Runyon said, “Where's the gun?"
"I don't know. I heard it hit the pavement—"
"I've got it."
I turned around. It was the guy from the car that had pulled up across the street; he'd come running over to rubberneck. He stood a short distance away, holding the revolver in one hand, loosely, as if he didn't know what to do with it. Heavyset and bald, I saw as I went up to him. Eyebrows like miniature tumbleweeds.
"What's going on?” he said.
"Police business."
"Yeah? You guys cops?"
"Making an arrest.” I held out my hand, palm up. “Let's have the gun."
He hesitated, but just briefly. Then he said, “Sure, sure,” and laid it on my palm.
And I backed up a step and pointed it at a spot two inches below his chin.
"Hey!” He gawped at me in disbelief. “Hey, what's the idea?"
"The idea,” I said, “is for you to turn around, slow, and clasp your hands together behind you. Do it—now!"
He did it. He didn't have any choice.
I gave the gun to Runyon. And then, shaking my head, smiling a little, I snapped my set of handcuffs around Floyd Maxwell's wrists.
* * * *
Funny business, detective work. Crazy business sometimes. Mostly it's a lot of dull routine, with small triumphs and as much frustration as satisfaction. But once in a great while something happens that not only makes it all worthwhile but defies the laws of probability. Call it whatever you like—random accident, multiple coincidence, star-and-planet convergence, fate, blind luck, divine intervention. It happens. It happened to Jake Runyon and me that stormy February night.
An ex-con named Kyle Franklin, fresh out of San Quentin after serving six years for armed robbery, decides he wants sole custody of his seven-year-old son. He drags his girlfriend to San Francisco, where his former wife is raising the boy as a single mom, and beats and threatens the ex-wife and kidnaps the child. Rather than leave the city quick, he decides he needs some sustenance for the long drive to Lila's place in L.A. and stops at the first diner he sees, less than a quarter-mile from the ex-wife's apartment building—a diner where two case-hardened private detectives happen to be staked out.
We overhear part of his conversation with Lila and it sounds wrong to us. We notice the blood on his coat sleeve, the scraped knuckles, his prison pallor, the Odin's cross—a prison tattoo and racist symbol—on his wrist, and the fact that he's carrying a concealed weapon. So we follow him outside and brace him, he pulls the gun, and while we're struggling, our deadbeat dad chooses that moment to show up. The smart thing for Maxwell to have done was to drive off, avoid trouble; instead he lets his curiosity and arrogance get the best of him, and comes over to watch, and then picks up Franklin's gun and hands it to me nice as you please. And so we foil a kidnapping and put the arm on not one but two violent, abusive fathers in the space of about three minutes.
What are the odds? Astronomical. You could live three or four lifetimes and nothing like it would ever happen again.
It's a little like hitting the Megabucks state lottery.
That night, Runyon and I were the ones holding the winning ticket.
©2007 by Bill Pronzini
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IBRAHIM'S EYES by David Dean
"'Ibrahim's Eyes’ was inspired by a largely forgotten, unhappy chapter in our military his-tory,” David Dean told EQMM. “I was with the Army's 82 Air-borne when the events des-cribed occurred, and remember the anguish we felt for our broth-ers in arms, the Marines. Those days were to have far-reaching repercussions. We should have paid more attention at the time."
Sean Lafferty slouched be-hind the counter of the Quik and EZ Mart and watched his reflection stare back at him from the plate-glass doors that fronted the small store. If he stepped away from the counter his phantom self would vanish from the glass, sucked into oblivion by the remaining illumination. Occasionally, he would shift to one side or the other and his ghost would mimic him, wavering slightly, or disappearing altogether as a pair of headlights swept across the store from a car entering the parking lot. When the headlamps were switched off, his pale Doppelgänger, drained of blood by the softly buzzing fluorescents, would reappear to resume its study of its earthly counterpart. This could go on for long periods of time, and often would but for the interruption of customers, yet the sign, the thought, the emotion that Sean kept looking for remained steadfastly locked behind his own alien visage.
