EQMM, Sep-Oct 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  She was red in the face. I knew she was wishfully thinking. I put my arms around her and patted her back. “Take it easy, Darla. That's all well and good, but I flopped. I solved a piddly little flimflam I can't prove. Meanwhile, Chris's bones are on the loose or they ain't. So whodunit?"

  "Anybody. Terrorists, generic criminals, telephone pranksters."

  "Until I nail the creeps or prove your symposiumonians are non-creeps, I'm not earning my honorarium, as generous as it may be."

  "The spirit of your assignment is to eliminate symposium members as suspects,” Darla said. “Or not."

  "Who else've you come across who might be suspicious?"

  "Nobody. We are a serious and scholarly group who spend our days poring over papers and debating their meanings and merits."

  Yawn, I thought. “Darla, how about Professor Dobbs? Your polyglot or polygon or polynomial. You said this little cookie he was married to took him to the cleaner's. He's hurting for bucks, isn't he?"

  "Polymath. Oh, Brick, Ed's a teddy bear and what motive could he have? None of us earn a fortune, so we could all be suspected for mercenary reasons. And don't forget, Ed Dobbs proposed securing your services and supported me in the effort."

  "Doc Dobbs has got no other motive that I know of, but my detective instincts say I oughta go snoop for one."

  * * * *

  The next day, the symposium met in this old stucco-and-red-tile house a ten-minute taxi ride from the hotel. It'd been converted into a private library and our group was given permission to pore over some moldy papers. There was a tapas bar directly across from it. I saw that as an omen that my luck was gonna do a one-eighty.

  Our plan was for Darla to invite Dr. Edwin Dobbs on over for morning coffee. I waited, enjoying a savory selection of tapas of the cholesterol persuasion with my java. There was no law saying I had to have a blueberry muffin.

  They came in and Darla said, “Ed's panel, The Elemental Columbus: Businessman and Explorer, was wonderful."

  "Cool,” I said.

  "Darla tells me you have a progress report,” Dobbs said to me as they sat.

  "I've been working closely with the policía. We may be near a breakthrough,” I lied.

  "Excellent,” Dobbs said, munching a pastry. “May I ask what?"

  "Kind of like Nixon and the White House tapes, they just learned that the Seville cathedral automatically records all phone calls. The cops are bragging that their voiceprint setup is second to none."

  "Voiceprint?” Dobbs said. “The technology that matches a person to a voice?"

  "There you go. It's on the same principle as fingerprints. They detect X number of points and it's gotcha."

  I raised my voice for “gotcha,” and if my eyes weren't tricking me, Dr. Edwin Dobbs flinched.

  I whipped out this cheesy little tape recorder I'd bought on my way there and said, “Darla, you go first."

  Dobbs laughed. “Wasn't the caller male?"

  I looked at him.

  "Was that ever made clear?” I asked, aware that it was. He didn't answer or hold my gaze. “A voice can be big-time disguised. Darla, please."

  "And say what, Brick?"

  "Don't matter as long as you talk for forty to sixty seconds,” I said, winging it and checking my watch. “That's what the computer software says you gotta do."

  Darla recited one of those love poems by what's-her-name, that Dickinson or Dickerson gal. She liked to rattle them off to me at night when we were snuggling. Don't know what they mean, but they sure are pretty.

  "Thanks, Darla. Professor Dobbs,” I said, aiming the machine at him. “You're up."

  Dobbs slapped a plump paw on my recorder. “No, not yet. I approve of your initiative and will cooperate fully. The testing will be counterproductive, however, unless done under controlled conditions with the proper law-enforcement authorities present."

  "Well, okay, yeah. Hey, I was just trying to get a jump on the situation. The cops are taking the slant that Bryce and Neil paid somebody in the symposium to make the calls, to hype book sales. I'm meeting with detectives this afternoon. They indicated they'd like to get the show on the road, preferably tonight at the hotel,” I bluffed.

  "For that I would be quite amenable,” Dobbs said. “I shall be at the head of the line to exonerate myself."

  * * * *

  But you know what? Darla said that Dobbs didn't come back to his panel from lunch. There was a note to us at the hotel desk saying that he'd been called home for a family emergency. Don't know if the cops had voiceprints in mind for us or anyone else, but the prospect thereof sure lit a fire under that boy. One thing's for sure, though. There were no more extorting phone calls made.

