That early in the day, the vendors were more or less setting up, and shoppers were scarce. Miriam's second plan wasn't a very good one either, she supposed. She'd decided simply to yell for help when the smuggler came around. Perhaps she'd say he'd stolen money from her and demand to see his wallet, and thus find his address. Or maybe she'd even call the police to come arrest him. She'd press charges against him for stealing from her. Although that sounded crazy at first, she reasoned that if he had more of the same fifty dollar bills, she could show the police the money she had under her mattress and say he'd stolen the ones in his possession from her. She tried to imagine other plans and realized she'd better decide on her story right now.
In the long run, of course, she'd have to tell the police everything and risk being put on a plane back to Ghana. Though she loved this country and thrilled to the exotic feel of big-city America, she would give up her home. She mostly hated the idea of getting Kofi and Nana in trouble—even more than she hated to think of them going on without her.
"I will do anything to get you back, little man,” she whispered. “I promise you.” In her deepest self, she had a pact with the terra-cotta figurine. He, of course, for his part, had promised her nothing, nor did he have to. The very fact of his creation and existence in the world was sufficient. He owed her not one single thing. Her obligation to him was the debt they all owed to the past.
Through what mistake the statuettes had come into her possession she couldn't fathom, but she decided the little man had intended for her to rescue him all along. These types of thoughts were not usual to her at all—she was not a superstitious woman—and yet she had them.
Miriam waited the entire day, standing up and sitting down, her eyes roving around the market where she hoped to catch sight of the evil smuggler.
"Don't you want to go home now, Mama?” Nana repeated every hour or so. But Miriam, despite her fatigue, would not agree to end the stakeout.
Still, dark came, and the air grew colder. Miriam was very tired. Her ankles felt swollen with the rigors of the day. Wearily she packed her bags. How stupid she was to have once again believed that she had a workable plan.
She now realized that the smuggler might even think Miriam had alerted the police, and perhaps because of that, he feared to come back to the market. Well, maybe she ought to have alerted the police. She would have to do that eventually anyway.
How badly she had mishandled everything, from throwing away the package wrappings, to not at once going to the authorities when she realized just what she had. She visualized a steady stream of precious antiquities entering the country and being resold by the smuggler—all of it her fault.
Tonight, she was careful to go home by way of the more trafficked route on Lenox Avenue. And Nana marched along beside her so that Miriam felt safe.
"I'm going to run ahead to the deli,” Nana told her. “Just one block. I want to buy some chips.” The girl loved crunchy foods better than anything. “I'll be outside by the time you get there."
Miriam nodded, and Nana, despite carrying all of Miriam's bags, raced ahead. Miriam plodded on, chuckling at her own lack of speed.
"Stop,” a voice behind her growled only seconds later. Miriam turned and nearly blacked out from the sudden nightmare of once again facing the conniving plunderer.
"I have a gun this time,” he said, and she could tell somehow that he was dead serious.
But she had a worse fear than that of his gun causing her own death. Her fear was that Nana would be standing outside the deli when they passed by and that Nana would try to help Miriam.
"I don't have it with me,” she explained. She showed that she carried only her small purse. “I live on the other side of the street,” she then lied. “We have to cross here.” The light was in their favor, and she led him across as quickly as age and arthritis would allow. Behind them, from the corner of her own block, she could hear Nana calling out to her, but she didn't turn.
Fearful so much in recent days, right this minute, oddly enough, Miriam felt calm. When you do the proper thing, you sometimes feel calm, she decided. She had to lead this madman away from Nana, and the girl was quick. Miriam increased her pace.
The thief nudged her, poked her, really, and, looking down, she saw that he did indeed possess a gun.
She didn't know where she was headed. Her only aim for the moment was to lead him away from her cowife, Nana.
