Not QUITE the Classics

by Colin Mochrie

  In comparison to Parkinson, victim number three was child’s play. If child’s play involved throwing mortuary ashes. Danny DeLeon was a contractor who had worked on Ian’s house. DeLeon had charged a king’s ransom for his work, but used shoddy materials and had questionable judgment. He built a beautiful balcony on the second floor that wasn’t accessible from inside the house. All the doorknobs were placed on the side of the door closest to the hinges. The door at the back of the house, which led into a lovely English garden, was two feet above the ground, with no stairs to connect it to the landing—that didn’t exist. He broke building codes willy-nilly, making Ian’s home a dangerous place to live. DeLeon managed to get away with his misdeeds by bribing building inspectors, and he always had an irritating smirk on his face. Today that smirk would disappear. (Danny DeLeon had also worked on my flat. And had overcharged me for a small plumbing job. But that was nothing compared to what he’d put Ian through.)

  I surprised him at a construction site while he was sitting in the portable loo. I have to say that this one gave me the most pleasure. I thoroughly enjoyed watching him, writhing and screaming like a little girl, whilst pulling up his knickers as I whispered, “May the Becker be with you!” into his ear.

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 13

  Almost disaster today! It started off well enough. It was a beautiful bright sunny morning. I had driven quite early to get to the Oxford office of number four: Dr. Kyle Farnsworth. He was a psychologist that Ian had started seeing after his disastrous marriage to Jeanine had terminated. I had never seen my friend in such a fragile state. He had started to doubt his judgment and his talent, and wondered if his life was worth living. His latest Busy Beaver stories were filled with self-pity and loathing. I’m sure that more than one of his young readers ended up seeking counsel themselves.

  Farnsworth was a quack, and his “treatments” set Ian back so much that it took almost three solid years of therapy with a gifted psychologist before he was back to his old self.

  To make matters worse, Farnsworth published papers detailing the sessions. He used a pseudonym for Ian, but everyone knew, and Ian was mortified. Farnsworth betrayed Ian’s confidence and exposed his secrets and those of his friends. I looked forward to this “hit.” I despise people who take advantage of others when they are at their most vulnerable. Also I’m not fond of the name Kyle.

  In addition to his private practice, Farnsworth was a lecturer and course director at the Department of Experimental Psychology at Oxford. The university is quite beautiful and it almost felt wrong to carry out Ian’s revenge here. Almost.

  Precisely at noon, Farnsworth exited his office and made his way through the hallowed grounds of the university. I quickly gained on my quarry. Just before I reached him, he stopped and fiddled with something in his pocket.

  I raised my ash-filled hand and cleared my throat. “Dr. Farnsworth?”

  Farnsworth turned around and gazed at me from behind a pair of expensive wraparound Ray-Bans. Damnation! I could throw the ashes anyway, but hitting his Ray-Bans wouldn’t fulfill my obligations to my friend. Perhaps if I had Ian’s imagination, I could have quickly solved this dilemma. Unfortunately, only one option occurred to me.

  “Dr. Farnsworth? Could you take off your glasses for a second, please?”

  Looking back, I now realize why Farnsworth didn’t feel obliged to honor my request. One: there is no good reason why one should remove one’s eyewear when a complete stranger requests it, and two: the chances that the request will be complied with fall dramatically when said stranger has his hand at your eye level, wearing a white latex glove, and is quite obviously holding something.

  Farnsworth, of course, didn’t remove his sunglasses. He spun on his heels and took off. Actually “took off” is a very generous term. At twenty-five stone, he gently lumbered. I gave chase, but I could have kept pace with him just by walking briskly. He was no match for me, but as it turned out, I needn’t have worried anyway. Farnsworth glanced back to see if I was gaining, and ran into a sturdy lamppost. He fell in a heap on his back and his Ray-Bans flew off his face. He lay still for a moment. I thought he might be dead, but after a few seconds, his eyes fluttered open. I released a handful of ash and watched it drift into his eyelashes. Immediately, I felt remorse at fulfilling my friend’s wishes. Not because Farnsworth didn’t deserve it (he did), but because it didn’t seem sporting. It was like stapling a fish to the floor and then placing the fish hook in its mouth. As it turned out, I hadn’t time to wallow in my remorse: a number of concerned citizens began to gather and shout angrily at me. I ran.

