“Oh, I think I’m beginning to get the picture.” I hoped that I sounded more confident than I was.
She laughed until her chin started to quiver, and I thought she was going to cry again.
“I put up with that old fool for thirty-nine years,” she said. “Thirty-nine years. I was just a kid when we got married. He was nineteen years older than me. Can you believe that?” She sniffled and took another sip of the martini.
I was thinking that I should apologize for finding her, but I was just doing what I was hired to do. Wasn’t I?
“I don’t think he ever did love me.” She looked off at the Gulf; I don’t believe she was actually seeing that gray-green expanse of water. “I was just part of the plan. All he ever loved was that damned company.” She got quiet again, crossed her legs, and sipped at her drink.
I remembered seeing her back when we played baseball. She was the knockout mom that every teenage boy had a crush on. She was still beautiful. The laugh lines were a little more pronounced, but there was no evidence of adulteration with cosmetic injections or surgery.
“Hell,” she said, “he doesn’t want me; it’s the damn book.”
“What is this book that I keep hearing about?” I asked.
She smiled a little then and said, “I took his little black book—as insurance—a way to defend myself.”
I just looked at her. Was she talking about infidelity? “You mean he cheated on you?”
“Oh, he did that all right, but, no, that’s not what’s in the book.”
“So what is in the book?”
“Parker kept track of everyone who owed him favors.” I guess I had a stupid look on my face. She continued, “That’s what is in the book. The name of every congressman, senator, judge, and whomever else he bribed or blackmailed, and how much they cost and what they did for him. It was an ego thing with Parker. And it’s all in his own handwriting. He doesn’t give a damn about me. He just wants his book back.”
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“You might as well.”
“Are you going to divorce your husband?”
She looked at me and gave a frustrated laugh. “Do you know how hard that would be? He’s not just going to let me go.”
“What choice does he have?”
“Not much as long as I’ve got that book.” She sat there for a moment with her eyes closed. The breeze off the water ruffled her hair. She opened her eyes and said, “Did you ever play golf with Parker?”
“Well, yes. Once or twice.”
“Did he beat you?”
“Well, yeah, but . . .”
“He cheats.” She looked off at the ocean again, took another sip of her drink.
“I’d say he shaved a few strokes off, yes.”
“But nobody said anything.”
I saw her point. Parker Goodman was a big man in Arkansas. He was famous for getting what he wanted. He didn’t play by the rules, but he expected everyone else to. In fact, he counted on it.
“I have never shaved strokes in my life,” she went on. “I knew about all those little bimbos he carried on with at those conventions. Do you know how humiliating that was? He had two little boys at home. ‘It’s just part of doing business,’ he’d say. How can a person be like that? And he’s ruined Marcus. He’s got him thinking and acting just like the old boar himself. And oh—my God! Roger! That precious, precious little boy.” She was tearing up again. “He was so tenderhearted; definitely not cut out of the same cloth as his daddy. He got into drugs and booze.” Her voice broke. “How do you live up to someone like that? How is it that you can’t earn your own father’s love and respect?” She was crying now. I moved over and put an arm around her. She didn’t push me away. “If God worked that way,” she said, “there would be no hope for any of us.” I turned her around, and she put her face into my shoulder. My chest was tight as I thought about my own father. My daddy loved me. There was never any doubt in my mind that he loved me. I didn’t have to earn it. I couldn’t earn it. Lorna Goodman’s tears soaked through my shirt.
She finally pulled away and looked up at me. “What are you going to do?” she said.
“Me? I’m not going to do anything.” My voice was raspy because my throat had a big lump in it. “I stopped working for Parker Goodman about half an hour ago.” I hugged her close, so that she wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, working hard at her composure. “Oh, thank you! I can’t tell you any more right now, but everyone will be so much happier this way. You’ll see. That little book is just an insurance policy . . . to make sure he lets me go.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I have to meet someone.” She got up to leave.
“You okay to drive? I can take you wherever you need to go.”
“Oh, no. No. I’ll be fine.” She leaned over and hugged me again. “Thank you so much.” She started for the parking lot, and then she turned and looked back at me. “You tell Parker . . . you tell him that, after all these years, I’m finally taking a mulligan.”
A mulligan, I thought, a do-over. It is an exceptional person who doesn’t take a mulligan once in a while. I walked out to my rental car and pondered whether or not to try to find a guide and go fishing. I decided that I wasn’t in the mood. I wanted to end my employment with Parker Goodman as soon as possible. It seemed like a good idea to just head on back to the airport at Fort Myers and light a shuck for Arkansas. I was flying standby and figured maybe I could catch the evening flight out. It had crossed my mind to give Parker back his shoebox, but, right now, I wasn’t feeling that charitable.
I got a boarding pass and had some time to kill. A Delta flight had just arrived from Atlanta, and I was watching the people coming off. A good-looking older man with a sun-block shirt and a fly-rod tube came bounding down the gangway. I didn’t have to see his face to recognize that carefree walk.
“Hey, Bradley,” my daddy said in his warm southern drawl. “What in the world are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” I said.
