21 Tales

by Dave Zeltserman

  When I got out of the shower I yelled out to her about what a lucky man I was going to be. She didn't answer. I dried myself off, dressed, and yelled out before leaving the bathroom that she'd better be decent.

  The motel room was empty. Her suitcase was still on the floor, but she was gone. I looked out the window and saw her car was gone.

  I sat on the bed and took out a pack of cigarettes and turned on the TV. At first I was sort of relieved but after an hour I started to get annoyed. As I stared at the set I decided I was going to take more than a million and a half from Marge Henke. By the time I was through bleeding her she was going to be one anemic fat broad.

  I finished the pack of cigarettes and then walked over to the front office and bought a couple of more packs. The girl working the desk couldn't tell me anything about where Marge had gone. There was a liquor store next to the motel. I bought a six-pack of beer and a quart of bourbon from it and then went back to my room to wait.

  I woke up at four a.m. with my head pounding and the set blaring away. Marge Henke still hadn't come back. I finished off what was left of the bourbon and then paced the room and kicked at the bed. I couldn't understand what had happened. Then it came to me. I checked my suit jacket's inside pocket. Luanne's letter was still there, but I could also pick up Marge's smell on it. There was nothing else to do so I turned off the set and went to bed.

  I was woken up the next morning by her smell. It was stronger than ever. I lifted my head and saw Marge Henke standing over me, hands on her hips.

  "Look at the mess you made!" she exclaimed. Her eyes were bloodshot and her skin looked even paler than before.

  "Where were you, darling?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about!"

  I sat up slowly, trying not to move too fast. I had gone six years without touching any alcohol and the bourbon and six-pack had hit me hard.

  "You don't have to talk about it," I said, squinting against the light. "I guess you needed time alone to think things over."

  "I still don't know what you're talking about." She narrowed her eyes and peered at me, her large, doughy face expressionless. "My lord," she cried out as she glanced at the clock. "It's eight thirty already. You better get up if we're going to get married!"

  We drove into Sacramento, found city hall, and a half hour later were man and wife. The J.P. involuntarily grimaced as he told me I could kiss the bride. I managed to give her a little peck on the lips, and fortunately only tasted the lipstick that had been smeared over them.

  Marge had a house in Davis, which was about a two hour ride from Sacramento. During the trip I started to doze off and was jostled awake by her.

  "You must've gotten letters from a lot of girls." Marge said, a sly look on her face.

  "I guess so."

  "Why don't you tell me about them."

  I looked over at her. She still had that sly look on her face, like she knew something I didn't. "There's not much to tell. It took a lot of letters before I found the right person."

  "I bet some of the girls were real pretty."

  "One anyway." I smiled at her and squeezed her knee. I got no reaction, just the same sly, calculating look. "Most of the ladies were lonely and pathetic. A couple were nuts."

  She didn't talk after that and I went back to sleep. I dreamt about being trapped in a sewer.

  # #

  When she woke me and I caught sight of her house I almost broke out laughing. The car was bad enough for a woman with three million dollars, but that house? It was nothing but an ugly little clapboard shack.

  "We're home, honeypie!" she announced.

  Inside was worse than anything I could've ever imagined. The smell almost knocked me over. There was dirt and clutter and garbage everywhere. And that smell ...

  Marge pushed me aside and went straight to the telephone. I overheard her talking to someone named Henrietta, telling her about how we got married this morning instead of yesterday. "He just took off yesterday afternoon," she said. "That's right, he left me waiting in the motel room all day and night. I don't know where he went. But he came back this morning and we got married." After that she called someone named Irma and gave the same story.

  "Why'd you say that?" I asked.

  "I don't know what you're talking about." She stood up, made a sour face, and ran her hands over her rumpled dress. "I have to go to the bathroom."

  As I stood alone, a sickish feeling began to work its way into my stomach. I called my credit agency and asked for another credit check on Marge Henke, giving them her address and phone number. I then took my duffel bag into the kitchen and found Marge's folder.

