EQMM, September-October 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Dex explained about the disturbing tractor noises. Victor started shaking his head before he finished.

  "I sold that tractor to you as is,” he said.

  Dex was tempted to use bad language again, but didn't. Instead he asked Victor if he wouldn't mind taking a look at the tractor. Maybe because he used to own it he would know what was wrong with it.

  "You got any metric wrenches?” Dex said.

  Dex drove them back to his place. He saw Victor glance at the side yard of the house as they passed, where Maeve used to hang the bed sheets on the clothesline. She said they smelled better when they were air-dried. Dex wondered if that was true, why she didn't dry everything that way. They wouldn't have needed a new dryer. Or a washer, either.

  "Maeve still at her sister's?” Victor said, breaking the silence that had descended when they got into the truck. His voice was slightly accented.

  Dex grunted. He parked the truck and led the way into the barn.

  "What the hell?” Victor eyed the peahen.

  "She likes looking at the washing machine.” Dex said.

  "It's a peafowl.” Victor took out his cell phone.

  Peafowl. Leave it to Victor to know the word. Dex started the tractor. Victor scowled, pressed the phone against his ear, and kept talking. Dex let the tractor run.

  Victor closed the phone. “Sounds fine to me."

  Dex grunted and lifted the hood.

  Victor looked over the engine without touching it.

  "Looks fine to me."

  Dex felt a rush of anger. The tractor, Dex, nothing was fine. They'd never be fine again, and Victor knew it. Dex picked up the biggest of Victor's metric wrenches and pointed.

  "What about that part there?"

  Victor leaned over to see what Dex was pointing at. The wrench hit the base of Victor's skull with a dull thud that Dex felt in his stomach.

  The peahen never looked away from the washing machine.

  Dex set down the metric wrench. It had worked just as well as his big one with the oversized head.

  He rolled Victor's body into a tarp, then hoisted it onto the scraper attachment. Pain shot through his lower back. The muscles were still sore from lifting Maeve.

  Dex put a sack of lime on top of the rolled-up tarp. He'd have to buy more in Boise. Already he'd picked up the season's order from the hardware in town.

  The sun shone through the barn door. Dust motes swirled. Two hours left in the farming day. Dex climbed onto the tractor. At least the ground wouldn't be near-frozen this time.

  He drove the tractor out of the barn. The peahen didn't flinch.

  It was almost dark when Dex drove the tractor back up the hill. No shriek. Maybe everything was fixed now.

  Dex climbed off the tractor. He noticed the peahen still standing in front of the washer, staring at the red light.

  "Show's over,” Dex said. He punched the On/Off button. The red light went off.

  The bird stared at Dex as though she couldn't believe what he had done. As Dex headed into the house to strip off his clothes and burn them, the peahen opened her beak and the air shattered and Dex understood in that moment that the noise had not come from the tractor.

  A car bumped up the driveway. A sheriff's deputy leaned his head out the window. He wore a baseball cap that said Animal Control across the front.

  "Hey, Mr. Peters,” he said. “Got a call about a peahen. Do you know where I can find Victor Rossi?"

  (c)2008 by Twist Phelan

  * * * *

  That's the radio, Allison, but I caught the symbolism.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THE ROCK by Edward D. Hoch

  Here, for the first time in print in the U. S., is a story Edward D. Hoch wrote for the British anthology I.D.: Crimes of Identity (edited by Martin Edwards) in 2006. Readers in search of more new Hoch stories should look for a copy of Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, which contains the new Hoch tale “The Automaton Museum.” Next month we'll be featuring the last story the great short-story writed worked on, completed by Jon. L. Breen.

  Linda O'Toole had been in Gibraltar only a few hours when a rumpled little man stopped her in the lobby of the Rock Hotel and asked, “Pardon me, but are you Laura Nostrum?"

  "That's right,” she agreed. “Can I help you?"

  "I'm Liam Fitzhugh with the London Daily Mail. Do you have any comment on the Internet news story stating that you're an undercover agent for the Central Intelligence Agency?"

