Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories

by Bill Pronzini

  "We are, we are, we are . . ."

  "We're not going to die," Flake said.

  They came out of the desert four days later—burnt, shriveled, caked head to foot with red dust like human figures molded from soft stone.

  Their appearance and the subsequent story of their ordeal caused considerable excitement in Sandoval, much more so than the rich ore samples in Flake's knapsack. They received the best of care. They were celebrities as well as rich men; they had survived the plains of hell, and that set them apart, in the eyes of the people of Sandoval, from ordinary mortals.

  It took more than a week before their burns and infirmities healed enough so that they could resume normal activity. In all that time March was strangely uncommunicative. At first the doctors had been afraid that he might have to be committed to an asylum; his eyes glittered and he made sounds deep in his throat that were not human sounds. But then he began to get better, even if he still didn't have much to say. Flake thought that March would be his old self again in time. When you were a rich man, all your problems were solved in time.

  Flake spent his first full day out of bed renting them a fancy hacienda and organizing mining operations on their claim in the Red Hills. That night, when he returned to their temporary quarters, he found March sitting in the darkened kitchen. He told him all about the arrangements. March didn't seem interested. Shrugging, Flake got down a bottle of tequila and poured himself a drink.

  Behind him, March said, "I've been thinking, Flake."

  "Good for you. What about?"

  "About Brennan."

  Flake licked the back of his hand, salted it, licked off the salt, and drank the shot of tequila. "You'd better forget about Brennan," he said.

  "I can't forget about him," March said. His eyes were bright. "What do you suppose people would say if we told them the whole story? Everything that happened out there in the desert."

  "Don't be a damned fool."

  March smiled. "We were thirsty, weren't we? So thirsty."

  "That's right. And we did what we had to do to survive."

  "Yes," March said. "We did what we had to do."

  He stood up slowly and lifted a folded square of linen from the table. Under it was a long, thin carving knife. March picked up the knife and held it in his hand. Sweat shone on his skin; his eyes glittered now like bits of phosphorous. He took a step toward Flake.

  Flake felt sudden fear. He opened his mouth to tell March to put the knife down, to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing. But the words caught in his throat.

  "You know what we are, Flake? You know what we—what I—became out there the night we cut Brennan open and drained his blood into those four big canteens?"

  Flake knew, then, and he tried desperately to run—too late. March tripped him and knocked him down and straddled him, the knife held high.

  "I'm still thirsty," March said.

  SKELETONS

  I had put Katchaturian's Masquerade Suite on the stereo and was pouring myself a tulip glass of port when the doorbell rang at a few minutes past seven.

  Reluctantly I crossed to the foyer, asking myself why it was that whenever a man plans a relaxing evening at home alone, he is invariably beset by interruptions of one kind or another. Sighing, I opened the door.

  The man standing on the porch was tall and thin, with eyebrows so thick they formed an almost solid black bar across his forehead. He wore a navy blue business suit and a dark tie; his narrow mouth was turned into a smile that did not reach eyes as slick as polished black stones. He reminded me of an undertaker.

  He said, "Mr. Thorpe? Mr. Emmett Thorpe?"

  "Yes?"

  "A pleasure, sir, a distinct pleasure." He proffered his hand. "My name is Buchanan, Ian Buchanan."

  His grip was cool and moist. I took my own hand away quickly. "What can I do for you, Mr. Buchanan?"

  "A business matter, sir."

  "Oh," I said. "Well, I'm sorry, but I never discuss business except at my office. Perhaps if you—"

  "This is a matter of no little import, Mr. Thorpe, no little import."

  "Yes?"

  "Oh, very much so."

  "Concerning what?"

  "Lysander Pharmaceuticals."

  "I gathered that much," I said. "Precisely why are you here, Mr. Buchanan?"

  His smile widened. "May I come in? It's a bit chilly out here—decidedly nippy, in fact."

  "I see no reason to let you into my house until you state the nature of your business," I said. I was beginning to grow irritated.

  "I don't blame you for that. No, no, not at all. It pays to be careful these days, eh? Well, Mr. Thorpe, to put it quite simply, I am here to blackmail you."

