"You make a move, mister, I reckon you're dead." Fallon sucked in his breath; he and Brenner both sat forward. Cord remained frozen, staring at the Magnum.
The old man said to Fallon, "Where's the key to those cuffs?"
"On the ignition ring. Watch out he doesn't make a play for the gun."
"If he does he'll be minus a head." The old man reached down with his free hand, never taking his eyes from Cord, and pulled open the door. "Step out here. Slow. Hands up where I can see 'em."
Cord did as he was told. He stood holding his hands up by his ears, still watching the Magnum. The old man told him to turn around, pressed the muzzle against his spine, then removed the .38 revolver from the holster at Cord's belt. "Walk ahead a few steps," he said then. "And don't look around."
Cord took three forward steps and stopped. Behind him, the old man took the keys out of the ignition and passed them back to Fallon, who unlocked his and Brenner's handcuffs. Then the two of them got out and the old man let Fallon have the .38.
"The other one's around back," the old man said. "I slipped into the office while he was at the sandwich machine and got my gun and tapped him with it, then disarmed him. Here's his piece."
Brenner took the .38. "Go see about Tyler," Fallon told him, and Brenner nodded and went around the side of the building.
Fallon said to Cord, "You can turn around now." And when Cord had obeyed, "Lean your chest against the car, legs spread, hands behind you. You know the position."
Silently, Cord assumed it. Fallon gave the handcuffs to the old man, who snapped them around Cord's wrists. Then Fallon slipped the wallet out of Cord's pocket, put it into his own.
Brenner came back, shoving a groggy Tyler ahead of him. There was a smear of blood on Tyler's head where the old man had clubbed him. His hands were also cuffed behind him now. When Cord and Tyler were on the back seat of the car, Fallon gripped the old man's shoulder gratefully. "What can we say? You saved our lives."
"That's a fact," Brenner said. "All they talked about coming down from Washington was shooting us and leaving our bodies in the woods somewhere. They'd have done it sooner or later."
"What happened?" the old man asked.
"We got careless," Fallon admitted. "We stopped this morning for coffee and made the mistake of letting them have some. The next thing we knew, we had hot coffee in our faces and Cord there had my gun."
Brenner said, "How did you know, pop? They didn't give us the chance to say anything, to tip you off."
The old man had put the .44 Magnum into the pocket of his overalls; the heavy gun made them sag so much he looked lopsided. "Well," he said, "it was a number of things. By themselves, they didn't mean much, but when you put 'em all together they could only spell one thing. I was county sheriff here for twenty-five years, before I retired and opened up this station two summers ago. I seen a few federal marshals transporting prisoners to and from McNeil in my time. Housed federal prisoners in my jail more'n once, too, when an overnight stop was necessary. I know a few things about both breeds.
"First off, things just didn't seem right to me. The way they was acting, the way you was acting—there was something wrong about it. The way they looked, too, compared to you two. Whiter skin, kind of pasty, the way some Caucasians get when they've been in prison a while. And then neither of you lads was wearing those plastic identity bands around your wrists. I never seen a federal prisoner yet had his off outside, no matter what."
Fallon nodded. "They broke the ones they were wearing, so there was no way to get them on us."
"Another thing," the old man said, "they didn't want to let you go to the can or have anything to eat. No marshal treats his prisoners that way, not nowadays. They'd go screaming to their lawyers and anybody else who'd listen about abusive treatment, and the marshal'd find himself in hot water.
"Then there was the gasoline. The fella behind the wheel . . . Cord, is it?"
"Cord."
"Well, he paid me in cash," the old man said. "I never seen a marshal in recent years paid for gasoline 'cept with a credit card. Like the one I noticed peeking out of the wallet Cord had when he give me the two bills. Am I right?"
"Absolutely."
"And you get reimbursed for mileage, don't you?"
"We sure do."
"Well, that was the clincher," the old man said. "When I offered to give Cord a receipt he told me to keep it and a three-buck tip. No man on the federal payroll is gonna hand a gas jockey a three-dollar tip; and he sure as hell ain't gonna turn down a receipt that entitles him to get his money back from the government."