He knew that seen from outside, he would appear to be waiting for the Q&E's nocturnal patrons—nervous teenagers in need of condoms; even more nervous young mothers who had woefully miscalculated the diaper count and were now forced out into the midnight world; or perhaps a sudden brash invasion of young men intent on menace and calculating the odds of taking the store's earnings by force, or just sheer intimidation. The graveyard shift was a perilous, haphazard world and Sean's apparent alertness was not altogether a front. Once another human being appeared from the darkness beyond his image, Sean's attention was subtly refocused, and he bid farewell to his mute self.
The customer that stepped onto the lighted stage beneath the working outside lights raised a hand in salute, and Sean did the same. Moments later he emerged from the pool of darkness that shrouded the double doors into the store.
"Those lights, Sean.” The police sergeant pointed over his shoulder. “They've been that way for months. Not smart."
"No, sir,” Sean agreed. “I keep tellin’ Mr. Corrado about ‘em.” Sean was older than the officer by at least seven or eight years, but he could not refrain from calling him “sir"—it was the three stripes on his sleeve. A long time before, Sean had been a marine, and it was the only time in his life that remained vivid in his mind. His present was hazy and insubstantial, and he just a ghost that haunted it. “He's busy opening that new store on the other side of town,” he added by way of explanation. A long cardboard box of the tubes lay untouched in the storeroom, and whenever the manager thought to ask about them, Sean would lie and say simply that he had forgotten to install them. This explanation would suffice as the harried Mr. Corrado scurried from crisis to crisis in stores that lay scattered across the city.
The policeman, a somewhat portly but light-footed man, suddenly diverged from his course toward Sean and glided over to the coffee stand. Sean watched as the sergeant carefully chose a flavored coffee from the row of stagnant pots and proceeded to add a different flavored creamer and two packages of sugar substitute to his choice. After stirring all these ingredients to his satisfaction, he waltzed over to the counter and plopped the concoction down in front of Sean, his breathing slightly labored.
"No charge,” Sean assured him, as the officer dug into his wallet.
This was a ritual the two men went through on a regular basis.
"You sure?” Sergeant Fullerton asked, fulfilling his half of the litany.
Sean nodded and the policeman raised his paper cup in a toast and then brought it gingerly to his lips. As usual, Sean noticed, he had filled it too full. With a gasp, the sergeant snatched the brimming container away from his lips with a muttered exclamation. “Damn ... that's too hot!” Several spoonfuls of the steaming liquid sloshed over with his sudden movement and the policeman danced deftly away, avoiding getting any on his snug uniform. The stain the coffee made on the dirty linoleum was only noticeable for its gleaming liquidity.
"Don't worry about it,” Sean murmured from his seat.
"No, hell, hand me some paper towels,” Sergeant Fullerton demanded. “It's my fault.... I'll clean it up."
Sean did as he was bid and reached under the counter where a roll was kept for just such emergencies. He tore off several and handed them across the counter. After carefully placing his cup on the countertop, the sergeant bent grunting to his task. Sean studied the bald spot that was developing at the crown of the officer's skull. His own hair had remained full and thick through the years and only recently had streaks of gra
y begun to show themselves. People usually thought he was younger than he was.
Sergeant Fullerton's voice came up to him a little strangled. “How come you're always on midnight shift? Ain't you got some seniority, or something? Been round here forever!” This last he said as he straightened up, his features flushed and congested-looking.
Sean caught a glimpse of his own face across the room, his head a pale balloon floating over the policeman's shoulder. “Doesn't bother me,” he said quietly.
"I can't wait to get off night shifts,” the sergeant complained. “Damn things'll kill ya!"
"It's quiet,” Sean offered.
"Yeah, it's quiet,” the policeman repeated as he surveyed the shabby, empty store. “Quiet until someone comes charging in here to rob you, and maybe kill your ass in the bargain. Couldn't pay me to sit here like a fish in a bowl, waitin’ for some mangy cat to take notice!"
Sean's gaze drifted downward and he whispered, “No, sir."
The sergeant's voice softened. “Hell, you don't have to ‘sir’ me, Sean. How old are you, anyway?"
