AHMM, May 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "And what do you use walkie-talkies for, Fred?"

  "Hunting."

  "I see. Out in the forest."

  "No, in the Wal-Mart, hunting for my wife. She's always wandering away. Great little gadgets for that, Chief, you ought to get yourself a pair."

  Robideau took down a description of the missing items, hung up the phone, and consulted his list.

  BEER

  SCRAPER

  CHEMICALS

  SOUTANES

  And picking up the pen, he added, walkie-talkies.

  He put the pen down, puffed his cheeks out, and folded his arms.

  "Scavenger hunt?” he muttered.

  * * * *

  Creepy Culbertson was adamant that they would each wear one of the purloined garments. “It's what I call confuse-a-cop. Ski masks over our faces, an’ these things covering up our clothes. The perfect disguise. When we go in there, you gotta know there'll be cameras. That means we need to camouflage ourselves any way we can."

  "You said we'd spray paint the cameras,” the doc said dryly.

  Creepy shrugged. “An’ we will too. We'll spray paint any camera lens we spot. But you got to remember there's bound to be one or two we don't spot hidden here an’ there.” He tugged at his chin. “It might help to do another recce."

  "Another what?” Brewster was testy. “I do wish you'd speak English."

  "A recce. Another look around. I want to know where the cameras are, at least the ones we can see. That'll be your job, Billy, when the time comes. With the paint can, givin’ each of ‘em a quick shot."

  "If we're not going in until Sunday, it isn't necessary that I attend today,” Brewster said stiffly. “I've already been there once."

  "Listen, Doc. Remember the deal. All for one—"

  "And one for all. I know what you said. But I don't recall agreeing to it.” The doc winced as Creepy popped open the last of the Honey Browns with his nicotine-stained teeth. “Must I remind you? This isn't some swashbuckling Hollywood extravaganza. This is real. This is for keeps."

  "Oh, it's for keeps, all right.” Creepy spat the cap into his hand, flipped it at the trash basket, raised the bottle to the doc, and drank. After wiping his grizzled chin on his sleeve, he jerked his head at the shoebox sitting on the window ledge. “That creation of yours all ready to go?"

  "I don't know. It takes time to cure properly. It will be ready to go by Sunday, I can guarantee you that."

  "An’ what about our electronics whiz?” He winked at Billy. “Those little radios you scammed gonna do the job?"

  "All rigged up,” Billy said. “You just make sure they're both switched on, then all you do is press the call button."

  "Good. I think we ought to bring the gadget along with us when we go out on our recce today, just to get the feel of it."

  Brewster looked appalled.

  "What? You can't be serious!"

  "A dry run. Don't get excited. Carry it in a shopping bag or somethin', nobody'll give it a second glance."

  "A dry run!” Exasperated, Brewster forced out his breath and swung his spectacled face from side to side with disapprobation.

  "We got to be sure nothin’ goes wrong, Doc. We only get one shot at this."

  "You think I don't know that? Why do you imagine I've gone over the arming procedure with you two at least a hundred times?” Brewster stood up, glanced at the black, buttoned clerical robes draped over the back of the chair, let out a moan of suppressed fury, then shuffled to the window. He put his face up close to the heavy frost. His voice rasped when he spoke. “It will work. It's got to.” He turned an indignant glare on his partners in crime. “Do you know the best job that was offered to me after ... after all that unpleasantness?” He swallowed. “Manager at a fireworks factory. A fireworks factory! Can you imagine? Me. Almost a Nobel laureate!"

  "Maybe you should've taken it,” Billy said. “You know what they say, Doc, the road not traveled..."

  "Hey. That's some kinda poetry, isn't it?” Creepy Culbertson said. “Can you do the one about the boy on the burning deck?"

  * * * *

  The long, sleek cigarette boat rumbled up to the jetty, and the larger man killed her engines. The smaller man jumped out and secured a line. He got a second line on her while the first man disembarked, then hopped back down into the boat to retrieve a large, lumpy sports bag. Both men wore heavy fleece jackets and knitted caps. They checked their watches, then sauntered up the hill toward Burton Street. On a more summery day, they might have been tourists.

  "Hardy souls,” the doc commented. “That lake will be frozen solid in another two weeks."

