Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/10

by Dell Magazines

  She swivels on the stool, looking out toward the door of the lounge, glancing at her watch.

  In the five minutes since Charlie has settled himself comfortably into a corner booth, she’s done that twice.

  Waiting for someone.

  When she turns like that, Charlie gets a good frontal view, and it’s just as impressive as the profile. Long dark hair, thin face, but not bony. Purple dress, maybe black, hard to tell in this light, but he can see it fits perfectly. Nice full lips. Big expressive eyes.

  Looking at him right now.

  Charlie’s a little startled, like he’s been caught peeking into a window, holding her gaze for several seconds. She looks right at him, and Charlie breaks the eye contact first, surprising himself, thinking, damn, I’m blushing here, thankful for the muted lighting.

  She turns back to the front. Doesn’t look in the big mirror that runs the length of the bar. Doesn’t have to. She knows how she looks.

  Elegant, thinks Charlie. He’d heard a friend’s mother use the word once when he was a kid and he’d liked it ever since. She’d been talking about a house somebody had redecorated. “Very elegant,” she’d said. It had conjured up the unknown room in Charlie’s mind and he could see it. Elegant. Not gaudy. Graceful. Classy.

  This woman looks elegant. Elegantly sexy. The “sexy” part is hard to keep out of the equation.

  She looks confident.

  Charlie watches the bartender pour her drink. Elegant lady with drop-dead looks drinking Jack with a splash. He has to smile.

  The bartender finally gives it up. He’s been hanging in front of her, talking non-stop, she listening, nodding now and then, not being rude, but not encouraging him either. He eventually moves on down the bar and starts talking sports with a guy who must be a salesman.

  She looks at the bottles behind the bar. Once in a while out across the room. Every now and then at Charlie.

  When she looks the other way, Charlie can’t help it. He sneaks a glance at himself in the mirror, straightens his tie, pats down a wayward strand of hair.

  He is wondering if he should offer to buy her a drink when the salesman moves over and sits on the stool next to her. It’s too far away for Charlie to hear, but he can see her smile and shake her head no.

  Now the salesman is gesturing, “Oh, come on, just one little drink.”

  She leans over and says something to him, and he frowns a minute and then goes back to his stool without another word. About a minute later, still a little blank looking, he pays his tab and leaves.

  So much for that idea, thinks Charlie. He’s no slouch with the ladies, but this one . . . She’s at a level all her own.

  Besides, Charlie’s here on business. Better to avoid any unnecessary involvement, even with someone like her.

  There is only a modest crowd in the bar. Probably typical for a Tuesday night in Kansas City, Charlie imagines; he’s been here a lot, but can’t recall ever being here on a Tuesday.

  Charlie likes Kansas City, but he’s only staying over because he’s hit a snag on his assignment, making an overnight stay a necessity. If you’d asked Charlie earlier, he would have said Nick Dulea didn’t realize he had some serious problems with the organization, but after spending the day futilely searching for him, Charlie’s beginning to think Nick might have a more accurate grasp of the situation than Charlie expected. Oh well, he’ll wrap it all up tomorrow.

  He finishes his drink and is ready to call it quits when the woman gets off the stool. Her dress is a flawless fit, not too tight, not too short—tastefully elegant.

  She leaves her drink at the bar. Trip to the ladies room, thinks Charlie, checking his tab, snapping a twenty off the money clip. He looks up and she’s standing right in front of him. Smiling.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “Are you the man I’m looking for?”

  Charlie’s smile matches hers. Just that quickly he’s forgotten his earlier conviction about avoiding any unnecessary involvements in Kansas City. “I’d like to think so,” he says.

  She laughs, bringing her hand to her mouth, a little embarrassed. “No, please,” she says, “don’t misunderstand me. I’m waiting to meet someone . . . A man I’ve not met before.”

  “And how are you supposed to know him?”

  “Good-looking, mid-forties man in a blue suit.”

  “Good-looking, huh?”

  She nods.

  “Not outrageously handsome?”

  She shakes her head no.

  “Ah, well, then. We both know it can’t be me.”

  She laughs, bringing her hand to her mouth again, the humor bright in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Really. I am supposed to meet someone here. I thought it might be you.”

  “So you aren’t really trying to pick me up?”

  She shakes her head and the light reflects off her lustrous hair. “Sorry.”

  “Well,” he says. “given that, I’d still offer to buy you a drink while we wait for the guy.”

  “Would you really?”

  “Really.”

  “Let me get my things.”

  And now the housekeeping is done, drinks refreshed, everything in order on the table. And they’re looking at one another. Charlie’s rarely at a loss for words, but this woman takes his breath away.

  “Lucille,” she says, breaking the ice, extending her hand across the table.

  Lucille? An image of the rhythm and blues singer B. B. King pops into Charlie’s head, big gap-toothed smile, calls his guitar Lucille. This woman definitely not looking like a Lucille. Tiffany, Brandi, or maybe Angelica, something like that.

  Charlie takes her hand. Pleasantly warm. Nice confident grip, firm, but not overdone, looking him right in the eye.

  “Charlie,” he says.