Already tired and walking faster than she usually did, Miriam began to get out of breath and to pant. “I don't feel well,” she said. They were now on 125th Street, chock full of holiday shoppers. Though so many black people in Harlem seemed to admire the African culture and long for their roots, when the time came to spend money on Christmas gifts, they could be found in the American chain stores, not buying crafts. As distracted as she was by her direful situation, Miriam had enough free attention to make such a disillusioned observation. She also had enough wit to gasp loudly one last time and, all of a sudden, as carefully as she could, drop to the sidewalk. She lay on the dirty, uneven pavement and groaned.
The larcenous villain bent down beside her. “She's all right,” he reassured the gathering observers quickly in a strong voice. “Get up, damn you,” he whispered to her.
Caught between a feeling of embarrassment at creating a fuss and a sense of gratification at having hit upon at least a temporary solution, Miriam made the most of her position on the ground and activated an innate sense of drama. She clutched her heart, which, with a moment's rest, had settled into a nice steady gait. “It hurts,” she complained.
Almost at the moment of her fall, probably half a dozen cell phones had come out of pockets or purses, and an ambulance had been summoned immediately. Was this not a wonderful country? Miriam felt happy to be in such a place.
"Mama,” cried Nana, coming through the throng and trying to reach Miriam.
"Oh no,” said Miriam loudly and clearly. “Go away, girl. She's making me worse. Send her away."
A helpful matron took Miriam's young cowife in hand and steered her in the other direction while Nana peered back over her shoulder looking frightened. Miriam waved her off.
The ambulance came, and Miriam allowed herself to be bundled in, the white thief alongside her with his gun secreted away while the van started up. Miriam closed her eyes and let the emergency medical technician, so familiar from television, tend to her needs. “I'm worn out,” she said in a whisper, which was true.
The technician checked all of Miriam's vital signs and leaned back, staring at his patient with some undefined emotion. Miriam wondered how much this glorious trip was going to cost her.
"How is she?” coldly asked the man with the gun.
"Not too bad,” said the emergency technician. Ah, he knew she was well.
They arrived at Northern General in two minutes, where the technicians hauled her out of the ambulance. Miriam was amazed but gratified to see her attacker following along. The EMTs wheeled her into a corridor next to a couple of other emergency patients lying on trolleys. Miriam felt slightly guilty. She didn't want to deprive anyone else of medical care. Although, of course, this was an emergency.
When she was surrounded by actual medical people and before the techs left, Miriam began to shout as loudly as she could. “I'm a drug mule,” she said. “I have cocaine in my stomach.” Or did the drug mules carry heroin? She hoped no one would notice if she'd made a goof. She pointed at the man with the gun, who'd begun to edge away from her. “He's waiting for the drugs,” she yelled, sitting up so her voice would project even better than before.
The man began to slip toward the exit a bit faster now; then, finally, he pulled out his gun—not the reaction Miriam had hoped for. She slid back down onto the trolley so as to be less of a target. People screamed and fled or hit the floor. She wished she had something more affirmative to do other than to make herself small—not that she was going to make herself awfully small. But the man didn't start shooting, he just kept looking tow
ard Miriam and backing away. Violence was only a sideline with him, Miriam concluded.
The smuggler shuffled toward the exit, finally bumping right into the sizable bulk of a security guard, who was obviously just waiting for his chance to take down the gunman. And the guard did. He knocked over the fleeing perp (as they said on television) and kicked the weapon down the hall. Within minutes, the man was searched for more weapons and put into some kind of plastic wrist cuffs.
Miriam tried to get up, but one of the medical people pushed her back onto the stretcher. “Oh, no you don't,” the nurse chided her.
Miriam eased herself against the sheet-covered traveling table. She might have bitten off more than she really ever wanted to chew.
* * * *
Getting herself out of the stupid mess she'd gotten herself into wasn't that easy. They even X-rayed her to see if she actually had swallowed any condoms of cocaine and had sent a female officer to search her for contraband, which was very embarrassing. Miriam ought to have thought of another ruse, certainly, but she watched a lot of television, and that was the first idea that had popped into her mind. She was shocked at how routine this all was—not just to the police, but to the medical people as well, who warned her sternly that if the condom broke, she could die. She knew that!
