Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/12

by Dell Magazines

  "That'd make us feel better, in his place," I said. "But then again you and I are not extraterrestrials."

  "I suppose I should be thankful that you're human, no matter what Mom says."

  "She was never that beautiful," I said. "It was her brains I went for. But then they ran out."

  "Why didn't you tell Wolfgang that he can't run his house as a refuge anymore?"

  "Maybe he'll pass his handprint around Children's Services and they'll sign him up and everyone will live happily ever after."

  "You think?"

  "With him, I don't know what to think," I said. "Will Elaine face charges?"

  "She and Laurie didn't tell Harvey ‘Go stab,' but they provided information knowing it was likely to result in a felony crime. Most judges won't like that much, especially in an election year."

  "Maybe Wolfgang will want to fund a high-priced lawyer for her."

  "Has he got a lot of money?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Will you go back in there now and tell him that Elaine might be in trouble?"

  "Do you think I should?" I said.

  "Maybe for Nicole," Sam said.

  "Yeah, all right. Good kid, isn't she?"

  "Yeah."

  "Like you," I said. And she didn't even smack me for calling her a kid.

  Copyright © 2012 by Michael Z. Lewin

  Previous Article

  BLACK MASK

  BLACK MASK

  GONE FISHING

  by Jim Davis

  When Jim Davis debuted in EQMM's Department of First Stories in February of 2011 he said he had more short story ideas for his private detective Bradley Carter. Here we have the fruit of one of those...

  FICTION

  PASSPORT TO CRIME

  PASSPORT TO CRIME

  BLACK MASK

  GONE FISHING

  by Jim Davis

  When Jim Davis debuted in EQMM's Department of First Stories in February of 2011 he said he had more short story ideas for his private detective Bradley Carter. Here we have the fruit of one of those ideas, a case in which Carter goes on a high-tension chase through the Ozark Mountains, a scene familiar to his creator, a veterinarian who lives on a farm near the Lake of the Ozarks.

  I was sitting at a corner table in a smoke-filled biker bar just off Route 16 in northwest Arkansas. My stack of quarters glinted on the bumper under the Stag Beer light that illuminated the stained felt of the pool table. My momma, if she were still alive, would not have approved.

  I nursed a lukewarm Budweiser longneck waiting for Seymour "Tiny" Buckman to hustle twenty bucks off a half-breed kid who was way too drunk to steer his bike back to Oklahoma. Tiny had probably been drinking all day himself, from the looks of it. I was sure of it when he double-tapped the cue ball before sinking the eight ball in the corner pocket. He stared the breed down as he chalked his cue; his glare daring the kid to call him on it. His eyes were red, and his pupils were dilated like he might be on something besides an alcohol buzz.

  The kid reached in his pocket and flipped a wadded-up pair of tens out onto the felt and handed the cue to me. He staggered toward the door without a word. He was listing slightly to the left as he aimed for the opening. He suddenly reeled and fell headlong into the shuffleboard table, scattering pucks and sending up a cloud of Ultra Glide powder. He rolled off and slid under the table and lay still. No one seemed to notice.

  Tiny scooped the money off the table as he staggered over to where I sat. He wore a jean jacket with the sleeves cut out, the armpits wet with sweat, and a pair of Levis so shiny and dark that I would guess they had never been washed since they came off the shelf at Walmart. He weighed at least two-fifty and smelled like a hog eating onions. He reached out a hairy paw, snatched my beer off the table, and chugged it in two gulps. He wiped the foam from his beard with the back of his arm and tossed the bottle on the table, where it spun to a stop. He leaned down into my face and let out a mighty belch. I felt my hair move, but I managed to keep from breathing until he stood back up and said, "Rack 'em."

  It is always in the wee hours in a place like this that I wonder why I wanted to be a private investigator. The air was close and damp, and smelled of stale beer. The establishment had one window air conditioner stuffed through a hole at the end of the bar, where it chugged away; condensation ran down the wall and disappeared through a crack in the floor. I had ridden here on a 1969 Shovelhead Harley-Davidson that my granddaddy had bought new, and I was wearing an old leather flight jacket over a black T-shirt. But that was as far as my biker cover went. I didn't have a single tattoo and would have been more at home in a Polo shirt and golf shorts. I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of leaving the old Colt semiauto in the saddlebag.