  As I read it, a cold chill ran through me. Her file had been tampered with, mixed with the file of another woman, Mary Henderson. I pulled Henderson's file and found Marge's earlier letters hidden in it. They were the rambling of a deranged mind.

  In my mind's eye I could picture Morrisey laughing hysterically. I could almost hear it.

  The phone rang. It was the credit agency, letting me know that Marge Henke was a bad risk with less than three hundred dollars in savings.

  Marge walked out of the bathroom, peering at me expressionlessly. "What you doing, honeypie?" she asked.

  I didn't bother to answer. I walked back to the kitchen and packed away my folders, then grabbed my duffel bag and started past her. "A big mistake was made, lady," I said. "Don't wait up for me."

  "You ain't leaving me!"

  "Oh no?" I started laughing. "What do they use to get rid of a skunk's scent, tomato juice? Well, as soon as I'm out of here I'm buying a case of it. Wish me luck."

  "You heard me tell my friends about how you went away yesterday. Unless you want to end up in big trouble you better just read that copy of the San Jose Examiner I brought back with me. Page fourteen."

  As I stared at her I felt a weakness in my knees. Luanne was from San Jose. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "You just better read it!"

  I found the newspaper laying on the sofa. On page fourteen was a story about a young, pretty girl who had been strangled to death in her apartment. The girl was Luanne Williams.

  "You killed her," I heard myself saying.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  As I looked at her, her large bloated body dissolved into a sea of redness. Before I knew it I was clawing at her, pushing her head into the wall, choking her. There was a surprising hardness to her flesh as she fought back. Her face inched its way towards mine. The harsh, fetid smell of her breath assaulted me. My senses were reeling. The ground seemed to be slipping sideways away from me.

  I collapsed onto the floor, weeping uncontrollably. "You killed her," I sobbed.

  "Look at the marks you left on my neck," she said in a calm, almost indifferent voice. "I'm going to show Irma and Henrietta these marks." As she stood over me, a horrible smile formed on her face. Like when I first saw her.

  "Who do you think the police are going to believe, an ex-convict or a woman like me who's never had any problems with anybody? Especially after I show Irma and Henrietta what you did to my neck."

  "Now, honeypie," she added coyly. "Why don't you get up and lie down with me. You might as well because we're going to be together for a long time. Forever and ever."

  Somewhere in the distance I could hear Morrisey laughing his head off. Laughing like there was no tomorrow.

  The Manny Vassey Stories

  In Small Crimes, Manny Vassey is a ruthless mobster dying of cancer, and his willingness to give a deathbed confessions sets everything in motion. In some of my early stories written in the 90s I had a prototype for Manny; a vicious, ruthless mobster also named Manny Vassey. This earlier version isn’t as fully fleshed out as the Small Crimes version, and is also somewhat more of a caricature, but I thought it would be fun for people to see where Manny evolved from.

  Triple Cross

  Manny first appeared in this nasty noir story featuring a set of murderous triplets, appropr
iately titled, Triple Cross.

  The phone rang. No one should’ve known I was in Boston. I picked up the receiver and listened.

  There was a pause. Then, “Hello, Hugh?”

  “Hello, Lewis,” I answered. My throat began to feel dry. “How’d you find me?”

  There was a slight laugh that could’ve been confused for static. “You should know better than that, brother,” he said.

  I did know better. There was a connection between us. I forced myself to concentrate. I pushed harder until I could hear the blood rushing through my head, and at last I knew that Lewis was in New York. It had been two years since I’d last seen him and the connection was as strong as ever. “What’d you call for?” I asked.

  “The same as usual. How does twenty grand sound?”

  My throat became so dry I could barely talk. I wanted to hang up. I knew I should. Instead, I told him it sounded fine.

  “Good. Check in tomorrow at the TowerPlaza. I’ll see you at six.” There was a hesitation. “Have you heard from Dwight?” he asked at last.

  “Not in years. And yourself?”

  “The same. Good night, brother.” And the phone went dead.

