EQMM, January 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Vanston slowly holstered his weapon, his eyes locked on Sean's the whole time. “We aren't done, O'Donnell."

  "Take the car,” Gia said. “Go home, get some sleep."

  "You sure?"

  "I'll grab a cab. I want a few words with our friend, here. With no witnesses."

  "Whatever you say,” Vanston growled. “See you Monday.” Slamming the door, he matted the pedal and roared off.

  "You're his boss?” Sean said, surprised. “I didn't realize that."

  "Maybe you're not as clever as you think."

  "Probably not. That ‘no witnesses’ business sounded ominous. Am I in trouble?"

  "I haven't decided yet. I didn't sleep very well last night."

  "Sorry."

  "You should be. I'm good at my job, Mr. O'Donnell, and I had a gut feeling something was wrong here from the beginning."

  "Like what?"

  "You, mostly. I don't have any family, but the idea of a guy selling out his own brother at Christmas? That's cold. Stone-cold. Not that I don't run across some stone-cold types in my work; I do. But after meeting your mom, and watching you and your brother break each other's balls—"

  "That's no act. We really don't get along. You think it's easy working in a bank with an albatross like Iron Mike around your neck?"

  "Probably not. But he's still your brother, isn't he? And when push came to shove, I couldn't believe you'd sell him out. Maybe I didn't want to believe it. Yet you did everything we asked. Introduced us around, even conned your own mother. Stone-cold, O'Donnell. That's why I had trouble sleeping. Trying to figure out why you'd do a thing like that."

  "And did you?"

  "I think so. Around midnight, it dawned on me that we were here because you wanted us to be. Something was in the wind and you wanted your brother to have an ironclad alibi for it. And what could be more airtight than playing poker all night with an FBI agent?"

  Sean said nothing.

  "The idea bugged me so much, I went to your room to ask you about it."

  "Did you? That's interesting."

  "Especially since you weren't there."

  "No, I meant it was interesting that you visited my room, found me gone, and didn't mention it to your partner. I'm sure he'd happily beat a confession out of me. So why didn't you tell him?"

  "It's not against the law to leave your room. Even by the window. And..."

  "And?"

  She hesitated. “Maybe I owed you one. Payback. Because I didn't like crashing your Christmas party. And because you aren't quite as vile as I thought."

  "That's all it was? Payback?"

  She didn't answer. Which, again, was an answer of a sort. “I have to call a cab."

  "Whoa up, lady. You don't get off that easy."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You were right on all counts. And maybe I was a jerk for wasting your time, but I did do exactly what you asked. I got your guy close to my brother."

  "After warning him."

  "Wrong. I said I wouldn't warn him and I didn't. Didn't have to. That's the part you didn't get. Mike and I really are polar opposites. He'd never trust any stranger I brought home. The only stone-cold thing I did was lie to my mom. And since you forced me into that, you have to make it right."

  "Really? And how would I do that?"

  "My mom really likes you. If you bail out now she'll blame me and we'll all have a miserable holiday. So since this charade was entirely your idea, it's only fair that you see it through and pretend to like me for one more day."

  "What? Of all the incredible gall—"

  "I know, I've already admitted I'm a jerk. But my mom's not. And right now she's probably in there baking your favorite pie. Lemon meringue, right? Or was that a fib, too?"

  "No, that part was true."

  "Good. Then stay. Besides, if you hang around, maybe Iron Mike might say something incriminating."

  "You think?"

  "Not a chance. Mom never lets us talk shop at home. But I promise you'll have a good time anyway. What do you say?"

  She didn't say anything. Stood there, reading him like a news-paper. So he offered her his arm. And after a moment's hesitation, she took it. And they strolled back down the glistening, picture-postcard street together.

  "I like your mom's house,” she said. “You really should look into that reverse mortgage business."

  "No problem, I'm sure it'll work out."

  "Funny, I have a feeling it already has. This pie better be really special."

  "Oh, it will be. My mom's a great cook. Besides, in case you hadn't noticed, on Christmas Day everything tastes a little bit sweeter."