  Linda gave him her brightest smile. “I can't imagine what you're talking about. I'm here representing Osage Investment Corporation at the Casino Conference."

  "Then you deny any involvement with the CIA?"

  "I certainly do. If you'll excuse me now, I have a meeting to attend.” When he showed no interest in stepping aside, she walked around him and out of the hotel.

  * * * *

  Gibraltar, a slender peninsula extending south from Spain and separated from it by a kilometer-wide neutral zone, might have seemed an odd venue for the first worldwide casino conference, but among the attending nations it seemed both centrally located and relatively independent of foreign influence. True, Gibraltar was an overseas territory of the United Kingdom, but “overseas” was the operative word. Its reputation as an international conference center was well earned. This was not the same as having such a conference in London or Las Vegas or Monaco, where the influence of local casinos could well control the agenda. Gibraltar had only two land-based casinos, both quite a bit smaller than the average American ones, and both located on Europa Road. One was in the Rock Hotel where Linda was staying, a long white multi-story building that blended well with its surrounding gardens.

  At the nearby theater where the meeting was taking place she stopped at the registration desk and identified herself as Laura Nostrum. The ID badge was waiting for her. She pinned it on her jacket and started into the auditorium, then changed her mind and headed for the ladies’ room instead. Inside one of the stalls she took out her cell phone and punched in a familiar number in a Paris suburb. When the connection was made she didn't speak but merely punched in another series of numbers. She received an answering beep, closed her cell phone, and left the room.

  Back at the theater, the first man she met was a bearded Frenchman named Pierre Zele. He carried an ivory-knobbed cane, leaned down for a better look at her ID badge, and introduced himself. “I am here on behalf of the casino at Monte Carlo,” he told her, “and I am president of our association this year. I trust this little conference I helped organize can accomplish something, Miss Nostrum."

  "Please call me Laura. I represent Osage Investments."

  "They are one of your Native American tribes. No?"

  "Well, there is an Osage tribe, but we have no connection with them. We have a proposal to make regarding the investment of casino profits. I'll be addressing your conference tomorrow morning."

  Pierre Zele eyed her with new interest, studying her ID badge as if to memorize the name. She wondered if he had seen the Internet report the Daily Mail reporter had mentioned. “I will be listening with interest,” he promised, and turned away.

  The afternoon sessions were under way when she entered the theater, but progressing slowly as remarks were translated into English and French. After some thirty minutes she exited, along with a slender young man whose nametag read Michael Patrick, Ireland.

  "Gets a bit boring, doesn't it, sitting through those translations?” he observed as they reached the outer lobby. “They should use simultaneous translators like the UN."

  "That would be more expensive,” she told him, glancing again at his nametag. “You're Irish."

  "Guilty. Since we both ducked out of there together, could I buy you a drink at the hotel bar?"

  "Sure, why not?"

  They walked around the corner and up the hill to the Rock Hotel. Though the main casino didn't open until nine in the evening, the slot machines were in operation from noon on. Their familiar clangi
ng could be heard even in the hotel's cocktail lounge. “Is this your first trip to Gibraltar?” he asked after they'd ordered whiskey and water.

  "It is. I'm anxious to see the apes."

  Michael Patrick smiled at her. “They're actually tailless monkeys known as Barbary Macaques. British sailors brought the first ones here after the Royal Navy captured the stronghold in seventeen oh-four. There are more than a hundred and sixty now, each one named at birth, but they almost died out during World War Two and Churchill famously took steps to insure their survival. Tradition had it that when the apes were gone, the British would be gone too."

  "You know a great deal,” she said, sipping her whiskey. “Apes or monkeys, I'd like to see them."

  "That's easily arranged. They're in two areas. The best for viewing is the Apes’ Den at Queen's Gate, right up the hill behind this hotel. And surely you'll want to view the Rock itself from the observation deck. We can reach it by cable car. I'd be pleased to give you a tour tomorrow."

  She shook her head. “I have to read a paper at the morning session."

