Andrea. Eleven years of marriage. A home, two cars, money in the bank. All the clothes and shoes to wear she could want, and no kids to pin them down. The bitch should have been happy. Sure, Lester played around on her, but so what? Sex was nothing to a man; it was as strictly physical an act as taking a leak. But for women? For Andrea? There had to be feelings involved. Andrea couldn’t watch sex on television unless the people having it were madly in love.
“The wife, that’s rough,” Henson said, emptying his glass. “That’s, like, the ultimate betrayal. And it’s not like you can just walk away, right? Without rewarding her ass with half of everything you own?”
Lester was finally getting irked. What did this punk know about it? “Hey, look…” he started to say.
But Henson wouldn’t quit, oblivious to every attempt Lester made to shut him up. Before Lester knew it, the guy was buying them round after round of fresh drinks as he rambled on about the inequities of divorce and a man’s need for some greater form of justice when his woman had slipped another man’s joint between her legs.
Not talking about Lester’s situation at all, Lester realized, but his own. Some woman somewhere had fucked him over, too, and Henson was still feeling the sting.
“So what do you suggest?” Lester asked him, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Murder?”
Truth be told, Lester had been thinking a lot about murder that day, ever since he’d found the bottle of scented sex jelly buried at the bottom of Andrea’s workout bag that morning. But murder was just a pipe dream, because a man couldn’t kill his wife and get away with it. His obvious motive would always make him the cops’ prime suspect, and they wouldn’t stop digging until they’d found a way to nail him for the crime.
What Lester hadn’t considered was Henson’s ingenious, if somewhat costly, solution to the problem: not worrying about “getting away” with murder at all.
Premeditation was the key, Henson had said. Planning the murder over time was what always brought the law down hardest on a man’s head when he killed his wife, but when he killed her in the heat of passion, at the very moment he discovered her infidelity? That was a man the court could pity. He’d do some time, sure, but probably not much; it was the difference between a lifetime behind bars and two or three years, maybe even less.
Was that too high a price to see Andrea dead, Lester wondered?
A criminal record wouldn’t destroy him. He could start over. And when he did, he could have all the women in the world without feeling the slightest bit guilty about it. There’d be no more Andrea to complicate matters.
He’d be free.
“She’ll bring the asshole home eventually,” Henson had said. “They always do. I’d catch the two of ’em in the act.” He was speaking only hypothetically, fantasizing out loud, but Lester wasn’t thinking in those terms. “I’d go through the door and empty a gun into the fucking bed. I wouldn’t talk, I wouldn’t hesitate, I’d just empty the gun, because every minute I waited they’d say was time I had to reconsider.”
It all made sense to Lester. Too much to ignore. So here he was now, outside his bedroom door with a loaded gun in his hand. Just as Henson had predicted, Andrea had brought her lover to Lester’s bed; she’d gotten sloppy and dropped just enough clues for Lester to suspect today was the big day, and sure enough, it had been.
After this was over, Scotty Henson would have to die too, of course—loose ends always had to be tied—but first things first.
Lester threw open the door, saw Andrea sprawled across the sheets, naked as a newborn, and started firing.
When Lester was done shooting, a half-naked Scotty Henson slipped up behind him and cracked his skull with a golf trophy he’d taken from the fireplace mantel, killing Lester on the spot. Self-defense, he’d tell the cops, and they’d buy it. He then stepped over Lester’s body into the bedroom to turn off the porno movie playing on the TV, silencing all the loud laughter and exaggerated moaning. Andrea, dead as she was, didn’t seem to mind.
She was going to end their affair. She loved Lester, not Scotty, she’d decided. It had been more than poor Scotty could bear. He would rather see her dead than with another man.
Luckily, it turned out her husband felt the same way.
Gar Anthony Haywood, whom Booklist has called a writer who belongs “in the upper echelon of American crime fiction,” is the Shamus and Anthony Award–winning author of twelve crime novels and numerous short stories. He has written for both the New York Times and Los Angeles Times, and he blogs about writing regularly at www.murderati.com.
