She remembered the dog dishes. Bright porcelain bowls with painted-on bones. She remembered counting the skids, and the number had been right. She checked the notes: The customer had signed for the delivery, then phoned two days later to complain that the piece count had been short. The customer, loud and large, protested.
Another shipment from that customer sat on the dock. Leaving the claim on Mr. Simmon's desk with a note, Ellen went out to the warehouse to check. She found the shipment where she'd left it: three skids, silvery shrink-wrapped cubes. She ran a hand down the side of each cube, counting. On the skid's top layer seven boxes interlocked like bricks. Four on the outside, three in the middle. Seven boxes to a layer, six layers, forty-two boxes to a skid. One hundred and twenty-six boxes, just as the bill of lading said, just like the last shipment.
Ernie sniffed the cube and wagged his tail. Ellen blew on her hands and knew—knew—she'd sent out the last shipment with the right number of boxes.
She fetched a utility knife, and broke all the warehouse rules by slicing open the shrink-wrap. One by one she took down the boxes on the top layer. Under the middle three boxes she found a thin sheet of cardboard. Under the cardboard, nothing.
Boxes flew out of her hands, slip, slap, down to the bottom layer. The cube was hollow, the middle four layers an empty shell.
The shipper had packed the skid wrong. She believed it. Wanted to. But still, she went to Mr. Simmon's office and rummaged through his desk for his keys.
"We're just looking,” she told Ernie as she unlocked the lock-cage door. “No harm in looking."
Crates and boxes, stacked double high. She checked each skid against her list, and when they matched she told herself she felt relieved.
The skids sat snug beside each other, so tight against the cage's sides that the corners bulged into the chain-link. Ernie trotted along the skids, nose to the ground, turned a corner and disappeared.
"Ernie?” She went where he'd gone, and found a gap, dog wide. “Come out of there."
Ernie popped out, wagging. Ellen ruffled his ears, and wondered. The skids to the right sat a foot back from those on the left, leaving a narrow space. Too small, surely.
"If I get stuck, you go for help."
Ernie gazed solemnly. Ellen pressed her back into the skid and squeezed into the gap. She turned sharp right, felt along, eased right again, and slipped out into a space within a space.
Boxes upon boxes of dog dishes. Other boxes she hadn't realized where missing. At the center of the stack, a small shiny black case.
She touched the black case, seeing, not seeing. On its lid, three horses pulling a troika. The Russian jewelry case.
She touched the case, matching its size and shape to her memory map. Lifted the lid, traced the fat wad of hundred dollar bills.
She snapped the lid shut. Hugged the case to her chest. Squeezed out, pushing Ernie in front of her. She half ran through the warehouse on wooden-stilt legs. In the breakroom she pulled on her coat, shoved the Russian case into her purse, dug for her keys.
She felt her wallet, lipstick, the inside seams. She tipped her purse out on the table. No keys.
Her front door unlocked, not forced. Her purse in the breakroom while she worked in the warehouse. Jonesy had eaten the muffin and driven her to the electronics store and smiled and all the time he had—he'd—
She couldn't get her breath. She folded to the cold dirty floor. Ernie pushed onto her lap, whining. She wrapped her arms about him, anchoring to him while bits of her broke off and flaked away.
From outside, headlights raked across the windows. A vehicle rattled past, heading for the back of the warehouse.
They had no right. Jonesy and Bert and Lizzie, all of them. With a jolt she got up, shouldered through the door, resolving that this time, this time she would say something.
At the loading door, the yard light washed over Jonesy's black pickup truck and a dark van. Two men in jeans lifted a flat cardboard case out of Jonesy's truck and carefully eased it over the sides. Jonesy hovered beside a man in a leather jacket, flitting his gaze from the case to the man's face.
The two men tilted the case right-side up, holding it so that the leather jacketed man could see. His voice stretched high, Jonesy said, “Forty-eight inch, high definition, I picked you out the best, Mr. Burke."
Mr. Burke shrugged. “It'll do for the kid's room."
"That's mine!"
The men at the truck jumped, nearly dropped the television. Ellen ran down the steps, across the gravel. Words burst in her chest, firecracker hot. “Put it back!"
