It was a cold, rainy afternoon, dark as night, and we were sitting around Leonard’s dining room table drinking coffee and eating vanilla cookies, which Leonard thinks are some kind of food of the gods, but they’re just these plain ole vanilla things that you can eat about twenty-three zillion of and not realize you’ve eaten anything till you get on the scale. Even if you don’t like ’em much, you tend to eat ’em.
Anyway, we were sitting at the table and Charlie was telling us about Goober Smith. It was a story we’d all heard before, but not the details. Charlie, who’s a lieutenant on the police force, got the story from someone at the cop shop, someone who had been around in 1978 when Goober got his head blown open and went face down in a bowl of chili.
“Whoever it was came up behind him and let the boom drop,” Charlie said. “Killed him deader than the five-cent candy bar, then snuck off with his chili recipe. That recipe used to win all the chili cook-offs around these parts.”
“What I wonder is what this person did with the recipe,” I said. “If they were stealing it to win cook-offs, it never surfaced. Right?”
“Goober’s chili was supposed to be as distinctive as a chicken with dentures. No one could use it if they stole it. Unless they were at home.”
“Must have been some really fine chili,” Leonard said.
“Jack Mays thought it was the best,” Charlie said.
“That the cop told you about this?” I asked.
“Yep. He used to go around to cook-offs all over East Texas tryin’ to see if he could get a taste and figure who killed Goober. Solving the murder was kind of an obsession with him. Everyone else had given up. Course, Jack’s retired now.”
“Now you’re on it,” I said.
“I tinker with it now and then,” Charlie said.
“And how are you tinkering?”
“Not so good. I’ve looked at it from every angle possible. Why would someone come into Goober’s place at night, catch him at the table, shoot him in the back of the head with a Luger, and steal his recipe?”
“What I’d like to know,” Leonard said, dunking a cookie, “is how anyone knows his recipe was stolen. He could have had it in his head.”
“Nope,” Charlie said. “He was adamant about the fact he kept it under lock and key in his wall safe, and the safe was cracked open and money was still in it. Only thing seems to have been missing was the recipe. Least ways, no one ever found it.”
“Seemed to be missing,” Leonard said. “But you don’t know for sure. Right?”
“I guess so,” Charlie said. “Well, it’s all chili through the intestines now, isn’t it?”
“Wasn’t the final official word it was suicide?” I asked.
Charlie nodded. “He was found sitting at the kitchen table, nude. The Luger was on the floor by the chair, and his brains were all over the place, and he was facedown in an empty bowl that had contained chili. There was a pot of it on the stove.”
“What made Jack think it wasn’t suicide?” I asked.
“Funny stuff. The bullet had gone out the top of Goober’s head, hit the ceiling. The casing from the Luger was on the floor behind him, and there was powder residue on his hand. No note.”
“Sounds like suicide to me,” Leonard said.
“Problem was, a Luger ejects its shell forward. You put the barrel to your head, the shell casing would have been thrown forward onto the table or the floor. That wasn’t the case.”
“Could have rolled,” I said.
“Floor behind Goober was raised, a living area. It couldn’t have rolled uphill. And the lead in the ceiling. Had Goober put the gun to his head, even if he’d slanted it, doesn’t seem likely it would have gone into the ceiling at that angle. It could have, I guess, but it doesn’t seem likely. Someone else could hold it at that angle more comfortable. It’s difficult to do it yourself and get those results. Add to it the safe was open and the money was there but there was no chili recipe, and you got a mystery.”
“Did Goober have reason to commit suicide?” Leonard asked.
“He was sick,” Charlie said. “Rumor was it was a bad disease of some kind, but what it looks like is someone came up behind him, shot him with the Luger, wrapped his hand around the gun, and let it fall so it would look like suicide. Then they stole the recipe.”
“The safe blown open?” Leonard asked.
“No. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t cracked by someone knew how. Or someone had the combination. An old girlfriend was one of the suspects, but nothing ever came of that. Actually, I still have my eye on her.”
