by Isaac Asimov
I took my place on the dais and looked at Reynolds.
“You can begin now,” he said kindly.
“Freddie Nerf. Her name was Jennie and she was my secretary and she was twenty-three and I loved her more than anything else on earth and knew I always would and my wife who is cold like you wouldn’t believe found out and told everybody on the west coast what I’d done and said we’d have to move thousands of miles away from ‘that tramp’, only Jennie wasn’t a tramp and I’ll never in my life see her again and I still love her so much and my wife keeps bringing the whole thing up and I try to forget because it hurts so much, but I know I’ll never be able to, especially with my wife reminding me all the time.”
“One minute, Fred.”
“I CAn’t STAND MY WIFE!” I yelled into the microphone as I left the platform.
Never in my thirty-nine and three-quarter years had I felt so good. Almost laughing from the pure pleasure of getting it out of my system, I took my seat and half-listened to the others. Owens, whose wife told his kids he was a dummy, and Quenton, whose wife had gone back to college and thought she was smarter than he was, and Smith, whose wife slept until noon and made him do all the housework, all the way down to Zugay, whose wife made all of his clothes so he went out looking like a hold-over from the Depression. Which he certainly did.
One guy, who hadn’t spoken, interested me. He was smiling. Actually sitting there with a big grin on his face. I was staring at him, wondering if I knew him, when Reynolds spoke.
“All right, men. Time to vote. George, hand out the paper and pencils, okay?”
“Vote?” I asked the man sitting next to me, whose wife hid his hairpiece when she didn’t want him going out.
“Sure. Vote for the one who has the lousiest wife.”
I scribbled down the name Freddie Nerf. After all, I did have the lousiest wife.
Glenn Reynolds collected the slips of paper and sorted them. In a few minutes he turned to face the men.
“For the first time, men” he said, “a new member has won. Fred Nerf. The one with the wife, you remember, who called his nice girlfriend a tramp.”
I half-rose as he congratulated me, feeling somewhat foolish and yet proud. It was indeed an honor.
And then all of them, all the sad-faced, beaten-down men gathered around me and shook my hand. Some of them actually had tears in their eyes as they patted me on the back.
Later, as we all went to the lounge to have a drink before going home, I found Reynolds at the end of the bar and went over to him with my drink.
“This is some deal!” I said. “It really, really felt good to get it out of my system! Whose idea was this club?”
“Mine,” he said. “We’ve met once a year for the last five years. I control the membership and I wanted you to be included this year. That wife of yours is really something, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “She sure is. How come you didn’t speak? Because it’s your club?”
“Oh, no. My wife passed away four years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling suddenly awkward. “That guy sitting over there, the one who’s had the big smile on his face all evening, who the heck is he?”
“Gary McClellan? He’s a plumber.”
“Oh, sure. Say, didn’t my wife tell me that McClellan’s wife died last year in some sort of horrible accident?”
Reynolds smiled broadly and patted me on the arm. “Of course, old man! McClellan was last year’s winner!”
Office Party
by Mary Bradford
Everett Willis left the main entrance of the industrial controls department at dusk after the Thanksgiving party at the office. He had hated being there, but it was the annual turkey-and-basket-of-cheer raffle and he had to oversee it. He had tried to stop the practice this year but everyone protested. Now the party was over — but the night wasn’t.
It was sleeting a fine coat of ice on the vast parking lot for three hundred company cars. Everyone else had gone home. Willis stayed to the end to make sure no one had passed out behind the Xerox machine. It was always a little lonesome finding your car the only one left, he thought, and a little eerie. His car was parked in the middle of the lot.
But one thing had been a master stroke this night. He smiled to himself. And it was all wrapped up inside the small gray cardboard box he was carrying close to this side. The box contained the kickback payoffs from the shipping crew he had caught selling company goods after circumventing inventory records. The office party had been the perfect night to split the cash he knew they’d received that afternoon. Now he could meet his new car payments and the mounting credit card bills that snowballed in each month.