  "I always wanted a go-fast boat like that,” Billy said, trailing Creepy and Brewster past the front of the drugstore. Brewster carried the so-called gadget in the shoebox they had dug out of Billy's closet. It was a bright and sunny day, most of the snow had melted, another welcome stretch of Indian summer to enjoy before winter got them in its grasp again. They could see down Coppis Street to the old fisherman's wharf, where the large craft lay like a basking shark under the shadowed timbers of the quay. “Know why they're called cigarette boats? Named after an old rumrunner from the thirties, fastest boat of its day."

  "Interesting,” Brewster mumbled, clearly not interested in the least.

  "Talk to the guy,” Creepy said. “Next week you can buy it."

  "Only it wasn't the fastest,” Billy said. “Know what was? The Revuocnav, Johnny Schnarr's boat. That's Vancouver spelt backwards. He called it that to confuse people, running booze down the West Coast."

  "It confuses me,” Creepy admitted.

  "You notice,” Billy threw a last glance behind them, “that boat's got no name or number on it at all? Maybe she's a rumrunner."

  They kept walking. The credit union was a block away.

  "So I just duck inside,” Billy said, rehearsing his instructions, “find out where the cameras are and then pop back out again?"

  "Yeah, but try not to be too obvious about it. Grab a bunch of them leaflets, pretend you're studyin’ up."

  The two men from the mystery boat reached Burton Street and, after a backward glance for nonexistent traffic, began angling across the road, making for the credit union building that stood a another fifty yards up the block.

  "What do you figure they got in that bag?” Billy wondered aloud.

  "Money,” muttered the doc sullenly. He shifted the shoebox from the crook of his right arm to his left. He added. “And I hope there's lots of it. It'll be ours come next Sunday."

  "Hey, now, that ain't right,” Creepy said, slowing his pace.

  They stopped where they were and followed his gaze.

  At the entrance to the credit union, the men from the boat had also paused. While one man peered in through the doors, the other dropped the sports bag on the ground and unzipped it open.

  "I don't like the look of that,” Creepy said.

  The men rolled the knitted caps down over their faces—ski masks—picked the bag up, and pushed in through the doors.

  "Oh no,” Billy said. “Oh jeez!"

  "Gimme that box,” Creepy snapped, and grabbing it out of the doc's hands, took off at a gimpy run with it, heading back the way they had come.

  "Those men are robbing our bank,” the doc said softly to Billy, as if he couldn't quite absorb the fact. Then, forcing it out between his teeth, “Those men are robbing our bank!"

  * * * *

  Robideau was just about to get into his car when he heard the sound of gunfire echoing off the storefronts. He rushed to the corner and instinctively looked toward the credit union, out of breath from his twenty-yard sprint. He almost collided with Arney Arvelson, who was wheezing along in the opposite direction.

  "Wrong way, chief.” Arney threw out his arm, one finger jabbing at the harbor. “Two men, dark clothing. Took off down Coppis Street toward the old fisherman's wharf. Bank robbers!” His eyes were wild.

  They hurried together down the sloping street toward the old
wharf.

  "What happened?"

  "It was terrifying. Four or five of us are waiting in line, these guys bust in and start shooting up the place."

  "Was anyone hurt?"

  "No. I don't think so. They just made us all lie down."

  They weren't going to arrive at the wharf in time to do anything about it, that was plain. With a hundred yards still to go, they heard a pair of powerful engines roar to life, shattering the calm, and saw a long, sleek, narrow hull nose out of the shadows below the dark timbers.

  "Get your gun out,” Arney bleated. “Shoot a hole in that thing!"

  "I don't have a gun.” Robideau couldn't run any farther. He slowed to a walk, pressing his hand to his side, exhausted. A small crowd was already gathering, everyone staring as the boat and the two dark figures aboard her swept past the low wake sign, exhaust pipes bellowing.

  "My god,” Arney said weakly, stopping at the edge of the wharf, “they're getting away."

  "Looks like it.” This from a soft voice just behind them. Robideau turned to see who had spoken and spotted Creepy Culbertson standing a few feet away. He was red in the face, bitter, and angry. A tough, sinewy little figure with his hands planted deep in his pockets. His fellow roomers shuffled in behind him, Billy Highway and old Alexander Brewster. They looked equally upset and resentful, as if their life savings had been snatched away from them by the thieves in the receding boat.