  "Perhaps later, then."

  "I thought casinos were still illegal in Ireland. What brings you here?"

  "Commercial casinos are illegal, but there are a number of private members’ clubs throughout the country. We have seven in Dublin alone. I manage one of the smaller ones.” He passed her his card, with a lucky clover embossed in green. “If you're ever up that way, come see our place. I'll get you members’ privileges."

  "Thank you, kind sir,” she said, tucking the card away in her purse. Glancing toward the bar, she spotted the British journalist, Liam Fitzhugh, eyeing her. Time to move on, she decided. “And thanks for the drink. I have to go now."

  Later that evening, after the full casino was in operation, she wandered in and spent some time at the roulette wheel. It was American-style roulette, with both the zero and double zero. She noticed the Frenchman, Zele, avoiding the table.

  "Are you enjoying yourself, mademoiselle?” a handsome foreign gentleman asked after she'd won on three spins in a row.

  "I am indeed, but I'm no mademoiselle. I'm American."

  "Ah, yes!” He glanced at her ID badge, which she'd neglected to remove. “Laura Nostrum, I am Bert Stein."

  "German?"

  He smiled. “Born there, but I've lived in Spain for thirty years."

  "Are you attending the casino conference?"

  "Yes,” he replied, remembering to take the ID badge from his pocket. “It is a good excuse to visit the Rock, which should belong to Spain."

  "You want Gibraltar back?"

  "Most certainly,” he said with conviction. “It is the most famous rock in the world, even more famous than Ayers Rock in Australia. There have been referendums from time to time, but always the people vote to remain a British dependency."

  She placed a few chips on the red and lost. “I guess my luck just changed. I'd better quit while I'm ahead."

  "If you'd like a tour of the Rock—"

  "Thanks. I've already had an offer."

  * * * *

  In the morning the theater was filled as the casino session got under way in earnest. Pierre Zele said a few words by way of introduction, and then it was Linda's turn. She came directly to the point. “I'm here on behalf of Osage Investments, a small international company with big plans. It seemed fitting that this first casino conference be held here in Gibraltar, where we can actually look across from the rock to the poorest continent, just thirteen kilometers away. Africa needs our help. It needs our money. There can be no better use for the billions of dollars and pounds and euros that would otherwise be reinvested in newer and larger casinos."

  She went on from there, making a passionate case, but already she was aware of some eyes glazing over, some hands discreetly hiding a morning yawn. This was not what they'd come to hear, at least not from Laura Nostrum. After her talk there was a scattering of polite applause and already the next speaker was being announced. Pierre Zele met her on the way out. “Miss Nostrum, that was an interesting talk, but not the subject we expected."

  "I decided to change the subject,” she told him.

  "Has your agency shifted its priority to Africa?” he asked, with a shade of emphasis on the word agency.

  "Osage Investments has several priorities."

  She continued on her way, walking around the corner to the wooded botanical gardens across the street from her hotel. Seated near the statue of the Duke of Wellington, she smoked a cigarette and watched the spray from a nearby fountain. A blond woman about her own age was strolling nearby, carrying a black tote bag that might have contained a laptop computer. Linda ground out her cigarette and started walking again, west toward the bay. When she reached Rosia Road she turned south, heading for the harbor and dock area. She reached a building called Jumper's Bastion and paused as the blond woman came up to her.

  "Are you thinking of jumping?” she asked Linda.

  "What? You startled me!"

  "It's not an invitation to suicides. It was named after Captain Jumper, the first British officer to land on Gibraltar."

  "Interesting,” Linda said, avoiding the woman's eyes.

  "This is one of the best harbors around.” Her casual tone suddenly disappeared and she asked, “Who are you?"

  "What?” Linda pointed to the badge still pinned to her jacket. “Laura Nostrum."

  The woman shook her head, almost sadly. “No, you're not. I'm Laura Nostrum. I believe your name is Linda O'Toole, since that was the only ID badge left unclaimed this morning."

  "Maybe I picked up the wrong one."