  One to go.

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14

  Still shaken from yesterday’s adventure, I traveled to Ian’s home in Warwickshire to organize his personal effects. I was still trying to track down the last name on Ian’s list. Until I did, I could not fulfill Ian’s last request.

  Connor O’Toole was Ian’s most bitter rival. He had actually stolen a few of Ian’s ideas and had plagiarized his way to more than a few bestsellers. The courts ruled against Ian in the various lawsuits he had brought against O’Toole, which infuriated him. Ian despised injustice, absolutely abhorred it.

  Anyway, as I worked away in Ian’s library, I heard a ping come from the computer announcing an incoming email. It was a message from Connor O’Toole!

  Dear Ian,

  I must meet with you face to face. I wish to make amends for our past unpleasantness. We can get together either in London or, if you wish, you may come to Kilkenny as my guest. Please consider my request. I will explain all. I await your reply.

  Yours,

  Connor

  I replied immediately.

  Dear Connor,

  I’ll meet you in Kilkenny. Arriving on Sunday, September 16.

  Yours,

  Ian

  I thought it odd that Connor hadn’t heard about Ian’s passing, but I knew that Connor had become a bit of a recluse since the plagiarism brouhaha. I made the necessary arrangements and packed a bag.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 16

  Well, what a day of firsts and lasts! My first trip out of the country, my first time on a plane, and the last name on the list.

  The travel part was quite interesting. Going through the security area at the airport, I felt like a sheep shadowed by a particularly grumpy sheepdog. I was flummoxed by having to take my shoes off and completely baffled as to why I was forced to jettison all of the liquid in my carry-on. My imagination is not robust, but could anyone devise a plan that would get them in control of an airplane using their shoes, a Coke, and a can of Barbasol?

  As I was led to my first-class seat, I grew excited. I was going to fly! The takeoff was loud and jolting, but I wasn’t frightened. The flight itself was delightful. The flight attendants seemed to be disappointed if I refused anything they offered, so I accepted everything. Including a selection of premium beverages. At thirty thousand feet I discovered it was a relief to swallow loudly.

  When we landed, the car I had ordered was waiting for me on the tarmac. The driver held aloft a sign with my name on it. The drive to Kilkenny was about an hour and a half, but it went by quickly. The scenery out the window was a picture postcard come to life. I made the driver stop at a pub in one of the small villages on the way and we had a ploughman’s lunch, sitting on the benches outside. The patrons, in their lovely accent, regaled each other with tall tales, and there was much laughter. It made me miss Ian even more.

  The car dropped me off at the quaint cottage where Connor O’Toole lived. I sent the driver on his way. I did not want him to witness my preparations for the ash toss. I had booked a hotel in town, having decided to take a mini-vacation, and had satisfied myself that it was within walking distance.

  I slipped on my glove and rubbed a generous pinch of Ian between my fingers. I knocked twice and waited, hand poised. The door opened, and just as I was about to make my special delivery, the sight before me sto
pped me in my tracks.

  A young man stood in the doorway with his left hand held aloft. He wore latex gloves and he held something grey and powdery.

  “You’re not Connor O’Toole!” I cried. “You’re not Ian Becker!” he shouted.

  In a panic I threw the ashes just he did. Our respective cinders mingled in a cloud of dust and hit us both squarely in the eyes. We reacted as anyone would.

  We screamed.

  I staggered blindly into the house, knocking the young man off balance. I managed to stop myself from falling by sticking my foot into what I later learned was a nineteenth-century Portuguese cuspidor. I groped about in circles with the thunk-clunk of my steps ringing in my ears.

  “Why did you do that?” the young man cried.

  My eyes were on fire and my lips were dusted with ash. For a moment, I was reminded of one of my unsuccessful formulas for cats. A high-ash, low-sodium kibble that tasted of crisp bacon. I threw up a little in my mouth. “You did it first!” I hollered.