The old man passed a hand through his sparse white hair. "I'm getting on in years, but I ain't senile yet. I used to be a pretty fair lawman in my day, too, if I do say it myself. Reckon I haven't lost the knack."
Fallon glanced in at Cord and Tyler, now both sullen and quiet. "As far as Brenner and I are concerned, sir," he said, "you're the best there ever was."
THE FACSIMILE SHOP
(With Jeffrey M. Wallmann)
James Raleigh had just finished stenciling the words THE FACSIMILE SHOP on the narrow front window when the two men came in.
Raleigh, a plump jovial man with silvering hair, wiped his hands on a chamois cloth and approached them, smiling. It was almost three o'clock now and they were the first customers of his first day. "Gentlemen," he said. "May I help you?"
Neither man spoke immediately. Their eyes were making a slow inventory of the small shop, taking in the copy of Sesshu's Winter Landscape on the wall beside the door, the gold-painted, amber-inlaid replica of Pectoral of Lioness from Kelermes, the fake gold and ivory Cretan snake goddess from the sixteenth century B.C., the imitation Egyptian Seated Scribe of red-hued limestone. The three statues, among others, adorned separate and neatly arranged display stands.
The taller of the two men, dressed in a conservative gray suit and a pearl-gray snap-brim hat, picked up the Seated Scribe and rotated it in his hands. The eyes that studied it were a chilly green. After a time he said conversationally, "Nice craftsmanship."
Raleigh nodded, still smiling. "Its prototype dates back to 2,500 B.C."
"Prototype?"
"Yes. You see, everything in my shop is a facsimile of the original objet d'art. I specialize in genuine imitations—sculptures, paintings, and the like."
"In other words, junk, Harry," the second man said. He wore a Glen plaid suit that was cut too tight across the shoulders and a green felt hat with a small red feather in the band. His nose had been broken at one time and improperly set.
The one named Harry gave him a look of mild reproach. "Now, Alex, that's no way to talk."
"I know," Alex said. He put his eyes on Raleigh. "What's your name, pal?"
Raleigh didn't particularly care for the man's tone, but he said, "James Raleigh. Really, gentlemen, if there is something I can—
Harry held the Seated Scribe out toward his companion. "What do you think?"
Alex shrugged.
"How much is it, Mr. Raleigh?"
"Forty-nine ninety-five."
"Alex?"
"Too damned expensive."
"Just what I was thinking," Harry said. He turned toward the Scribe's display stand—and then seemed to spread his hands, allowing the sculpture to fall at his feet. It shattered with a dull hollow sound.
Raleigh stared down at the shards, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. The quiet in the shop now was charged with tension. At length he raised his head and looked at the two men; they returned his gaze steadily, expressionlessly.
"Why did you do that?"
"An accident," Harry said. "It slipped out of my hands."
"I don't think so."
"No?"
"No. You dropped it deliberately."
"Now why would I do a thing like that?"
"That's what I'm asking you."
Harry turned to the second man, Alex, and shrugged. Then he produced a wallet from inside his suit coat and took a small business card from i
t. He handed the card to Raleigh. On it were the words SENTINEL PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION in black script. Below the words was an embossed drawing of a uniformed soldier with a rifle, standing at attention.
Harry said, "Accidents happen all the time to small-business men such as yourself, Mr. Raleigh. There's nothing that can be done to prevent them. But there is something you can do to prevent a lot of other costly business hazards—vandalism, burglary, shoplifting, wanton looting. This is kind of a bad neighborhood, you know—out of the way, poorly policed. The Sentinel Protective Association eliminates all such hazards here—except, of course, for simple accidents."
Raleigh's smile was faint and bitter. "And how much does the Sentinel Protective Agency charge for this service?"
"There is a membership fee of one hundred dollars," Harry said. "The weekly dues are twenty-five, payable on Fridays."
"Suppose I choose not to become a member?"
