AHMM, July-August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I don't understand. What's happening?"

  "Mr. Johnson,” Waxman began with a weary sigh. “Many of the scientists and theoreticians in Germany were not friends of your country. Some of them accepted every word the Nazis spoke. Had the timeline been slightly different, it could have been New York and Washington going up in smoke and flames rather than Hiroshima and Nagasaki. This man you saw in the Ethiopian desert was in Hitler's nuclear research program. What better place to hide than Harlem? Hide among the invisible and you become invisible. With a device as small as one of these crates, they could destroy this city and all of its people."

  German thought he felt his heart stop. His mouth was dry. He could feel the flesh peeling from his bones just like the pictures in Life magazine.

  They both heard a soft thump. A closing door, perhaps, disrupted the stillness.

  Waxman looked toward the stairway and backed into the shadows.

  "Get behind me,” he whispered.

  "The light!” German exclaimed.

  "Don't worry about that,” Waxman replied.

  The four men were halfway down the steps when the man in the lead stopped. He said something to the others in a foreign language before taking another cautious step downward. He looked around the poorly illuminated room suspiciously.

  German gripped his pistol tightly. He could feel his heart pounding with anticipation. The man had remembered that the light should have been off.

  Suddenly Waxman made a move, and German's anxiety accelerated.

  Waxman stepped out of the shadows and fired point blank into the first man's chest from no more than five feet away. As the first man fell, the others stumbled over each other in their panicked attempt to escape, but Waxman kept firing.

  German bounded out of the shadows. Three men lay bleeding on the stairway. The fourth one—the balding man with the penetrating eyes—stood with his back plastered against the wall, but he wasn't moving. His eyes appeared glazed, and bubbles of blood emanated from his trembling lips.

  "Shoot him!” Waxman yelled.

  German just stared at the man. His hands were sweating and trembling as he walked closer to him.

  Waxman was frantically trying to reload his revolver.

  "Shoot him, dammit! He killed your wife!"

  German took another step toward the man. The expression on the man's face was not one of fear or anger. It was surprise.

  "I don't know your wife,” he gurgled.

  The sound of his voice prompted a rage in German. He shot him without hesitation—once, twice, and a third time after he fell.

  German couldn't stop trembling. It wasn't as he had imagined. There was no feeling of satisfaction. There was no fulfillment. He felt ugly inside.

  "The first one is always the most difficult,” Waxman said, but it was no consolation.

  There was more noise upstairs. With amazing speed, German's gun was suddenly pointing toward the top of the stairs.

  Waxman quickly moved in front of him and pushed his arm aside.

  "It's all right,” he said.

  To German's amazement, several men wearing coveralls moved past them down the stairs and began gathering the papers. They hovered over the crates with equipment German had never seen.

  "Geiger counters,” Waxman explained.

  German sat on the floor and cried for the first time since Angelina's funeral.

  German watched several minutes of hushed discussions between Waxman and the men in coveralls before Waxman approached him and informed him that they had to leave.

  "What about all of this?” he asked.

  "They will take care of it,” Waxman replied.

  "What's in the crates?"

  "Nothing. Tobacco. Cigars."

  They went up the stairs into the store.

  "But you said..."

  "Look, we didn't find what we were looking for,” Waxman interjected impatiently. “There was no evidence of radioactivity down here. That's good. That means that perhaps nothing has been imported into your country yet."

  German stood stiffly. For a moment he was frozen by his thoughts.

  Waxman looked at him with a curious expression.

  "What is it?” he asked.

  "They weren't armed,” German said. “We killed four men, and they weren't armed. I mean, if they were dangerous spies, wouldn't they have been armed?"

  "Their papers indicated they were interested in explosives. You know their history. You think we should have waited?"

  "They had no guns."

  "They killed your wife."

  "He said he didn't know my wife."

  "You believe him?"

  They left it there. They walked together for a time but said very little to each other, then Waxman shook German's hand and walked down a side street and was never seen again.

  * * * *

  Six months later, German was beginning to live again. He had found work, and the pain in his heart was finally beginning to diminish. He saw Irella Hardy as he entered his apartment building and transiently thought that he might linger at the entrance in hopes of avoiding her. She wasn't really so bad, just an elderly busybody who rarely ventured outside her apartment but still managed to keep up with everyone's business.

  She spotted him and smiled pleasantly as she waited for him to approach.

  "Mr. Johnson, I never got a chance to express my sympathy. I was so sorry to hear about your loss."

  "Thank you,” he replied, hoping his terse response would be a sufficient end to the conversation.

  "They ever arrest that man who was over here that night?"

  "What man?” German asked, suddenly interested in Irella Hardy's words.