FRINGE BENEFIT
* * *
* * *
Jeremiah Healy
On a warm weekday afternoon, Martha was standing just off the curb of her assigned corner. She wore a chartreuse safety vest and held the splintery handle of a white-on-red cardboard “Stop” octagonal stapled to the underlying wood at both top and bottom. In short, she was the perfect image of minor—and, even then, only ephemeral—authority.
But the full-length mirror at home couldn’t hide other, equally evident, truths.
Begin with middle age.
Add mousy hair.
Ditto dumpy frame and sagging breasts.
Then subtract any way to reverse the effects of growing older, much less to defeat the law of gravity.
Martha always strove for the earth mother look, and by sheer force of personality and sympathetic understanding, she occasionally reaped that role’s delightful rewards. However, Martha more often thought, apply grotesque makeup, pull on floppy shoes, and you’d pass for a circus clown.
Nevertheless, she watched carefully for the middle-school students who, during brief periods twice a day, were her charges. Martha never believed being a crossing guard amounted to a calling, but the job did carry one fringe benefit that she genuinely treasured.
The clique that Martha had labeled “Princess Diana’s” began to move from the driveway of their campus and down a hedge-bordered sidewalk toward her intersection. Martha’s heart prepared itself to skip a beat. Princess Di—her real name didn’t matter yet, and might never—was a seventh grader who, sexually, could have been going on twenty-eight. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a Lolita smile over budding breasts and a coltish undercarriage, she was the clear alpha female of her crew. Laughing a little too loudly, vamping a lot too much. And inappropriately touching boys to the point of “Why don’t you give me a try?”
The Princess’s likely future wasn’t hard to picture: deflowered within a year, knocked up before two more. The perfect target for a ninth-grade Romeo–rebel without a clue, his extra male chromosome eager—even driven—to perform stud-duty on the cutest mare in the herd.
Which ordinarily would make the girl a perfect candidate for Martha’s protection. But the crossing guard’s heart would have to wait if it still wanted to skip that beat.
Princess Di was not leading her amoeba-like entourage. In fact, the delectable muffin wasn’t to be seen, period.
Martha stepped into the crosswalk, brandishing her stop sign against oncoming motorists as though it were a crucifix warding off four-wheeled vampires. The Princess’s clique flowed around Martha like she was just a traffic pole planted in the macadam. A couple of geeky boys trailing within the cool kids’ wake actually thanked the crossing guard for being there, but Martha was searching the foreshortened horizon, hoping for a glimpse of Princess Di to confirm that she was indeed—
Abruptly, a royal “spotting.” White tank top, blue denim minishorts, and cork platformed sandals, the last elevating and accentuating calf muscles that eventually would project original sin vibrating in four-inch stilettos. A horny humper’s dream come true, but, oddly, the Princess was by herself. She also seemed to choose her walking route to avoid being noticed by her worshippers, though they were now far ahead of Martha and apparently oblivious to anything occurring behind them.
Then, from a partition in the sidewalk’s bordering hedge, a lanky, mop-haired boy dressed in grun
ge jumped out and clamped the Princess in a bear hug, spoon-style. Probably the quickest way of impressing upon her the burgeoning heft of his manhood.
Martha wanted to spit, but refrained.
The boy spun Princess Di 180 degrees, so that she now faced him. They kissed in that sudden, sloppy way adolescents do, thinking that tongue-lashing the other’s mouth showed they were already sophisticated in the ways of love. She broke off the kiss, and he gestured toward the gap in the hedge. Princess Di quickly scanned the surrounding blocks. Then, apparently not gauging Martha as a concern, the girl took the boy’s hand and let him nearly drag her to the hedge, where he used his free palm to shove those barely clad buttcheeks through the partition and out of sight.
Martha felt that particular mourning that nested somewhere between disgust and resignation. It had certainly happened with prior “princesses,” beguiled and defiled by some clumsy, pubescent caveboy before a tender and surprisingly adept crossing guard could introduce her virgin of the moment to the exquisite—and utterly safe, never messy—lore of an alternative love.