  Copyright ©2006 by Doug Allyn

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  "What we offer is ‘your own fault insurance.’ If anything happens to you, it's your own fault!"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  OUT OF BOUNDS by Terry Barbieri

  Texan Terry Barbieri is a five-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize for her short fiction. Her stories have appeared in many magazines, both in the United States and abroad. It is rare in the field of crime fiction for a woman author to write from the viewpoint of a male character, as Ms. Barbieri does in almost all of her stories. The following tale belongs to the private-eye genre; it is her third contribution to EQMM.

  An assault on my back door lurches me out of a tequila-induced sleep. I pull on yesterday's jeans, stumble into the kitchen, and peer through the peephole at the rickety stairway leading to the alley below. Marble Melendez, a muscular six-one in his shorts and tank top, stops pounding. “Jason, let me in."

  As I open the door, Marble sweeps past me to the darkened living room and parts the miniblinds. Stepping up be-side him, I look out to see two men standing on either side of Marble's black sedan, like a freeze frame from a KGB film. Only this is El Paso, Texas, perched on the edge of the Chihuahua Desert. I doubt any KGB agent has ever set foot here.

  "What's with the men in black?"

  "Security guards. I've had two death threats in the last twenty-four hours."

  "What happened to the bald guy?” No matter how often I visit Sidewinder, Marble's three-hundred-acre ranch, Mr. Potato Head asks to see my ID.

  "Gardner? I let him go. He stole some balls I'd signed for local charities. He was auctioning them off on eBay."

  I wonder how much he got. Marble's name became a household word two years ago, when he led the U.S. National Men's Team to win its first World Cup. After scoring four goals in the final game, Marble appeared on the Today show, The Tonight Show, and David Letterman and hosted Saturday Night Live. Everyone across America recognized his hazelnut skin and closely cropped curls. He received so many e-mails and letters and phone calls, he had to hire a secretary to answer them. Physics students clocked his balls at seventy-five miles per hour. His aim was legendary.

  While Marble and I played on the same team in high school, our home lives couldn't have been more different. He lived with his Brazilian-born parents and his three brothers and sisters. An only child, I had four stepfathers in fifteen years.

  In our junior year, Sports Illustrated named Marble America's most promising teenage athlete. While he kicked his way into the spotlight, I retreated into the shadows. I dropped out of high school and took a job in construction to escape my most abusive stepfather to date. I spent my nights on eBay, bidding on an increasingly sophisticated array of spy ware, until I was ready to start my own detective agency. Jason Lightfoot, Private Eye.

  Half a dozen cars pull up behind the sedan and reporters pour out. One aims a telephoto lens at my window. Marble releases the blinds and the slats snap into place. “They've been following me day and night. There are so many of them camped outside my ranch, it's starting to look like Woodstock."

  I'm not surprised. Two days ago, an eighteen-year-old girl filed a lawsuit claiming Marble had seduced her three years earlier, when she visited his ranch. Last night the comedians who had once hosted Marble on their talk sho
ws opened with monologues about him playing out of bounds, committing fouls with his hands, and scoring illegal goals.

  I shove aside the change, keys, cell phone, and Beretta cluttering my dining table, turn on the overhead light, and pour two shots of Cuervo Gold. Taking a seat, Marble draws an eight-by-ten out of an envelope and slides it towards me. I study the photo of him standing behind the dozen foster children he had invited to Sidewinder.

  "Which one is she?"

  He points to a teenage girl with long blond hair whose pursed lips refuse to smile for the camera. Her eyes burn with the intensity of a child who has seen too much in too few years.

  "What happened?"

  "I was taking a walk late one night and found her on the path leading to the creek. She was supposed to leave the next morning and she said she couldn't sleep. She told me Sidewinder was the first place she'd been able to breathe since the state had removed her from her mother and started placing her in foster homes."

  "Sounds like she wanted you to adopt her."

