The World's Finest Mystery...

by Ed Gorman

  "Why not?"

  She smiled and his stomach fluttered. That annoyed him. He wasn't fourteen anymore, and he was married, so why should he be reacting this way?

  "I could just about sell you anything, couldn't I?" she asked, lowering her pad.

  He nodded and said, "Just about."

  "Well," she said, staring at him with a look of amusement, "why don't we just leave it at a burger, fries and shake for now?"

  "Um…" he said, and she walked away, leaving in her wake a scent that tickled his nostrils and drove out all memory of baby smells.

  She returned briefly with a glass of water and a smile and he breathed in her scent once again. He found himself waiting anxiously for his food, though his hunger had suddenly become a secondary concern. It was only because she would be bringing it.

  While he waited he noticed three men come into the place and immediately seat themselves in a booth. They were all dressed similar to the way he was, jeans and windbreakers, but they all had Elvis hair and were eight or ten years younger than him. At that point the waitress started toward him with his plate of food in one hand. One of the new arrivals grabbed her free arm, halting her progress.

  "Come on, Lizzie, we need some service, here."

  She yanked her arm away and said, "Don't grab me like that again, Hal. I'll get to you when I finish with this guy. And don't call me Lizzie!"

  "You love me," Hal called after her. "I know it."

  She made a face that he couldn't see and walked to Tru's booth.

  "Old boyfriend?" he asked, without stammering.

  "He wishes," she said, setting his plate down. In doing so she bent over and brought her cleavage tantalizingly close to him. If her scent had teased him up to now it was suddenly heady, wafting up from between her breasts and making his head swim. "Can I get you anything else?"

  "Uh, that shake."

  "Oh yeah, right," she said, laughing, full, ripe lips parting to reveal perfect white teeth. "I'm sorry. What flavor?"

  "Strawberry."

  "Comin' up."

  She had to walk past the booth with the three men and the one called Hal reached for her again. She avoided him, causing his friends to laugh at him. She went behind the counter, made Tru his shake, and started for his table again. As before Hal grabbed her free arm.

  "Come on, Lizzie," he said, "don't be like that."

  She tried to pull her arm away again, but he held fast this time.

  "You're hurting me!" she snapped.

  "Liz—"

  Abruptly she overturned the shake glass and poured the contents onto his head. He shouted, released her arm and jumped up. His friends were now shedding tears, they were laughing so hard.

  "Goddamn it, you bitch!" Hal swore.

  Tru could see that Liz looked frightened so he got up and hurried over to the action. He got between her and Hal before the man could do anything.

  Abruptly, his two friends stood up and got behind him. He started to reach for his badge before he remembered it wasn't there. They'd taken it from him pending the investigation— that and his gun. All he had left was the adrenaline rush he always got in situations like these.

  "I think you boys better go and eat someplace else," Tru said.

  "What's it to you?" Hal demanded.

  "That was my milk shake," Tru said. "Because of you, I have to wait for another one."

  The strawberry colored liquid was still dripping from Hal's chin and there was clumps of it in his hair and on his shoulders.

  "That bitch had no call—"

  "She asked you to stop grabbing her and you didn't listen. I think you got what you deserved, don't you?"

  Hal stared at Tru, looking ridiculous and more pink than strawberry. Behind him his friends gave Tru the meanest looks they could muster, but he saw they weren't going to do anything without their leader's say so. He closed the distance between himself and Hal, invading the man's space, causing him to step back a pace before he could stop himself.

  "Time to leave, Hal," Tru said, quietly.

  Hal tried to match Tru's stare but in the end he couldn't, and looked away.

  "Hal?" one of his friends asked.

  "Let's go," Hal said. "Burgers in this place stink, anyway."

  They backed away a few steps, then turned and shuffled out the door, Hal pushing them from behind.

  He felt her hand on his shoulder and then he turned and faced her. She was taller than his wife, who had dark hair and dark skin and brown eyes. This girl was all pale and golden, and took his breath away.

  "My hero," she said. "Thanks."

  "No problem," he said. "I was kind of mad he got my shake."

  "Go sit down and I'll bring you another one— on the house."

  "Thanks."

  He went back to his booth and started on his burger, not really tasting it. He was coming down from the rush of facing those three punks without a gun and badge, but was still high from the girl.

  "Cop?"

  He looked up at her standing there with another shake, smiling down at him.

  "What?"

  "I asked, are you a cop?" She put the shake down, this time without bending over.

  "Why did you ask that?"

  She shrugged. "Because you act like one."

