“No more excuses,” Rycann said, pulling away from the curb.
“Hey, come on now,” Cashew whined, “ya got t’ listen ta me.”
But Rycann didn’t reply, he just sped up, hitting his Mars lights to get through one intersection, then weaving his way around to get to the back of Finstine’s Hardware. He got out and opened the back door so Cashew could exit.
“I let you slide last week,” Rycann said, pushing Cashew back against the squad car. “I want my money now.”
Cashew’s hands were trembling as he held them up in front of him. “Told ya, I’ve had a bad run. I’ve been paying out a lot.”
“But not to me, Cashew. I give you one pass and you think I’m soft.”
“No, no, Rycann, it ain’t that . . .”
Rycann slapped him, a right-handed swipe that rocked Cashew’s head back and brought water to his eyes.
“My money, Cashew.”
Trembling, Cashew reached into his pocket, taking out a fistful of crumbed bills. “This is all I got.” He handed it over to Rycann. As usual, there was a generous portion of cashew nuts mixed in with the money.
“Why the hell don’t you ever clean your pockets out?” Rycann asked, dumping the mess on the trunk of the squad car.
Cashew shrugged, his head lowered, and mumbled something to himself.
Rycann began the tedious task of separating the bills from the cashews. “The next time you give me some crap like this, I’m just going to put a bullet in you and dump you in the river. You got me?”
“Yeah, yeah, Rycann. I won’t do it no more.”
“Fifty-seven damn dollars, is that it?” he snapped, after he’d finished counting.
“Told ya, I been running in t’ some bad times.”
“Well, what are going to do about it?” he asked, getting close to Cashew’s face. He could smell the sweat coming off of him.
“Don’t hurt me, Rycann, please. Look, how about some information?”
“What kind of information?”
“There’s a new babe working the neighborhood. Says she wasn’t about t’ pay no cop off for her hard work.”
“She said that, did she?”
“Least that’s what I heard.”
“How long she been at it?”
“Week or two, maybe three.”
“And you’re just now telling me?”
“Figured it wasn’t none of my business.”
“Uh-huh.” Cashew wasn’t fooling Rycann. He’d saved the information for just this type of situation, something to keep Rycann from squashing him.
“Okay, for now. But you better not be steering me wrong on this.”
“I ain’t, Rycann. I swear.”
Alice was the only name Cashew knew her by. He said she worked out of a second floor rear apartment in the corner building across from Richard’s Playhouse Lounge, one of the busier nightspots on Rycann’s beat, and an ideal place for a hooker to set up shop.
He knocked heavily, rattling the door on its hinges. It would be all the better if she had a john in there with her, Rycann reasoned. Two payoffs were always better than one.
“Yes?” a delicate female voice replied.
“Police, Alice. Open up.”
The door was opened slowly, only about an inch, partially exposing a dark haired woman in a yellow negligee. And with a very little effort Rycann pushed the door open the rest of the way.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“Cut the indignant act,” he said, closing the door behind him. “You know who I am and why I’m here.”
Her hair was so black it almost made her seem pale as it framed her face in an abundance of loose curls. Except for her large eyes, her features were dainty, doll-like. Her body was slender, yet ample, which was evident by the view offered through the thin fabric of the negligee. In the right setting she could command top dollar. Rycann briefly wondered how she’d wound up here.
“You alone?”
She said she was, but he checked anyway. It was a small apartment: Besides the bedroom and bath, there was just the kitchen/living room combination. Sparsely furnished, just a sofa and twenty-inch TV for the living room, a small table and one chair for the kitchen, a queen-sized bed in the bedroom. She didn’t live in the apartment. It was a place where she plied her trade.
His search had ended in the bedroom, and she sat on the side of the bed and crossed her bare, shapely legs.
“So, I’m breaking the law by being here alone?” she smiled.
“Something you ought to know about me, Alice. I don’t play games when it comes to my money,” he said, and slapped her across her face.
It wasn’t that hard, but she reeled back from the blow anyway. “What was that for?” she asked, rubbing her jaw.
“Just setting the ground rules. I’ll take three hundred a week. I’ll be by every Monday to collect. You’ve been operating in my backyard for three weeks now, so that’s nine hundred you owe me.”
“You out of your damn mind? There’re other places in this city I can work.”
“I’ll help you pack, but you still owe me nine hundred.”
She shook her head smiling, stood and came over to him. “Look, I did some checking before I moved in here. I’ve got a bottle of Red Label. That’s your favorite, isn’t it? Let’s say we open it and talk this thing over?” She ran a finger along the side of his face. “Three hundred a week is kind of steep, and that back pay garbage . . .”
Rycann thought, they always tried to trade their body for the money, but the way he played the game he wound up with both.
He knocked her hand away. “My money first.”
“You’re not that tough, Rycann.”
“If you want to be shown,” he said, reaching for her.
She came in fast, trying to knee him. He was surprised but more amused at her attempt to challenge him. He slapped her hard this time, rocking her head back. She screamed, clawed at him, her nails just missing his face. He slapped her again, even harder than before, and she fell back, hit the corner of the bed, and slid to the floor.