  "Maybe you did. Are you a reporter?"

  Linda almost laughed at the idea. “No. I'm representing Osage Investments. We're trying to funnel investment money into Africa to help the economy there."

  "What made you think you could use my identity?"

  She sighed and tried to explain. “I saw on the convention schedule that you were speaking this morning in a prime time slot. That reporter Fitzhugh asked if I was Laura Nostrum and I just said yes. When he mentioned the CIA connection and I saw your ID badge was unclaimed I figured you'd canceled because of the press. So I just said I was you and spoke in your place."

  Laura Nostrum studied her with steely eyes. “Your explanation is hard to accept. You told that reporter you were me before he mentioned the CIA. Why would you do that unless you were already planning to impersonate me?"

  "I saw the item on the Internet, too. The reporter's mistake gave me an opportunity to switch identities."

  "You felt safer being mistaken for a CIA agent than being plain Linda O'Toole?” When Linda didn't answer she continued. “That reporter, Liam Fitzhugh, was murdered early this morning, stabbed to death in the gardens across from our hotel."

  "Oh no!"

  "Yes. And the police seem to think Laura Nostrum might have killed him for spreading the news of her identity."

  * * * *

  It was true. Fitzhugh had left the casino when it closed at four A.M. and someone had stabbed him along the Europa Road near the gardens. His wallet was untouched. As she listened to Nostrum relate the events, Linda felt a stab of fear not unlike the blade that must have ended Fitzhugh's life. “Did you kill him?” she asked.

  "I had nothing to do with his death. I represent an international on-line casino company. That's all you need to know. The only reason I contacted you at all was to warn you. If people believe you're me, your life could be in danger."

  "Why is the CIA interested in casinos anyway?” Linda wanted to know. “Is this some American scheme to balance the budget?"

  Linda Nostrum was not amused. She glanced around and motioned toward a nearby cafe with sidewalk tables. “Let's have a drink and we'll talk some more."

  They ordered a couple of Tuskers, an African beer whose popularity had spread across the Strait, and Nostrum leaned her tote bag against the table leg between them. It was Linda's first chance to study the other woman and she saw a slende
r frame with an attractive face and blond hair pulled back and knotted behind her head. She was a bit taller than Linda, and her face was dead serious as she spoke. “First of all, forget about the CIA. If I did have a connection with them I couldn't reveal it."

  "All right."

  "Just what did Liam Fitzhugh say to you?"

  "He asked me if my name was Laura Nostrum. I suppose we're about the same age and coloring. I saw my opportunity and said yes. Then he mentioned something that was on the Internet about my being with the CIA. I wasn't the one he wanted so I just denied it and walked on."

  "But you picked up my ID badge. Do you have any idea what this is all about?"

  "No,” Linda admitted.

  The woman opposite lowered her voice, though there was no one close enough to overhear their conversation. “Do you realize how much money is skimmed off the top of casino profits each year? There was a time decades ago when the money from Las Vegas helped support organized crime. Today, with so many nations involved, it's difficult to determine where some of those casino profits go. I planned to address the issue in my talk, to warn that some of it might be funneled to terrorist organizations."

  "Then maybe I did some good suggesting it go to the African—” She stopped suddenly as a Gibraltar Police car pulled up at the curb.

  Two officers got out and the driver asked, “Are you Laura Nostrum?"

  Both women exchanged glances and the real Laura Nostrum stood up. “That's me. What can I do for you?"

  "We'd like you to accompany us to the station,” he told her. “It's concerning the death of Mr. Liam Fitzhugh."

  "I know nothing about that."

  "We only wish to question you and take a statement."

  "Very well.” She glanced back at Linda, as if to convey some message. Then she climbed into the backseat of the patrol car with one of the officers.

  Linda watched the car disappear down Rosia Road. It was only then that she realized the black tote bag still rested against the leg of their table. She picked it up and started back to the hotel. When she reached the lobby she knew the news of the reporter's killing was spreading. It was the German Spaniard from the casino who intercepted her on the way to the elevator.