  "A bachelor in his twenties doesn't adopt a teenage girl. I didn't know what to say. I took her hand as we skidded down the bank. She was wearing flip-flops, which was stupid; there are snakes and scorpions everywhere out there. We froze as a couple of deer stepped out of the brush. Standing there, watching them drink, Lindsey looked like a little girl. Without thinking, I leaned down and kissed the top of her head. I knew I'd made a mistake when she raised her face towards mine. I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to embarrass her. I took a step back and told her, ‘Lindsey, we can't.’ She wouldn't speak to me after that. All the way back to the house, she didn't say a word.

  "I need your help, Jason. I've been suspended from the team, the National Soccer Hall of Fame has removed my uniform from its exhibit, and three companies have cancelled my endorsements. At the rate I'm going, I'll have to borrow money to pay my attorney. I need you to investigate who's behind this, who's coaching her. She doesn't have any family."

  * * * *

  According to Marble's lawyer, Lindsey Stillwell works at a twenty-four-hour diner called the Wagon Wheel. The night after Marble's visit, I park my van outside a piercing parlor and walk over to the diner. An ageing Asian janitor, seated at the counter, leafs through a leftover newspaper, while a teenage boy and girl share a sundae in a corner booth.

  I take a table by the window. A few minutes later, Lindsey approaches. She's aged since the photo taken at Sidewinder. She's taller now and her black mascara clashes with her pale complexion, like a pencil sketch in which the artist has inked in only the eyes.

  "Know what you want?"

  I think of a few things that aren't on the menu. “Two eggs, over easy, and a coffee."

  When she brings my coffee, I ask if she has a cell phone. “You need to make a call?"

  "No, I was expecting one and I'm not sure this thing is working.” I hold up my phone. “I was wondering if you could call my number."

  She shrugs, pulls a phone from her pocket, and keys in my number as I recite it.

  Seconds later my phone rings. “Hello."

  "Can I get you anything else?"

  "No, thanks."

  Our eyes meet as we hang up.

  I'm halfway through my coffee when she returns with my eggs. As soon as I've finished eating, I leave her a generous tip and head back to my van. I remove my cell-phone interceptor from the glove compartment, look up Lindsey's number on my cell-phone log, and key it into the interceptor. It will now pick up any calls Lindsey makes or receives within a ten-mile radius.

  On my way home, I cruise past Lindsey's home address. What I'd assumed was an apartment number turns out to be a room number at the Sandstorm Motel. The parking lot looks like someone has taken a sledgehammer to it. A battered marquee advertises Rooms by the Month. So this is where Lindsey lives, or rather, sleeps. My guess is that life is something she's still looking forward to.

  * * * *

  The next day I set up shop in a parking garage five blocks from the Sandstorm. The protection it offers from the midday sun is worth the four bucks a day, which I'll charge to Marble anyway. Late in the afternoon, my palm-size interceptor picks up its first call.

  I press Record as Lindsey answers. “Hello."

  "How's the diary coming?” A man. White. Middle-aged.

  "I just have a couple of entries to go."

  "I talked to Behind the Scenes. They've scheduled your interview for next week, but they want to see the diary first. If Marble touched you outside your shirt, your story's worth fifty thousand. If he put his hand inside your shirt, it jumps to seventy-five. If he unzipped your jeans..."

  "He didn't."

  "That's not the point."

  "What is the point?"

  "The point is, I found you sleeping in Mission Park, surrounded by winos and crack addicts. You looked twenty years older than the girl who visited Sidewinder."

  "So this is about paying you back."

  "It's about us helping each other. Marble is sure to settle out of court. Do you think he really cared about you or any of those other kids he invited to his ranch? It was all a publicity stunt. And if he'd cared enough to pay his staff a decent wage, I wouldn't have hocked his damn balls."

  Gardner.

  "When do you need the diary?"

  "By Sunday. I want to read it before I turn it over to Behind the Scenes."

  I pop open a Coke. So do I.

  * * * *

  The following day I stuff my Beretta, my camera, my wallet, and my phone interceptor into my pockets, grab a basket of towels, and drive over to the Laundromat facing the Sandstorm. Breathing in a haze of detergent, I throw my towels into a machine and take a seat by the grimy front window.