Mr. Burke looked to Jonesy. “Who is this?"
"No one.” Jonesy's face showed not shock at being caught out, or even embarrassment, but gloating triumph. He licked his lips, stared hard until he knew that she'd seen. “Ignore her."
She fairly hopped from foot to foot. “Wait, you can't!"
"Watch me."
Ellen gaped. Didn't know what to say.
Jonesy turned his back. His bulk blocked her from the other men. Ellen wanted to pound her fists on his shoulders. Instead she blurted, faster than thought: “You can't.” And again, louder, “That's mine!"
Mr. Burke looked bug-eyed. “You're giving me your mom's TV?"
"She's not—” Jonesy waved his arms. “Don't listen to her."
The two deputies set the television in the van and looked to their boss. Ellen elbowed past Jonesy, yelling at Mr. Burke, “He took that from my house!"
Mr. Burke recoiled a step. “Now, ma'am, I didn't know..."
"Shut up, shut up!” Jonesy pushed between her and the men, his face scrunched red. When she tried to sidestep, he snatched at her. “Go away, you're wrecking everything!"
Ernie barked. A yip first, then a full-throated yammer, springing on his front paws. Jonesy lunged, kicked at him.
Ernie dodged, kept barking. One of the deputies moved, fast. He grasped Jonesy's collar and yanked him back into the side of the pickup truck so hard it rocked. The deputy held Jonesy there and said mildly, “Don't do that."
Tears sprang to Jonesy's eyes. He gulped. “She's nobody. Don't listen to her."
Mr. Burke sighed. “Boy, you could have been useful. But there are things we don't do."
He jerked his head at his two pals. The deputy gave Jonesy an ungentle pat on the cheek and released him. With his pal the deputy lifted the television out of the van and set it carefully on the loading dock. He patted the case and said, “Sorry, Mom."
Jonesy opened and closed his mouth. “But, I..."
The deputies climbed into the van. Mr. Burke opened the front passenger door, glanced back and said, “Stay out of my way."
As the van pulled away, Jonesy turned on Ellen. “I spent weeks setting that up!"
"You stole my TV! You broke into my apartment, you scared my dog!"
Both of them shouted now, but she found she could shout louder.
He faltered. Dribbled out, “You can't prove anything."
"That's my TV!"
"Yeah? What's the serial number?"
Now she blinked. From his pocket he pulled out her keys, and bounced them in his hand. “Thanks for getting the dog out of the way."
What could she say?
Jonesy looked out to where the van had been. “I don't need them. I still got contacts."
"Give me my keys."
He dangled the keys in front of her face. When she reached out, he flicked the keys into the shadows. As she scrambled after them, he headed back toward the lock-cage.
She scooped up her keys, trailed after him. “You can't, you can't get away with this."
At the cage door he stopped, arms across his chest. “No? Who's going to stop me?"
"All that freight, all those short shipments. The customers will make claims."
He snorted. “I told them it was you."
"What?"
"Lenny retired, you took over in the warehouse and suddenly claims skyrocketed.” He laughed, glittering hard. “I told
Mr. Simmons it was you, and he believed me."
She believed him. The weight of his certainty bore down on her. She choked on the dust-dry husks of the unsaid.
Jonesy pulled the cage door shut.
She said softly, “I'll tell them."
Jonesy turned away, not listening.
"I'll tell everyone.” She heard herself. Pushed out words, tattered and worn. “I'll tell Mr. Simmons, I'll tell the police."
"No one cares what you think."
"I'll make them listen.” She pulled the Russian case from her purse. “I'll show them."
Jonesy stared at the case. “That proves nothing."
"I found all of it."
He looked sharply at the mountain of freight behind him, then realized what he'd done and tried to pretend he hadn't. He yanked open the cage door, towered over her. “What do you think you could say?"
He crowded her, pushing her out of place. Ernie got between them, head low, growling. Ellen said grimly, “I'll tell them."
His eyes flicked to the forklift. “By the time Simmons gets here all the freight will be back where it belongs."
He strode to the forklift, climbed behind the wheel. “No one will ever believe you again."