  “Did not!”

  “Did too!”

  Clearly, this was getting us nowhere fast.

  “Enough bickering,” I sputtered. “Is there a sink nearby?”

  “Yes,” said the man. “Follow me.”

  “That will be difficult. Since I can’t see where you are to follow,” I said with more than a little sarcasm.

  “Don’t take that tone of voice with me!”

  “I apologize. Can you take me by the hand and lead me?”

  “Certainly.” He groped for my hand and pulled me to the sink, where we took turns bathing our eyes till we could open them.

  Later, over a cup of Irish Breakfast, we compared stories. It turned out Tristram, for that was the young man’s name, was a favored writing pupil of Connor’s. When Connor passed recently, in circumstances remarkably similar to Ian’s, Tristram was entrusted with the same final request that I had undertaken with such glee.

  “My list was quite a bit longer than yours,” Tristram said, shaking his head. “Connor had gotten quite bitter in later years. Too bad, really. He was a remarkable man in many ways. Did you know that Ian and Connor were once very close?”

  I told him that I was quite surprised to hear it. “That must have been during the time that Ian and I had drifted apart, during his marriage. I never heard Ian speak fondly of Connor.”

  “Yes, they were very close, almost like brothers. Then they had a falling-out. Connor never said why, but I guessed it was over a woman. Few things tend to end a friendship with such rancor.”

  “I certainly hope it wasn’t over Jeanine Carson. That would have been the ultimate tragedy. A friendship broken by that harpy. Did Connor ever mention her?”

  “As I said, he never went into it. It’s too bad, really. They were so alike in many ways.”

  “Well, if their choice of revenge is any indication, I would say they were remarkably alike. But given Connor’s history, I suspect he plagiarized that idea from Ian too.”

  “You’re lucky Connor’s dead. He’d kill you if he heard you say that.”

  “Tasting his earthly remains is punishment enough, believe me.”

  Tristram grew thoughtful. “You’re right. I’ve had enough of this revenge business, and if I’m honest, I do understand why Ian would hold a grudge against Connor. There were some marked similarities between Ian’s Literal Larry character and Connor’s Methodical Man. But the tone of Literal Larry was completely different from Connor’s story. There was a sweetness to Literal Larry. Methodical Man was full-blown satire: harsh but very, very funny. Have you read it? It’s about a sad chap with no imagination whatsoever.”

  Realization dawned.

  “I think I know why Ian hated Connor,” I said slowly. “He was defending me. I’m the basis for Literal Larry. When Connor stole Ian’s idea, he was making fun of me, and Ian wouldn’t have stood for that…” And then I thought of Ian’s list. Every person on it had hurt or cheated me in some way too.

  Tristram looked puzzled. “You’re Literal Larry?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t matter anymore.” I smiled. I took a last sip of tea. “Well, I suppose that’s it, then. It’s done. I have to admit I’m glad it has come to an end.”

  “As am I,” said Tristram. “I found the whole thing rather distasteful.”

  “Ah,” I said. “I’m glad for the opposite reason. I was quite enjoying it. Not really something that someone should derive pleasure from, though. So I’m a bit ashamed of myself.”

  “I wish they could have found peace at the end. Terrible to think that your legacy is so easily undone with an eyecup and a few drops of Visine. It doesn’t really change anything.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that, but of course you’re right. It doesn’t change anything for the dead. But for the living—it might change quite a bit. What are you going to do with the rest of Connor’s ashes?”

  “There’s a bluff near here where Connor and Ian used to discuss story ideas. It overlooks the sea. Connor wanted what was left of him to be scattered to the winds there.”

  “Hmm. Would you mind if I disposed of the rest of Ian’s ashes there too?”

  “It has a literary, poetic feeling to it, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, it does.”

  Tristram drove us to a spot well off the beaten track. We parked the car and wended our way to the bottom of a wooded valley that opened out onto a crescent moon of sand. The whole beach was banked by majestic rocky cliffs that beautifully accentuated the emerald-green water; it made me feel as if I had walked into a photograph. We went to the edge of the shore and gazed at the blue-green waves that lapped at the sand.

