EQMM, December 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  "Darling,” said Annabel, “what did you think about Leonora's terrible accusation?"

  Hector, propped against the bed pillows, pretended to study the Times crossword. “You're not worrying about that, are you? She's been through a lot, poor little kitten. She was saying the first thing that came into her head, nonsense though it is."

  "Kitten?” Annabel said drily, putting on her anti-wrinkle cream. “Cat, I'd say."

  "Now, now,” Hector said uneasily, seeing a storm heading his way. “You ladies all get on with her so well at your ladies’ meetings."

  "Do we? She has her favourites there just as she does with you three macho men. I think she's been setting you up, Hector."

  "What for?” Hector yelped, promptly abandoning the crossword.

  "Chief suspect."

  "Nonsense. Leonora loves—"

  "Does she really, Hector? Does she really?” Annabel said coldly, as he blushed red. “I do wish, Hector, that you hadn't gone to that meeting that evening."

  His eyes bulged. “Are you suggesting I popped in to murder old Tony on the way home?"

  "Of course not,” she murmured.

  * * * *

  Leonora knew the truth all along. She lured me on, giving subtle hints as to how I might persuade Tony into the garage through the unobserved side door; something might just happen, she suggested, and then, if I played my cards right, we could be together forever. Well, was I the patsy! Leonora was never one to dirty herself with unnecessary work, so she set me up to do the job, knowing I wanted nothing more than to be with her. She gave me the barbiturates, left the coffee ready, knowing he would never refuse me if I told him my car was out of order and I needed a lift. I loved my neighbour's wife passionately, and stupidly believed she loved me too. So I killed Tony, knowing that to be the only way of obtaining what I had thought was both our hearts’ desire.

  Alas, my beloved and moral Leonora absconded as she had intended all along, but not with me. I had helped myself to her charms in vain. As Aesop so wisely pointed out: “Don't count your chickens before they are hatched."

  Leonora left Lower Beeching with my husband Richard.

  (c) 2008 by Amy Myers

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Novelette: THE DAM by Scott Loring Sanders

  * * * *

  Art by Mark Evan Walker

  * * * *

  Scott Loring Sanders made his fiction debut in EQMM's Department of First Stories in January of 2006 with the story “Fresh Falling Snow.” He's been busy since then, earning a creative-writing fellowship to the Camargo Foundation in Cassis, France, and selling two novels to Houghton Mifflin, the first of which, a crossover young adult/adult book, The Hanging Woods, received a glowing review from Kirkus. Readers of all ages should watch for the next book, Gray Baby, in Spring ‘09.

  * * * *

  "All right, looks like we've got us a good morning,” said George Benedict to the two men who had booked him for the day. It had been just under a week since everything had happened, but already he found himself back on the water. He had bills to pay, after all.

  He couldn't help but feel anxious, though he did his best to hide it from his new clients. They were Kodak factory workers from Rochester who, it looked to George, had never been fishing, let alone salmon fishing, in their lives. George could always tell: They gripped their rods as awkwardly as a beginner to golf grips a club; their attire consisted of T-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops instead of jeans and boots; in their cooler they had no food, only beer, which, George conceded, was pretty typical of either the novice or veteran.

  As they got started, the sun broke through the pines and yellowing leaves of the sycamores that lined the river, sending a zigzagging rivulet of orange over the smooth surface. George tightened his jacket, warding off the cool October air, and pushed the throttle handle. The stern dug into the water, parting it as cleanly as a filet knife splitting a fish belly. His clients, blasted by the breeze, immediately sought refuge in the galley.

  "We had pretty good luck a few days ago, about two miles up,” said George, raising his voice over the whip of the wind rushing through the door to the pilothouse. The men, who now sat around a laminated, circular table, had already decided to crack their first beers. George inadvertently twitched his nose as the sweet smell of the alcohol caught the breeze and slithered up his nostrils.

  "Hey, Cap'n, you want one?” said Schmidt, the smaller of the two men. He rubbed the orange morning stubble along his jaw line as he spoke. “Ain't nothing like a beer for breakfast."