"Well, as I told you, this is a bad neighborhood."
"Very bad," Alex agreed. "Just last week old man Holtzmeier—he owns the delicatessen on the next block—old Holtzmeier had his store pretty near destroyed by vandals in the middle of the night."
"I suppose he wasn't one of Sentinel's clients."
"He was," Harry said sadly, "but he'd decided to discontinue our services only three days before the incident. An unfortunate decision on his part."
Raleigh moistened his lips. "They call this sort of thing 'juice,' don't they?"
"Beg pardon?"
"These protective-association shakedown rackets like the one you're working here."
"I don't have any idea what you're talking about, Mr. Raleigh. The Sentinel Protective Association was formed on behalf of the small businessman in this neighborhood and operates solely with their best interests in mind."
"Sure it does," Raleigh said.
"Would you like us to put you on our membership list?" Raleigh didn't answer at once. He glanced around the little shop; it was a comfortable old place, one that suited him perfectly, and the rent was moderate. The thought of being forced out was not an appealing one.
After a time he turned back to the two men. "Yes," he said slowly. "I haven't any choice, have I?"
"A man always has a choice," Harry said. "In this case I'm sure you've made the right one."
"I suppose you'll want cash?"
"Naturally."
"A hundred dollars, you said?"
"For membership. Plus twenty-five for the first week's dues. One hundred and twenty-five dollars, total."
"I can have it for you by noon tomorrow . . ."
Harry shook his head. "We're sorry, Mr. Raleigh, but we couldn't possibly offer you any protection until we receive at least the membership fee."
Alex reached out to one of the display stands and began to rock a sculptured replica of the eleventh-century Head of Divinity. "And a lot of things can happen before noon tomorrow," he added meaningfully.
Raleigh sighed. "All right. One hundred dollars right now, the rest tomorrow."
"That's the spirit," Harry said affably.
"The money's in my safe. If you'll excuse me for a minute?"
"Of course, Mr. Raleigh. Take as much time as you need."
Raleigh disappeared through a door leading into the storage room at the rear. Two minutes later he emerged and stepped to the small checkout counter, where he fanned out ten twenty-dollar bills.
Both Harry and Alex looked at the money with surprise. "Two hundred dollars?" Harry said.
"I decided I might as well pay a full month's dues right now," Raleigh said resignedly. "That way, you won't have to bother coming back until the second Friday next month."
Harry smiled. "It's too bad all of our clients aren't as cooperative as you," he said.
Alex came forward, scooped up the bills, put them into his wallet. Then he produced a receipt book and a ballpoint pen and laboriously wrote out a receipt.
"Congratulations on becoming one of Sentinel's clients, Mr. Raleigh," Harry said. "You can rest assured that with us on the job, you won't have any trouble whatsoever."
Raleigh nodded wordlessly.
"Good-bye for now, then. It has been a pleasure doing business with you." And the two men left the shop.
As soon as they were out of sight, Raleigh hurried to the front door, locked it, and drew the shade. Then he went back into the storage room.
He sighed again, wistfully this time, as he set to work. This really was a very nice location. But then, he would have little difficulty finding another quiet, out-of-the way area, perhaps in another state, where he could set up his Facsimile Shop—and the Old Heidelberg printing press that he was now beginning to dismantle.
He smiled only once during the lengthy task, and that was when he thought of the inferior-quality throwaways he had run off for testing purposes that morning; and of what would happen when the Sentinel Protective Association tried passing those particular genuine imitation twenty-dollar bills.
WAITING, WAITING . . .
It was hot the day Kenner found me, the way it always was in San Pablo.
I was sitting in the cantina at the edge of town, beneath the old and tired fan, breathing the thick air with my mouth open. Drinking cheap Mexican cerveza, and through the windows watching the mid-afternoon sun bake a fresh network of cracks in the red adobe street.
Juan, the sad-eyed bartender, played dominoes at one end of the bar. At a table in the back a washed-out writer named Wurringer, the only other American in San Pablo, was sleeping off another drunk. That was all of us, and we had been there most of the day, as any day.