  I was put on the trail of one Delbert Fish by his maiden aunt, Miss Etta Mae Fish, who had been my Sunday-school teacher twenty-five years ago. Delbert was wanted in connection with a rape and assault that had occurred down by Fort Smith. According to the news reports, it was a brutal crime, and the victim was in a coma. Miss Etta Mae was certain that her nephew was not capable of such abominations. She had come to see me in the back-room office that I occasionally used at the Fayetteville, Arkansas, law firm of Gantry and Grizzell, a couple of fraternity brothers of mine.

  "It is inconceivable that little Delbert could have done those—those horrible things." She sat upright and prim in a captain's chair across from my desk. She wore a light-blue, floral-print dress that she had probably made herself and clutched a big black purse with both hands. "I'm not familiar with what a private eye charges," she said, opening the purse. "I can give you two hundred dollars." She pulled out a wad of fives and ones that I knew had come from piano lessons she'd given over the years.

  "Miss Etta Mae," I began, wondering how I was going to get out of this. "I've got other cases right now . . ."

  "Young man," she interrupted. "Don't you tell a story to me! That nice woman out front told me that you needed the work."

  "Now Miss Etta . . ."

  "Bradley Carter, you listen to me. Half the law-enforcement officers in the state are looking for Delbert down in the delta. If they find him, they will shoot him. Now I'm coming to you because I want you to find him first, so he can turn himself in. Besides, he's not in the delta."

  "How do you know that?" I asked.

  "Don't you take that tone with me." She gave me a look of reprimand. I was suddenly back in the basement of the old brick church on Sycamore Street. "Delbert spent the night at my home last Friday."

  I was incredulous. Miss Etta Mae Fish was aiding and abetting a fugitive? My mouth was open, but no words were coming out.

  "I had no idea at the time that he was wanted by the law. I haven't watched the news since David Brinkley retired, but I turned on the radio after Delbert left, and there it was."

  "You didn't go to the police?"

  "Of course not! Delbert couldn't have done those things."

  I was leaning over my desk, doodling on a yellow legal pad. I had seen little Delbert's picture on the news and heard the story. He certainly looked like he was guilty. He had black tattoos running up his neck, his nose was askew, and he had a puckered scar running from the corner of his mouth up to his left eye. He had already done time in the Cummins Unit of the Arkansas Correctional System.

  "Bradley, you just have to find Delbert before the police do."

  I just stared at her.

  "They will kill him!"

  What she was asking me to do was like crawling into a cave full of rattlesnakes.

  "The radio also said that the girl's father has offered a ten-thousand-dollar reward." She pursed her lips defiantly, causing her bifocals to shrug up on her nose.

  Ten thousand dollars.

  My demeanor must have changed, because she took out a pen and paper from the purse and said, "Let me show you where he went."

  And now here I was, shooting pool with Delbert's "associate," Tiny Buckman; the two fellows became fast friends while awaiting trial in th
e Washington County Jail on drug charges a few years back. Although it was tempting, I did not clear the table after Tiny's lame attempt at a break. No one else had put any money on the table, so I let him win the first game. It cost me twenty bucks, but it would be cheap if I could find the location of his family's notorious still back in the mountains. That may sound strange, but this is Arkansas. We have a number of dry counties, and moonshiners continue to ply their trade back in the hills. Etta Mae was convinced that Delbert was headed to the Buckman still to hide out until the search cooled off. I did not even ask how she knew where to look for the place.