  I stared at him. "What did you say?"

  "I think you heard me, sir. Now may I come in?"

  I hesitated for a moment, and then stood aside wordlessly. We went into the living room. The Masquerade Suite was in its closing segments now; Buchanan paused to listen. "Ah, Katchaturian," he said. "A genius, sir, a monumental talent. Perhaps one day he will be given his due as one of the great composers."

  I said nothing, standing with my hands closed into fists. My chest felt constricted, my mouth dry and coppery.

  When the music ended, Buchanan seated himself in one of the overstuffed chairs and took in the contents of the room in a sweeping glance: the heavy mahogany-and-leather furniture, the fieldstone fireplace flanked by staggered shelves of good, well-thumbed books, the stereo components built into the paneled wall opposite. "A most impressive room, Mr. Thorpe, most impressive indeed," he said appreciatively. "I must compliment you on your taste."

  "Suppose you get to the point, Buchanan."

  "And the point is blackmail, eh?"

  "So you said."

  "So I did. An unfortunate word, blackmail, but there you are. I could have said I dealt in silence but I dislike euphemisms. I prefer to call a spade a spade."

  "Damn you, what do you think you know about me?"

  "Enough, Mr. Thorpe, to ask—and receive—the inconsequential sum of fifteen hundred dollars a month."

  "That's an outrageous demand!"

  "Not under the circumstances."

  "What circumstances?"

  "The rather substantial skeleton in your closet, sir. Yes, very substantial. Need I remind you of the unpleasant details?"

  I said stiffly, "Lay your damned cards on the table."

  "As you wish." Buchanan leaned back in his chair and made a steeple of his hands. "In April of 1977, you and a Mr. Arthur Powell, a speculator of shady background, contrived to steal, by fraudulent misrepresentation of certain real estate properties, the sum of five hundred thousand dollars. You were successful in this scheme and equally divided the, ah, spoils."

  He paused for a moment, watching me. When I said nothing he smiled and went on. "Mr. Powell squandered his share on a variety of wildcat speculations. He died of a heart attack in Los Angeles in 1982—for all practical purposes, a pauper. You, on the other hand, used your share to finance a power play to gain control of Lysander Pharmaceuticals. The power play was successful, with the result that today you are not only head of the company but a well-respected member of this community and a leading candidate for public office. A senatorial seat, isn't it?"

  I remained silent.

  "And that is why, Mr. Thorpe," Buchanan said, "I believe you will pay me a fifteen-hundred-dollar honorarium each month. If this skeleton of yours were made public . . . well, I shudder to think of its effects on your reputation and your political aspirations. Don't you?"

  "How did you find out all this?"

  He smiled. "Come now, you really don't expect me to tell you that. There are ways—many ways to find out many things. Shall we leave it at that?"

  "I . . . suppose you have proof?"

  "Oh yes. Quite enough."

  I drew a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly. "All right," I said. "All right, Buchanan, I'll pay."

  "Wise decision, Mr. Thorpe! No hed
ging, no bluff or bluster; exactly what I expected of you, sir."

  "You'll want the first payment now, I suppose?"

  "If you have the ready cash, that would be most satisfactory. Indeed it would."

  I crossed to the bookshelves and removed several volumes of Tolstoy. A small button on the wall behind them slid one of the panels back, revealing my safe. In a few seconds I had it open. A .32 revolver and a sheaf of vital documents were the only contents.

  I let my fingers close around the gun, shutting my eyes for a moment to think. Did I have another choice? No, I decided wearily, this was the only way. I lifted the weapon and turned to point it at Buchanan.

  His slick black eyes widened in disbelief. He clutched at the arms of the chair, started to rise convulsively.

  "Stay right where you are," I said.

  He sank back. Fear had turned his face a stark white and completely destroyed his unctuous, patronizing manner. "Have you gone mad, Thorpe? Put that gun away!"

  "No, I don't think I will."

  "You . . . you can't kill me!" He almost screamed the words. "The evidence I have . . . it's in the hands of a confederate. If I'm found dead, everything will go the authorities—"

  "Shut up," I said without rancor. I felt old in that moment, very old. "I'm not going to kill you. Whatever else I may be, I'm not a murderer. But if you move out of that chair, I'll shoot you in the leg, or hip, or shoulder—someplace crippling. I am a good pistol shot."