He reached down to the ignition. “Damn. Where's the key?"
The ignition key was in Ellen's pocket. Jonesy jumped down from the forklift, ran to the office. She waited as he rattled through the rooms.
Jonesy burst out, bellowed, “Where is it?"
She didn't answer. He cursed, ran to the dolly, trundled it into the cage and up to the nearest skid. Jonesy bore down with all his weight, his face straining, but the handle slipped from his grip and he lurched forward, banging into the crossbar.
He grabbed his chest, spluttering. Looked up, fixed on the Russian case. “Give me that!"
Ellen clasped the case in both hands. Jonesy waved his arms and shouted, and she let his noise break around her like so much hot air.
When it was done he sort of sagged. She said, “Just go. Leave your keys, and go."
Without making eye contact: “Will you tell them?"
"Of course I'll tell them. Your only chance is to quit and hope Mr. Simmons is satisfied with that."
He muttered, “You can't prove anything."
He fired out a few more sharp explosions, but they both knew he was saving face. In jerky motions he pulled a key from his key chain and chucked it on the floor. His face twisted ugly, he said, “Satisfied?"
"And the lock-cage key."
He stamped his feet. Let loose a string of curses that Ellen had never even heard before. But she waited while he tugged the lock-cage key free. He pitched it at her. It zinged over her shoulder and clattered against the skids,
She followed him while he stomped, still swearing, through the back of the warehouse. She stood at the man-door while he jerked his truck into reverse. He rolled down the window and yelled, “What does it take to shut you up?"
* * * *
She phoned Eric. He nosed into the yard in a battered hatchback, leaning forward to peer about. She stood on the loading dock and waved.
He swung toward her, parked. “What's happened? Are you all right?"
She told him. Everything, jumbled, tumbled, as if she'd turned upside down and tipped out all the words she'd ever wanted to say. When she was finished Eric blinked and said faintly, “Wow."
They loaded the television into the hatchback and settled Ernie on the floor in front. She ran through office to lock up, stopping to pick up a brown envelope.
In the car, Eric asked, “So this guy just gets away with it?"
"Not quite.” She opened the Russian case, showed him.
Eric boggled. “What are you going do?"
Ernie rested his chin on her knee. Ellen stroked his head, and answered Eric. He laughed, “Oh, I do like you."
In the gray dawn they pulled into the parking lot of the animal shelter. Grinning like conspirators, they stuffed the envelope with Jonesy's cash through the mail slot.
Copyright © 2010 Naomi Bell
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: DEATH WITHOUT PAROLE by Loren D. Estleman
Canal said, “Friday,” and sat back as if he'd predicted the day Hitler would surrender. A jet of smoke shot diagonally from the corner of his mouth opposite the one where he'd parked his cigar.
"Sucker bet,” Lieutenant Zagreb said. “He doesn't get out till tomorrow—that's Thursday—and that's confidential to the squad. You've got to allow time for shock to set in. Action comes later."
"Not if one of us does it.” Burke spat on his iron. It sizzled and released a cloud of steam into the general exhaust in the room.
Zagreb shook his head, waggling a finger. “That's cheating. Monday, at the earliest. Who wants to work the weekend?"
"I feel like I came in in the middle of the feature,” McReary said. “I got no idea what you fellas are talking about."
"Office pool. That thing's too hot, Burksie,” Zagreb told the man with the iron. “You need the cotton setting."
"Shows how much you know for a lieutenant. It's rayon.” Burke snatched his shirt off the ironing board and showed him the label. He was the hairiest man on the squad. In his BVD undershirt he looked like a grizzly wearing a white vest.
"Even worse. You'll set it on fire and burn down the hotel."
"That'd fall under the heading of civic improvement."
The California Hotel, deep in the heart of Detroit's Negro district, had opened soon after The Birth of a Nation to capitalize on the public's sudden fascination with Hollywood. The potted palm in the lobby had been dead for nine years and the flies in the ceiling fixtures a few months longer. The city Racket Squad used Room 1102 for discussions of sensitive material, unofficial interrogations, and in Detective Burke's case, assignations with women not his wife. He was preparing for one at pres- ent, which explained the operation involving the shirt.
