nothing in particular before turning away to step down from the cab. The other two followed as Doc examined the ticket booth and tiled entryway.

  “I’ll tell ya one thing,” Sam said, “this theater’s been out of commission for a while.” Doc turned to the other man,
who was pointing at a poster in one of the glass displays. In vivid green and black, a woman screamed beneath the title, The Thing from Another World. “That picture came out two years ago. Even the drive-ins haven’t had it for at least a year.”

  Doc swiped a finger through dust on the box office counter and said over his shoulder, “Jean, tell me again how you found this joint.”

  Jean shrugged. “They were in my booking guide.”

  “And how old’s your booking guide?”

  Jean muttered something neither of them heard.

  A car pulled up and parked behind their truck. An enthusiastic young man leapt out, whistling as he examined the lurid signs covering the truck. “Dr. Morbismo’s InsaniTERRORium Horror Show—ain’t that somethin’?” He paused before a part of the banner that advertised: Mutilo the Giant Bloodthirsty Beast! “Is this Mutilo really a giant?”

  Sam—who donned the sweaty, threadbare Mutilo costume for every performance, and who stood 5’11” in stocking feet—snickered, but was silenced by a glare from Doc. The skinny, enthusiastic new arrival turned away from the truck and approached with one hand thrust out. “Oh, sorry, forgettin’ my manners. I’m Ronnie Harwood. Are you Doctor Morbismo?”

  As he pumped Doc’s hand, Doc replied, “Actually I’m Fred Knox from Columbus, Ohio, but you can call me Doc.”

  Ronnie moved onto Jean. “And you must be Mrs. Knox, the one I made the arrangements with. You’re the doc’s wife?”

  Jean shook his hand, her lips curled in amusement. “Daughter and assistant.”

  Ronnie didn’t release her hand, but added, “Gosh, you’re ’bout as pretty as a movie star!”

  Sam stepped forward to grab Ronnie’s hand, pulling his attention away from Jean. “And I’m Doctor Morbismo’s other assistant, Sam. So you manage the Rialto?”

  “Oh, no—I own it. I inherited it from my pa when he passed on six months back, God rest his soul. Hey, I reckon y’all wanna see the inside, right?”

  “We’d like to see the stage, yes,” Doc said.

  Ronnie rushed forward with keys to unlock one of the doors opening into the lobby. “If you folks’ll just wait right here, I’ll turn on the lights.” He vanished into the dark space.

  Sam conferred softly with Doc and Jean. “Well, I guess a recent inheritance explains why it hasn’t been used.”

  Doc looked around, unconvinced. “I dunno, Sam . . . it looks like it’s been out of commission for longer than six months. Who lets a beautiful space like this just sit?”

  The lights in the lobby went on, and the trio gaped.

  The interior of the Rialto was an art deco masterpiece. A glass snack counter stretched fifty feet, while on either side of the lobby, wide, winding staircases were flanked by intricate gold columns. The carpet featured a complex geometric pattern in red and black, the mosaic behind the snack counter (showing cowboys and Indians sharing a meal together) was worthy of a museum. Despite light wear and a layer of dust, the Rialto was a well-preserved tribute to an era when style mattered as much as functionality.

  “Wow,” Sam said. “This one’s a beauty.”

  After a few seconds, Ronnie reappeared. “I got the house lights on inside the theater, so we can take a look.”

  “Mr. Harwood,” Jean asked, gazing around in astonishment, “when was the Rialto built?”

  “Oh, ain’t she sweet? Built in 1910 as a vaudeville theater, then converted to moving pictures in 1925. My daddy bought her twenty years ago, just about the time the movies got sound. She seats a thousand. Wasn’t that long ago that this place was packed every weekend. Folks would come from as far away as Nacogdoches.”

  Ronnie pushed open leather-upholstered padded double doors, and they stepped into the theater.

  The cavernous space was even more impressive than the lobby. Above and on the side, balconies overlooked the main floor. The seats were carved wood, upholstered in more of the geometric-patterned cloth. The ceiling featured intricate wood designs painted in contrasting colors and punctuated with huge wrought-iron chandeliers. The screen was hidden behind a curtain that showed a picturesque vista of the sun setting over the Texas prairie.

  “Holy cow,” Jean breathed out.

  Doc, though, was already making his way to the stage. He stopped at a waist-high lip just before the raised stage, looking down. “It’s got an orchestra pit. And a proscenium arch with real wings—hallelujah!”

  Ronnie scratched his dirty blond hair in perplexity but said, “I told ya it was nice!”

  Doc climbed the steps at one side of the stage, paced it back and forth, peeked behind the curtains and then strode to center stage. “Well, this’ll do just fine!”

  Even without amplification, his voice boomed out across the seats.