“The Luger belong to Goober?” Leonard asked.
“No one knows. Wasn’t registered. A war souvenir. Goober’s dad had been in World War II, so it’s possible it had been passed down, but if it was, that doesn’t mean Goober shot himself with it. Someone could have used it on him.”
“My uncle had a Luger like that,” Leonard said. “A World War II souvenir. I have it now.”
“Hey, I got to go, boys.”
Charlie put on his coat and I walked him to the door. It was very cold out there. Good chili weather. Charlie and I shook hands, and he drove off in the rain.
When I came back inside, Leonard was pouring us fresh cups of coffee.
“That recipe thing, that is kind of weird,” he said. “A real-life mystery.”
“For what it’s worth,” I said.
“I’ve heard about Goober Smith all my life,” Leonard said. “And the stuff about his chili and his murder and the missing recipe, but I never thought there was anything to it until Charlie gave us the skinny.”
“Want to watch a movie tonight? I see She Creature is coming on. We could pop some popcorn, get some Sharp’s.”
Leonard seemed distant, but he said, “Sure.”
We popped popcorn and watched the movie, but Leonard didn’t really seem into it. He had a kind of glassy stare through it all.
I was making out with this marvelous raven-haired beauty, and she was just about to expose her breasts when she grabbed me by the arm and shook me like I was in a paint shaker.
I came awake to Leonard standing by the couch where I slept.
“Hap,” he said, shaking me, “I solved the mystery.”
“What mystery?”
“Get up.”
“You’re kidding. I was dreaming of and just about to make love to a black-haired beauty.”
“She’ll wait.”
I pushed the covers down and sat on the edge of the couch. I felt like I had been plowed into the ground for fertilizer. Outside the rain hammered the house like a drum solo.
Leonard turned on the light. He brought a chair to the front of the couch and sat down on it. He was holding a Luger.
“This is my uncle’s Luger,” Leonard said.
“That’s nice. Right now I’d like to shoot you with it.”
Leonard held it in front of him. “I’m going to eject a shell.”
“How nice.”
He did. It flew up and over my head. “That was great, Leonard. Now let’s go back to bed.”
“Forward, just like Charlie said.” Leonard put the Luger in his lap. “But if this is the Luger.” He made a gun with his thumb and finger. “And I put it to my head, it wouldn’t fire in such a way as to shoot a bullet into the ceiling.”
“Which is what Charlie said.”
“Right. But, think about this. Goober was naked, as suicides often are. He knows he’s dying, or is going to be terribly ill, so he decides to kill himself. You try and hold the Luger in the normal way, it isn’t comfortable. I mean, you hold it just right it could fire through the head and ceiling, but like I said, it’s not a comfortable way to hold it.”
“I don’t think comfort was on his mind.”
“So he holds it this way, which is really more natural.”
Leonard put his finger to his head, thumb down. “Think about it.”
I did. I was starting to get interested.
“So, when he pulls
the trigger, he gets powder burns on his hand, and upside down, it would eject the shell casing backwards, behind Goober.”
“What about the way the bullet went into the ceiling?”
“Well, if it’s flat against the head, it won’t go into the ceiling at all. It could be slanted, held either way, but it’s very comfortable holding it upside down, and easier to give it a slant, and therefore easier to fire through the skull and into the ceiling.”
“As I said, I doubt Goober was all that worried about comfort right then.”
“Okay. But the rest of it adds up pretty good, doesn’t it?”
I thought about that for a moment. “That’s all well and good,” I said, “but that still doesn’t explain the open safe, the missing recipe.”
“I think it does,” Leonard said. “Goober was secretive about his recipe to the point of phobia. So, when he decided to commit suicide it was the one thing he wanted to take with him.”
“But it wasn’t found.”
“Because he ate it.”
“You mean he put it in the chili?”
“That’s what I think. He made up a last batch, tore up the recipe like seasoning, put it in the chili. Had himself a big bowl, then blew his brains out. That way, no one would ever have his recipe. That’s why nothing else was taken from the safe. Simple really. Charlie and Jack are all wet. It wasn’t murder. The first impression was correct. Goober really did kill himself.”