  Finally, I spoke: “I’d like to think that, perhaps in death, Ian and Connor can finally reconcile. Find some peace.”

  “Quite the imagination you have.”

  I smiled, and on the count of three, we threw the earthly remains of our two friends to the waves. Then we did what sensible people do.

  We ducked.

  And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea.

  Faren Heights Bin 451

  INSPIRED BY RAY BRADBURY’S

  FARENHEIT 451

  It was a pleasure to Burn. The whole business of it. From the very beginning of a case when you have nothing but conflicting stories, clues that don’t add up, and a cast of characters that wouldn’t be out of place in a Hammett novel to the hopefully satisfying conclusion where the story comes together and the bad guys get what bad guys deserve. To Burn McDeere, star employee of the Malloy Detective Agency, solving crime was better than sex. You didn’t get as sweaty, and someone else always paid the taxi fare. When the O’Hara case came up, McDeere felt that familiar simmering excitement in the pit of his belly.

  Allyson O’Hara had somehow met the impossible challenge of charming his bosses, the Malloy twins. And the founders of the Malloy Detective Agency were harder to charm than an auditor with a migraine. Larry Malloy, the eldest by fifteen seconds, once made a suspect re-enact his own birth by pulling him through the half-open back window of a Nash eight-cylinder coupe. His younger brother, Harry, once went to a doctor complaining of back pain, not realizing he had been shot three times. So when they met with their ace operative, Burn McDeere, and took turns gushing about the aforementioned Mrs. O’Hara, Burn could only surmise that this Allyson woman was one special dame.

  “Burn, ya gotta take this case,” said Larry. “There’s just something about this girl. She’s in trouble.” He was trying to keep things businesslike, but there was a hint of concern in his bright blue eyes that McDeere almost found touching.

  “Yeah, trouble,” echoed Harry, running a hand through his sandy hair.

  “Boss”—Burn held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness—“I’m kinda swamped right now…”

  “We’ll pick up the slack,” Larry said, brushing aside Burn’s concern. “We’ve been looking to get more involved than
we have been lately. Running a business ain’t nearly as much fun as doing the business, eh Harry?” Larry winked.

  “Yeah, doing the business,” repeated Harry. Larry was the brains of the operation and was top-notch. Harry was a right guy, but about as sharp as an avocado.

  “Okay,” Burn said with an exasperated sigh that was more for effect than anything else. “What’s the scoop?”

  “No idea,” Larry said. “She’ll only tell you. Saw your mug in the paper. A write-up about the San Fran Strangler case. Felt you were the man for the case.”

  Burn had singlehandedly caught the serial killer who had squeezed the life out of fifteen women, and the arrest had made the front page. The killer was a madman who believed that his victims were alien oranges sent to Earth to take over the citrus drink market. At every crime scene he had left a Valencia with the words “Real Orange” written on the side. Turned out he was the proprietor of an independent juice stand called Real Orange Juice Bar over on Portola. As criminal masterminds go, he had been fairly easy to catch.

  “Yeah?” said Burn. “That was a good picture of me. Shutterbug got my good side.” He offered up his profile: a dark, jutting brow, a flattened nose, and a square jaw. “Maybe she fell in love with my brutish good looks.”

  “Yeah,” said Harry, “and maybe I’m a shoehorn.”

  Burn and Larry looked at Harry with surprise. This was the first joke Harry had cracked since the stock market crash.

  Larry broke the silence. “Listen, she’s out there in reception. Talk to her, find out what she needs, and give it to her. Anything you need on this case, you got.”

  “This broad has really gotten to you, Larry. I didn’t realize you were such a bag of mush.”

  Larry smiled. He picked up McDeere’s desk, held it in the air for ten seconds, and put it down gently on the cracked linoleum. “I ain’t nobody’s weak sister.” He walked to the door and turned back to Burn before opening it. “Just take the case. Good money in it, and Mrs. O’Hara ain’t too hard on the eyes.”