EQMM, March-April 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "But Novak didn't really go out that way."

  "I wouldn't be too sure,” Puck said drily. “Maybe he skinnied right under them beams. From what we've heard, he'd have no trouble getting low enough."

  They dropped Sara off at the city hall, watched her disappear through the double doors. But even after she'd gone, Shea left the truck in neutral, idling, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

  "What?” Puck asked.

  "That was a nice speech,” Dan said, shifting in his seat to face his partner. “Thanks for saving our job. Too bad it was total horse hockey."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Max Novak died on that ice, but it was no accident. Old Kennedy sent him out there with a Métis dope dealer, and promised that dealer a lot of money to get rid of him. Max dies, the Métis collects the blood money. Do the math. You don't need Ellery Queen to figure out what happened."

  "You think Roanhorse murdered Max out there?"

  "Don't you?"

  "I . . . did, at first. Except for one thing. Back when I was loggin', I saw guys lose fingers and toes to frostbite. Knew a fella once who passed out drunk in an alley. Froze both ears and half his nose off. Had to wear a phony rubber nose after, made him look like Bozo the Clown. Pitiful damn sight."

  "What's your point?"

  "Frostbite's an ugly injury, like being chewed up by a Rottweiler. A guy losing all ten fingertips? Each one lopped at the first joint, neat and even? That's something I've never seen. Have you?"

  Shea started to answer, then closed his mouth again. Getting it.

  "Sweet Jesus,” he said softly. “Novak wore a mask in Toronto to conceal his plastic surgery. But maybe they remodeled more than his face. What the hell happened out there?"

  "Probably what Roanhorse told us, or something close to it. The snowmobile cracked up, the Métis got bad hurt, and Max left him to die. Or maybe the Métis tried to earn his money and came out second best. Either way, I think Novak was the one who made it off the ice, minus some fingertips. And realized they were his ticket home. As Red Max Novak, he'd be running the rest of his life. But with plastic surgery, he could cash in the rest of his fingertips and come back as Bobby Roanhorse, a drifter with no family. He waited for things to cool down, came back to collect his blood money, and stayed on in the last place they'd look for him. Hiding in plain sight."

  "You think that Métis might really be Red Max?"

  "I honestly don't know. Don't even know how you could prove it now. Certainly not by fingerprints. And after all this time, I'm not sure it matters which one of those boys came off the ice. One was a murderer, the other meant to be, and the survivor's serving a life sentence, hiding out in that backwoods shack. And he can't pick up a salt shaker or manage a cell phone. If that ain't justice, sonny, it comes damn close."

  "Either way, he's a murderer, and like the man said, there's no statute of limitations on that."

  "You're right. And back in the day, it would have been an easy call. I hated hippies and radicals like Red Max for what they did to my country, and to my nephew. But nobody involved in the breakout really got away with anything. It destroyed some, and still haunts the others after all these years. Even if we knew for certain what happened, and we don't, I don't see the point in tearing those old wounds open again. The truth is, a jail's a perfect monument to those times. Because some people will never be free of them. So let's do what they hired us to do, Danny. Build their damned memorial."

  "To Red Max?"

  "Hell no,” Puck said flatly. “To Nineteen Sixty-Nine Main Street. To the Flower Children and my nephew. And the Days of Rage."

  * * * *

  Work on the rejuvenated civic building raced on through the fall, taking on a small-town rhythm of its own. The crew began attending local football games on Friday nights and hosting walk-throughs for grade-school kids. For many, it was the first time they'd seen manual laborers up close, men wielding hammers, rivet guns, and power saws with skill and great gusto.

  The job was still a lightning rod for controversy, though. While remodeling the basement cells, Maph Rochon had a flash of inspiration. Using the photo of Red Max as a template, he reshaped scrap bars of cast iron to form a larger than life outline of an AK-47 assault rifle, raised in the air.

  Sara loved the elegant simplicity of the symbol, but when she suggested adopting it as the 1969 Main Street logo, it set off another ferocious debate at a city council meeting, complete with shouted threats and curses. And reams of free publicity.