  Darla and I were still puzzling out the Columbus mess and Dr. Edwin Dobbs the day before we were to fly on home.

  The police had used a portable X-ray machine on Columbus's burial receptacle. There were bones in it and their configuration jibed with the records. Whosever bones they were. Nothing had been settled.

  We were at an Irish pub across the street from the cathedral, unwinding after they'd wrapped up the last symposium biz. Darla had a salad and I'd scarfed down Irish sausage tapas and French fries like there was no tomorrow. We were holding hands in our booth and drinking dark Irish beer.

  "Despite being in denial, Brick, I must accept your hypothesis that Ed Dobbs probably made the phone calls. The timing of his hasty departure is more than suspicious and he has the language skills."

  "Money's thicker than water."

  "What on earth does that mean, Mr. Cryptic?"

  "Beats me, but Dobbs's book bombed. It stunk up the bookstore shelves and sold, like, twenty-five copies,” I reminded her. “He had to resent this book contract of Bryce and Neil's, built on a foundation of guano. But those boys made Dobbs an offer he couldn't refuse. Do this small favor and make enough money to get out of the hole. Hell, Dobbs may even have approached them."

  "Conjecture, Brick."

  "We made Dobbs paranoid and paranoia don't lie. He restored my lack of faith in humanity."

  "Columbus: A Critical Study on His Origins, Path of Discovery, and Final Years is the standard by which all Columbus books should be judged. Ed Dobbs should be rightfully proud of it."

  "What's quality got to do with bookstore customers lining up at the cash register?"

  "Brick,” Darla said in all seriousness as she stroked my arm. “Not every writer is motivated by the urge to be a bestseller."

  All I could do is shake my head at the naiveness of that remark. “Irregardless, the cops like Dobbs for the phone calls, but good luck with extradition. He must've thought I was a dunce. Lobbying me to dig into the situation—he thought I'd make a fiasco of the case."

  Darla kissed my cheek. “As we speak, Ed Dobbs is regretting underestimating you. Whether he's guilty or innocent, by running away he's sent his academic career into shambles."

  "Well?” I said.

  "Well what?"

  "You know what. Is it Chris in the box or isn't it? Was it ever him? Did Franco dump some bones in there to replace Chris's bones he gave to Mussolini?"

  "We raised some intriguing questions that will be explored. We're very excited about the possibilities."

  "Between you, me, and the gatepost, this symposium is a boondoggling joyride."

  "No, Brick, it is a scholarly venture."

  I groaned. “Since Dobbs got me assigned to the case, I guess my honorarium's out the window, huh?"

  "Not exactly. I've been waiting for the ideal moment to tell you. You're invited gratis again to our next symposium, should there be one."

  "No cash money?"

  "Sorry."

  "Conspiracies give me a headache and we've got a barrel full of rotten apples here. I'm used to dealing with one sleazoid at a crack,” I muttered. “Everybody's off scot-free. There is no justice."

  "There, there,” Darla said, holding my beer to my lips, as if calming a squalling kid. “I haven't told you this, Brick, but Ma
ry Beth and I have recruited symposium members who are also outraged. We're drafting a letter to present to Neil and Bryce's publishers. With any luck, they will withdraw their contract and demand their advance back."

  With any luck, I thought. Good luck with that.

  We sat quietly, enjoying each other's company. Darla finally said, “I have two confessions to make."

  "Give me the easiest one first. I'll let you know if I wanna hear the other."

  "You were correct about ‘synapse.’ It has a verb form."

  I fisted the air. “All right!"

  "I had a close encounter with Riley Neil similar to Mary Beth's."

  I should've known. The signs were there. He'd gone into El Rinconcillo hot to trot to rendezvous with her. “Where, when?"

  "Brick, please keep your voice down. It was inappropriate touching. I put an end to it in a hurry. I slapped him."

  "He groped you? Copped a feel?"

  "If you choose to use that terminology."

  I remade that fist and pounded it into a palm. “If I'd known, I'd've dismantled the bastard."

  "That's why I didn't tell you. No harm was done."