  "No, thanks. It's a little early for me yet.” George had stopped telling people ages ago that he'd quit drinking. He'd stopped telling them he'd been sober for over ten years. He had no interest in telling them that drinking had been the impetus for aggressive eruptions that had ruined his marriage, had cost him his job, had estranged him from his children. Thankfully, sobriety had been the answer; it had been the cork to stopper his bottle of violence.

  "All right. That's just more for me and Schmitty,” said the other man, Lou, searching for a laugh from his friend. He got it.

  "So you say they've been biting pretty good lately?” asked Schmidt.

  "We got six a few days back,” lied George, “including a thirty-five pounder. Conditions are even better today."

  That sent the pair to talking and laughing. George used the same line every time he took out a new group. He had found that the anticipation of what might happen was good for morale. More often than not, people didn't catch much. He had some good days, but those generally happened with clients who knew what they were doing.

  When he approached the area where he thought the salmon might be running, he killed the engine and began showing the men how to rig the rods. “You'll be using J-Plugs. I don't mess with no live bait. Too messy. I'll troll upstream toward the dam, then sweep around. All you gotta do is sit here and wait."

  Schmidt finished his can of beer and asked, “Are we gonna know they're on there? We gonna feel it?"

  "These fish ain't a bunch of trout sipping on mayflies,” said George. An unlit cigarette bounced in his lips as he spoke. “You'll feel it. That rod'll bend like a willow switch around a boy's ass. Let ‘em take it, count to three, then give it all you got. Jack that jaw."

  "Oh yeah, Schmitty,” said Lou, rubbing his hands together as if warming them. “I'm gonna rip their damn lips off."

  "I'm ready. I wanna bring home some dinner to the old lady,” said Schmidt. “Let's catch a couple of those dumb bastards."

  "They didn't get to be forty pounds by being stupid,” said George, casually lighting his cigarette with his Zippo.

  Monofilament whirred off the reels as the two men cast their J-Plugs from the stern. After the lures hit the water, they tightened their lines and stuck the butts of the rods into the stainless-steel holders. They pulled their cooler of beer between them and grabbed a fresh one, then each took a seat in a swivel chair.

  "To good friends, a day off, and big fish,” said Schmidt, raising his can in one hand while tipping the bill of his grease-smudged Yankees cap with the other.

  "Hell yeah,” said Lou. “I'll drink to that.” He clicked his can to Schmidt's and both began drinking.

  After trolling for twenty minutes, neither of the men had yet had a strike. George thought about moving upstream a ways, closer to the dam, where he knew the bigger salmon would be, but he was still nervous about things. He was already within a couple of miles of it and that was close enough for him.

  The sun's head topped the trees, and a faint, ghostly fog started to burn off the water. George loved this time of morning, when everything began to awaken. A pair of beavers were already at work, collecting mud and sticks near a tiny stream that fed into the Genesee. A blue heron stood stock-still on the edge of the far shore, scanning for baitfish. George focused on it, knowing that the bird, at least, would have no trouble catching a meal. He tuned out his clients completely and watched the heron pat
iently work the shallows, its long, pointed beak piercing the water's skin as it hunted. George stared at the bird, the water, the green rushes, while playing the horrific incident over in his mind.

  "Cap'n?” said Schmidt, suddenly standing next to George at the helm. It startled him, breaking him from his dark reverie. “I said, What's that over there? Looks like something."

  George looked in the direction of Schmidt's pointing finger. A group of gulls were in a feeding frenzy about forty yards to the port side.

  "Just a dead salmon. You see it all the time."

  "We don't see it all the time. How about taking us over there? We'd like to check it out. We wanna see what we'll be catching."

  "All right,” said George, turning the wheel and shaking his head. He was anxious but what were the odds? “It's your money."

  He swung the boat around and headed toward the gulls. The birds rose and fell over the carcass like puffs of cooking popcorn; they hovered before they dived, fighting and squawking as they struggled for a piece of the salmon's flesh.