She sat there, her hair a mess about her head, one curl drooped down over her left eye. A thin line of blood began a slow descent from the corner of her mouth.
He took a step toward her and she raised a hand. “Enough. Don’t hit me again, you’ll get your money.”
They were the right words, more or less what he expected. She was beaten. He had won. Yet, he didn’t see the fear in her eyes. There was something there, but it wasn’t fear. She couldn’t be trusted unless he was in absolute control. It was something he would have to work on.
“I think I’ll make it four hundred a week.”
“Sure, okay. I got the message, you’re the boss.”
Still the right words, but where was the fear?
She stood, slowly wiping the blood from her mouth. “How about that drink now?”
“Yeah, okay.”
She stepped over to a nightstand and reached into the bottom compartment. The thought of her going for a weapon crossed his mind and he unsnapped his holster, but she turned with a glass and the bottle of Scotch in her hand.
“You take it straight, don’t you?”
“That’s right,” he said, taking the glass offered. It was the first drink he’d had that evening and the Scotch made a warm welcomed path to his stomach. Another good swallow and he emptied his glass, extended it for a refill. “Better keep a bottle around, I can always use a nightcap.”
“Whatever you say,” she replied, and still there wasn’t the slightest bit of fear in her expression. In fact, she was smiling again. Maybe she thought the rough stuff was over. Maybe he ought to slap her around a bit just to prove her wrong.
“Don’t think I’m forgetting about my money.”
“What money was that?”
“Don’t start getting sassy,” he said, starting to take another swallow, but the glass fell out of his hand and crashed to the floor. How the hell did he do that? Hi
s fingers just didn’t seem to want to work.
She was laughing out loud now, slightly weaving in front of him.
“Dumb bastard,” she shouted.
He managed a step toward her, then another, then his legs collapsed and he was on his knees, and there was gnawing pain erupting inside of him. He keeled over onto the floor and felt the vomit flow from his mouth.
She leaned closed to him, and he barely felt her breath on his ear as she spoke. “Cashew Tommy, Sally, Little Chuck, and some of the others wanted you to know the Scotch was a present from them.”
Copyright © 2011 Percy Spurlark Parker
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FICTION
THE PARROTT CANNON AFFAIR
DOUGLAS GRANT JOHNSON
Art by Linda Weatherly
Everyone agreed the cannon was on the roof.
It had somehow gotten from its accustomed place next to the flagpole and onto the roof of the Augustus V. Millbank Administration Building, where it sat precariously on the ridge. A crowd was growing and gawking. Here and there, a few voices could be plainly heard.
“How’d it get up there?”
“Huh! Ask me another!”
“Yesterday, it was right where I’m standing.”
“You sure?”
“I walk by here every day. It was right here in front of the pond.”
“Think ol’ Millbank has seen it?”
“For sure!”
“He just sits up there and worships his ancestors. About time someone tweaked his nose.”
“Maybe Houdini did it.”
“I don’t believe in magic.”
“No other way that cannon got up there overnight.”
“Sat here, hasn’t moved an inch since the college got it donated from the army back in ninety-two,” announced an elderly professor who had just joined the crowd, now close to a couple hundred students, most of whom should have been in the first class of the day.
“Who could do something like that?”
“You’d need a crane to get a heavy thing like that up there.”
“You hear about old Duckworth gettin’ shot last night?”
“Yeah, now where we gonna get good booze?”
“It’d take some kind of engineering genius to put that up there.”
“I say they used one of those new Zeppelins.”
“A Zeppelin? In your hat!”
“What’s a Zeppelin?”
“Where you been living, the Stone Age?”
Sam Kane and his buddies Jerry and Luke walked slowly though the crowd, listening to bits and pieces of excited conversation. Each wore slight smiles and chuckled silently whenever one happened to catch another’s eye. They stopped where they could look back and take in two splendid views of the cannon.
The first was of the cannon itself, sitting astride the roof ridge on one side of the bell tower of the administration building. The other was an image of the building and the cannon reflected between the lily pads growing in a shallow pond in front of them. It was in the right spot to be a reflecting pool but it was really just a murky, unkempt pond, known among the students as the Botany Pond because it was the place of choice to get samples for microscope slides.
They also had a nice view of the small, empty patch of concrete on the other side of the pond. On one side of the patch was a large stone plinth inset with an ornate bronze plaque attesting that the old cannon had served in the Civil War under Colonel Augustus V. Millbank, the founding president of the college. The cannon had indeed been there when the building janitor finished cleaning and locking the building at nine thirty the evening before.
“I’ll bet ol’ Millbank is up there steamin’ right now,” Luke said, eyes on a third floor corner window of the administration building.
“Has to be,” said Jerry.
“Some fellow over there said it was engineering geniuses that did it,” said Luke.
“Engineering geniuses,” Jerry said, and laughed. “Yeah, that’s us.”
“But no one will ever know how we did it,” Luke said.
“Or who,” said Jerry. He paused for a moment to look at the cannon. “Shoot, maybe we were too hasty with that oath.”
“We have a pact gentlemen,” said Sam. “No second thoughts, that was in the oath. Who did it, or how we did it, never to be revealed, even in our memoirs.”