  "Then what . . . ?"

  "The police," I said.

  "The police! Don't be a fool, Thorpe! If you turn me in, I'll have to tell them about you. I won't have any choice."

  "I'll save you the trouble." I moved over to the telephone.

  "I intend to tell them myself. Everything, down to the last detail."

  "Think what you're doing, man!" he cried desperately. "You'll be disgraced, ruined! And for what? A paltry fifteen hundred dollars a month? For God's sake, Thorpe, you can afford fifteen hundred dollars a month!"

  "Can I?" I said. "I am now paying two thousand a month to a man whose uncle was taken in the real-estate swindle and who somehow found out I was involved, twelve hundred to a minor accountant who happened to dig up and correctly interpret some old records, and a thousand to the woman who was Arthur Powell's mistress just before he died—all for their continued silence."

  I sighed resignedly. "No, Buchanan, I can't afford to pay you fifteen hundred dollars a month. And even if I could, I wouldn't. A man can take only so much pressure and so much guilt before he reaches the limit of his endurance. A fourth blackmailer is my limit, Buchanan; you're the straw that broke this camel's back."

  I picked up the receiver with my free hand and dialed the police.

  THE SAME OLD GRIND

  There were no customers in the Vienna Delicatessen when Mitchell came in at two on a Thursday afternoon. But that wasn't anything unusual. He'd been going there a couple of times a week since he'd discovered the place two months ago, and he hadn't seen more than a dozen people shopping there in all that time.

  It wasn't much of a place. Just a hole-in-the wall deli tucked down at the end of a side street, in an old neighborhood that was sliding downhill. Which was exactly the opposite of what he himself was doing, Mitchell thought. He was heading uphill—out of the slums he'd been raised in and into this section of the city for a few months, until he had enough money and enough connections, and then uptown where you drank champagne instead of cheap bourbon and ate in fancy restaurants instead of dusty old delis.

  But he had to admit that he got a boot out of coming to the Vienna Delicatessen. For one thing, the food was good and didn't cost much. And for another the owner, Giftholz, amused him. Giftholz was a frail old bird who talked with an accent and said a lot of humorous things because he didn't understand half of what you rapped to him about. He was from Austria or someplace like that, had been in this country for thirty years, but damned if he didn't talk like he'd just come off the boat.

  What Giftholz was doing right now was standing behind the deli counter and staring off into space. Daydreaming about Austria, maybe. Or about the customers he wished he had. He didn't hear Mitchell open the door, but as soon as the little bell overhead started tinkling, he swung around and smiled in a sad hopeful way that always made Mitchell think of an old mutt waiting for somebody to throw him a bone.

  "Mr. Mitchell, good afternoon."

  Mitchell shut the door and went over to the counter. "How's it going, Giftholz?"

  "It goes," Giftholz said sadly. "But not so well."

  "The same old grind, huh?"

  "Same old grind?"

  "Sure. Day in, day out. Rutsville, you dig?"

  "Dig?" Giftholz said. He blinked like he was confused and smoothed his hands over the front of his clean white apron. "What will you have today, Mr. Mitchell?"

  "The usual. Sausage hero and an order of cole slaw. Might as well lay a brew on me too."

  "Lay a brew?"

  Mitchell grinned. "Beer, Giftholz. I want a beer."

  "Ah. One beer, one sausage hero, one cole slaw. Yes."

  Giftholz got busy. He didn't move too fast—hell, he was so frail he'd probably keel over if he tried to move fast—but that was all right. He knew what he was doing and he did it right: lots of meat on the sandwich, lots of slaw. You had to give him that.

  Mitchell watched him for a time. Then he said, "Tell me something, Giftholz. How do you hang in like this?"

  "Please?"

  "Hang in," Mitchell said. "Stay in business. You don't have many customers and your prices are already dirt cheap."

  "I charge what is fair."

  "Yeah, right. But you can't make any bread that way."

  "Bread?" Giftholz said. "No, my bread is purchased from the bakery on Union Avenue."