Nobody had said anything for more than an hour, but that would change when Wurringer came out of it. He was loud and profane, and when he was on a binge, as he was most of the time, he would ramble on at great length. He had been in San Pablo five years, three more than I had. He had come down from New York when it went sour for him, but he still got royalty checks now and then and was good for a few dollars. I spent time with him for that reason, and because sometimes I needed conversation to pass the long, hot days and nights.
It was quiet in the cantina, with only the buzzing of flies and the sibilant hiss of the fan to mar the stillness. I had poured the last of my sixth or seventh bottle of beer into my glass, and was raising it to my lips, when I heard the screen door open and then bang closed. I looked—and he was standing there.
My heart skipped a single beat; my hand holding the glass stopped in midair. But that was all. In the beginning, two and a half years ago, I used to wonder what it would be like when he found me, as I knew he would one day. I would wake up in the night, my body leaking fluid, thinking of how I would feel and how I would react when this moment came.
Carefully, I set the glass down on the table. My hands were steady. Kenner stood by the door, not moving. He was just as I remembered him, though perhaps not as big, not as imposing; the waiting distorts a man's memory in some ways. The iron-gray hair was the same, and the lean body, and the bright, penetrating eyes.
Two and a half years, I thought. And now the waiting is over.
He crossed the room finally, sat down in the chair opposite me. His eyes bored into mine, sending little messages of hate, but I did not look away. We sat in silence that way. Juan, the bartender, left his dominoes and came toward us. But when he saw Kenner's eyes he stopped. Quickly he went back and sat down and did not look up again.
Kenner said, "Two and a half years, Larson." His voice was flat and emotionless—a hollow man's voice.
"Yes," I said. "A long time."
"I never expected to find you in a place like this. Not you."
"The money ran out in Mexico City," I said. "This was as far as I got."
Silence for a few seconds. Then he said, "Tell me about Marilyn."
"You know about her."
"I want you to tell me."
"She died," I said.
"How did she die?"
"By drowning."
"In the Bahamas, wa
sn't it?"
"You know it was."
"Tell me what happened."
"We hired a powerboat for a cruise of the islands," I said. "We'd been out about an hour when the engine caught fire. We had to go overboard."
"Marilyn couldn't swim," Kenner said.
"No, she couldn't swim."
"But you could, Larson. You're a fine swimmer." I didn't say anything.
"I talked to the people who pulled you out of the water," Kenner said. "They told me you might have saved her. They told me you panicked, and when you saw their boat you left her and swam toward them. She was screaming, they said. And you left her. By the time they got to where she'd been, she'd gone under."
I closed my eyes, and then opened them again slowly. I said, "Yes, I panicked and left her. That's why she drowned."
"I'm going to kill you, Larson," he said. "You know that, don't you?"
"I know."
"No man ever stole a thing from me before you. You were the first and the last. But that's not the reason. It's because you let her die that way. I would have taken her back, you know. Even after what she did with you, I would have taken her back. I loved her."
I said nothing. There was nothing to say.
"Aren't you going to beg?" Kenner asked. "Plead with me for your life?"
"No."
"I'd like it if you would. I'd enjoy seeing you crawl."
"I'm not going to beg," I said.
"I have a car outside," he said. "We're going to stand up now and go out to it. Will you try to run before we get there?"
"No. I won't run."
"I have a gun in my pocket. I'll shoot you in the knee if you try to run. They say the pain from a broken kneecap is the worst kind there is."
"I won't run," I said again.
"This isn't like you, Larson, this brave façade. A man who lets a woman drown ought to act like the sniveling coward he is when he faces his own death."
I got to my feet. "All right," I said.
He smiled a bitter humorless smile. Then he stood, too, and we went to the door and out to the street. The sun spilled fire down from overhead. Kenner did not take his eyes off me as we walked to the car, a black, dust-streaked limousine. A man in a chauffeur's cap sat behind the wheel. He didn't look at us as we approached.
Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories Page 11