  "Well," he said, "it's a long story, but yes I am— I was…"

  "Hey," she said, waving her hands in front of her, "none of my business. I'm sorry I asked. How's the burger?"

  "It's fine."

  "Look," she said, "I just want to warn you about those guys…"

  "They didn't seem so tough."

  "Well, you were facing them," she said. "Just be careful, okay? And really…" She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned over to kiss his cheek. She was so plush that for a moment he was blinded by the paleness of her skin. "Thank you," she said. "It's been a long time since anyone stood up for me." He couldn't understand that, at all.

  4

  After the last of the customers left she came over and sat opposite him in his booth.

  "Close up for me, Liz?" the boss called out.

  "Don't worry, Lenny," she said. "I'll lock everything."

  The boss left and she leaned forward, a move which pressed her breasts against the table so that they swelled, threatening to spill out of her blouse. And there were those blue eyes, that full, soft mouth.

  "Give me a quarter," she said.

  "A quarter?"

  "For a song."

  He reached into his pocket and handed her one. She went to the jukebox and punched in the number she wanted. Then turned and walked slowly toward him while the song started. Once again he heard Dusty Springfield's "You Don't Have To Say You Love Me."

  "Dance with me?" she asked, ample hips already swaying.

  He pushed away his partially eaten burger and got up. She came into his arms and pressed against him. He forgot about everything— his wife, the baby, Internal Affairs, his badge… everything. Nothing else existed except her in his arms. He knew he should be feeling guilty. After all, his wife was at home taking care of their new daughter, his career was on the line, and here he was dancing with a woman he'd only just met, but wished he could stay with forever.

  "You're married, aren't you?" she asked. Her head was on his shoulder, her mouth near his ear.

  "Yes."

  "The good ones always are."

  They danced until the song ended and then he didn't want to let her go. They stepped away and looked into each other's eyes.

  "I know this is crazy," she said, "but would you like to come home with me tonight?"

  "More than anything else in the world."

  "No strings," she said. "Just tonight."

  "No strings."

  "I don't want to break up a marriage," she said, "but I feel like if I don't take this chance I'll always wonder… you know?"

  He nodded. "I know."

  "I'll lock up," she said, and began to scurry about, turning off burners, and lights, and locking doors, until fi
nally they were going out the front door together.

  They were on him like a pack of wild dogs.

  Her arm was linked with his so that when they pulled him from the steps she went sprawling into the sand as well, away from the action. They rained down punches and kicks on him. He tried to give back as good as he got, but it was three against one and they had caught him unprepared. He had no doubt that it was the three punks from earlier in the evening. In fact, one of them still smelled sweetly of the shake Elizabeth had poured over his head.

  She finally got back to her feet and decided to join the fray rather than call fruitlessly for help. She jumped on the back of one of the men and began to pummel him.

  "Get her off me!" he shouted.

  "Stop it!" she cried. "You're killing him!"

  The other two stopped kicking Tru long enough to pry Elizabeth off the third man's back, sending her into the sand again.

  "We're not gonna kill him, Lizzie" Hal said. "We're just teachin' him a lesson."

  "Yeah," one of the others said, "No big city asshole better come here and mess with our women."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" she demanded. "You losers don't have any women."

  The three men exchanged glances, wondering how to respond to that.

  "Besides," she said, before they could make up their minds, "you're really in trouble now."

  "And why's that?" Hal asked.

  "Because he's a cop," she said. "You three dimwits just assaulted a cop."

  "A cop?" Hal said.

  "Jesus," one of the others said. "We didn't know."

  "A cop, Hal," the third one said. "We gotta get outta here."

  "Lizzie—" Hal started.

  "Just get out of here," she said, cutting him off, "and don't call me that."

  "He started it," Hal said. "He stuck his nose—"

  "I can keep him from reporting this if you'll just get out of here!" she said, urgently.

  "Come on, Hal," one of the others said, grabbing his arm. "Let's go."

  Hal gave one last look at Tru, lying in the sand, bloody and battered, and then allowed his friends to pull him away.

  "Jesus," Elizabeth said, and dropped to her knees next to him. "Are you all right?"

  "I— I think so," he said, spitting blood from a split lip.

  "You're not dead, or anything?"

  He laughed, then hissed because that split his lips even more.

  "No," he said, "I'm not dead."

  "Do you have a place around here?"

  "Just up the beach."

  "Well," she said, "I guess we better go there so I can look after you. Can you get up?"

  "Yeah," he said, his head clearing somewhat. "Where did they go?"

  "They ran off when I told them you were a cop." She helped him to his feet.

  "You don't want to go after them or anything, do you?"