  I'm running my towels through a third wash cycle when Lindsey, wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts, steps out of the motel. I watch her head down the street, a small leather bag swinging from her shoulder.

  As soon as she's out of sight, I cross the street and enter the Sandstorm. The desk clerk is on the phone, talking ninety miles an hour about her husband who arrived home at two that morning. She ignores me as I cross the lobby, enter the musty hallway, and board the elevator which groans in protest as it carries me to the second floor.

  It takes me less than a minute to pick Lindsey's lock. I take in the neatly made bed, the People magazine, and the pastel bras and panties hanging over the radiator.

  In a bureau drawer, beneath a couple of tank tops, I find a clothbound book. Its entries, dated three years ago, describe Lindsey's stay at Sidewinder. The evenings spent playing video games and eating popcorn and watching DVDs on Marble's large-screen TV. Marble barbequing burgers. Bats swooping down at dusk to sip water from the pool.

  I flip forward to the most recent entry.

  * * * *

  Late last night I slipped out the back door and followed a dirt path towards the creek. I'd almost reached the water when I heard someone behind me. It was Marble.

  I told him I couldn't sleep. I told him how, in my foster home, I share a room with three girls, how one of them throws up in our bathroom after every meal, how there are no locks on any of the doors, and how the boys sometimes steal peeks at us when we're showering. Looking out at the wide, empty desert, I told him, “I'd give anything not to go back there."

  "Maybe we can work something out,” he said.

  He took my hand and helped me down the bank. Then he asked, “Have you ever been alone with a boy? I mean, really alone?"

  * * * *

  The writing ends here. I use the TV remote control and my phone interceptor to hold open the diary's facing pages so that I can photograph them.

  I've shot three pairs of pages when my interceptor picks up a call. I glance out the window to see Lindsey standing in the parking lot, her phone pressed to her ear.

  A man answers. “Hello."

  "There's someone in my room."

  "Where are you?"

  "Outside the motel."

  "I'm on So
uth Main. Keep an eye on the entrance; I'll be right there."

  I shove my camera and interceptor into my pocket, hurry past the elevator to the stairwell, and take the stairs two at a time. The warped door at the bottom won't budge. I slam my shoulder against it. On the third blow, it bursts open. I race down the hall and duck out the emergency exit, setting off an alarm.

  A ten-foot brick wall separates the back of the Sandstorm from the upscale houses behind it. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounds the lumberyard to my left. My only hope is the alley running behind the strip shopping center to my right. I race towards it. As I reach the corner of the motel, I nearly collide with Gardner. He stumbles as I swerve past him, regains his footing, and tackles me from behind. He twists my left arm behind my back as he slams me against the ground. The asphalt burns a skid mark across my cheek.

  Gardner pulls my Beretta from my front pocket and presses it to my skull. With my face mashed against the ground, bits of gravel imbedded in it, I don't see Lindsey, but I hear her running towards us.

  Gardner backs off. “Stand up."

  I stumble to my feet and he orders Lindsey to check my pockets. Her slender fingers extract my keys, my wallet, my camera, and my phone interceptor. She hands them to Gardner, who examines the interceptor and presses Play.

  "How's the diary coming?"

  "I just have a couple of entries to go."

  He tosses his keys to Lindsey. “Get my car."

  She disappears. Two minutes later she rounds the corner in a white Buick and pulls up beside us.

  Gardner opens the trunk. “Get in."

  As I push aside the jumper cables, I consider grabbing the tire iron and taking a swing, but I'm pretty sure Gardner would fire faster than I could bash in his skull. I fold myself into the trunk, which smells of stale marijuana and motor oil. Its worn carpet feels like it's full of sand fleas.

  Gardner slams the trunk, plunging me into darkness. Moments later the Buick backs up, turns, and lurches forward. As we pull out of the parking lot, the trunk heats up faster than an oven set on broil. Sweat trickles into my eyes, soaks through my shirt, my jeans, my underclothes. By the time we've put the stop-and-go traffic of the city behind us and hit the open road, the air has grown so thick I can hardly breathe.