"You carry blades?"
Youngblood answered, “We'd hardly be ranch hands worth a spit if we didn't."
"That's what I thought. Haul them out."
The three exchanged sly glances.
"You a cop?” asked Youngblood.
"Concerned citizen."
"No way am I doing it,” he said.
"You think one of us killed Jenkins?” asked Caulder.
"I'm just marking time till the police get here."
They sat silently, three monkeys speaking no evil. Marta and the patrons waited by the counter.
Finally, Coop's face opened with a wide grin. “What the hell,” he said, pulling a small pocketknife from his back pocket. “Let's see how this plays out.” He opened the knife and laid it on the table in front of him, took another chug of Coke.
Caulder followed, reluctantly, laying his own blade before him.
Youngblood still wasn't budging. “This is stupid! Jenkins signed my checks, signed all of our checks. What the hell reason would I have for killing him?"
"Maybe a little dancer from Salem had something to do with it,” I said.
His face froze like he'd just gotten an eyeful of the Medusa's serpentine ‘do.
I didn't dare glance at Marta because I knew she'd be smirking. Youngblood couldn't know how I got that info. Right now I had the upper hand—he had no idea how much I knew.
When his shock wore off he reached to his belt and unsheathed a blade that made Jim Bowie's look like a nail file. He laid it on the table, muttering a string of short but expressive old Anglo-Saxon words of four and five letters.
I looked at his knife. It gleamed. “Nice. Goes with your spurs."
"I haven't cut anybody's throat with it since at least last week."
I grinned, sidestepped to the front door, opened it. “Keep them back!” I shouted to the manager dutifully restraining curious citizenry. I propped the door open with a chair.
Marta piped up, “You're going to let all the bugs in, honey."
"That's the idea,” I said.
I sauntered back, leaned my butt against a table, cocked a knee, and set a boot on a chair, striking quite a pose. I imagined I was being directed by John Ford, a town sheriff facing five suspected culprits: a couple of banditos, two ranch hands, and a cocksure foreman who was making time with his murdered boss's young filly.
"I think before the posse arrives we got time for a little story.” I realized my speech had a thick Texas twang. I dialed it back.
The old man barked from the counter, “I wanna see you shoot that gun again."
His taciturn wife spoke up for the first time since this started. “Oh, Elbert, honestly."
I looked at the family, mother cradling now-sleeping infant. “You folks okay?"
The couple nodded simultaneously. Both had calmed considerably.
I turned back to the five in the booths.
Coop drained the last of his soda and rattled the ice cubes in the plastic glass. “Can I have another Coke?"
I stared at him. He grinned.
Marta looked at me as if I was suddenly her boss. “Go ahead,” I told her.
She fetched Coop's empty glass to refill it.
"You're acting pretty casual for a guy who might be a killer,” I said. “But maybe that's your game."
Coop shrugged. “This is more entertaining than my average Wednesday."
"I take it you didn't care for Jenkins."
His smile waned. “We never had a beef, but we weren't exactly bosom. He didn't deserve what he got, that's a fact."
Caulder spoke up, jerking a thumb at the bandits in the next booth. “So if that guy didn't have time to knock us out, kill Jenkins, and clean his weapon, how could one of us do it?"
"One couldn't, but two of you could. One kills Jenkins and cleans the murder weapon after the other knocks two of you out. He would've hit you from behind so the innocent guys wouldn't see who clubbed them."
The three exchanged glances, thinking it over, trying to remember exactly how it went down in the restroom.
"But all three of us were knocked out,” said Youngblood.
"You were awake by the time I got back there. If you'd ever actually been asleep."
"This is stupid,” he repeated.
"You were Jenkins's foreman. Must have worked for him awhile. He trusted you, because while he was out inspecting the herd or bidding on new head, he had no idea what was going on back at the ranch between you and his dancing frau."
Youngblood shook his head, pissed.
Caulder and Coop sly-eyed each other. They'd heard the rumors.
"Did Jenkins have some provision in his will about you running the place after he's gone?"
"How the hell should I know?” Indignant and surly.