  In the end, the outrageous symbol was adopted by a single vote, and the mayor stormed out of the hall in a huff.

  By late October, the lease list was at full occupancy, with tenants clamoring to move in, desperate to cash in on the Christmas rush.

  Off the record, Sara met with the council's planning committee and told them about the tunnel, and what had come to light about it. They thanked her politely for her efforts, then voted to continue on with the historical facts in evidence. Verities like photographs, police reports, and news stories far outweighed the ramblings of a disgraced alcoholic.

  When a legend plays better than the truth, go with the legend every time.

  Swamped with the bull-work of a major reconstruction job, neither Shea nor Puck ever discussed that day at the tree farm. Or what it meant.

  But as the project moved into its final phases, Puck felt a leaden weight gradually lifting from his spirit. He'd expected to hate every minute of this job, but seeing it through, seeing the bogus cell display and the posters of a ranting Red Max Novak every single day seemed to slowly drain away his resentment. Sometimes, familiarity only breeds . . . familiarity.

  The final days of the project swept down on them like an avalanche. Shea, Puck, and the crew were putting in twenty-hour days, desperately wrapping up the last details: wiring and Internet hookups, smoke alarms and emergency lighting; custom-building shop displays and shelving that were being stocked with merchandise even as they worked.

  They finished the job on Thanksgiving Day, three weeks ahead of schedule, and well under budget. With luck they'd be home and dry for Christmas.

  * * * *

  The grand opening of the 1969 Main Street Mall was almost as wild as the original ‘69, minus the bombings, of course. The heated press coverage had generated national interest. The building wasn't just a commercial development anymore, it had become a genuine Happening.

  Eager shoppers began gathering at the entrance a full four hours early. Many were decked out in period garb—headbands, beads, and bell-bottoms. With flowers in their hair.

  There were protestors, too, but they weren't wild-haired student radicals. Instead, they were throwbacks from Puck's side of the culture war, army veterans and their blue-collar sympathizers, wearing faded camouflage jackets or combat boots. Some carried homemade signs that read BAN THE BOMBERS or MIAs, NEVER FORGET.

  They'd been America's mainstream once, her muscle and spine. Now they were relegated to the far side of the street, a ragged line of graying soldiers shambling along under the watchful eyes of the police. Totally irrelevant now. The librarian was right. The revolution was over, the insurgents had won the battle for hearts and minds, without firing a single shot.

  Up in the old courtroom, which was now a stylish atrium ringed with smart shops, Sara Jacoby spoke at the ribbon-cutting ceremony for 1969 Main Street. She thanked the mayor and city council for their support, and the firm of Shea and Paquette for a job well done. Danny made a brief speech, too, but as he wrapped up his remarks, Puck ducked out of the room. Afraid he might be called on next.

  He rode the new escalator down to the street, marveling at the festive crowds in period costumes, savoring the sweet aroma of déja vu that hung in the air, thick as incense.

  Suddenly, he felt a chill. An icy premonition. A reflex left over from Korea kicked in. He knew someone's eyes were on him. He felt it strongly as a physical touch.

  Easing into the shadow of the doorway, he looked out over the crush of s
hoppers, carefully scanning each face. And spotted the Métis, watching him from across the street. Looking ordinary and unremarkable, in grungy work clothes and his unkempt mane of shaggy hair.

  Roanhorse was standing near the line of protesting vets, but clearly didn't belong with them. Even surrounded by that crowd, he seemed more alone than any man Puck had ever known.

  His eyes were unreadable at that distance, but there was no mistaking that face anymore. Puck knew every essential line of it. He'd been seeing it every day for months on posters and in photos.

  And the Métis recognized Puck as well. Because he slowly closed his crippled hand into a fist, then raised it in a long-forgotten salute. Power to the People. One lone fist held high above that crowd.

  Only for a moment. Then it was gone. Or maybe Puck just lost sight of it. His eyes misted, blurring the scene. But he raised his own fist anyway, returning the salute, one warrior to another, across a milling sea of shoppers. And forty years.