  Seven beers and three games of eight ball later, Tiny looked no more drunk or talkative than he had been to start with. In fact, he seemed to get surlier as the night went on. I had been dropping hints about how some of the Benton County high rollers had developed a taste for good moonshine, and how I intended to cash in on that trend if I could find a supply of quality product. He showed absolutely no interest until I finally came out and asked if his grandpap still made shine up in the hills. That got his attention, but not the way I had hoped. He picked up his cue in midshot and turned it around, backing me up against the bar. I jerked a leg up to protect myself as he swung the cue at my ribs. The cue stick hit my knee with a loud crack, and fell to the floor in pieces. That was going to hurt when the adrenaline wore off. Before I could slither away and run, Tiny had a forearm across my neck, bending me backwards over the bar. His hairy arm was up under my chin, and he was bellowing obscenities as he attempted to crush my windpipe. He only succeeded in propelling me down the bar on my back. My T-shirt was soaking up spilled beer as glasses went crashing to the floor.

  Just when I thought I was going to pass out, I heard a loud crack, like when Albert Pujols knocks one deep into left-center, and the pressure on my neck was released. As my vision cleared I saw Tiny's eyes roll up into his head. The bearded, sweaty, slobbering face of Tiny Buckman went blank as he fell away to the floor. I coughed and massaged my throat as I slid off the bar and steadied myself against it.

  Standing before me was a small woman with stringy black hair holding the narrow end of a pool cue. She calmly set the cue down on the table and looked at me. She wore a black Jack Daniels T-shirt cut off short, revealing twin dragon tattoos peeking out of her low-riding jeans on either side of her navel. She had a square jaw and coarse chin. "Can you give me a ride home?" she asked. "I don't think Tiny's up to it."

  I looked at Tiny lying facedown on the floor. He was already starting to snore. "Boyfriend?" I asked.

  "Husband," she said.

  It was well after midnight when I started up the old motorcycle. The woman looked skeletal in the blue mercury-vapor light in the parking lot. She was older than I had thought; she had fine wrinkles around her mouth and eyes like a chronic smoker. She stared off at the darkness when she spoke; her eyes were glassy and dark with a bovine emptiness.

  "It's a ways out there. Got plenty of gas?" she asked.

  "I think we can make it," I said.

  The bike had the original buddy seat on it, so she climbed on behind me with practiced ease. I pulled away slowly, while she lit up a cigarette. I kept the pace slow since I didn't know the road and she was giving directions.

  We had passed a closed liquor store half an hour before. That was just before we hit the gravel roads. I figured the store was on the county line, and we were now in one of the dry counties. The night was so dark it seemed to swallow the feeble light the old bike put out. I hadn't seen a dusk-to-dawn light for a good fifteen minutes when a battered house-trailer loomed into the sweep of my headlight.

  The place looked deserted, but as I turned off the bike, the bark and howl of a coon dog announced our arrival. I could hear the dog's chain dragging against the skirting of the trailer. No lights came on, but I heard a screen door open and could make out the silhouette of a child as the woman reached the front door.

  "Momma?"

  "Go back to bed," she scolded.

  "But I'm hungry . . ."

  "I ain't got nothing for you. Now, get to bed!"

  She turned my way. I could barely see her as my eyes tried to adjust. "Thanks for the ride," she said.

  "Will I get lost getting out of here?" I asked.

  "Ain't but one road out," she said. "Don't stop till you get to the county road. They let them dogs run loose at night."

  "Coonhounds?" I asked.

  "Hell no, they's part pit bull or somethin'. You best get out of here."

  She didn't have to tell me again. I found myself taking the rutted two-track road a lot faster than I normally would have. Summer was about gone but the air was thick with humidity and, if anything, the night had gotten darker. A flash of lightning illuminated the surrounding hills as I came to the county-maintained road. Thunder rumbled across the valley before me as I rolled on the throttle; I did not want to get caught in a storm at night in the Ozark Mountains.

  The sky in the east was streaked with red and orange as the sun pushed away the early-morning mist. The sky to the north was gunmetal gray as thunder echoed down the valley. I spotted the little store that I had seen coming in with its beer and liquor signs now muted by the coming daylight. The place had gas pumps, the old kind with number wheels and bells, not the kind where you can swipe your card and go. I pulled up to a pump and shut off the ignition. Without the noise of the bike, I could hear the rushing of a stream as it gushed past the little store and shot under the highway bridge. The violence of the water attested to the heavy rains that were falling farther up the valley.