Marta returned with Coop's fresh Coke, saying, “So what's the story you were going to tell?” The lady liked stories; that's what kept her eight hours of table-hopping fresh. She swiped a bug buzzing her head.
"These machetes got me thinking. Something I read once, about a ruler in China, near the Tianshan Mountains. This would have been during the Han period, back in early B.C. This ruler wasn't too well liked by his subjects. Seems he was letting the wealthy slide on their taxes, leaving the merchants and peasants to pick up the slack. Anyway, one day he decided to take a tour of the countryside with his Royal Guard. He wandered off by himself to inspect some farmland and was later found in a field, hacked to death by a machete.
"There were about twenty farmers out there at the time, clearing marshland for a rice field. One of them had seen his opportunity and took it. But which one?"
"Should I order pie while I wait for you to finish?"
It was Youngblood, getting on my nerves now. “No. But Coop can have a slice if he wants."
The big man snorted, amused.
The two bandits listened quietly, nursing wounds. Lids heavy over hard eyes.
"Anyway, the head of the ruler's Guard gathered the farmers together, made them all stand in a row and set their machetes on the ground in front of them. All their blades were clean; whoever'd done the deed had washed his weapon in a nearby stream. But see, this guard knew something; the boy was ahead of his time. He made all those farmers stand there and wait. And it was a hot, dry day."
"Like we're waiting now,” said Caulder. “So what's the point?"
Coop wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. Youngblood twitched a finger as a fly landed on it. The bug zipped away.
"The point is: Flies always find the blood. No matter how much you wash it off, they find the scent. All it takes is a few stray microbes. That's what this guard knew. So he had all those farmers stand and wait, on that hot, sweaty day. Wait for the flies to show up and land on the murder weapon, pointing him to the killer."
Youngblood scoffed again, “This is—"
"Stupid?” I finished. “I realize it's not exactly CSI, but stupid it ain't, cowboy."
It might not have been stupid, but hell if I knew if it was actually going to work. Given my recent unemployment, I was second-guessing myself a lot lately.
"So you're thinking that two of us teamed up to take out Jenkins?” It was Coop, getting into it.
"No, I think it was one of you,” then I nodded to the silent bandits, “and these two. I'm guessing they were hired to come in and make it look like a holdup, then do Jenkins. Or maybe only one of them was privy to the murder part. Maybe this one that went into the bathroom with you guys, the one I shot, got cold feet and backed out. There was an argument back there with whichever one of you hired him; that's why he came racing out hollering and angry, leaving one of you to finish off Jenkins by his lonesome."
"After the other two of us had been knocked out,” finished Coop.
I nodded.
Caulder pointed to the arm-shot bandit. “That means it was him who knocked us out?"
"Or whoever hired him. From behind, like I said."
Coop grunted, “I was hit from behind."
"So wa
s I,” said Youngblood. He pointed to the bruise on the back of his neck.
"Me too,” offered Caulder, lowering his head to show off the pinkish egg sprouting from his scalp. “So did one of us club him-self?” He chuckled like he'd just delivered a punchline.
"Nope,” I said, staring Caulder down. “Not you, anyway. Because you've only got one bump."
"That's all it took. He hit me hard."
I shook my head. “No. That bump happened out here. We all saw it. He clubbed you with the butt end of his blade for show. It staggered you, but didn't knock you out. If he'd hit you in the bathroom, you'd have two bumps."
Caulder's face bunched up as if someone had just told him hippos could fly. “I'm with Youngblood. This is stupid."
By now both Coop and Youngblood had turned to regard Caulder suspiciously.
Caulder jerked his head back and forth between the two, defensive. “Come on! I got no reason to see Jenkins dead!"
I thought of one more thing, but wasn't sure if the bait was big enough for the fish: “Maybe it has something to do with your brother."
"What the hell are you talking about?” He ran a hand through coarse dark hair.
"That's right,” said Coop. “His brother Matt got canned a couple of weeks ago."
"And for that I kill him? Come on, Coop, you know me."
I offered something else. “Your brother gets cut, so you cut Jenkins. Poetic, in a crude sort of way. Like a Cro-Magnon chiseling a haiku on the cave wall."