The sodium lights cast a strange pall over the lot as he hurried toward his car. He waved goodnight to the security guard as he passed by the old man whose head was bundled up in a scarf against the biting cold. It would be three-quarters of an hour before he got home where his wife was waiting dinner and his eldest son was waiting impatiently for the car.
His son would leave early, and after dinner his wife would walk the two blocks to Walnut Lane to baby-sit for her sister for a few hours. His two younger children, as usual, would be glued to the TV set in the family room. Willis would put the money in the metal box in the locked cabinet above his tool bench in the basement.
He opened the door on the driver’s side, placing the box carefully on the back seat. He started to slide into the seat when he noticed a large woman slumped on the passenger seat. Startled, he jumped back out.
“For God’s sake, who are you? What are you doing here?”
The woman pulled herself up to a sitting position. She had a wild, unkempt black hair and was wearing a green polyester pantsuit which she overflowered like molten lava. She had on a green parka jacket with a hood of ratty-like fur framing her face. She was very, very drunk. “You take me where I want to go or I’ll scream. I’ll scream that Everett Willis attacked me in the plant’s parking lot, and the security guard’ll come running.”
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, getting back into the car out of the hard-driving sleet and wind.
“Who am I? That’s a good question. Whom am I?”
She turned full face toward Willis, who recoiled from the smell of cheap alcohol.
“I don’t know who I am. But I know where I want to go. Mr. Boyd of marketing put me in this car. Mr. Boyd said you were a great guy and would see that I got home. That was not a nice thing to do,” she broke out tearfully. “He should have taken me home himself, he should have. You take me to Mr. Boyd’s house, and we’ll tell him so, the two of us.”
Willis swore under his breath — Stan Boyd, the office clown. He’d get even with Boyd if it was the last thing he did. My God, he thought, of all nights for this to happen. He had the box with him. He had to get it home. And now that clown, Boyd, had dumped this on him.
“Why didn’t someone take you home? What happened?”
“We were having a party like yours in Building A, waiting for the raffle drawing, and some drinks were passed around. You know how it is at those parties. And they had the raffle and you know I never won anything in my whole life, not even when I was a kid, and you know what, Mr. Willis of industrial controls? Yes, I know you. I read the employees’ newsletter faithfully, very faithfully. You are in charge of shipping, you coach a Little League baseball team, you’re on the industrial controls bowling team, and you’re a Sunday school teacher. You have a wife and three children — one, two, three — and you have been with the company for ten years — one, two, three, four...”
Willis exploded. “Okay, you know all about me. What about you? I don’t remember seeing you around, Miss, or is it Mrs.? What’s your name and why did that clown, Boyd, bring you here?”
“I was telling you. I had never won anything in my whole life and you know what — I had to win that damn turkey! Now what the hell do I want with a twenty-pound turkey. I live alone. I don’t need a twenty-pound turke
y. I need...”
She tossed her head back and laughed. “You know I left that turkey on top of the file case and after this three-day holiday it will be a little ripe, don’t you think so, Mr. Willis of industrial controls? Say, let’s go get him. Let’s go get Mr. Boyd of marketing. Now, let’s go now. If you don’t, I’ll scream. You want to hear me? I can scream good and loud. I’ve had lots of practice.”
Willis sat back in the seat and rubbed his face in his hands. He felt hot and his throat was dry. The sleet was coming down heavier, and the windshield was icing up. He started the car to defrost the windshield.
“No cabs,” she said. “Don’t go back and call me a cab. Take me to Boyd or I scream.”
“I don’t know where the s.o.b. lives! And I’m expected home by six o’clock!”
“I know where he lives. It’s in Lakewood at the corner of Mulberry and Vine.”
It was hot and oppressive in the car. The alcoholic fumes and the stale aroma of cheap perfume were overwhelming. God, what can I do, he wondered. I could take her up to the night watchman, but I don’t want this to get around. No, it’s up to me to take care of it. I’m the senior official. It’s my responsibility. If I take her to Boyd’s, it will embarrass his family. His wife and mine are good friends.