“You know what, Leonard? I think you’re right for a change.”
“Good, now I can go to sleep.”
“Course, it’s all just guess work and will probably never be proven one way or another.”
“I’m satisfied,” Leonard said.
“You going to tell Charlie?”
“Sure. Tomorrow. I want him to know how smart I am.”
Leonard turned off the light, went into the bedroom, and closed the door. I stretched out on the couch and pulled the covers over me. I looked at the ceiling a while.
Sonofagun, I thought. He probably did figure it out.
The rain hammered on the house. Lightning flashed through the curtains over the living room window.
I closed my eyes, hoping the raven-haired beauty would be back.
Lansdale Chili
First, you cook a lot of hamburger meat. I’m not sure how much is a lot, but you know, a lot. Anyway, you brown it, drain off the grease and put it in a pot. Now cut some steak into strips and brown it, cut this up in chunks and put it in the pot. Add a couple cups of water and six to twelve ounces of tomato paste. Put in two teaspoon’s of sugar, four teaspoon’s of chili powder, and ten cut up juicy jalopena peppers. Stir and add more water, be your own judge, but don’t make it too watery.
Now, a dash of cayenne pepper, a dash of tobasco sauce, a teaspoon of garlic or some real chunks of garlic, add one tablespoon of olive oil—that’s so it won’t all clog up like a brick inside you.
Cut up two to three medium ripe tomatoes and toss this into the mix. Slice up a small onion and add it. Half a teaspoon of oregano. A tablespoon or two of black pepper and a half cup of ketchup.
Let this simmer for a damn long time, adding water when needed, but don’t add too much. Keep it thick. If it looks a little watery, then add more ingredients. It’s better at this point to add a cat or a parakeet than it is to add too much water.
After a few hours take a Pepcid and have chili.
If it doesn’t taste quite right, you probably followed the recipe too closely or didn’t take enough Pepcid. Throw it back into the pot, add some more of everything but water, and try again.
If your chili comes out of the pan in wads, then maybe you do need to add some water.
A Bone-Dead Sadness
It was about one o’clock in the afternoon with nothing to do but read email. It was mostly ads. Marvin Hanson was trying to figure out how to filter the ads, and not having much luck at it, when he came across an email to his website that was interesting.
It said:
MR. HANSON. I WANT TO HIRE YOU OR YOUR OPERATIVES, IF YOU HAVE ANY. MONEY IS NOT AN ISSUE. WELL, IT MIGHT BE AN ISSUE IF YOU ASK FOR TOO MUCH, BUT OTHERWISE, IF YOU’RE INTERESTED, COME OUT TO TIMBER LAKE DRIVE, 113, AND TALK TO ME ABOUT THREE P.M. TODAY. MILDRED CRAVER.
Hanson leaned back in his desk chair and thought a moment. He looked at his watch. He had come in late today, starting with lunch, and had only been in the office thirty minutes. It was already one-thirty.
Marvin leaned forward and typed: SEE YOU THEN, MARVIN HANSON.
Marvin sat in his desk for a moment and considered. He knew the area of the address in the email. Once nice, kind of gone to seed, but there were people out there that had money. Mildred said it wasn’t an issue, but she had also curiously, and perhaps with humorous intent, added the part about asking too much.
There hadn’t been much in the way of work lately, and certainly not enough to hire any operatives, that being mostly two of his friends, Hap Collins and Leonard Pine. They weren’t worth messing with unless there was real business to take care of. Actually, friends or not, they were kind of a pain in the ass.
Nope. This was one he’d take care of himself.
Considering his leg, which had given him grief for some time due to a car accident, was much better, he thought he could handle it all himself. He still carried a cane, but mostly for psychological support. It was also a good weapon if he should need it. He thought about getting himself one with a sword inside of it, but it probably wouldn’t play out well if he ended up using it. For now, he’d stick to the cane he had—solid hickory with a knob, not a hook.