  "I told the police all about him. I don't appreciate strangers hanging around here."

  "A stranger? Did you see him go near my apartment?"

  "I don't know, son. I was scared, so I closed my door. He was so big he looked like a big black giant with them gold teeth shining like they was headlights."

  German's mouth dropped open. It couldn't have been. It was impossible. German mumbled something unintelligible and walked away.

  His pain returned in an instant. All of his memories and the agony of Angelina's death came back as if it had happened yesterday. The drawer of his dresser had the only answer he was willing to accept, the gun that Waxman had given him. He stared at it for several seconds before shoving it into his pocket and hurrying out of the door.

  * * * *

  The street was dark, but he moved along the familiar route without hesitation. Although lost in thought, his feet moved deftly around a corner and down Lenox, past the tobacco store where the light faded from the eyes of the man he had feared. He hadn't been on this street since the killings. He looked up at the building, almost stunned by what he saw. The building was boarded up and plastered with warning signs. A uniformed police officer stood on the corner warning people to keep moving.

  "What happened here?” German asked the officer.

  "Don't know. Government business. They condemned this building four months ago. Some kind of contamination on the upper floors. They don't tell us what's what. They got us here round the clock to make sure nobody goes inside. They come down here every day inspecting and testing. I tell you, I'm getting pretty damn tired of this. Hell, it's cold out here."

  German nodded and moved away. So it wasn't in the basement, he mused. Somehow that didn't make him feel much better. He had killed a man. Maybe he was a bad man, but looking the man in the eye while pulling a trigger stole something from him he could never regain. He had consoled himself with the knowledge that the man was a killer who had taken the only person he had ever loved. Now, he wouldn't even have that to help him to rationalize his deeds.

  The Royce was busy. The waiters who knew him were clearly surprised at his presence.

  "Where's Leonard?” German asked one of them.

  "Haven't you heard? Leonard's in the hospital, man. He's pretty bad. They don't expect him to make it."


  German suddenly had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. That couldn't be. He was determined to find Leonard and do what he had intended. He needed to do this for his own sanity. He couldn't bear to breathe the same air as the man who had killed his Angelina.

  * * * *

  Harlem Hospital's rectangular edifice sprang into the night sky. German walked through the doors adjacent to the emergency entrance and was obscured by its perpetual organized chaos. He was directed to Leonard Royce's room and stood outside his door steeling himself for what he knew he must do.

  He stepped inside with his hand in his coat pocket and the pistol firmly in his grip. He was startled by what he saw. Leonard Royce lay still, with his eyes closed as if unaware of German's entry. His once muscular frame had become an emaciated shell. His skin, devoid of its subcutaneous tissue, had become only a covering for his skull.

  German found it difficult to look at Leonard. He stood at the bedside and pointed the pistol at Leonard's head. Nothing mattered anymore except the need to stop the pain that raged inside of him. Only the cessation of Leonard's breathing could satisfy the anger he felt.

  German's finger pressured the trigger. He was surprised at how easy it seemed to be.

  Royce's eyes suddenly opened, and the unexpected development momentarily unnerved German. His finger relaxed as he observed Leonard's labored breathing. He appeared to be straining to focus on German. His eyes shifted from German to the gun. His lips began to tremble as he managed a hoarse whisper.

  "I never meant to hurt her."

  The big man began to cry, but it meant nothing to German. German already had blood on his hands, but it was the wrong blood. He could see the scenario unfold in his mind. Royce, with all of his personal failures, had come to covet acquisitions as symbols of his success. Angelina was elegantly beautiful—too beautiful to waste her life with a mere waiter. She was the kind of woman Royce would think deserved to be with him.

  Angelina would have been surprised by his presence at her door, but his familiarity would have provided her with enough comfort to let him in. She would have been disgusted and repulsed by his attempts to approach her. She would have pushed him away, fought him.

  German couldn't bear the thoughts anymore. He jerked the weapon back toward Leonard's head. Waxman had been right. The first time was the most difficult.

  "I always wanted to go back home to Jamaica."

  Leonard's voice was barely discernible. German's hand trembled as a moment of indecision crept back into his mind.

  He was looking at a breathing dead man—a living skeleton. A bullet in the head would be a blessing, and why should Leonard have that? This slow, agonizing death was exactly what he deserved. What could be any better than Leonard Royce dying by inches in the stench of his own excrement? He pulled the gun away and slipped it back into his pocket.

  As he backed toward the door he imagined he could see the disappointment in Leonard's eyes. Death would not be his rescuer today. There was a certain satisfaction in that.

  "Excuse me, are you a relative?"

  A physician with a white smock approached him as he left the room.