Luke punched Jerry on the shoulder.
“And don’t you forget it.”
“Okay, okay,” Jerry said, raising his hands in surrender, “it’s just that being up all night does things to your brain.”
“Was the gag worth it, Sam?” Luke said.
Sam didn’t answer, and Jerry noticed he wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Sam? . . . hey . . . what’s with the glum face all of a sudden?” Jerry said.
“Isn’t over yet,” Sam said. “We’ve still got to put it back tonight. If that works, then . . . I don’t know . . . even if Millbank knew who did it, he’d never understand why.”
“Well,” Jerry said, “it wasn’t right, leaning on you all year like he did.”
Sam stared at the crowd, still growing opposite the pond.
“And this is turning out to be bigger than I thought,” Sam said. “If there’s trouble both of you could be in the soup too,” Sam said.
“Huh!” Luke said. “Not to worry, ol’ pal, I wouldn’t have missed this.”
“The secret’s safe with me, fellas,” Jerry said. He paused once more to admire the cannon sitting on the roof. The sight was worth a deep breath, and he sucked it in. “It’s the berries! Ain’t life a ball? They’ll be talking about this for the next fifty years.”
“Or longer,” said Sam, remembering how to smile again.
“Not much talk about old Duckworth getting shot last night,” said Luke.
“A couple of fellows over there were wondering where they’re gonna get real booze now that he’s gone,” said Jerry. He nodded toward the opposite side of the pond.
“The Roadhouse, I suppose,” said Luke.
“Fellows,” said Sam, “we ought to be getting some shut-eye if we’re going to be awake to put it back tonight.”
“Yeah, suddenly, I feel like I could sleep for the next couple of days,” said Jerry, giving in to a yawn. “How about we do it tomorrow night?”
“No. The longer we wait, there’s more chances someone will climb up to the roof and figure out how we did it.”
“Yeah, get some sleep,” said Luke. “In case you’ve forgotten, it’s dangerous up there in the dark.”
“It’s got to be tonight,” said Sam, giving in to a yawn himself.
“Time to fade,” said Luke. He waved and walked away.
“I think Connie just spotted you,” said Jerry. He tilted his head in the direction Sam should look.
A striking brunette was walking quickly toward him, trailed by a few admiring looks from more than a few male students.
“Remember, not a word, even to girlfriends,” said Jerry.
“My lips are sealed,” Sam said. “Well, hello, Connie.”
“Hello,” Jerry said. “Gotta run.”
“Bye, Jerry.”
Connie turned to Sam.
“My, but aren’t we all looking pleased with ourselves this morning.”
Sam used a yawn to wipe away any traces of a smile that might have betrayed him.
“I thought you might have called last night,” she said.
“Um . . . I was sort of busy . . . studying. Finals next week, you know.”
“And you missed your first class.”
Sam yawned again and looked at his wristwatch.
“Gosh, look at the time. So did you.”
“Oh, I went, but only two others besides myself came to class. The teacher called it off. He’s over there gawking at the cannon like everyone else.”
Connie looked up at the cannon. Sam smiled when he thought she wasn’t looking.
<
br /> “You know, if I wasn’t looking at it, I wouldn’t believe it. I wonder how it got up there?” She turned to look Sam in the eye and caught the tail end of the smile. “No wild ideas?”
“There’s plenty of wild ideas over there.” He waved his hand toward the students still hanging around. “Not my job to figure it out.”
A car stopped in front of the building entrance. A reporter and photographer with a camera got out and started to look around.
“I think we are about to be famous,” he said, hoping to change the subject. “Another exciting day on campus. Hear about the shooting last night?”
“Someone said he was one of the janitors.”
“Yeah, nice old fellow is what I’ve heard . . . I guess he was a real fixture around here. It wouldn’t surprise me if he cleared more bringing down good liquor from Canada than he made as a janitor.”
“Who would do something like that to him? And right on campus.”
Sam shrugged, didn’t say anything.
“I know . . . not your job to figure it out,” she said, tapping him a good one on the shoulder and interrupting a really good yawn. The yawn abruptly over, he looked at his watch and gave her a wink and a quick peck on the cheek.
“See you later, okay?”
She watched him trot off through the crowd, then glanced once more at the cannon. Yes, she thought, he looked entirely too pleased with himself to be innocent. Jerry, too, for that matter.
“There’s never been anything like this since my grandfather was invested as the first president of this college,” said Albert V. Millbank, the current president. He was standing at the window of his office where he usually stood to admire the cannon.
“Yes, sir. One of our janitors being shot down is rather unusual,” said his son, Philo V. Millbank.
“Not the shooting! The cannon!”
Albert V. Millbank raised his eyebrows and stared at his son who, except for the lack of a beard, bore a marked resemblance to a distinguished gent in a large oil painting on the wall behind Albert V. Millbank’s desk. The younger man—younger, but nevertheless in his early fifties—was dressed almost as formally as his ancestor in the painting.
“Yes, sir. But Mr. Duckworth was—”
Albert V. Millbank waved his son’s statement away.
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 04/01/11 Page 7