“Look, I’ll take you to Boyd’s. But you stay in the car. I’ll do the talking. Is that understood?”
“Yeah, let’s go to Boyd’s.” She had a self-satisfied smile on her face, and she sunk lower in the seat. Willis opened the window on the driver’s side. The cold, biting air felt good against his hot, dry skin and the dryness of his throat.
“Remember, you stay in the car,” he ordered.
She looked at him through half-closed eyes.
“You know, Mr. Willis of industrial controls, I’m a woman who was never meant to be a career woman. I liked being a dumb housewife. Yeah, you’re looking at a liberated woman, Mr. Willis. I’ve got a lot to thank women’s lib for. My husband liberated me. He didn’t want to stand in the way of my development.
“That Boyd is a so-and-so. He had no right to put me in your car. I thought he was taking me home. I guess I got a wee bit drunk — or stoned — and I was slumped against the file case, and when he was closing up the place he found me. He was really swearing. He picked me up and brought me outside, and I thought he was going to take me home. That’s what I thought, Mr. Willis. That he would take me home. But, instead, he put me in your car and drove off in his own. And that was not a nice thing to do, was it?”
Willis drove the streets of Lakewood through the northwest residential section. He came to the corner of Mulberry and Vine. It was an area of large, pleasant homes. Boyd’s house was a two-story brick with green shutters and a two-garage. It was handsome and impressive.
Willis got out of the car. The sleet was coming down hard now, and he moved slowly across the slick flagstone walkway. The woman remained inside.
Boyd’s wife came to the door and invited him in. “No,” Willis said evenly, “if Stan could just come to the door, please. I have something to discuss with him.”
Boyd wasn’t home. Willis swore under his breath. What am I going to do now, he thought grimly as he returned to the car.
“Now what?” he said to the woman. “He’s not home. Now, look, whoever you are. This is not my fault. I have nothing to do with this. I should be home right now, not driving around with a... I’ve got to take you home or someplace. Do you live in an apartment, a house? Just tell me. Do you have any friends you could go to?”
She sank farther down in the seat. “I’m gettin’ cold. Let’s stop at Marty’s Coffee Shop and get some hot black coffee.”
The coffee shop was empty except for two men at the counter sitting on stools. A young waitress slowly wiped off the table tops of the booths. Willis guided the woman into a booth where she wedged herself into the corner. She seemed to be a little more manageable. The drunkenness was wearing off a bit, he hoped fervently.
The waitress brought them mugs of hot black coffee. The woman sipped the coffee slowly, much to Willis’ relief.
“Look, I’ve got to call home. I’ll be right back,” he said. The phone booth was at the front of the coffee shop. He saw the woman get up and go to the ladies’ room at the back of the shop. He put the box of cash beside the telephone.
His wife’s voice was frantic. “Where are you? What’s happened?” She listened attentively and patiently, as he knew she would. He explained slowly and carefully all that had happened. She was understanding but apprehensive.
The woman was sitting in the booth when he came back from the phone. She had straightened up considerably. She seemed much younger. Her hair was combed, her face freshly made up, and the dark green print scarf at her neck was tied in a fashionable bow.
She lit a cigarette and looked evenly at Willis.
“I do a pretty convincing drunk, don’t I? I’ve had enough practice. I can also be a salesclerk, a garden club president, a mother-in-law waiting for her kids to show up, and a new clerk in the accounting division of a large company. I’m one of twelve women in this state licensed to be a private investigator. I’m fifty-five years old, a grandmother, and being an old lady is no stumbling block in this work.”
Willis’ face had gone ashen white.
“That box you have with you, Willis. Mr. Boyd and another company man are coming in the front door now. And if it’s cash payments for all those company machines and supplies you and the shipping crew have been funneling off on the side, you’ll have to explain it to them.”