  Hugh, Lewis, and Dwight. Huey, Luey, and Dewey. We were our Mother’s identical triplets. Her three peas in a pod. Her three pieces to a puzzle. There were other things, but it all amounted to the same. We were an oddity to her. Things to be held up as trophies, to be bragged about, but never to be considered as individuals. In her eyes, we were only parts to a whole.

  Of course, later, after she caught us with the Hennesy girl, we became something else to her. Monsters. Sickos. Filth. That was what she called us, and kept calling us up until the moment she fell down the cellar steps and broke her neck.

  Dear old mother.

  The next morning I packed a suitcase, carefully placing a thirty-two caliber revolver between shirts, and then took a bus to New York City. After checking in at the TowerPlaza, I called room service and had them deliver a bottle of Dewar’s scotch and a bucket of ice.

  A minute or so before six there was a soft knock on my door. I opened it and let Lewis in. I could’ve been looking in a mirror. We were forty years old, but we were still physically identical. Slim, baby-faced, with golden brown hair, and almond-shaped cat’s eyes. Lewis was dressed better than me though, wearing a cashmere coat that matched his hair, and a brown silk suit matching a pair of Italian shoes.

  “You’re looking good, brother,” he said, more as a compliment to himself than to me.

  “Thanks.” I walked over to the service tray and poured myself some scotch. “You want one?” I asked, showing him the glass.

  He shook his head. “Not quite my cup of tea.”

  “You should learn to enjoy the finer things in life, brother.”

  “Maybe someday I will,” he said, chuckling. “My latest girlfriend.” He handed me a picture of a small moon-faced girl with an almost deathly pale complexion.

  Lewis moved across the room to an easy chair, brushed off any possible dirt, and sat down crossing his legs. “Her name’s Gloria Carlson,” he said. “Her address is on the back. You’ll be meeting her at nine o’clock at her place. I’ll be setting up an alibi at ten, so wait til after midnight before dealing with her. That will give us a two-hour window with whatever forensics comes up with.”

  I nodded, still studying Gloria Carlson’s photograph. “And what about the twenty grand?”

  “She has over a hundred grand in jewelry, stuff she inherited. It’s hidden on the top shelf of her bedroom closet. I’ve already lined up a fence who’ll pay forty cents on the dollar.”

  “Why don’t we swap?” I offered weakly. “I’ll set up the alibi.”

  Amusement sparkled in Lewis’s eyes. “Now brother,” he scolded me. “You know we take turns. You don’t want to be unfair, do you?”

  “No, of course not.” I turned over the photograph and saw Gloria Carlson had a Greenwich Village address. “How long should it take to walk there?”

  “No more than twenty minutes.” Lewis stood up, took off his coat, and folded it on the easy chair. “She gave it to me as a birthday present,” he said, “might be a good idea if you were to wear it.” He walked over to the door and stopped. “Remember, wait until after midnight. And try to do the job quietly.”

  I laid down on the bed and thought about the moon-faced girl who was going to die.

  # #

  I met Gloria at her door. She was as moon-faced in person as she was in her photograph, but she had nice curves and a narrow waist. She greeted me with an uneasy, jerky smile.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” I said.

  She took a step back as if she’d been slapped. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Nothing,” she said, her voice tight and brittle. “It’s just that you never called me that before. It surprised me.”

  I laughed, I couldn’t help it with the way she was looking, and the laugh triggered something in her. A shadow fell over her eyes.

  She turned from me and walked into the living room and I followed her, neither of us saying a word. There was a tension between us which indicated the state of her and Lewis’s relationship. Finally, she broke the silence by asking if I wanted a drink.

  “Not right now, sweetheart,” I said, trying to smile warmly. “Maybe later.”

  “It would be no problem. Let me go make you one.” She started to get up, but I stopped her. “I’m not thirsty now,” I told her.

  We sat some more, neither of us talking. Maybe because of the boredom, or maybe because she did have nice curves, I reached over and made a play for her. She let me go on a little and then stopped me dead. “I’m too uptight right now,” she offered as an excuse, her face reddening. “Maybe after I have a drink and relax a bit. Let me get you one too?”