"Forty,” Sean answered, looking back at Sergeant Fullerton now.
"Forty,” the officer repeated dubiously. “You're kiddin’ me, right? You don't look no forty. Hell, I'm younger'n you! What's your secret?"
Sean thought for a second, and then smiled. “I keep out of the sun,” he replied.
Sergeant Fullerton stared for a moment, then guffawed. “By God, you do that!” He chuckled a few moments more, then grew serious. “Listen, Sean, you been watchin’ the news?"
Sean shook his head. He rarely watched the news programs.
"How ‘bout the papers? You been readin’ what's goin’ on in this area?"
Again Sean shook his head.
The sergeant studied him in puzzlement. “You ain't just stayin’ out of the sun, you're stayin’ out of life altogether. Maybe that's the real secret.” It was the officer's turn to shake his large round head. “Anyway,” he resumed heavily, “there's a gang of some kind been workin’ our end of the state pretty serious. They like stores just like this one—open all night, lone operator in the wee hours, deal largely in cash. Get me? It's not a snatch-and-run outfit, Sean. They mean business and they're not leavin’ witnesses. They've killed three, so far ... and they take the security tapes, the whole damn cassette recorder if they have to."
Outside the store, a car cruised through the small, littered parking lot. As the headlights swept across the patrol car outside, they appeared to hesitate, then resumed the arc that meant they had continued on to the exit. A fissure of white gleamed through a broken taillight lens. Sergeant Fullerton, his back to the lot, did not notice, and Sean gave no indication of what he had witnessed. During the course of a shift, perhaps half a dozen cars would perform the same maneuver.
"So we don't have a clue as to what they look like,” Sergeant Fullerton went on. “No vehicle description. Nothin'. But, they do shoot. The state police have recovered three bullets from the skulls of three night clerks ... all small caliber. A ladies’ gun, a .25, I believe, and they use it up close and personal, execution style with a mean twist.” He placed an extended forefinger against the soft flesh that sagged beneath his jaws. “Straight up to the brain pan. The last thing those poor bastards got to see was their killer's grinning face.
"I'm not tryin’ to scare you, Sean, but I can't help but worry with you sittin’ on the edge of town out here."
Sean was touched by the officer's concern. They really hardly knew each other. “Well,” Sean ventured over a rising feeling of excitement, “it wouldn't do to have Mrs. Fisher or little Megan in here for me."
"No, I didn't mean that,” Sergeant Fullerton continued impatiently. “Talk to Mr. Corrado about closing down early for a few weeks, until we catch these thugs. How much money can he make between midnight and eight that would make it worth it?"
Sean pretended to think this over.
Sergeant Fullerton studied his face as if noticing for the first time the vertical creases that ran from cheekbone to chin amidst the salt-and-pepper whiskers of the night clerk's five o'clock shadow—as if it was occurring to him that, but for Sean's vague, wistful gaze, a certain hardness might lie at the core of the man.
"I'll mention it,” Sean lied. “But we make a lot of money up till about two A.M."
"Not enough,” the policeman assured Sean as he wedged a travel cap onto the cup of coffee and turned for the exit. “I'll try to get cars out here as often as I can,” he promised over his shoulder.
"Thanks,” Sean said to his own image as the glass door swung closed behind the sergeant.
* * * *
Sean slept poorly that day. After the kindly policeman's visit, a growing sense of alertness, a tingling, nervous energy, began to course through his veins. He felt like a person who had just awakened to a cry from another room, startled and uncertain as to its meaning. He was not afraid as a result of the officer's warning, but excited the way he had been as a child watching a summer storm rolling across the landscape, its belly dark and full of lightning, the hot, humid air charged with menace and hidden meaning. So he was not surprised when he dreamt of Beirut.
The chaotic, crashing images of his dream would not have been recognizable as a geographic locale to anyone else, as they held significance only for the dreamer, but to Sean the very smell and taste of “The Root,” as he and his fellow marines had dubbed it, flooded his senses.