  The fleeing craft was really screaming now, sending twin, tilted rooster tails of frothing lake water eight feet in the air. It set the few craft that hadn't yet been taken out of the water bucking wildly against their ropes. Beyond the reach and beyond the commotion, Lake Winnipeg lay vast and bleak and as indifferent as a salt sea, the distant shore lost to view beyond a muzzy, winter gray horizon.

  Creepy muttered something and grimaced. His hand moved in his pocket. There was a sudden, sharp concussion in the harbor, and the back of the boat blew completely off.

  A gasp arose from the assembled onlookers, followed immediately by a stunned silence, then a whoop of ecstatic delight. The wrecked craft was already sinking, her bow angling desperately up at the sky. A smoke cloud drifted over the waves. Debris plopped down into the water. The two thieves were black dots floundering in the white caps, and a twenty-foot fishing boat started out for their rescue, a feather of foam streaming from its bow.

  * * * *

  "Funny thing,” Robideau said half to himself.

  Pete Melynchuk had stopped by the office for any news about his missing beer.

  "Yeah? What's that?"

  "Some of the property that vanished during that crime spree has been returned."

  Of the missing—presumed stolen—items, the ice scraper had reappeared in its usual place, leaning next to the doorbell against Buzz Taylor's house; Father Mulhollen's soutanes were found stuffed behind the hymnals at the back of the church; and one of Little Freddie Ferguson's walkie-talkies had turned up in his mailbox. What didn't turn up was the matching walkie-talkie, Arney Arvelson's chemicals, or Pete's beer.

  Pete shook his head, coming to grips with the worst.

  "I don't think I'm gonna see that beer again, chief."

  "No, Pete, probably not."

  "Billy Highway told me he was sorry about it. I thought to myself, why should you be sorry? But I guess he heard, talkin’ to somebody, how I got ripped off that night."

  "I guess so."

  "Run into him down there at the wharf. Then he asked me if I ever seen a boat blow up like that before."

  "And have you?"

  "Nope."

  "Neither have I."

  "Did you hear old Creepy? I couldn't believe the guy."

  "Couldn't believe what?"

  "He was standin’ right there beside you."

  "Couldn't believe what?"

  "I think he said, ‘Okay, Mr. Cigarette, that's as far as you're goin', or somethin’ like that."

  "So?"

  Pete looked at the chief, his blue eyes narrow and questioning. “This was before the damn boat blew up. Jeez! They don't call that guy Creepy for nothin'."

  Robideau pursed his lips. Tilted back in his chair. Scratched the back of his neck.

  "No kidding,” he said.

  * * * *

  Billy Highway opened the door to Robideau, then stiffened, pressing his hands to his thighs. “Did—did you come to arrest us?"

  "I'd need a reason to do that,” Robideau said.

  "Oh. Oh yeah.” Looking relieved, Billy stood back to let Robideau enter the tiny, tired-looking apartment. A small, battle-scarred drop-leaf table had been dragged into the middle of the room, wings extended, and at it sat the other members of the Gang of Three, Alexander Brewster and Creepy Culbertson. Brewster, gray hair bristling at his temples, looked annoyed at the intrusion, but then he always did look annoyed. Creepy Culbertson gazed back with twinkling eyes, smoking as usual, his cigarette in an ashtray at his elbow sending a thin stream of white smoke twisting up into the air.

  "Want to sit in, chief?” Creepy said. “Crib day. We were just about to start another game.” He winked. “Penny a point."

  "I guess I can afford that.” Robideau slipped his coat off and took a seat. “You don't mind if I ask you fellows a few questions while we play?"

  "Ask away, chief. Only don't ask us how to count your cards. It's against house rules to tell you. You're s'posed to know how to do that.” He tipped his head at his two chums. “You know Billy, I guess. An’ the doc, retired cabby, almost won the no-bell prize one time. I tell him almost don't count, except in horseshoes an’ hand grenades."