Her face was calm and serene — and smiling. Now she looked like what she really was — somebody’s sweet old grandmother.
Comes the Dawn
by Michael Kurland
The sun was just sending its slanting rays over the mountains to the East, etching the pattern of the adobe rooftops into the walls of the buildings across the street, when the first daylight patrol of the Guardias Municipales found the twisted body of what had been a man lying in the dust. At first they thought it was just another looter...
Civil insurrection, even in a country where it is almost the normal pattern of life, is always an ugly thing. Whether it is right or wrong, good or evil, necessary or irrelevant, it is the handmaiden of chaos. Looting, raping, fire, and death are always within its domain. Its borders spread, and are not sharp or distinct. Unconnected events are swept before it as flotsam before the ocean tide.
Manuel Hispoza Forgas had a brother. This brother’s name was Philippe. Manuel did not like Philippe; a feeling which was reciprocated. These brothers lived in widely separate parts of the city and saw each other but seldom. Philippe’s dislike for his brother remained fairly constant through the passing years, he preferred to just not ever think about Manuel. Manuel’s feeling festered and grew into a supreme, blinding hatred; he could not help but think about Philippe constantly.
Philippe and Manuel shared jointly in their father’s estate. Philippe prospered with his portion, establishing a small furniture shop which grew into a major store over the years. Manuel tended to try more speculative ventures: mostly at the racetrack and cockfight. As Philippe’s fortunes rose, Manuel’s fell; and Manuel’s dislike of his brother increased.
It is incidental, perhaps, that Philippe married the very girl that Manuel, on afterthought, decided he would have liked to marry. It is predicatable that, of all the houses in the city, Manuel was most fond of the one in which Philippe happened to live.
Manuel’s hatred of his brother drove him to thoughts of murder. Shooting, strangulation, poison, defenestration; murder by axe, knife, car; all these fancies and more took up a large part of his imagination. He planned accidental deaths, locked room murders, and murders of passion. He read detective stories, true crime books, and medical journals. He became cognizant of every famous killer from Cain to Torquemada, from Richard III to Lizzie Borden. That he restrained from committing that most horrible and fascinating of all crimes can be attributed only to
one fact — Manuel’s extreme cowardice. These famous murderers, Manuel would reflect when reading about Mrs. Simms or Doctor Crippen, became famous not because they committed murder, but because they got caught. Manuel didn’t have a very high regard for the local police, but if there were the slightest chance — however small — of hanging for his crime, Manuel would keep it a secret dream.
The wonderful idea came to Manuel on the second day of the insurrection. On the evening of the third day he went to find Philippe to tell him about it. Philippe, who as usual was working late in his store after the clerks had gone home, let Manuel in when he knocked.
“You want something?” Philippe asked.
“Don’t be unfriendly,” Manuel replied. “I’ve come here this evening out of concern for you. The riots in this part of the city are horrible: looting, burning, killing.”
“I’m touched that you have such concern for me,” Philippe commented, and went back to his desk. “But you could have seen me at the house, I have to be leaving soon.”
“Ah, yes. The curfew starts shortly, doesn’t it?” Manuel asked.
“It does. And I don’t want to have to spend the night here.”
“If the riots start again tonight, aren’t you afraid the store will be looted, or perhaps burned?”
“I should think that would please you,” Philippe commented. “I think the Giuirdias Municipales have the situation well under control. Besides, I carry heavy insurance.”
“Ah!” Manuel shrugged. “Insurance, of course.” He sat down on the desk Philippe was working at, and leaned over Philippe. “Before you leave,” he said, “I want to tell you of the brilliant idea I had yesterday. I’ve been thinking about it for two days, and it seems perfect. Perhaps you can find a flaw in it?”
Philippe threw down his pencil. “You’re sitting right on the papers I’ve been trying to work on. I don’t give a fig for your ideas — get up and get out of here!”
“Ah, but this idea concerns you,” Manuel said. He took a large, heavy revolver from under his shirt, and pointed it at his brother.