Eventually, the U.S. Customs officers came and grilled her about drugs. “I haven't been out of the country in thirty-five years,” she insisted. This was true. Kofi and she had arrived at a time of turmoil in their home country, and with few relatives left at home, they'd simply stayed here.
The officers drove her back to her home in a very nice car, which she praised, and Special Agent Jeffrey Pease—she'd made him spell his name—escorted her up the stairs.
She rang the bell of her own door when they reached the fourth floor, not wanting to catch her family unaware. Kofi answered. He looked at his wife as if he had never seen her before, then in alarm at the two agents beside her. “Well?” said Miriam. “Let us in."
Nana, in tears, came to embrace her. “It's all my fault, Mama,” she said in Twi.
"Now, now,” Miriam told her in English.
Miriam let the officer bring the bundle from under the bed—how happy she was that she had recently cleared the terrible dust—and she showed him the little figure that had once appeared so ordinary and cheap. She handled it reverently.
"Okay,” said Pease. “I'll give you a receipt.” How amazing the people in this country were. Even law enforcement gave receipts, like a business.
* * * *
When the officers left, and left her behind, Miriam was surprised. She'd prepared herself mentally to spend the night in jail. So she waited the next day and the next for her arrest, and only two weeks later got a call from Special Agent Pease asking her to come to their offices at One Penn Plaza. Although by then she was hoping she'd been forgotten, she realized that she would have to face the music, as the incomprehensible English saying went.
Two mornings later, Miriam went down into the subway. What she found was not so terribly scary as she'd imagined, and the toll booth clerk even gave Miriam directions about where to go. A nice woman helped her use the plastic card to enter through the barrier. Just then a train rushed in and the woman urged Miriam to get on.
Although many buildings in Harlem were tall, those near Penn Station seemed a whole lot taller. Surely the crowds were very great. Miriam steeled herself.
Upstairs at One Penn Plaza, Miriam's voice cracked when she asked for Special Agent Pease. She wet her lips.
My, what a handsome place this was, and what a comfortable chair, she mused. She waited only a minute before Pease came to get her, his hand outstretched. They shook hands, she in embarrassment because her palm had been sweating.
He brought her into a room where several people in suits sat talking among themselves. She supposed they would interrogate her. She looked for a two-way mirror but didn't find one.
"Congratulations,” said Agent Pease. “The government of the United States together with the government of Mali want to give you a special commendation.” And he pinned a medal on the front of her blue wool dress—$7.99 from the Salvation Army, and rather nice.
"A..."
"Commendation,” Pease repeated in the face of what must be her obvious puzzlement, though of course she knew the word. “It's a thank you for doing everything you did to catch the smugglers."
Miriam looked around hesitantly. Then Agent Pease introduced her to the Mali ambassador.
Everyone congratulated her and smiled. Miriam smiled too.
"Oh, the three hundred dollars,” she blurted out to Pease privately when the thought crossed her mind.
"Three hundred dollars?” He looked confused.
"The three hundred dollars the smuggler gave me. Who do I return the money to?"
Copyright (c) 2007 G. Miki Hayden
[Back to Table of Contents]
REEL CRIME by Steven Hockensmith
It sounds like something straight out of a Stephen King novel: a telephone call ... with the power to kill! In fact, it is something straight out of a Stephen King novel. (The cellular-users-turned-zombie-killers frightfest Cell, to be exact.) But it's also something out of King's own life. Sort of.
Last year, the Mystery Writers of America (MWA) called the fifty-nine-year-old writer to offer him the organization's prestigious Grand Master Award (given in the past to such whodunit heavyweights as Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, Erle Stanley Gardner, and Mickey Spillane). And true to form, the bestselling maestro of the macabre found a dark side to even this most sunny scenario.
* * * *
Stephen King
* * * *
"I'm superstitious at heart,” King says. “So when I got the call, I thought to myself, ‘Geez, I don't know. They make some people grand masters, and the next thing you know they're dead.’”