  The man doesn’t look like a Charlie to Lucille. The name conjures up a caricature of Charlie the StarKist tuna. Brad or Jason, something like that would be a better fit.

  “Nice to meet you,” she says. She takes a sip of her drink, then says, “So, Charlie, why are you staring at me like that?”

  Charlie, realizing he has in fact been staring, says, “I guess I don’t get off the farm often enough,” and she chuckles politely at that.

  “I suppose I’m trying to imagine why you’re here at Houlihan’s, nice place though it is, meeting a man you don’t know.”

  “It is a nice place, isn’t it?” she says, liking it better than she had expected she would. “First time I’ve ever been here.”

  “Me too,” says Charlie.

  “So what do you think?” she says.

  “About . . . ?”

  “Why I’m here, waiting for some guy I’ve never met before.”

  “A good-looking guy—we both know that much—but not outrageously handsome.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Blind date?” Charlie says.

  “Charlie!” with mock admonition. “Do I look like a girl who’d meet a guy on a blind date?”

  “Probably not.” Charlie smiles. “More likely—” He considers this a moment. “—a business meeting.”

  “Bingo,” she says.

  Charlie glances at his watch. It’s eleven fifteen. A little late for a business meeting.

  “What business are you in?” asks Charlie.

  “Financial advisor,” she says, taking the very occupation Charlie had planned to use if she asked him.

  “How about you?” she says.

  “Real estate developer,” Charlie says, this backup not too bad he thinks, coming off the top of his head like that.

  They’re both nodding now, sipping their drinks, both of them doubting the veracity of the other’s profession.

  But, it is a nice fall night in Kansas City, a comfortable bar, with pleasant (and attractive) company. Why not relax, Charlie thinks, and see where it might lead.

  “Financial advisor and real estate developer,” Lucille says. “Tough gigs in this economic climate.”

  “Or,” says Char
lie, “great times of opportunity is how I like to look at it,” imagining that’s the way a real real estate developer would feel about these challenging times.

  Lucille nods appreciatively. They sip their drinks, surprised to find them nearly empty. Charlie motions the bartender for another round.

  Charlie would be surprised to know that Lucille is aware of his purpose here in Kansas City.

  Charlie would also never have imagined that Lucille had met Nick Dulea earlier in the day.

  Lucille chats pleasantly, glancing at the door every now and then, checking out new arrivals. She really is looking for someone. But as she and Charlie chat a little more and have another drink, Charlie notices that she’s not taking that anticipatory look around the room as often.

  Like she’s given up on the guy coming in.

  If there ever was a guy coming in.

  Or maybe she’s already found the guy.

  Maybe it’s Charlie himself.

  Charlie is hopeful at the thought, but somewhere in the back of his mind those red flags have popped back up and are waving and bouncing like bobble-headed dolls in a car’s rear window. He’s not certain where this concern is coming from.

  She’s taking a long look at the door now. Intent look on her face, trace of a frown. She holds this pose with such an intensity that Charlie turns in the booth to take a look.

  No one there.

  Charlie turns back and she’s readjusting something in her big Coach bag.

  There’s no doubt in her mind now. She’d been pretty sure when she first saw him, but across the room like that—dim light and all—the picture in her purse being as old as it was. Even after confirming the man’s name, she needed to talk with him, be absolutely certain.

  She holds up her glass and says, “Charlie, I guess it’s just gonna be you and me.”

  They clink glasses and down their drinks.

  “So, Charlie . . . did you say Chicago?”

  “What?” Startled by the question.

  “Where you’re from. Didn’t you say Chicago?”

  “I don’t think I said,” Charlie says, not too certain now that she’s brought it up. He’s only had a couple drinks, but he can’t remember. Maybe he did tell her he was from Chicago.

  “Maybe you just look like you’re from Chicago,” she says.

  “How do people from Chicago look?” Charlie says.

  “I’ve heard some of them are outrageously handsome.”

  They both chuckle at that.

  “How about you?” Charlie says, switching the focus onto her.

  “Minneapolis,” she says. And leaves it at that. Like it was perfectly reasonable that a financial advisor from Minneapolis would be getting together with a client she’d never met at eleven thirty at night in a Kansas City bar.

  “I would have guessed New York,” Charlie says.

  She’s cool, but Charlie can see an almost imperceptible double take.

  She is from New York

  Why tell him Minneapolis?

  Same reason he told her he was from Seattle?

  Wait a minute . . . he didn’t tell her he was from Seattle. That was what he’d planned to tell her if the question was asked. Didn’t tell her he was from Chicago either, but somehow she knows it.

  Things are becoming confusing.

  Charlie’s getting a slight headache too. Early stages, but growing, there in the back of his head.

  Suddenly there’s another round in front of them that Charlie doesn’t remember ordering.

  “I’m pretty sure he’s not coming,” she says.

  Charlie is about to ask who, then remembers the financial client she’s waiting for.

  He checks his watch and it takes several seconds to focus on it.

  “It’s getting a little late,” Charlie says.

  “Are you feeling okay?” she asks.

  “A little light headed, now that you mention it.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  This question rallies Charlie momentarily, but his cognizance is fleeting. “I stayed in Seattle once,” he says, apropos of nothing.