  "Uh ... yes, a cousin,” German lied quickly.

  The doctor pulled him to the side and in a sympathetic voice informed him of the hopelessness of Leonard's condition. He was dying of metastatic thyroid cancer. Like a number of others who had frequented the tobacco shop, he had suffered from repeated exposure from a radiation source that had been hidden on an upper floor. Since it had been stored in crates of tobacco products, the cigars Leonard liked to smoke were contaminated as well.

  German walked out of the rear of the hospital and into the Harlem night. He walked past his apartment and past a hundred dark streets. He kept walking. He walked until he saw the sun being reborn on the eastern horizon. It was a beacon, like the spirit of Angelina leading him to a new beginning.

  Copyright (c) 2007 L. A. Wilson, Jr.

  * * * *

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  SCHOOL FOR BURGLARS by Melodie Campbell

  He was a well-dressed burglar, Marge had to admit. The black turtleneck fit his lean body in a manner most Italian, and the jeans were unmistakably Gap. He was clean shaven, dark haired, and wore a thin black mask à la Zorro. Not a bad look at all, she mused, although on the whole, damned inconvenient at the moment.

  Marge leaned against the kitchen doorframe and took a sip from her mug. He must be okay at the break-and-enter part, as Max hadn't heard a thing. Well, if Max wouldn't growl, she could.

  "What do you want?” she said, drawling.

  The burglar looked up with a start. A shiny black pistol appeared in his hand.

  "Your money,” he said in a low voice.

  Marge laughed. “My money? You want my money? You and a thousand others, Zorro. Take a number and get in line.” This was too much. As if the bank report hadn't been enough for one day. What else could bloody well happen...

  Marge eyed the intruder intently. Poor kid, he looked confused; this obviously hadn't been a situation covered in course 101 at the school for burglary. Marge watched him shift from one foot to the other, while trying to steady the gun.

  She nodded to it. “Where'd you get the gun?"

  The burglar started. “Wot?"

  "The black shiny thing in your hand. Where'd you get it?"

  He looked down at the weapon. “This guy from Toronto..."

  Marge snorted. “You kids, these days. Spoiled rotten. In my day, we had to go to Buffalo.” Marge took another sip. “Is it loaded?"

  "Of course."

  "Then will you do me a favor? Can you aim for that chartreuse vase over there?” She pointed to a shelf in the adjoining dining room. “Ghastly thing. My mother-in-law gave it to me. Please shoot it."

  "No!"

  "Then give it to me, and I'll shoot it.” Marge set her mug down on the faded wood-grain countertop and reached for the pistol.

  "Christ, no!” He appeared aghast. “It'll make a noise!"

  "Then why do you carry it if you don't want to make a noise?"

  The burglar ran a shaky left hand through his hair. “To scare you."

  "Oh,” Marge said carelessly. �
��Want some coffee? It's Starbuck's.” She reached for the pot on the counter. The burglar yelped and dropped the gun. Both hands shot up to protect his face, and just as swiftly, Marge moved forward to pick up the firearm. She held it up in her right hand and peered down the sights.

  "Christ, are you crazy?” The man in black peeked through fingers.

  "Crazy?” Marge looked up, startled. “Am I crazy? You're the one who comes bursting in here with a gun you don't even have the decency to use, asking me for money. And you think I'm crazy? Have you looked at this place? Is there anything here you'd want?"

  She marched into the dining room, signaling with the gun for the intruder to follow. An ancient bulldog lay sleeping in the sun in front of the bay window. He opened one eye, then closed it and rolled over.

  Marge grabbed a bowl off the fireplace mantel with one hand. “Here. Like this? Take it. I hate it. Want the ashtray? It's ugly.” She shoved the bowl into the burglar's arms.

  "Want this picture?” Her free hand reached for it. “It's my husband. He's a bum. Mother was right. Don't you hate it when your mother's right? You don't want it? No? Neither do I.” Marge threw the framed photo on the hardwood and stomped on it. The glass made a pretty bell-tinkle sound.

  "Lady, you're nuts!” He put the bowl carefully down on the dining table and tried to inch his way back to the kitchen. The dog lifted his head and growled. All movement stopped.

  "There isn't a damn thing in this house worth a damn thing.” Marge grumbled and glanced around. So this is what her life had come to. Entertaining a Gap-clad burglar in the shoddy remains of a faded dream home. What could she begin to offer him that was worth taking? It was embarrassing, that's what it was. There was a time when she would have been proud to show any thief through her stylish home, and there would have been lots to interest him, oh yes. But that was then and this was now. That was before the high-tech crash, and the midlife crisis, and Bipsy or Popsy, or whoever the hell she was.