Nevertheless, King was willing to take his chances. He agreed to accept the honor at MWA's annual Edgar Awards ceremony in New York this April, and The Curse of the Grand Master hasn't struck him down ... yet.
If you think King's an unlikely candidate for an award honoring mystery writers, you might be letting his long list of Hollywood credits skew your view. Sure, projects such as The Shining, Christine, Pet Sematary, Children of the Corn, It, et cetera fall squarely into the horror genre. But King's first professional short story sale was to Startling Mystery Stories in 1967, seven years before the publication of Carrie made him a publishing superstar (and branded him forever as a horror writer).
Since then, a long line of King titles have eschewed the supernatural in favor of real-world chills. Secret Window, Misery, Dolores Claiborne, Apt Pupil, The Shawshank Redemption—all are straight-up thrillers or crime dramas with nary a bug-eyed monster in sight.
* * * *
John Cusack and Samuel L. Jackson in 1408. Photograph by David Appleby, courtesy Dimension Films.
* * * *
"I've actually written a lot of mystery and suspense fiction,” says King, who cites crime writers (and fellow MWA Grand Masters) John D. MacDonald, Ed McBain, and Donald E. Westlake as early influences. “But I don't get credit for it, of course."
Readers who aren't inclined to let the author squirm out of the horror pigeonhole won't find their minds changed by the next two King adaptations in the Tinseltown pipeline. Both promise to put the Ick! back in horrific.
First up is 1408, a mind-bending (and occasionally stomach-turning) chiller about a paranormal investigator (John Cusack) who agrees to spend the night in a hotel room where guests check in, but they don't check out ... alive anyway. Samuel L. Jackson costars as the hotel manager from Hell (literally?), while the director's chair was filled by Swedish import Mikael Håfström, who made his Hollywood debut two years ago with the erotic thriller Derailed.
* * * *
Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
* * * *
The surreal spookfest (which hits theaters Friday, July 13) began life as a section of K
ing's guide for wannabe scribes, On Writing. King wanted to dash off a throwaway tale he could use to demonstrate the importance of editing, but the resulting story had (appropriately enough) a surprising afterlife.
"It's about a guy who's going around investigating all these [hoaxes] for cheap paperback books, so when he finds a real haunted place he doesn't believe it,” King says. “When I started it, I thought, ‘Well, this is good enough [to work as a demonstration]. It's not very good, but it's okay.’ But then when I sat down to write it, it went really well, and the story turned up in [later story collections]. And then it got bought for the movies. It's just a case of something having a life you don't expect."
The same could be said of The Mist, a carnage-heavy King novella that's being resurrected nearly thirty years after it first appeared in print. As in the classic gore-a-thon Dawn of the Dead, a group of survivors holes up together (this time in a grocery store) to fight off an otherworldly menace that seems to be destroying civilization as we know it. The big-screen adaptation—written and directed by acclaimed Shawshank/Green Mile helmer Frank Darabont—is set to ooze into theaters in November.
* * * *
Johnny Depp in Secret Window (c) 2004 Columbia
* * * *
"Frank got asked to direct an episode of [gritty FX cop drama] The Shield, and that really opened his eyes,” King says. “They shoot in a pseudo-documentary style with hand-held cameras. It's almost like combat filmmaking, and you just run from setup to setup. And Frank said to me, ‘I could make The Mist this way.’ And I just went, ‘Sure, Frank.’ That's how it always is with Frank: He talks for half an hour, and I go, ‘Uh-huh, uh-huh, you could do that.’ I'm not really a collaborator. I'm a [darned] shrink!"
Darabont needed extra sessions with his collaborator/analyst when he was trying to come up with a wow ending for his movie (which stars The Punisher antihero Thomas Jane and former Homicide detective Andre Braugher). While the novella has an open (though decidedly ominous) ending, Darabont needed something with more definition—and more suit appeal.
AHMM, September 2007 Page 14