  "No," he said, "I just want to forget the whole thing."

  "Well then, lean on me," she said. "This isn't exactly what I had in mind, but I guess I'll have to play Florence Nightingale."

  "Not what I had in mind, either."

  * * *

  She tended to his wounds, which were more annoying than serious, and then helped him into bed. She'd kissed his forehead then his mouth and said, "You're not in shape for much more than this," which he later thought had probably been for the best.

  She'd walked to the door then, turned and said to him, "I'm not leaving my number."

  He nodded. "I understand."

  "Too bad," she'd said, "Mr. Cop."

  She left, the taste of her on his lips, and he'd never even told her his name.

  The Present…

  He took the tea cup back into the house and put it in the sink. Then locked all the doors, going out the back and walking down the deck steps to the sand. He started down the beach, then turned and frowned at the house. He hadn't noticed it before, but it was apparently on the same lot his Uncle's house had been on. He'd thought it a coincidence that a house on Seven Mile Beach had become available for sitting, but not this much of a coincidence. He continued down the beach as dusk came and seemed to bleach the color out of everything. The sand was white, the water was getting dark. He wondered if the small café would still be there, and if it was she couldn't possibly still be working there as a waitress, could she?

  When he finally came to the end of the beach he saw it. Only one wall still stood, but it was the one with the front door in it. He walked to the steps that the three men had pulled him down from. He'd gone home the next day, hugged his wife and baby, told her that he'd come home early because he'd gotten mugged— and because he missed them. That Monday he found out that I.A.D. had cleared him and his career would continue.

  He'd thought about Elizabeth over the years once in a while, especially when he heard that Dusty Springfield song. He'd recall how they talked, how their eyes met, how they'd danced in the café and what they had almost done— and would have done— if the three punks hadn't jumped him outside. He'd felt guilt all these years because of how good he'd felt just dancing with her. How bad would it had felt if he'd spent that night with her?

  He'd never cheated on his wife in all the years they'd been together and had always considered the café the place where he'd come the closest. As a younger man he'd felt that even the dance had been a betrayal, but now, thinking back, he knew it hadn't been. It had simply been a cleansing time for him, a few moments respite from a life that had suddenly become filled with turmoil.

  There was no harm in that.

  Robert Barnard

  Nothing to Lose

  INTERNATIONALLY RECOGNIZED as one of the masters of the mystery form, Robert Barnard has worked in a wide variety of styles, voices and forms over the years. He is one of the few writers certain to survive his time. Most of his novels have the feel of true classics. One of his most compelling quotes is that he never draws directly from life because, "People can be so much nastier, can act so much meaner, than they are usually allowed to do in books." In "Nothing to Lose," he is once again at the top of his game. This fine tale first appeared in the anthology Malice Domestic 9.

  Nothing to Lose

  Robert Barnard

  When Emily Mortmain finally consented to go into an old people's home, her relatives predicted a spate of suicides by the other residents before her first week was over. If other possible outcomes of the move occurred to them, they did not speak of them openly.

  Emily Mortmain had been a disagreeable woman all her life, and old age had intensified her cantankerousness. Her husband had volunteered for a suicide mission in World War II, and all his contemporaries in the RAF had said how heroic he was, since he was still young and had so much to live for. He had smiled heroically, and said nothing. Her daughter had emigrated with her family to Australia many years before, and had opined at the time that Australia's only drawback was that it was not far enough away. As Emily became increasingly unable to fend for herself, neighbors had tried to help, then fellow church members (for Emily was a "good" churchwoman), and then social workers. All attempts had ended in disaster— plates being thrown by or at her, screaming altercations at her back door, even an attempted throttling. When the local vicar lost his faith and left the church, the parish joke was that he had found himself unable to believe in a God who could create an Emily Mortmain.

  The members of her family who came to see her off on the morning she left for the home were two nieces and a nephew. Their contact with her over the years had been sporadic, but had never dropped off entirely, for Emily had money, and it was known that her daughter had been ritually cursed by bell, book, and candle and cut out of the will. Who, if anyone, had been cut in was not known, but it was generally agreed that there was no charity with aims unpleasant enough for Emily to want to give it money.

  There was no rivalry among the relatives. They knew no one could suck up to Emily Mortmain, because it was not in humankind to be pleasant to her for long enough to gain any favo
r. None of the three volunteered to drive her to the home, for each feared the inevitable bust-up in the car. They stood by the front gate waving cheerily as she was driven away in a taxi provided by the local social services. Then they gave a muffled cheer and went away to have a drink together and swap "Aunt Em" stories.