  He held his fist aloft for a long time, but there was no reply. And as he slowly lowered his arm, he realized Sara Jacoby had moved up beside him, eying him curiously.

  "Who was that?” she asked, scanning the crowd.

  "Nobody,” Puck said. “Not anymore."

  Copyright © 2010 Doug Allyn

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: PASSWORD by Michael Z. Lewin

  A husband and wife detecting team is hardly a new idea, but as with all the genres he tackles, Michael Z. Lewin manages to put a new spin on the form. Here, as the case begins, we find the team very much at odds, with the wife, Mallory, refusing to work on the investigation. There's history behind it; we don't know what.EQMM's staff was intrigued not only by the mystery but by the characters, and glad when Mr. Lewin told us he intends to write more about them, in both short stories and novels.

  "You must tell him, Charlie,” Mallory said.

  "Tell me what?” Bertie Banfield's bulky body slumped. He was not a young man and the loss of posture made him look even older. “It isn't about Laura, is it?” He squinted uncertainly. “How could you know something about Laura already?"

  "It's nothing about the case,” Charlie said. “And it's nothing, really, Bertie. Nothing that need concern you."

  "Honestly." Mallory turned to Banfield. “Bertie, you're here about our doing some work, right?"

  "It may be work to you two, but to me it's my life, my peace of mind.” Banfield rocked slowly from one foot to the other.

  "Then there really is something you should know,” Mallory said.

  "Oh dear."

  "It's just that we don't dothis anymore."

  Banfield's wrinkles clustered together to make his face look like a prune—apart from the bushy eyebrows. He tried to fathom what Mallory was getting at. "You don't do what, please, Mallory, my dear?"

  "When she says we don't do it . . . “ Charlie began.

  "We don't run the agency anymore, Bertie,” Mallory said. “Not like we used to."

  "What do you mean not run the agency?” Banfield turned to Charlie. “What does she mean ‘like you used to'? You're still investigators, aren't you? Detectives? Charlie?” The big man seemed close to tears in his confusion.

  "Of course,” Charlie said. “It's just—"

  "He is still an investigator,” Mallory said. “But we aren't, not anymore."

  "Why the hell not?” Bertie Banfield's career, success, and fortune had been built on finding the right people to do the jobs he couldn't do himself. He paid them well and worked them hard and everybody thrived. But to be resisted, and by people he'd often hired in the past . . . It made no sense to him.

  "Charlie and I are rearranging our lives,” Mallory said. “That means I will not be working for Hayden Investigative Services anymore. He should have told you right off."

  Banfield gave his head several small sharp shakes. “Rearranging lives? It sounds like so much airy-fairy blather to me. Perhaps I've missed something, but I've got a problem here. I'm upset, damnit, and I just don't seem to be able to . . . “ He paused, trying to find a phrase. “That . . . “ He waved his hands. “Thinking about two things at the same time. Whatever it's called. So I can't sort out your problems when I've got mine to deal with. And my problem is that Laura didn't come back last night—which she's never done before without telling me. And the police—for whom I've paid more bloody taxes than I could count—the police refuse to look for her because it's only been a night and she's over twenty-one. By fifty bloody years . . . And I thought, I thought that I could count on you two to find her. Only now when I get myself out and over here, you go and say you're rearranging something. What the hell is it? Your furniture? No, don't tell me. I don't understand and I don't really care.” Bertie Banfield looked from Charlie to Mallory and back to Charlie. The old man was fighting back tears. “I just want you to find Laura for me."

  "Honestly, Mal,” Charlie said. “Is this what you want?"

  "Multitasking,” Mallory said. She took Banfield's elbow. “Multitasking is the word you were looking for a moment ago, Bertie."

  "Yes, yes, of course."

  "Give Charlie and me a minute to talk in the next room, okay?"

  "Of course.” Banfield nodded.

  As Mallory and Charlie walked toward the piano room, they heard Bertie Banfield talking to himself: “Multitasking. Multitasking. Multi-bloody-tasking."

  * * * *

  Once the door closed, Mallory said quietly, “What is he doing here, Charles?"