Marvin got up without use of the cane and made a cup of coffee. He drank that while he sat at his desk reading the rest of his email. That finished, he made a phone call to his wife. Their marriage had a few bumps they were ironing out, and had been ironing out for years, but Marvin knew he had brought it on himself. Fact was, the wreck that had messed up his leg and nearly killed him had involved a girlfriend he was seeing.
Pussy.
It made a man crazy. Even a good man, and he liked to think that’s what he was. But the thing was, he had cheated on his wife, and she knew, and she took him back. Even if she did remind him of it daily, and not always directly. She didn’t have to. She just gave him a look that made him feel like a worm on a hot rock. She did it less as time went on, and he liked to think he had proven to her that he had acquired better sense, but a certain element of trust had been lost, and maybe forever.
Anyway, he called her. It was a short talk, and mostly pleasant. She no longer checked on him, which was a mixed bag. It either meant she trusted him a lot more than before or just didn’t care anymore.
When they finished talking, he fiddled with the email awhile longer, then pulled a book out of his desk drawer and read a bit of it. It was pretty good. Hank and Muddy, by Stephen Mertz.
He put it away after an hour and drove over to Starbucks and bought some coffee at the drive-through. It was better than the coffee he made. Decaf with soy milk and two artificial sweeteners. He sipped it as he drove out to Timber Lake Drive.
When he got there he saw the area had gone downhill a might more than he thought, but the house he was looking for hadn’t gone downhill at all. In fact, it was sitting on top of one surrounded by trees. The yard looked as if it had just been clipped and the sky even looked brighter over the roof, as if the sunlight had saved itself for that location.
Marvin parked and got out. He had left his cane at the office, on purpose, now he was having second thoughts. He limped a little as he went up the steps and knocked on the door. After a short time, a middle-aged woman answered.
“Mrs. Craver?” Marvin asked.
She smiled. “I am, but I think you’re looking for the other Mrs. Craver. Babe Craver. That’s what everyone calls her. My mother-in-law. Would you please come in?”
Marvin did just that. It was a nice house. Not a mansion, but nice. The younger Mrs. Craver went away in search o
f the older.
When the older Mrs. Craver showed up, she looked old enough to have ridden in on a mammoth. She moved well enough, but there was something about her gait that gave the impression that she was near worn out. She had very white false teeth that fit like they were too big for her mouth. She had hair that looked more orange than red and her face was marked with lines that looked to have been the results of chickens scratching through the pale powder on her face. Her lipstick was a little lopsided, like a monkey had put it on her in the dark. Marvin judged her age to be about Three B.C.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Hanson?” she said.
There was a couch, so Marvin sat. She sat too, though it took her awhile. Marvin commiserated. He wasn’t her age, but his leg had given him hell for quite a few years, so he recognized how she was trying not to show pain. He liked her immediately. Old as history, and tough as stone.
“Are you open to all manner of investigation?” she asked.
“I think I am. I have to hear the job to know.”
“Do you rough people up?”
“Not that I’d admit to.”
The old woman grinned her false teeth. “That’s all right. I was just checking. I don’t want you to beat anyone up. I just like to know if you’re a tough guy.”
“Do I need to be?”
“Nope. But my husband was, and I liked that about him. He was a good guy, but he was tough. They don’t make men tough anymore. You look pretty tough though.”
“It would take a dog a long time to eat me, I think.”
“Ha,” she said. “What I want is to find out what happened to my son, Tom.”
“How long has he been missing?”
“Twenty-five years.”
“Yikes.”
“Yep. Yikes. He went missing twenty-five years ago and I haven’t so much as heard a peep from him. I figure he’s dead, but I’d like you to look into it. If he is dead, I’d like to know how he ended up and where he is before I pass away. I don’t know how long I got left, but I wouldn’t count on much. I got up this morning and felt so bad I thought I was dead for a couple of hours.”
Hap and Leonard Ride Again Page 5