  "Looks like a big one,” said Lou.

  "Yeah,” said Schmidt, “but you can't tell for sure with all them birds."

  "They'll scatter in just a second,” said George. “Soon as we get a little closer.” He aimed the bow at the flock. The gulls dispersed, just as George had said, and circled over the boat, angry and screaming for having their meal interrupted. He pulled alongside so the men could get a good look. The stench was overwhelming.

  "Holy shit, Cap'n,” said Schmidt. “That ain't no salmon."

  * * * *

  George hadn't even planned on going out that morning. He didn't have anything booked, so he was just going to do some routine maintenance and a tuneup, but then the young man had showed up, seemingly out of nowhere. It had been early morning, still dark, and George was on deck, bent over the outboard engine, a penlight clenched between his teeth, when the guy about scared the shit out of him.

  "You George Benedict?” he said, standing on the floating dock next to the boat.

  "Jesus Christ,” said George as the little flashlight fell to the floor and he straightened up faster than he cared to, feeling every single day of his fifty-one years. He turned around and looked up to see the faint outline of a large man eclipsing one of the marina's floodlights.

  "Sorry,” said the man. “Didn't mean to scare you."

  George reached down, picked up his light, and pointed it at the man. He wasn't more than a kid really, probably early twenties, and wore a checkered Elmer Fudd hat, the flaps hanging down over his ears. He was bundled in a heavy ski parka and had knock-knees and a fat baby face. George figured he must have weighed two hundred sixty or more. At the moment, he was in the midst of chewing on a bagel that was wrapped in a piece of waxed paper.

  "Yeah, I'm George. Who wants to know?"

  "Well,” said the man, still chewing vigorously, “my name's Bryan Mulleny. My dad owns Mulleny Motors. You've probably heard of him."

  "I've seen the commercials,” said George, picturing the loud, obnoxious ads, already convinced that he didn't like this Bryan kid. He reached for a spark plug wrench in his toolbox and turned back toward the engine.

  "I want to go fishing. I heard you're the best."

  "I can take you sometime,” said George, setting down the wrench and pulling out his little datebook from the inside pocket of his coat, “but not today.” Whether he liked the kid or not didn't matter. If his dad owned Mulleny Motors, then that meant money. He shined his penlight on the pages to see what he had available. “Looks like anytime this week except Friday or Saturday will work. Three hundred for a half-day, four hundred for a whole."

  "I'm talking about going right now,” said Bryan. “Do you have anything booked for today?"

  "Now? I didn't have no plans of going today. This is a maintenance day. She needs a little tuneup."

  Bryan finished the last of the bagel, balled the wax paper, and tossed it toward a drum sitting on the dock. It missed, rebounding off the side and falling into the dark water. He didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't seem to care. Though his face was partially shadowed, the marina lights illuminated it just enough to show that “no” wasn't an answer he was used to.

  "I'll pay you double. I've got the money,” he said as his bulky arm reached behind him and struggled to pull out his wallet from his jeans pocket. The nylon shell of his jacket made a bothersome rubbing sound as he fumbled around.

  He didn't look like the kind of guy who had money. He wasn't dressed like it, at least. Usually George could tell, and his prices often fluctuated depending.

  "See,” said Bryan, “here's seven hundred bucks for a whole day.” He fanned out seven crisp bills in front of George like a magician with a deck of cards.

  George glanced at the money, then reached into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. “Double would be eight hundred,” he said, then rolled his Zippo over his pants and lit up.

  "You drive a hard bargain,” said Bryan, smiling. When he smiled, fat folds of skin hung over his soft jaws like the jowls of a hound dog. His chin had disappeared completely. He pulled out another bill and offered the turkey-tail of hundreds to George.

  George accepted the money, folded it over, and stuck it in his coat along with his datebook and cigarettes. He blew out a cloud into the chilly morning, still amazed, after all these years, by what some people were willing to pay to try and catch a fish. “Well, hop aboard, partner. Let's go fishing. We got six a few days back, including a thirty-five pounder. Conditions should be even better today."