He stood on a third-floor balcony of the battalion landing team's command post looking back over his shoulder. Somewhere to the front of the building he had heard the revving of an engine, and in the predawn quiet it seemed very loud. He was glancing back to see if the noise had disturbed any of his fellow marines in the room behind him, where most of his squad lay cocooned in their sleeping bags, but besides the usual grunts, snores, and farts of slumberous young men, they appeared unperturbed. This amused Sean and he smiled and turned away. The dreaming Sean smiled also.
As his dream self watched the coming dawn tint the Lebanese sky with blood, a crash came to his ears, and a splintering of wood. The truck, or whatever it was, sounded much closer. He leaned over the wall of the balcony in an attempt to see what was going on, but was rewarded with nothing but the sight of a few heads popping out from the bunkers and makeshift shelters that dotted the edges of the airport tarmac, swiveling this way and that in an attempt to locate the disturbance that had roused them from a Sunday's slumber. From somewhere below him there was the crashing of glass, and he counted two rifle shots. A moment later, a sergeant he thought he recognized charged out of the building's lobby and into his field of vision. Sean thought he had never seen someone run so fast before, or perhaps it was just an effect of the acute angle from which he watched. A husky voice from behind him called out groggily, “Dude, what the f—k is goin'—” The sleeping Sean sucked in his breath. This was when it happened.
Suddenly he was flying, or more accurately hurtling through the air, over the very heads that he had just been smiling down on. Though he was enveloped by clouds that billowed grey and soft, he felt no sense of peace, as his breath had been sucked from his lungs and he was choking and on fire; an angel cast down from heaven. Other objects whistled by him in this celestial pollution—body parts and glass; concrete and steel reinforcing rods; boots and vehicle parts; all seeking new converts to their miraculous liberation. The maelstrom around Sean shrieked with the flight of unseen banshees.
Then, with an unceremonious thump, he was thrown to the earth like litter from a speeding car, and left to stare upwards at a heaven obscured by tons of ferroconcrete dust, while all around him objects, some horribly recognizable and others mercifully indescribable, fell from the sky like a hellish plague. He was alive.
This was where Sean would awaken, just as he had awakened in the makeshift Battalion Aid Station a day later, bewildered at the sudden shift in reality, but largely unhurt. He would not believe the corpsmen who insisted the entire battalion command po
st was simply no more, and grew combative when they told him that two hundred and forty-one of his fellow marines had died in the carnage of the truck bombing. He had known that this could not be true, as he was still living—could not be true. He could not have survived such a catastrophe.
Then a lieutenant with an engineering degree had tried to explain it to him, saying that it was likely the very explosion that had doomed so many within the building had lofted him along on a cushion of hot gases, and set him down with surprising gentleness as those same gases dissipated into the unconfined atmosphere. “A miracle, nonetheless,” the well-meaning officer had assured him. “Bullshit, sir,” Sean had replied courteously.
The following day he had been released for duty. Still angry over the inexplicable pessimism of his normally gung-ho fellow marines, he strode directly to the site of the command post. It wasn't there.
Sean had stared in incomprehension, turning this way and that in an attempt to get his bearings. Somehow he had become disoriented and had arrived at the wrong location. It's concussion, he had assured himself. That was the only possible explanation for his sudden loss of direction within the limited confines of his unit's area of operations. Had he not spent the last five months of his life dodging Shiite sniper bullets, Druze artillery rounds, and the occasional Syrian-made rocket right here in the Corps’ stinking little piece of Beirut?
A corporal had walked towards him dragging a poncho liner full of something and dropped it heavily at his feet. “Pull your head out of your butt, Marine, and get this over to the morgue.” Sean had stared back at the NCO blankly. “And when you're done, double-time back here ... there's still a lot to clean up.” He had hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the tons of rubble behind him. Only then did Sean allow himself to see and recognize.
The administration building that the Beirut Airport had given over to the marines for their command post lay in the grave that the basement had provided, floor upon floor having collapsed in on itself after the Iranian Revolutionary Guardsman had driven his twelve thousand pounds of explosives into the lobby and detonated them. Sean had seen then ... and believed. Then the poncho liner had fallen open.
EQMM, June 2007 Page 14