  * * * *

  Back at the hotel as we headed for our room, Riley Neil came crashing down the hall, backwards on his heels, backpedaling by us.

  Mary Beth Lambuth was in hot pursuit, yelling, “You creep, I warned you what would happen if you tried that again!"

  She landed a terrific left hook, flooring him. Darla clapped, starting a round of applause that lasted and lasted.

  Like a referee, I stood over Neil, counting him out. There is some justice.

  Copyright © 2006 Gary Alexander

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  BODY SHOP by Terry Barbieri

  Few women in the mystery field write from a male point of view, as Terry Barbieri does. Her P.I. Nick Gallagher is brilliantly realized in this story, despite the gender gap that exists between him and his creator. The author's work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her stories have appeared in many literary magazines.

  It's still dark outside when I shove the bag of ice against the driver's door and lay my fractured left arm on top of it. I don't dare stop at an emergency room here in San Antonio; I don't know how many more thugs Vance has out looking for me. I shift into reverse, peel out of the Stop-N-Go parking lot, and aim my pickup west towards the Rio Grande.

  While early-morning commuters crowd the highway's in-bound lanes, the outgoing lanes lie empty, except for a couple of eighteen-wheelers. I resist the urge to gun past them. The last thing I need right now is for a cop to pull me over.

  As the sun rises in my rearview mirror, melting ice runs down the driver's door. Outside Uvalde, I pull up in front of a liquor store and cross the dusty yard to a gray trailer. An unshaven man answers the door.

  "I know you don't open till noon..."

  He squints into the morning sunlight. “You got cash?"

  I pull a couple of twenties from my pocket.

  He slides his feet into a pair of leather flip-flops and leads me to the store, where I purchase a bottle of Cuervo Gold. Carrying it outside, I sit down on a bench, grip the bottle between my knees, twist off the top with my one good hand, and take three long swigs. The fire in my throat momentarily blots out the pain in my arm.

  I climb back into my truck and hit the open road. As the tequila seeps into my veins, the highway blurs to a gentle ribbon. I follow the dotted white line towards the Mexican border.

  Close to noon, I cruise into Del Rio and park outside the emergency room. Inside, brown faces crowd the waiting room: the drawn faces of mothers cradling feverish infants; the jaundiced face of a doubled-over teen; the stone-cold face of a construction worker with a bloody towel wrapped around his hand. I print my name, Nick Gallagher, on the receptionist's clipboard. Then I roll up an ancient issue of Life, place it over one chair's steel arm, and rest my arm on it.

  Leaning back, I close my eyes and see Jessica as I left her, wearing a Bourbon Street T-shirt with nothing underneath. She said she would give me twelve hours, but she had lied. She must have called her father as soon as I'd left, then e-mailed him the video capturing everything I'd done to her, or rather everything she'd done to me. Only it wouldn't appear that way. Why else would Vance have sent two heavyweight goons to my San Antonio apartment? I'm pretty sure I didn't kill them. In broad daylight, with two good arms at my disposal, I can shoot the cap off a Corona bottle at twenty yards. Shooting one-handed in the dark, while ducking the swing of a baseball bat, is a different story.

  Vance and I grew up together, two white boys in one of San Antonio's oldest barrios. We learned Spanglish on the streets, ran with the same gang, and shared Marlboros, six-packs, and the occasional joint. Though we'd led vastly different lives since high school, Vance and his wife Lorraine had me over for dinner several times a year. I often wondered whether it bothered the staunchly Catholic Lorraine that Vance had made his small fortune producing black-market porn.

  While Vance earned his living by wronging the rights of the underage girls he featured in his flicks, I became a private investigator and earned mine by righting the wrongs suffered by the wives of unfaithful husbands. Sometimes I thought about starting over in some seaside village, where fish fought over baited hooks and a man could make himself at home in a one-room hut, but I'd never made it past the Texas border.

  Last Sunday, as Vance and I shared a pitcher of Scorpion's Tail at The Brewery, I noticed the gray strands which had begun to take over his full head of hair. Across a plate-size table, Vance told me, “I need your help."

  "What's up?"

  "Jessica's boss has been sexually harassing her."