"A fin still says Friday. I'm a cockeyed optimist.” Canal relit his cigar, which promptly went out again. The brand he smoked was made by Jackson Prison inmates who mixed tobacco with steel shavings from the machine shop.
McReary, the youngest and lowest-ranking member of the squad, nudged his hat to the back of his head, exposing his prematurely bald scalp. “What pool? The Series don't start for a week."
"Screw the Series. Bunch of Four-F shirking bums.” Burke pressed the iron to the collar of the rayon shirt, scorching it. Zagreb snickered.
Canal said, “We're betting on what day a cop knocks off Eddie Karpalov."
"Who's Eddie Karpalov?"
"Before your time, rook.” Zagreb slid a mug card out of his suitcoat hanging on a chair and handed it to him.
McReary looked at Edward Ilyich Karpalov in front and profile, swarthy and hollow cheeked, with no more expression than a bucket of sand. “Says here he killed a cop. What's he doing out?"
"Judge at his second trial said the cop wasn't a cop because he failed to identify himself as a cop,” Zagreb said. “So when Eddie charged out of that savings and loan with the alarm clanging and shot the first guy came at him with a gun it was self-defense."
"I may take a crack at him myself.” McReary gave back the card.
"Better step on it. He goes back to Russia soon as they process him out of County.” Burke shrugged into the shirt and turned up the collar, hiding the burn mark. “Whaddya think?"
Canal said, “You look just like Cary Grant after a bad accident."
"This ain't worth it. I might as well go home to Shirley."
"Not tonight. I'm taking her out dancing."
McReary said, “Card says Karpalov ran with the Purple Gang. I didn't know those boys messed with banks."
Zagreb yawned; he hadn't slept eight hours at a stretch since Pearl Harbor. “They didn't, until Prohibition was repealed. The demand for bathtub gin and guns for hire dropped off sharp. What was he going to do, go straight?"
Sergeant Canal got off the bed to throw the
dead stogie out the window. He and Detective Burke were the biggest men on a force that didn't employ officers much below six feet; or didn't until the draft came along and cut the department in half. But Burke didn't look big when Canal stood up. Zagreb kidded the sergeant that the only reason he made plainclothes was they couldn't find a uniform his size. “State Department's shipping him home as an undesirable. I know a shorter word means the same thing."
"Since when do we deport people in wartime?"
"Since we hooked up with Uncle Joe,” said the lieutenant. “Maybe he'll slap a helmet on him and send him to the Western Front."
"Where I'll personally pin the Iron Cross on the kraut that nails him.” Burke fastened the spoiled collar and put on a necktie with a cannibal painted on it. Canal blew him a kiss. He glowered back.
McReary said, “When they start a pool on the judge, count me in."
"They did, down at the Tenth,” Canal said. “I got Sunday."
The young detective stripped the foil off a piece of gum, read the little comic strip that came with it, and chewed. He was the only one of the famous Four Horsemen ("famous” in the News; “notorious” in the Free Press; the Times was on the fence) who didn't smoke. “So much for the Feds. What's our end?"
"We get to put him on the train,” Zagreb said. “That's how come we're sitting around the presidential suite, waiting to hear time of release. The marshals will meet us at Michigan Central and see the undesirable putz off on the boat in New York."
"That wasn't the word I had in mind,” said Canal.
"I know, but there's a child present."
"You crumbs.” McReary blew a bubble.
The phone rang, an old-fashioned candlestick. The lieutenant picked it up, put the receiver to his ear, and dangled the standard by its hook from the same hand. “Racket Squad, Zagreb. Yeah. Ants in his pants, hey? Okey-doke.” He hung up and held it in his lap. “Twelve-oh-one a.m. Chief turnkey wants him gone pronto. Sorry about your evening, Burksie."
"I can do what I need to by ten.” Burke leered.
"Provided you start by nine fifty-eight.” Canal grinned.
Zagreb thrust the telephone at Burke. “Give her a rain check. We may need that nervous energy later."
AHMM, October 2010 Page 11