“I’m gonna catch me some bonefish,” he said. “And I gotta get my clubs off the carousel. We’re gonna do a little golfing, too.”
I looked around. “Who came down with you?” I asked. “Jerome? Case?”
“No. No,” he said. “I’m meeting a friend—some friends—down here.” He suddenly sounded like me when I was a teenager, trying to explain where I’d been all night. It was out of character for him not to invite me to go with him, but I suddenly knew all too well why he couldn’t.
“Well, you be careful,” I said. “I’m on a case, so I gotta get on this plane.” I could feel myself blushing.
“Maybe next time you can stay and go fishin’,” he said, looking relieved.
“Yeah, for sure,” I said. “Next time, for sure.”
“I love you, son,” he said, giving me a big bear hug.
“I love you too, Daddy.” I hugged him back.
“Well, I don’t want you to miss your plane,” he said.
“Go on and get your clubs,” I said, “before somebody else does.”
He said goodbye again and headed off down the concourse. I started to get in line, but then I ducked back out. I could see his bright yellow shirt quite a ways down the concourse. “Daddy!” I yelled. Lots of heads turned, but he heard me and turned around. “Tell her I said she only gets one mulligan!” The stunned look on his face was priceless. I waved again and got on my plane.
Copyright © 2010 by Jim Davis
PASSPORT TO CRIME
PASSPORT TO CRIME
SIGNED “MUTUAL TRUST”
by Richard Macker
In the spring of 2010, a new short story collection by Reider Thomassen, a.k.a. Richard Macker, entitled Djevelpakten, was published by the Norwegian publisher Kolofon. It included some new stories,...
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DEPARTMENT OF FIRST STORIES REVIEWS
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br /> PASSPORT TO CRIME
SIGNED “MUTUAL TRUST”
by Richard Macker
In the spring of 2010, a new short story collection by Reider Thomassen, a.k.a. Richard Macker, entitled Djevelpakten, was published by the Norwegian publisher Kolofon. It included some new stories, and some published in magazines as far back as the 1970s. This month’s Passport to Crime selection from Richard Macker won first prize in the Scandinavian crime short story competition sponsored by Aftenposten, one of the largest newspapers in Norway, in 1975. This is the first time the story has been translated and published in English.
Translated from the Norwegian by Runar Fergus
She stood on the busy street corner close to the Tellus cinema. The buttonhole of her pale blue suit held a yellow Ladies’-delight, as they had agreed upon. She was blond and far too plump, her nose was disproportionately large, and her round face was characterized by naive expectation. She is punctual, he thought. And she has expensive jewelry, elegant clothes. He watched for a while, in seclusion, with a satisfied grin. Then he pulled himself to-gether, cleared his throat, and stepped forward.
“Johanne, here I am.”
She jumped, then smiled to-wards him. Her teeth were too large as well.
“Kristian?”
“Yes”
They shook hands. Then he pulled her towards him and kissed her on the cheek. “You look wonderful, Johanne. Just as I had expected.”
He heard how she drew her breath, relieved and contented, noted how her heavy frame still shook with excitement.
“You . . .” she spoke softly, eyes shining with emotion, “you’re so tall, so handsome. I can’t really believe that . . . that . . .”
My God, he thought. She resembles a deranged, engorged cow. Obviously, he didn’t mind being told that he looked great. But somehow the praise had lost its value, he had heard it so often before, at least from naive, lovesick women.
“Oh no,” he said, flicking her lightly on her large nose “. . . don’t exaggerate, now. As I mentioned in one of the letters, I have always been ashamed of my receding hairline. I hope you don’t think . . .”
Her calf’s eyes blinked at him, blanker than ever. He knew exactly what she was about to say.
“But Kristian, you have beautiful, shiny hair. A bit thin at the edges perhaps. It suits you, makes you look intellectual.”
He stroked her cheek while thinking to himself: Intellectual, where did you learn that word, you flat-footed goose?
He took her arm and guided her down the street. The first act is over, he thought, now for the second act.
“Come on, dear, I know of a nice little place where we can chat without being disturbed.”
The places he chose were always in different parts of the city. He didn’t want to be recognized at the same place with new women all the time. He was very meticulous with details. Without intelligent planning he would have been out of the game a long time ago—he would have lost his livelihood.
He took aim for a small restaurant just outside the center of town and they were soon seated in a peaceful corner of the cavern-like premises. A candle fluttered on the table. He ordered a bottle of fortified wine to loosen her tongue. A dark-skinned violinist was doing the rounds playing sentimental gypsy music. Her eyes were shinier than ever, and he knew she wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears.
“Oh, Kristian, imagine us sitting here together, you and I. It’s wonderful. I can hardly believe it.”
She stroked his hand. He put on his slanted, slightly melancholy charmer’s smile.
He had got in touch with her through the newspaper. She was the “disappointed and disillusioned with love” type, had a broken marriage behind her, and “bore a great sorrow in her heart.” Furthermore, she was from a wealthy family, “but money isn’t everything.” She was looking for someone to confide in, a safe shoulder to cry on, someone to hold her hand, to walk down quiet wooded paths with, someone with whom to experience the heights of passion. In short, she was a rare find, and he put all his experience and routine into his first letter to her. But he was fairly sure of himself, as she had concluded her letter by saying “Your looks are quite important.” Now he was sitting there with the golden goose, and she cackled willingly away:
“I want to tell of my great sorrow, Kristian. I believe I can do so now, you will get to know everything about me, darling.”