  She gave me an anxious look. I shrugged and she got up and hurried out of the room. She was gone for at least ten minutes, and when she came back she was carrying a highball glass.

  “I brought you your favorite,” she said, handing me a glass, “Dewar’s scotch.”

  I had the scotch warming my lips; all ready to drink it when a thought stopped me. Lewis couldn’t stand the stuff.

  A nervous smile wrecked Gloria’s face. Her eyes jumped from me to the glass. I shifted the glass away from my mouth and sniffed it. Nothing, at least nothing I could smell. “Alright,” I asked, “what did you put in this?”

  “What a-are you talking about?” Her smile was pulled apart by a facial twitch. “What’s wrong?”

  I tossed the drink in her face. Then, low and mean so she knew I meant business, I demanded again what she put in it. She didn’t move. Her face became one big massive tic, jerking her mouth this way and that but not a damn sound came out of it. I slapped her hard on the side of her face, leaving a redness on her skin and a sharp crack resonating through the room. Still nothing. I took her pocketbook and emptied it on the floor and scattered the contents with my toe, but didn’t find anything.

  I walked into the kitchen. It didn’t take me long to find the bottle of sulfur tablets hidden in the sugar bowl. I have a violent allergic reaction to sulfur, the one thing that physically separates me from Dwight and Lewis. Two tablets crushed and mixed into a glass of scotch would kill me. There were enough tablets missing from the bottle to do the job several times over. I took the bottle back to the living room and tossed it at Gloria, catching her flush on her nose. She reacted to that, her head snapping up and her mouth twisting into violent rage. I showed her my gun and it calmed her down.

  “So what’s the story?” I asked, as nicely and politely as I could.

  She stared at me and then back at the gun. The blood had drained from her face. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t have to. I had smelled the setup when Lewis called me in Boston. I didn’t have any idea what it was about, but it didn’t really matter.

  I sat down across from Gloria, letting the gun rest on my knee. There were several ways to play the hand out and I studied each one
before making up my mind. Finally, I looked up at Gloria and told her to get out.

  She didn’t move. Her soft pale face was queered in a look of befuddlement. “Look,” I said, waving my gun lazily at her. “I’m going to count to ten and if I see you after that I’m going to kick your face in. Get the hell out of here! One .. Two ..”

  All of a sudden she came to life. In a flurry of tears and bitterness words poured out of her, damning me to the worst kinds of hell. But by the time I reached ten, the door was closed and she was on the other side of it.

  I searched the bedroom where the jewelry was supposed to be. There was nothing. I turned off the lights in the apartment and waited in the dark by the front door.

  Eventually, a key sounded in the outside lock. I held my breath and pushed myself flat against the wall. As the door opened, I shifted my gun from my jacket pocket to my right hand. Light from the hallway filtered in, outlining Lewis as he stepped into the room. The door closed behind him, and in one motion I flicked the lights on and pushed the barrel of the thirty-two into the small of his back. At once I could sense his body tightening and then relaxing.

  “Hello, brother,” he said, his voice controlled, his tone soft and lyrical. “The job successfully completed? Gloria cold and stiff and the loot all accounted for?”

  He had started to turn around and I pushed the barrel harder into his back, freezing him. “Don’t move, brother,” I ordered. “Why am I honored with your presence?”

  “I thought I’d drop by in case you needed any help,” he answered with only a slight hesitation.

  “That wasn’t what we planned. And there’s nothing of value in her bedroom.”

  “No?” he mused. “That’s odd. The jewelry should be there. It would be a shame to walk away from this with nothing. Let me see what I can find.”

  He took a soft gliding step away from me and as he did I pulled the trigger. The bullet sliced his spinal cord, causing his legs to buckle under him and his body to collapse like a sack of bricks. As he fell, his body twisted and his eyes caught mine. Not long after that those eyes became glassy and lifeless. It was disheartening watching him die since it was so much like watching myself die, but it was also exhilarating. No more Huey, Luey, and Dewey. With Lewis’s death part of me had been reclaimed.