Necessarily, however, Martha also recalled the…others. Princesses who actually had spurned their male predators in favor of the crossing guard’s gentle touch, leading them up far more civilized paths to sexual heaven.
And Martha fervently hoped that they were in heaven, since she obviously couldn’t let them live after being with her. It’d take just one, revealing to school officials or confessing to parents. And, certainly, the newly initiated would share the magical details of that experience with their girlfriends. No, better that a still-shuddering princess become an early angel instead, allowing Martha to stay out of jail, keep her job, and enjoy its wonderful…
Wait a minute.
Through that gap in the hedge, one foot in a cork platformed sandal, followed by a hip in blue minishorts. And, finally, the white tank top, raggedly torn from left shoulder to right waist like her wardrobe choice had been diagonally—and brutally—slashed by the clothes police.
Princess Di, face in her hands, began stumbling and then loping awkwardly toward Martha, the offending boy neither appearing nor pursuing. The older woman took a deep, soothing breath. As she exhaled, her heart skipped that delicious, welcome beat.
It looked to be a long, late afternoon, sweetened and spiced by the crossing guard’s favorite fringe benefit.
Jeremiah Healy is the creator of the John Francis Cuddy private investigator series and (under the pseudonym Terry Devane) the Mairead O’Clare legal-thriller series, both set primarily in Boston. Of his eighteen novels and more than sixty short stories, sixteen have won or been nominated for the Shamus Award. Visit his website at JeremiahHealy.com.
WYOLENE
* * *
* * *
Sam Hill
He finished the mug of buttermilk and used his sleeve to wipe the white moustache from his lip. “I’m going to take the wagon into Waycross tomorrow,” he drawled.
She looked up. “Do you think I could go, RW? We need a whole bunch of stuff. Everything, really. Kerosene. I could help you with the tobacco.”
He shook his head, “No reason for you to be going to town. Too much work to be done here. I’ll get what we need after I leave the auction barn.” RW stood, pulled the overall straps up over his shoulders, and snapped them into place. Reaching down, he used the last fragment of biscuit to wipe the egg yolk from the plate, crammed it into his mouth, and walked out, still chewing.
After washing the dishes, she pulled a pair of tattered overalls on over her cotton dress and left the small unpainted house, walking past the unmarked place where she’d buried the dog in a shallow hole, to the small grave bounded by whitewashed logs. She knelt and pulled the tiny sprigs of grass starting to peek through the sandy soil. She straightened the cross. As she worked, she kept an eye on the track, just in case RW came back for something. He did not like her tending the grave.
At noon, they ate mostly in silence. Finally, RW looked up and said, “You could probably come if I knew you wouldn’t tell them crazy stuff. But I can’t count on that. You haven’t been right since your baby died. I can’t count on what you will say half the time.”
She shook her head emphatically. “No, RW, I am all right now. You can count on me to be all right. You can,” she pleaded.
He stared back at her, chewing with his mouth open. “I can, can I?”
He stood up and stomped outside, the screen door slamming behind him. A minute later he appeared with the Mason jar in his hand. He placed it on the table. A piece of cheesecloth tied with twine covered the mouth. The thin coral snake lay quietly. Beautiful alternating bands of color. Red and yellow, kill a fellow. “What do you call this, Wyolene? Is this what somebody who ain’t crazy keeps hidden under the corner of the house?”
Her face went pale. “It’s a pet, RW. The cat ran off, and you had to shoot the dog.” She paused.
“And our baby died. That’s what you were going to say.”
“Please, I just need something,” she begged. “It’s a peaceful snake. It isn’t like a rattler.”
He shook his head. “Animals are for working. They are to serve man. Like it says in the Bible. You don’t need no pets. Especially no snake.”
He picked up the jar and turned. She grabbed his arm. “Wait, RW.”