  * * * *

  "Jesus,” said Schmidt. “What the hell are we gonna do?"

  George stared at the corpse as it floated, thinking of what appropriate action to take. He felt like kicking himself right in the ass for ever steering the boat over to the body in the first place. Like a breaching whale, only the back of the man broke the water; the rest hung limp just below the surface in an apropos dead-man's float. The odor was overwhelming. George found a bandanna in his pocket and tied it around his neck, then pulled it up to cover his nose and mouth.

  "Damn, what're you gonna do, rob him?” asked Schmidt. “You look like Jesse James, Cap'n.” He looked over at Lou, who laughed—nervously.

  "This ain't no time to be dicking around,” yelled George, Schmidt's comment hitting closer to home than the man would ever know. “For Christ's sake, we got a floater in the water and you're standing there cracking jokes?"

  Schmidt retreated like a puppy caught chewing on a corner-piece of furniture. “Sorry, Cap'n,” he muttered. Lou followed Schmidt's lead, dropping his eyes to the deck, his head hangdog.

  The corpse gently slapped against the hull of the boat as it swayed with the mild ripples. A blue, bloated hand rose to the surface momentarily, as if waving to the men, before disappearing back into the dark water. Incessant chattering from the gulls continued overhead. The hand rose again, waving.

  "You think it might be that rich car kid who's been missing?” asked Lou, trying to avert his eyes from the body, though the fascination to sneak peeks was overwhelming.

  "I was thinking the same thing,” said Schmidt. “News said it's been like four or five days, I think."

  "Five,” said George.

  "Well, anyway, what do you think we should do?” asked Schmidt. “We could use that gaff you got and pull him on deck."

  George scowled at Schmidt, though Schmidt didn't realize it because of the red mask covering George's face. “Are you out of your mind? I'm not pulling that stinky son of a bitch aboard. It'd take me weeks to get rid of that smell.” George couldn't help but flash back to how long it had taken to get the boat cleaned up. Blood had found its way into every corner, every recess of the deck. It didn't seem like it would ever go away. “Just think how bad he's stinking right now, and he's still in the water. We put him on this boat and that stench is liable to knock us all out."

  "Yeah, I guess you're right,” said Schmidt. He took off his T-shirt, wa
dded it into a ball, and covered his face. Lou did the same.

  George stood for a moment, trying to figure how he could work this current situation to his advantage. Maybe finding the body wasn't such a bad thing after all. When was the last time a killer had delivered a body right to the police? George felt sure that bringing a victim to the authorities’ doorstep would have to alleviate suspicion. “Open up that hatch. I got a little twenty-pound anchor in there. I guess we'll tie him up and pull him back."

  * * * *

  George had heard that a lot of fish had been taken near the dam lately, though none of his recent clients had had any luck. But he figured with as much money as the kid had just handed over, he might as well give it a shot. Now he could certainly afford the extra gas he'd have to burn to get there. It took twenty-five minutes at a steady thirty-knot clip before the mammoth concrete dam came into view. They both stared in awe at the two-hundred-foot wall holding back millions of gallons of water.

  "My grandfather helped build the Mount Morris Dam,” said Bryan, chewing on a Baby Ruth. He seemed to have a whole picnic basket stuffed under his ski parka; he'd been pulling out food since they first set out.

  "Is that so?” said George through his teeth as he bit the end of a piece of fishing line after setting up a rig.

  "Yep, he was one of the head engineers with the Army Corps,” said Bryan. He finished the last of his candy bar and dropped the wrapper on the deck. “If it wasn't for Pawpaw, that thing would never have gotten built. That's what Dad always used to say, anyway."

  "Uh-huh,” said George, not paying the least bit of attention. That is, not paying the least bit of attention until he spied the discarded candy wrapper as he made his way back to the helm. “Pick that up,” he said. “My boat ain't your trash can."

  Bryan was busy licking his fingers and didn't make a move. “Hey, the customer's always right. Isn't that what they say?"

  "It ain't what I say,” said George, tightening his jaw.