"For firing Matt?” Caulder was incredulous.
Youngblood had been cogitating for thirty seconds or so. “Maybe it's more than that,” he said.
We waited for him to continue.
"About three months ago, Mr. Jenkins was mugged after his Thursday bank stop, by guys wearing ski masks. Normally, I went with him, but that day I was out vaccinating and ear-marking some new head with Caulder. Later, Mr. Jenkins always suspected Matt had something to do with the mugging; it'd been Matt's day off. Hell, maybe even one of these two was in on it.” He meant the bandits.
The one with the busted nose shifted, a clear tell.
"Mr. Jenkins finally got tired of suspecting Matt and let him go."
"And that's why Jenkins was killed?” wondered Coop.
Youngblood shrugged. “Maybe. Think about it..."
I let the overgrown Hardy Boys keep going while Caulder sweated it out between them.
"Mr. Jenkins asked me last month if I thought Caulder could have been involved with the mugging, like maybe he'd given Matt details about the bank stop. I said no way, Caulder's a stand-up guy. But that wasn't good enough for Mr. Jenkins.” Youngblood stared at Caulder. “He told me he was going to start digging around about you."
"Come to think of it,” said Coop, “Caulder's got a brand-new pair of dancing boots and a turquoise buckle out in the bunkhouse."
"Really?” asked Youngblood.
Caulder was finally fed up. “I bought those with last year's bonus!"
Coop guffawed. “You never sat on a bonus more'n three days!"
"So you think I arranged that mugging and Jenkins was going to nail me for it? That's still no reason to kill the guy!” Caulder looked from one to the other and back to me, assured.
"Unless you're a third-striker,” I said.
Caulder blanched.
"I saw the way you were eating your food, guarding it with your arms wrapped around your plate. That's how a convict eats. You done time, Caulder? If Jenkins snooped around about your past, he would have found out about your record and brought the cops in to question you about the mugging. And you couldn't handle the idea of going back in for a long stretch. That's why you killed him. Stupid, Caulder, real stupid."
Frustrated, he swept his arm across the tabletop, sending his pocketknife flying. It bounced off a chair and clattered to the floor, spinning like a propeller. It slowed to a stop under an oil painting of Haystack Rock at Cannon Beach.
Caulder rocketed from his seat like a giant coil just sproinged his butt.
But I already had my gun out. Pointed at his chest.
"Shoot him!” said the old man, somewhere behind me.
"Honestly,” his exasperated wife replied.
* * * *
The police arrived twenty minutes later and grilled everybody, taking enough notes to fill a whole file drawer. They hauled Caulder away in cuffs.
Me they kept the longest, firing questions until long after the sun went down. They didn't take too kindly to a private citizen playing Dirty Harriet, discharging a firearm within city limits with intent to do bodily harm.
One thing convinced them to lean in my favor.
Across the room, under the painting of waves lapping at Haystack Rock, on the blade of Caulder's pocketknife, flies gathered in a dark cloud.
Hell. It actually worked.
It surprised even me.