  "Of course I know Billy and Alex.” The crib board was an old one and must have seen hundreds of games, the shellac finish worn completely away between the holes. The original pegs were gone, stubs of broken toothpicks snapped off at different lengths serving in their place. “The reason I stopped by,” Robideau said, “I was hoping you gentlemen could tell me something about that robbery at the credit union."

  "Now how would we know anything about that?” Creepy asked. He shuffled the cards with unnerving facility. “Us old-timers don't get out much, you know."

  "You were out that day. And one of the tellers remembers the three of you stopping by the bank two or three times during the last few weeks."

  "Well, you've done your homework. We mighta stopped by the bank, chief. People do that, you know."

  "Sure. Only they generally stop there to conduct business, not to stand around and admire the place."

  "Is that what they said? They must be house proud, chief.” Creepy dealt, firing the cards quickly and with pinpoint accuracy across the table. “Seems to me we stopped by one time for a tax form, only they didn't have none."

  "I heard that. But this is November. Tax time isn't until the spring."

  "File early, chief, guys like us. Takes a while to check our arithmetic, the vast fortunes we got to account for.” He raised an eyebrow. “You gonna throw somethin’ in the crib?"

  Robideau complied. The game proceeded.

  "Actually, one reason I'm asking,” Robideau said, “I wondered if any of you had seen either of those two fellows hanging around the place earlier. Or anyone that might have appeared out of place or suspicious."

  "I did,” Creepy said. He glanced at Robideau's eight and threw down a seven. “Fifteen for two.” He moved his peg ahead. “I seen Brewster. He always looks out of place an’ suspicious. Check out them beady little eyes."

  "I do not have beady eyes,” the doc retorted. “Twenty-two!” He snapped down another seven. “And two for a pair.” He moved his peg.

  "Twenny-nine,” Billy said, playing yet another seven, “an’ six for three.” He advanced his toothpick six positions.

  My God, I'm going to be pegged to death, Robideau thought. He checked his hand. His smallest card was a four. He sighed. “Go."

  "Thirty-one for two,” Creepy said, playing a deuce, “an’ one for last card.” He pegged.

  "What you're thi
nking, Chief,” Billy said, fanning his cards out for the count, “is that those guys probably came to End of Main and cased the joint a couple of times."

  The doc muttered, “Language,” and sniffed reprovingly.

  "I think somebody did."

  "Only makes sense,” Billy said.

  "There's been other unlawful activity in the town lately as well.” Robideau laid down his own hand. Everyone pegged except him. “It started with a case of beer going missing just across the street from here. At about that same time an ice scraper belonging to your super disappeared. And on the same night there was a break-in at the hardware store on the corner."

  "Virtual crime wave,” Billy said, shuffling.

  "Virtual stupidity,” the doc muttered.

  "A few more things vanished as well,” Robideau went on. “Some robes from the church, a pair of FRS radios.” He glanced around the table. “And here's the interesting thing. It all happened within five hundred yards of this house."

  The three men exchanged glances. Then Creepy cleared his throat.

  "This neighborhood's goin’ to hell in a handbasket,” he said. Then he frowned. “Keep shuffling them cards, Chief, an’ you're gonna set fire to ‘em, for cryin’ out loud."

  Robideau dealt. His cards were junk. They played the hand out quickly, and he only advanced two points. He was being slaughtered by these guys.

  "I heard, though,” Billy said haltingly, “that most of the missing stuff was returned."

  "I heard that too,” Creepy said. He nudged Brewster with his knee. “You hear that, Doc?"

  "Of course I did. It's common knowledge."

  "Whoever took ‘em,” Creepy observed, “must've had a change of heart."

  "What do you think?” Robideau asked, raising an eyebrow. “More than one crook involved?"

  "Hard to say. Maybe not crooks a'tall. Coulda been needy people, for all anyone knows."

  They played out the game. The doc won. The others were close. Only Robideau finished behind the skunk line, embarrassingly far back in the stretch.

  "Okay, Chief,” Creepy said, “more house rules. End of each hand, low sheep takes a hit. Counts his cards, subtracts from twenny-nine, drops the cash on the table.” He looked at his scratch pad. “I been keepin’ track of it here on the tick sheet. ‘Fraid you're the man, chief. Twenny-six fifty."