  The Rialto took him back to the great theaters he’d played in his youth, when he’d been a young magician (The Great Knox!) touring the East Coast. Jean’s mother, Ethel, had been his assistant then; they’d both been young—he was dashing, with his pencil-thin mustache and piercing eyes, she glamorous, with her perfect figure clad in sequins and stockings—and he’d loved every minute of it. They’d thrilled audiences nightly, becoming successful enough to need two trucks and a permanent company of six assistants. There’d been nothing brilliant about The Great Knox—he possessed neither Keller’s genius for creating new illusions nor Houdini’s charisma—but he knew that some of his audience left in wonder, lifted from mundane existence for a few precious hours. He liked to say that as a magician his greatest trick was making memories appear.

  But then audiences had grown weary of magic, the motion pictures had captured hearts with larger-than-life glowing (and talking and singing) images, and Ethel had died of pneumonia somewhere east of Oklahoma City, leaving Fred with mounting bills and a two-year-old daughter. Wonder was harder to find; memories weren’t enough.

  One day Fred heard that a former magician named El-Wyn was wowing audiences and box offices with something new called a “spook show.” Fred attended a performance and was simultaneously amused by its simplicity and astonished by the viewers’ colossal response. Most of the show could have been Fred’s—it consisted of standard routines like a Spirit Cabinet, the Dancing Handkerchief, the Floating Light Bulb, with accompanying patter about ghosts and The Great Beyond. It was the grand finale, however, that had the audience screaming: a three-minute blackout as El-Wyn’s assistants, invisible in black clothing, flew ghosts made of cloth coated with radium paint through the theater. The spectators screamed, hooted, and howled laughter at the greenish, glowing specters soaring over their heads. This new era wanted thrills, not gentle wonder.

  On the way out of the theater, The Great Knox had the same thought that so many other failing magicians had: I could do that. He didn’t completely like it, but there were bills to pay and Jean to look after.

  So he did do it. That had been eighteen years ago.

  It hadn’t been a bad living. Doc regretted missing so much of Jean’s growing up (she’d been raised by his sister), but as soon as she’d graduated high school she’d come to work for him. Along with Sam, they made a great team.

  And playing a gorgeous old palace like the Rialto nearly made Doc’s eyes moist.

  “Excuse me, Ronnie . . . ?” That was Sam. Doc turned away from examining the backstage area to see his assistant flagging down the eager young owner.

  “Yes, sir?”

  With one eyebrow cocked, Sam asked, “Level with me: Why are you renting to us?”

  A flicker of panic raced across Ronnie’s face before his smile returned. “I love spook shows! We haven’t had one at the Rialto in a long time, and I—”

  Sam cut him off. “Looks to me like you haven’t had anything at the Rialto in a long time.”

  Ronnie looked down and shuffled one foot like a kid caught stealing a nickel. “Well, sir, that’s my fault. I’m just not the businessman my daddy was. Heck fire, a year ago I was working in a gas station.”

  Doc knew the kid was fud
ging, and from the look on Sam’s face, Sam saw it, too. It was a worthy question, but Doc loved the Rialto and wanted to play here. Before Sam could continue the interrogation, Doc intervened. “Ronnie, can you show us the dressing rooms, please?”

  Sam thankfully took the hint and shut up.

  Ronnie led the way into the right side of the backstage area. Down a short hall was a row of doors. Ronnie opened one, reached in, flicked on lights. Doc was pleased to see a small, clean room with chairs, mirrors, and vanity. “Thank you for keeping it nice.”

  Ronnie glowed. “You bet, Doc.”

  Sam began going over details with Ronnie about getting their equipment in place for tonight’s late show.

  “Are there gonna be ghosts?” Ronnie asked.

  “Oh, there are gonna be plenty,” Sam answered. “We’ve even got ghost spiders.”

  Jean interrupted the startled look on Ronnie’s face to ask, “You got the movie we asked for, right?”

  Ronnie’s eyes darted nervously. “I . . . uh . . . was going to tell you about that. I couldn’t get I Walked With a Zombie, but I got somethin’ just as good.”

  “And what’s that?” Sam asked.

  “Bela Lugosi Meets a Brooklyn Gorilla. Oh, and which one of y’all runs the projector?”

  Jean stepped forward, shoving a sheaf of papers under Ronnie’s twitching nose. “Mr. Harwood, I’ve got a signed agreement here that states quite plainly that it’s up to you to provide the projectionist.”

  “Well,” Ronnie said, looking anywhere but at Jean, “it’s just that our old projectionist moved to Houston a few months back, and I don’t know of anyone else in Ginmill who can run one of these things . . . ”

  “Oh hell,” Sam said, before turning to Doc with up-held hands. “Sorry. I know—swearing.”

  Doc waved it all off. “Never mind. We’ll do the show without a movie.”

  Jean asked, “What about all the ads that have already gone out? They mention the movie.”

  Doc asked Ronnie, “You got a mimeograph machine?”