  The Scorpion's Tail had wielded a more powerful sting than I'd realized. I could have sworn Vance had used Jessica's name and the words sexually harassed in the same sentence. Jessica was a doughy girl with a pug nose and frizzy hair the color of swamp water. The Cro-Magnon ancestress of the girls Vance featured in his films. “What was that?"

  "Jessica's boss at Surplex has been asking her for sexual favors in exchange for a promotion. I want you to get everything you can on the bastard."

  "No problem.” I'd played this gig before, taking a job as a maintenance man to gain access to storage closets and between-floor crawl spaces. When I wasn't installing phone jacks or unclogging toilets, I'd drill holes in walls and shoot footage through them. “I'd like to speak to Jessica. Where does she work?"

  "Surplex's home office in Houston. She's in Human Resources."

  "Does she know I'm coming?"

  "She asked for you. She says you're the best."

  * * * *

  I left San Antonio at eight the following morning and pulled up in front of Surplex shortly before noon, its tower of tinted glass reflecting Houston's skyline. Inside, a tropical atrium flourished beneath soaring skylights. An iguana turned a beady eye as I walked past him towards the elevator.

  Stepping out on the seventh floor, I approached a young blonde seated behind a semicircular desk. Her sleeveless dress showed off the tastiest stack I'd seen this side of a Big Boy breakfast platter. Her face looked vaguely familiar.

  "Is Jessica Sancetti here?"

  She stared at me for a moment before answering. “She's at lunch. Can I help you?"

  "I'm here to apply for a job."

  She handed me an application. After I'd completed it, she looked it over. “We don't have any openings right now, but I'll keep this on file."

  "Thanks."

  I had nearly reached the elevator when she called me back. “Mr. Gallagher, I bought an entertainment center last Saturday. I didn't realize, until they delivered it, that it has to be assembled. Do you think you could put it together for me? I'd pay you."

  "When?"

  "Tonight?” She printed her name and address on a Post-it and held it out, nails glistening red as a freshly cut watermelon.

  I took the Post-it and read her name. Sara Anderson. “I'll be there
."

  * * * *

  I expected Sara to live in a two-story apartment building surrounded by acres of asphalt. Instead I found myself pulling into the underground garage of a skyrise overlooking Buffalo Bayou. Murky as a day-old cup of coffee in which the milk has gone bad, Buffalo Bayou winds through the heart of Houston. I rode the elevator to the twelfth floor and knocked on her door.

  Sara ushered me into a living area larger than the wood-frame house I'd grown up in. A tiled island separated the kitchen from the living area, where a slab of glass balanced atop four concrete balls served as a coffee table. A painting of an all-black jazz band hung over the fireplace. Two ceramic masks, rhinestones swirling around the eyes, hung beside it.

  Sara led me to a box leaning against one wall, industrial staples gleaming from an open flap. One of the staples drew blood as I reached in and pulled out a thirty-page instruction booklet. I lifted the sealed end of the box and pieces of wood and bags of screws slid onto the floor.

  "Have you eaten?"

  "No.” Was that an invitation?

  As I got to work, the smell of garlic bread reminded me of the meals I'd eaten at Vance's home. Lorraine put garlic in everything except her cheesecake.

  The clouds had turned purple, giving the sky a bruised look, when Sara called me to the table. Two leafy green salads, topped with tomatoes and pine nuts, and two plates of tortellini dusted with parmesan lured me to sit down. Sara held up a bottle of Pinot Grigio. “If I serve this with dinner, is that thing going to morph into a computer desk?"

  I looked over my shoulder at the half-finished entertainment center. “Let's drink it and find out."

  Ten minutes into our meal, Sara asked how long I'd been out of work.

  I tried to remember what I'd written on my application. “Two months."

  "You're not really a maintenance man, are you, Nick?"

  The wine in my mouth turned to vinegar. “Why would you say that?"

  "Jessica told me. I wouldn't have brought it up, but I need help."

  "You're being harassed, too?"

  "I wish it were that simple. Several years ago I was in a car accident that left my face badly deformed. The nurses told me I was lucky to be alive, but I didn't feel lucky. A week after I got out of the hospital, a child in a grocery store took one look at me and burst into tears. I quit college. I figured no one would ever hire me, just like no man would ever again ask me out."