He did get to know everything, and then some. About her ailments as a child, her complexes during puberty, about her failed marriage with a Spaniard named Barca, about her child, whom she loved above everything on earth, but who had died at merely five weeks old. That was the great sorrow she carried, and he had to struggle to lay his expression in the requisite compassionate folds.
Her story was miserable enough, but it didn’t affect him in the slightest. He had heard far too many of the same type, and the fools had only themselves to blame. He was more inclined to yawn or doze off, but he didn’t let her suspect that. He gently caressed her chubby hands, stroked her cheeks, which the wine had given color. The words spilled forth from her, and she spoke of disloyal girlfriends, malicious employers, numerous bodily ailments, and strict parents who had no understanding of her. This made him prick up his ears, and he gently probed her to expand on the issue, so that it only sounded natural when he inquired:
“Where do your parents live?”
“At Silverwood, they have a lovely villa there.”
He had to concentrate to avoid smacking his lips. Silverwood was a name that spoke more than a thousand words. She had to be far more well-to-do than he had dared to hope. And she was an only child! He listened intently as she described her mother, who was “strict, hard, but basically has a good heart.”
Finally, the bottle of wine was empty, and she grew quiet, empty of words and repressed emotions. Now it was his turn.
“And now, Kristian. I want to know everything about you.”
He had several “stories of his life” in store, and he chose the one of the orphan who went to sea at an early age but who returned ashore to get an education, about the small business he had established, but which had burnt to the ground, about his marriage to Lovise, about all the lovers she took while he rebuilt his business, about how she had revealed all of his trade secrets to one of them, his greatest competitor.
Johanne gripped his hand and squeezed it tightly.
“How could she be so mean? So vile? How do people become like that?”
She had tears in her eyes, and using an old trick, he managed to produce some of his own. They sat holding each other for a while, and he thought: Curtain call, Baby Fool, let’s proceed to the third act.
Things went exactly as predicted.
“Will you accompany me home, Kristian? For a cup of coffee and a cake I have baked . . . for you.”
Twenty minutes later, they were in her apartment. While she was in the kitchen, he looked around with practiced eyes. Everything exceeded his expectations: expensive furniture, paintings, and objects. Her parents may have been strict, but they were nevertheless very generous.
She served him coffee, and the cake she had baked, a sugary, sticky affair that revealed that she was as inept in the kitchen as she was at the writing desk. Finally, she fetched a bottle of liqueur, and when they had finished a couple of glasses, she leaned towards him, breathing heavily.
“Kiss me, Kristian. Kiss me hard.”
He closed his eyes and let himself go. After the embrace, he gasped for breath and loosened his tie. He had to undergo the ordeal once more, but to his relief, she suddenly tore herself away from him and said:
“No, Kristian. No! We cannot go any further. Not until . . . I mean, only if we were to be . . . married. I’ve been burned before and I just want everything to be right between us. Do you understand, Kristian?”
He understood perfectly, and sighed with relief. “The heights of passion” was what he had feared most. At least he didn’t have to worry about that.
&n
bsp; He had to suffer an interminable and nauseating farewell ritual before they separated. They agreed to meet the next day to go to the cinema.
“Goodbye, Kristian,” she said at the door, with a low, tender voice. “I love you.”
“Goodbye,” he groaned, pale with exhaustion.
“Goodbye, you inane, marriage-crazed creature,” he mumbled to himself as he descended the stairs.
During the following weeks they met every day. He struggled along quiet paths in the woods, forced down the dreadful meals she served, and sat holding her hand on the sofa, listening to her selection of sickly love songs. (“Likes all types of music, except country and western.”) Finally he felt that he had gained her complete trust, and he popped the question he had been waiting with for so long.
“Johanne,” he said, flicking her nose playfully, “isn’t it time your parents got to meet their future son-in-law?”
She threw herself at him with full force and kissed him intensely.
“Kristian, do you really want to marry me?”
“Yes,” he whispered, his guts turning. “I finally feel sure that I have met the right one. I love you, my darling little Johanne.”
A few days later she announced, with a voice full of emotion, that her mother wanted to meet him.
“Father is in South America on some important business, so you will meet him later. He will be so happy, I know it. Mother is expecting us at seven tonight.”
He made an extra effort with his looks for this important meeting, had his hair cut at the city’s best hairdresser, donned his new, expensive suit.
Mrs. Nadja Kram—Johanne’s mother—received him in the hallway. She was slim, dark-haired, and refined, and her green eyes inspected him for a long while. However, his slanted, melancholy smile appeared to convince her of his pure intentions.
A few glances at the huge living rooms spoke of prosperity and wealth beyond his wildest imagination. They sat down to a set table, and Mrs. Kram rang a silver bell. A young, attractive maid appeared.
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 02/01/11 Page 17