  "Need some gas?"

  I managed not to jump. I hadn't heard the man come up behind me.

  "Hell of a storm up top," he said, pointing his chin up the valley. He was thin with longish gray hair and a Gabby Hayes beard.

  "Yes, sir," I said. "I need gas all right. How about coffee?"

  "It'll be done, time you get your gas," he said, turning to go back inside. "I'll turn the pump on."

  After I filled the bike, I walked past a minnow tank under an open shed. Aerators bubbled and hissed, and the shed smelled like a sardine can. The little store was homey, with a long wooden table and handmade benches around it. The old man talked as he turned on the lights in coolers and display cases. His blue-gray flannel shirt was thin enough to see through on the elbows. I poured myself a cup of coffee.

  "You must've got up early this morning," he said. "Fishin's gonna be off with all that rain up high."

  "That's okay," I said. "I'm actually just here to scout out a hunting spot for deer season this fall." I stood looking at a map on the wall. It was made of pages out of an atlas taped together, and it showed the surrounding valley with spots marked along the creeks in red felt-tip. "What do you fish for around here?"

  "Smallmouth bass. Good fishing most of the time."

  He kept talking while I looked at the map. I was trying to get my bearings, retracing my route from last night. "Who owns this up in here?" I asked, pointing a finger.

  "Oh God," he said, shaking his head. "You don't want to go in there. Them dang bikers hole up in there. I could tell right away you wasn't one of them. They're worthless as hell. Want some bacon?" He was peeling off strips into a big frying pan on an old gas stove.

  "Sure, bacon's good," I replied. "So they wouldn't want to lease me some hunting ground?"

  "God no! You don't even ask them boys. I had to run 'em off with old Bessie here. Pumped gas and didn't pay." He reached behind the counter and patted a double-barreled shotgun with all the bluing worn off. "Rock salt on the left, double-ought buck on the right. Gave it all to 'em."

  "What about this place?" I pointed to the adjoining property on the map.

  "Well now, that would be a good place to hunt," he said. The bacon hissed and popped as he flipped it over with a fork. "But you can't get up there. There ain't no road."

  "What about that?" I pointed to what looked like a trail up a creek that ran on the north side of the place.

  He
squinted at the map. "You can go up the creek with a four-wheeler, but you can't get past the bluffs. Steep as hell."

  "Where could I rent a four-wheeler?"

  "Nowheres I know of. You want some eggs?"

  "Over easy," I said. The old man looked like a hillbilly, and I'm sure he was, but he wasn't a fool. He was answering my questions just enough to keep me asking more. "How do you get around to all these fishing spots?" I asked.

  He gave a little laugh as he broke eggs and dropped them into the hot grease. "A sure-footed old mule named Abner."

  Abner was a jewel. He plodded on through the brushy, slick trails that I guess he knew were there; I surely couldn't see them. I had left the Harley, of course, after assuring the old man that it was worth at least the value of the mule. I was avoiding thinking about how I was going to get Delbert out, if I happened to find him, but I would think of something. The saddle was an ancient, high-backed thing. The old fellow had bragged on it. "My pap brought it all the way from Kansas City back in the twenties; that's a genuine Shipley." The mule was big for a riding mule; he was a sorrel going to gray around the muzzle. The rain had finally come down to meet me, and the cheap poncho that I had purchased at the store was leaking badly where it had snagged on tree branches. When I got to the steep part of the trail, I let Abner do his own navigating. He went up slopes that looked impossible. All I could do was hold on; he was like a cat climbing a tree.

  The rain stopped as we topped a ridge, and the sun peeked through the clouds. I smelled wood smoke. I looked through the army-surplus binoculars the old fellow had loaned me and checked out the head of the valley before me. The smoke was rising from a cabin not more than a quarter-mile away. It was still early morning, and men were already moving about. This was not going to be easy.