  "He's made that pretty clear. Trying to get us to find his wife.” Charlie shrugged.

  "He never comes here. We've always been summoned to his office, or to his limo...."

  "Maybe he misplaced the phone number."

  Mallory shook her head slowly.

  "You see how upset he is,” Charlie said.

  "I also see how much older and more confused he is these days, poor bugger."

  "So let's help him. It's not like you're doing anything else."

  "You have no idea what else I may or may not be doing, Charles."

  "Sorry. Sorry.” Charlie Hayden spread his hands. “I'm just aware that you're around the house a lot and nobody seems to be coming to see you."

  "I repeat, you have no bloody idea what I may or may not be doing."

  "Well, whatever you're spending your time on, are you making money at it?"

  "Why? Do you need a loan?"

  "My only point is that money coming in means it can go out again, and Bertie's a solid paying customer."

  "And he's a sweet old bear and I could cuddle him. But Hayden Investigative Services is not what I do anymore."

  "But it's not like you've forgotten how."

  "Take the case on yourself."

  "And I will.” Charlie Hayden sighed. “But especially when it's a domestic problem we've always worked best as a team."

  "The season's over and the league has disbanded."

  "I only thought you might make an exception for Bertie because this is bound to be a people case. No money's gone missing from a bank account. It's a real person who's gone missing. Someone's going to have to get inside her head and understand what she's up to."

  "Good luck."

  "Laura Banfield's seventy-four,” Charlie said. “Bertie's a few groats short of a guinea these days. Maybe Laura's the same. Or worse. She could be holed up somewhere, confused, lonely, just waiting to be found and brought home. Chances are I will be able to find her, sure. How lost can an old lady get on her own? But she'll be less frightened if you're there to talk to her woman-to-woman."

  "Have you ever met Laura Banfield?"

  "Well, no."

  "Any reason to doubt her mental acuity?"

  "No, but why would she go walkabout without telling Bertie?"

  "I'm not going to work on the case with you, Charles."

  "Despite the fact that we've got an old guy in the hallway who doesn't understand why people who have helped him in the past won't help him now?"


  "I'm sure you'll be able to explain it to him. Try talking man-to-man."

  * * * *

  When the Haydens returned to the hallway, Bertie Banfield was not to be seen. “Bertie?” Charlie called. “Bertie?"

  "Yo,” came a voice from beyond the staircase.

  "Yo?” Mallory asked quietly.

  They heard something creak.

  "Was that him or a chair?” Charlie said. Then Banfield came into view. “Bertie. There you are."

  "If it's a matter of money, Mallory,” Banfield said.

  "It's not that,” Mallory said.

  "I'll pay you more. Whatever it takes.” Banfield stopped in front of them. “It was the only chair I could find.” He nodded to where he had come from. “Sorry if I've strained an antique."

  "We shouldn't have left you standing,” Mallory said. “I apologize."

  "So what is all this about?” Bertie Banfield looked from one of the Haydens to the other. “Something about not doing it anymore? You said.” A nod to Mallory.

  "We're not running the agency the way we used to, Bertie,” Mallory said.

  "But you're good at it.” Banfield looked confused. He shook his head. “Chaps shouldn't quit at what they're good at.” He looked at Charlie.

  "I'm with you on this one, Bertie,” Charlie said.

  "Well chaps can be good at more than one thing,” Mallory said, “and when it's time to move on, it's time to move on."

  Banfield spread his hands. “So, finding my Laura. Will you help, or not?"

  "Charlie will,” Mallory said. “I won't."

  * * * *

  "You could hardly have been ruder,” Charlie said after he got back from walking Bertie Banfield to his waiting car and chauffeur.

  "I was not rude to Bertie,” Mallory said.

  "He comes here, for the first time. Pleads with you to your face. And still you turn him down."

  "Turning a bloke down constitutes rudeness, does it? Time to reread your Germaine Greer, dear."

  "I'm telling you how he felt." Mallory raised her eyebrows but Charlie persisted. “I think I can empathise with that pretty well, considering . . . “ He was referring to events and conversations that had triggered the recent “rearrangements."