  Mitchell got a laugh out of that. "I mean money, Giftholz. You can't make any money."

  "Ah. Yes, it is sometimes difficult."

  "So how do you pay the bills? You got a little something going on the side?"

  "Something going?"

  "A sideline. A little numbers action, maybe?"

  "No, I have no sideline."

  "Come on, everybody's got some kind of scam. I mean, it's a dog-eat-dog world, right? Everybody's got to make ends meet any way he can."

  "That is true," Giftholz said. "But I have no scam. I do not even know the word."

  Mitchell shook his head. Giftholz probably didn't have a scam; it figured that way. One of these old-fashioned merchant types who were dead honest. And poor as hell because they didn't believe in screwing their customers and grabbing a little gravy where they could. But still, the way things were these days, how did he stand up to the grind? Even with his cheap prices, he couldn't compete with the big chain outfits that had specials and drawings and gave away stamps; and he had to pay higher and higher wholesale prices himself for the stuff he sold. Yet here he was, still in business. Mitchell just couldn't figure out how guys like him did it.

  Giftholz finished making the sandwich, put it on a paper plate, laid a big cup of slaw beside it, opened a beer from his small refrigerator, and put everything down on the counter. He was smiling as he did it—a kind of proud smile, like he'd done something fine.

  "It is two dollars, please, Mr. Mitchell."

  Two dollars. Man. The same meal would have cost him four or five at one of the places uptown. Mitchell shook his head again, reached into his pocket, and flipped his wallet out.

  When he opened it and fingered through the thick roll of bills inside, Giftholz's eyes got round. Probably because he'd never seen more than fifty bucks at one time in his life. Hell, Mitchell thought, give him a thrill. He opened the wallet wider and waved it under Giftholz's nose.

  "That's what real money looks like, Giftholz," he said.

  "Five bills here, five hundred aces. And plenty more where that came from."

  "Where did you earn so much money, Mr. Mitchell?"

  Mitchell laughed. "I got a few
connections, that's how. I do little jobs for people and they pay me big money."

  "Little jobs?"

  "You don't want me to tell you what they are. They're private jobs, if you get my drift."

  "Ah," Giftholz said, and nodded slowly. "Yes, I see."

  Mitchell peeled out the smallest of the bills, a fiver, and laid it on the counter. "Keep the change, Giftholz. I feel generous today."

  "Thank you," Giftholz said. "Thank you so much."

  Mitchell laughed again and took a bite of his hero. Damned good. Giftholz made the best sandwiches in the city, all right. How could you figure a guy like him?

  He ate standing up at the counter; there was one little table against the back wall, but from here he could watch Giftholz putter around in slow motion. Nobody else came into the deli; he would have been surprised if somebody had. When he finished the last of the hero and the last of the beer, he belched in satisfaction and wiped his hands on a napkin. Giftholz came over to take the paper plate away; then he reached under the counter and came up with a bowl of mints and a small tray of toothpicks.

  "Please," he said.

  "Free mints? Since when, Giftholz?"

  "It is because you are a good customer."

  It is because I gave you a three-buck tip, Mitchell thought. He grinned at Giftholz, helped himself to a handful of mints, and dropped them into his coat pocket. Then he took a toothpick and worked at a piece of sausage that was stuck between two of his teeth.

  Giftholz said, "You would do me a small favor, Mr. Mitchell?"

  "Favor? Depends on what it is."

  "Come with me into the kitchen for a moment."

  "What for?"

  "There is something I would show you. Please, it will only take a short time."

  Mitchell finished excavating his teeth, tucked the toothpick into a corner of his mouth, and shrugged. What the hell, he might as well humor the old guy. He had time; he didn't have any more little jobs to do today. And there wouldn't be any gambling or lady action until tonight.

  "Sure," he said. "Why not."

  "Good," Giftholz said. "Wunderbar."

  He gestured for Mitchell to come around behind the counter and then doddered through a door into the kitchen. When Mitchell went through after him he didn't see anything particularly interesting. Just a lot of kitchen equipment, a butcher's block table, a couple of cases of beer, and some kind of large contraption in the far corner.