  “I’ve heard it’s a beautiful city,” she says, “if you can put up with the drizzle.”

  “I played baseball in college,” says Charlie, then wonders why he’s blathering about that.

  Lucille knows why.

  “I suppose I should drive,” she says.

  “Probably the best idea,” Charlie answers, as if it were something they’d been discussing.

  “Are you parked in the garage?”

  “I’m parked in the garage,” Charlie says.

  “What color was the car again?”

  Charlie knits his brow. “I don’t remember,” he says.

  “Let’s go find it,” she says.

  And she helps Charlie out of the bar, apologetic looks to those who notice the unfortunate condition of her companion.

  They find the car after only ten minutes.

  Five minutes later they’re in the underground garage at Charlie’s hotel.

  Charlie feels like he’s rallying, the prospect of this gorgeous woman in his room a big motivation.

  She’d rather not walk right through the lobby with him . . . telling him, this hour, what will people think? So Charlie goes on up to the room. She’ll follow in a few minutes.

  She makes the phone call from the garage.

  Charlie’s still a little queasy. What is this? He’d hate to blow his chance because of a little touch of flu or a bad piece of fish or something.

  But he didn’t have fish for dinner. In fact, now that he thinks about it, he didn’t have dinner at all. How long has he been up here anyway? Damn watch is blurry. Maybe she won’t even show.

  But even as he’s wondering, a knock at the door. He opens it and she walks in, Nick Dulea right behind her.

  What?

  Nick Dulea?

  Charlie’s spent the day looking under every rock in Kansas City, and here the guy walks into his hotel room. Looking at Charlie with a strange expression on his face.

  Charlie’s having trouble processing all this.

  “Lucille,” he says, suddenly in need of sitting on the couch. “I’m sorry about this . . . I don’t feel well.”

  “I understand,” Lucille says.

  “No, really, I feel like I might pass out.”

  “I do understand, Charlie. It’s the Mickey I slipped in your drink.”

  The what?

  “Back at the bar? I’m looking at the door, you turn around, and that’s when I dropped it in. When you looked back, I was just putting my purse back on the bench. I thought for a minute you might have seen me.”

  “But why?”

  And then Charlie sees Nick again, and though he can’t for the life of him explain the process, somehow he knows why.

  He reaches inside his jacket for the .38 in the shoulder holster, but fumbles it, the weapon bouncing first onto the couch, then to the floor.

  “Here, let me get that,” Lucille says, bending over to pick it up, Charlie not so far gone that he can’t appreciate the symmetrical lines of this posterior view. Lucille straightens, dropping the piece into her bag.

  “I need that,” Charlie says, more imploring than he’d intended.

  “You won’t need it,” Lucille says. She reaches back into the bag and holds up something for Charlie to look at. “See, I have one myself.”

  Even in his condition Charlie recognizes the silenced .22 caliber pistol.

  He knows the occupation of those who carry them.

  Not financial advisors.

  And that’s Charlie’s last thought.

  One in Charlie’s forehead. One in his temple.

  Nick is taking all this in—it’s happening so quickly—and shaking his head in wonder.

  When she explained the situation to him earlier in the afternoon, he had thought, Right . . . this magnificent woman, looks like Sandra Bullock, only prettier, is a hitwoman, here to save me from Charlie.


  “Now why would Charlie do that?” Nick had asked, knowing full well that if Charlie were indeed after him, Nick would need all the help he could get. She’d told him Charlie had some wild hair, but Nick is still having a hard time grasping it. He knows Charlie. They’ve always gotten along.

  But Walter had called Nick from Chicago on Saturday, told him to lay low for a few days. He didn’t offer any explanation and Nick didn’t ask for one. Walter tells you to do something, you do it.

  This must be related in some way.

  “Listen,” Lucille said, “we don’t have a lot of time to mull this over; the man’s already in town.”

  “How do you know this?” Nick asked her. “And why are you telling me?”

  “I’m in on the hit with him,” she said.

  “What?”

  “He thought I might be able to distract you, put you off your game, make it easier for him to, well, you know.”

  “And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”

  “Charlie’s only giving me two grand to help him out on this,” she said. “I’m worth way more than that, Nick. So what I’m suggesting, you give me five grand to take Charlie out.”

  Just like that. No apology. No further explanation. Nick would have laughed except he could tell the woman was serious.

  “I’m a businesswoman, Nick, and I’m making you a business proposition.”

  It was lot for Nick to absorb, coming out of the blue like this.

  “Why wouldn’t I just take care of Charlie myself and save the five grand?”

  “Charlie’s connected, Nick. You could get in big trouble for that.”

  “And you won’t? What’ll Chicago say?” asks Nick. “Charlie turning up dead in KC?”

  “I’ll square it with them,” she says. “I work with Charlie now and then. I’ll make something up. He was trying to scam them or something. I had to hit him.”

  “They’ll believe that about Charlie?”

  Giving him her best Sandra Bullock look, “I can be pretty persuasive, Nick.”

  “How do I know you’ll take care of this? I mean, I don’t know you.” Nick almost felt embarrassed for questioning the integrity of someone this beautiful.