(c)2007 by Brian Muir
[Back to Table of Contents]
BLOG BYTES by Ed Gorman
ClueLass: When editor Kate Derie promises “A mystery lover's notebook. Comprehensive information about the world of mystery fiction: books, authors, booksellers, awards, events, groups, magazines” and much much more, she isn't exaggerating. This is one of the most useful sites on the Net. The search engine here is especially useful and the Mysterious Home Page delivers “a streamlined, ‘just the links, ma'am’ jumping off site for the mystery world online. These pages are designed for maximum accessibility with lower-speed internet connections, text-only browsers, and screen-reader applications.” A major site for mystery readers of all kinds. www.cluelass.com
Noir Originals: I'm quoted here as saying that this site is “A WEBSITE OF STYLE, SUBSTANCE AND TRUE LASTING IMPORTANCE” and I've never had any reason to change my mind. Not only is Allan Guthrie the editor of one of the hardboiled world's best sites, he's also becoming a major novelist in both England and America. Guthrie mixes current and historical pieces on noirish writing of every kind from old-style pulp to cutting-edge new. He keeps a backlog of articles for readers who have only recently logged on. It's in the backlog that you see the true breadth of material he's amassed, most of it informal, some of it more academic. To his credit, Guthrie champions many writers who have been forgotten or overlooked, writers who deserve attention. A staple site for hardboiled fans. www.allanguthrie.co.uk
Vorpal Blade Online: Steven Steinbock devotes the current issue to a long and heavily illustrated history of Dell mystery paperbacks: “Between 1942 and 1962 (according to William H. Lyles, Putting Dell on the Map) Dell Publishing Company put out 2,168 paperbacks.” This is an important history because Dell published key writers such as Ellery Queen, Rex Stout, Margaret Millar, and Agatha Christie, among many others. And in the ‘fifties, under the able stewardship of editor Knox Burger, Dell Originals offered readers such compelling talents as John D. MacDonald, Charles Williams, Richard Jessup, and James McKimmey. Another feature of many of the early Dell mysteries was the so-called “mapbacks"—stylized maps on the back covers that laid out the entire scene where the murders take place, including a lot of Christie-style country estates. The mapbacks are highly collectible today and go for a good price on the Net. Readers will enjoy looking back on where we all came from both as fans and writers. stevensteinbock.blogspot.com
(c)2007 by Ed Gorman by Ed Gorman
[Back to Table of Contents]
SERIOUS MONEY by John Morgan Wilson
John Morgan Wilson won the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best First Novel in 1997 for the debut of his Benjamin Justice series. His seventh and latest Justice mystery, Rhapsody in Blood, was published by St. Martin's Minotaur in March, 2006. Like Rhapsody in Blood, the following story revolves around the world of Hollywood filmmakers. Mr. Wilson is also a veteran journalist and writer of fact-based TV programming.
Moments after he discovered the girl unconscious, Ryan Stark heard knuckles rap on his motel room door. He patted her pretty face, trying to rouse her. The knocking on the door gr
ew louder.
He slapped the girl several times and shook her by the shoulders. She didn't move. A meaty fist pounded outside, followed by a deep male voice.
"Police! Open up!"
"Dear God,” Ryan muttered, and felt panic engulf him.
It was a cheap motel along a two-lane highway in North Carolina, the only rental rooms for a hundred miles in this godforsaken place, except for a few ramshackle cabins up the road. The Pine Haven Motel, with a sputtering neon sign out front, an all-night coffee shop next to the office, and a swimming pool with pine needles and oak leaves at the bottom in a puddle of dirty water from the last rain.
The only reason Ryan was staying here was the setting. Pine Haven was a small town—no more than a gas stop, really—with a Blue Ridge Mountains backdrop that was ideal for some crucial scenes in the movie he was shooting. Passing Through—possibly the most important film of his career. He wasn't just the star this time but also the executive producer. He'd put up half the money himself, the script was that good. It offered him an incredible leading role, the kind that might catapult him from the ranks of pretty-boy star to serious actor. The kind that could generate Oscar buzz, maybe even a nomination. The kind that could seriously elevate an actor's career and keep him out of the dustbin of has-beens or the wasteland of the daytime soaps, where the has-beens went to die. The soaps—he shuddered just thinking about that possibility.
"Police! Open up, or we'll kick in the door!"
The girl was in her panties and bra, a pale blonde, slim but nubile. A few of the pills he'd given her were strewn about the bed. Not all of them, though—and the vial was empty. He figured she must have taken the rest. He'd only intended her to take one or two, enough to help her loosen up, get in the mood. That had been around midnight, when he'd left her alone to take a shower and get himself ready for a brief romantic interlude that would help him relax and sleep better, so he'd look and feel his best for the next day's shooting. He'd brought her back to his room after she'd made eyes at him in the motel coffee shop, fully intending to have his fun and send her on her way within the hour. But after his shower he'd lost track of the time in front of the mirror getting his face and hair right. He always made himself presentable for the ladies, even if they'd never see him again. He was Ryan Stark, after all. People magazine's Sexiest Man Alive, not once but twice. He had an image to uphold, a reputation. Applying his skin toner evenly took several minutes all by itself.
EQMM, July 2007 Page 8