He swung his arm back, catching her just above the corner of the eye with the jar, sending her backward across the raw flooring. “What do you think you’re doing grabbing hold of me?” He pulled the cheesecloth from the top of the jar, and turning it upside down, dumped the snake on the floor between them. Before it could move, he used his heel to grind its head into the floor. “There’s your pet, Wyolene. Go bury it like you did the damned dog.” He left her sitting with her back against the wall, the blood from the cut running down and mingling with the tears.
After supper, she read the Bible to him before going to bed. He stayed on the porch, smoking and drinking clear liquid from a jar, occasionally waving at the persistent mosquitoes. Later he lurched in and stood over her. “I didn’t kill that baby. I found her like that. I told you a hundred times.”
He studied her a moment, then raised his voice. “Stop pretending. You ain’t asleep.” Her eyelids fluttered.
“You don’t need no baby. You don’t need no pet or nothing. You got me,” he bellowed, spittle flecking the wall behind her. Her eyes popped open. With one huge hand, he covered her mouth and nose. She kicked and thrashed, her small fingers digging at his arm. When at last her body sagged, he leaned close to make sure she was still breathing.
“I had Ophir Strickland write a letter to your people saying you died of the typhoid. You don’t need them either,” he whispered, hiking her flour-sack shift up to her waist.
In the morning he washed in a basin on the back porch and shaved with a straight razor using the small round mirror. He cut himself like he always did and, without a word, took the clean rag she offered and dabbed the cuts. After breakfast he pulled on the worn, clean, and starched white shirt, and tried to button the sleeves.
“There’s a button missing,” RW said.
“Let me fix it,” she answered.
Sweat poured down his face, and he worked a finger into his collar. “There’s something wrong, Wyolene. I don’t feel right. My face is tingly.”
She worked on his sleeve. “Ouch, you stuck me with that needle,” he said thickly.
“The poison is making you tingly, RW,” Wyolene said quietly, “It was on the rag, and it’s on the needle, too.”
His breathing was ragged now, and his eyelids drooped. He tried to speak, but it came out in a slurry.
She spoke again. “They say a half a drop of coral snake poison will kill a man. But you’re a big man.” She pricked another hole in his wrist a quarter inch from the first one, and used the eyedropper to squeeze a white drop onto each wound. “It took me weeks to get six drops. To be sure.”
He panted, watching her through slitted eyes.
&n
bsp; “I’m sorry, RW.” She patted his hand, stood, walked to the basin, and washed her hands twice. Then without looking back, went to change her dress for town.
Sam Hill lives with his wife, dog, and two cats on a farm just outside Bloomington, Indiana. In addition to the critically acclaimed novel Buzz Monkey, he has written and published an additional four books and more than thirty short pieces, both fiction and nonfiction. He is working on his third novel, Stonefish.
AKA
* * *
* * *
Steve Hockensmith
BRRRRRING! Hey! America! Wake-up call! The “War on Terror” is a sham! Join us, the Aryan Knights of America, and strike a real blow for freedom! The AKA has the will and the means! So rise up, patriots, and smell the bitter coffee of deception! Nourish yourself with a tall glass of righteousness! Breakfast is the most important meal of the day! Let’s break some eggs! 812-555-2783!
—The River City Herald-Times
Page E-13
May 26, 2007
The ad worked. Once Hightower waded through the cranks (“Is Mrs. Hitler home?”), he had three candidates. He just needed one to fill out the ranks of the AKA. One true believer to stand by his side.
One martyr.
They came out to his farm. An old man, a young man, and a girl. Joan wasn’t around to cook anymore, so Hightower put out microwave popcorn, and they stood in the kitchen talking politics.
The recruits said the right things—mostly “Yes! Exactly!”—as Hightower philosophized about the UN and the Zionist Occupation Government and how bin Laden had ruined everything by making America look for enemies out there instead of right here.
The recruits passed the first test—they stayed and listened—but Hightower liked the young man best. His exactly!s were the most fervent, and you’ve got to respect a man in a These Colors Don’t Run T-shirt. Plus, Hightower didn’t like the way the girl said “Umm…is this everybody?” or the fact that the old man was old. Old men might complain, but all they really want is comfort. A young man has the passion to sacrifice himself for Right.
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