AHMM, Jan-Feb 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Now some cabbie was gleefully spending the five C-notes intended for the cops that some cursing, corked flapper had left in a purse on his back seat. And some cop was wondering where the payoff was that she was supposed to have delivered at noon. And by now, some trigger was searching for her with orders to bump her off.

  O'Neill hurried down the sidewalk packed with workers and businessmen on their way home. Several times he thought he glimpsed a dark bob or a fur coat ahead which could have been Marilyn, but each time he caught up to the woman, it wasn't her.

  He gave up after twenty minutes. Might as well try her at home.

  At the nearest trolley stop, he boarded, and jumped off at the corner of Highland and Second Avenue at a stylish new apartment building. He entered expecting to find a doorman, but no one seemed to be about. According to the mailboxes, her apartment was on the third floor. He climbed the stairs and rang the doorbell. Silence. He waited and rang again. When no answer came, he left.

  Marilyn didn't know how long she wandered, anticipating a bullet in the back or from the window of a passing jalopy. As the sunset reddened the sky, she found herself near a lunchroom the Licavoli Gang, rivals to the Purples, sometimes frequented. The lunchroom's windows spilled light into the spring dusk. The dinner crowd had come and gone and the place was deserted except for a young couple at a corner table.

  "Gimme a cup of coffee,” she said as she climbed tiredly onto a stool, her feet throbbing in her heels.

  The skinny waitress set a cup down and poured.

  Marilyn sipped at the dark brew. From now on, coffee, black coffee was the strongest drink she would take.

  It was all her own doing. She should never have got mixed up with Ray, or the Purples, or the hooch. She should have stayed in Lansing where she belonged and married a decent, law-abiding boy who met with her parents’ approval. Tears of regret and terror burned her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She swatted at them angrily and sniffed.

  "Better fix your face, doll,” the waitress suggested in a kind voice, and hitched a thumb at the counter-length mirror on the wall behind her.

  In the mirror, Marilyn saw that her eyeliner and mascara had run, leaving corpselike black smudges under her eyes.

  The waitress set a stack of paper napkins on the counter next to her.

  "Thanks,” Marilyn said, smiling at her own self-pity, and wiped the makeup off.

  Maybe she could disappear. If she took a train tonight to some small town out West and took a new name and found a job, maybe she could escape Ray's unrelenting vengeance. She eyed the waitress in her pink uniform. If she had to, she could sling hash as well as the next girl.

  The door opened and in the mirror she saw a fresh-faced young gangster, trim and well polished, enter.

  She huddled over her coffee cup and pulled her hat down over her face, hoping to make herself inconspicuous.

  The click of his footsteps stopped next to her, his polished shoes and the bulge of a gun in his pocket visible under the crook of his arm.

  She cringed, waiting to be dragged off the stool into a waiting car outside.

  "Excuse me, miss, might you be Marilyn Massie?” he asked, his voice melodic with an Irish brogue.

  "Yes,” she said into her coffee in a subdued, humble voice. If she pushed him aside and ran, how far would she get? He looked fit. Would he shoot her down in the back if she fled? The place was empty. He'd kill her first, then the waitress and the young couple, the only witnesses.

  "You're a hard lass to pin down. I've been looking for you all over town. You dropped this,” he laid her purse on the counter, “when you got into a cab outside of the Book Cadillac Hotel."

  Without looking at him, she reached for the purse, expecting the dough to be gone.

  "Everything there?” he asked. “A kid was about to make off with it when I stopped him."

  She loosened the drawstrings and peeked inside. Everything was there—the wad of bills, the derringer, the flask. She blinked in confusion. “Yes, it's all here,” she said in a small voice, still not daring to look at him.

  He unbuttoned his jacket to reach for a gun and her breath stalled. Instead, he retrieved a wallet and flipped it open to a badge. “I'm Undercover Detective O'Neill."

  A gasp of relief burst from her. She risked a glance at him, encountering mild, blue eyes and a helpful, white smile through a sappy mist that formed over her eyes. “Could I buy you a cup of coffee, Officer, for your trouble?"

  "You can do more than that, miss. You're going to help me put a few dozen rumrunners behind bars."

  Copyright (c) 2006 Gigi Vernon

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Quotation

  Author—W(illiam) MAPLES

  Work—DEAD MEN DO TELL TALES (Doubleday—Copyright (c) 1994 by William R. Maples)

  "We forensic anthropologists owe a dark debt to murderers ... It is a ... fact that ... the most dazzling pieces of detective work in our profession have come about as a ... a result of some extraordinarily depraved murder. The darker the crime, the brighter shines the solution."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  A Christmas Pit by John Gregory Betancourt

  When my doorbell rang, the sound jolted through me like an electric shock. I accidentally sloshed Jack Daniel's across my lap and began cursing all unexpected visitors.

  Carefully, so I wouldn't spill another drop, I set the bottle on my night table, grabbed my walking stick, and swung my ruined legs over the side of the bed. Standing usually hurt, but I'd already drunk enough to feel a comfortable numbness instead.

  The doorbell rang a second time, an annoying brzzz that set my teeth on edge.

  "Stop that racket! I'm coming!” I yelled. I shrugged a robe over my underwear, knotting the belt halfheartedly, and limped out into my rather spartan family room.

  By the time I turned the deadbolt and yanked open the front door, I half expected to find the hallway deserted. The brats upstairs enjoyed playing jokes like that—"bait the cripple,” I called it.

  Tonight, however, I found a soggy young man in an Atlanta Braves baseball cap and a cheap brown coat. Water pooled around him and the duffel bag he'd set down. Rain—that explained why my legs had been aching worse than usual.

  "What do you want?” I demanded. “Don't you know what time it is?"

  Involuntarily, he covered his mouth and nose and took a half step back. I had to reek like a distillery.

  "Uh ... six o'clock?” he said. His voice had a slight Southern twang.

  "Oh.” Only six o'clock? My sense of time was shot; I would have sworn it was past midnight. “I thought it was later than that. It gets dark early now."

  "Are you ... Peter Geller?” he asked hesitantly.

  "Yes. You're here to see me?"

  "Sir ... David Hunt sent me."

  I had gone to college with Davy. We had been in the same fraternity—Alpha Kappa Alpha. Since Davy came from old money, he got in because his family had always belonged to Alpha Kappa. I got in because I was smart: all the jocks and rich kids needed help to keep up their GPAs. Sometimes I had resented it, being used, but it got me into all the parties, and I still graduated at the top of our class.

  My life had been a downward spiral after college. I had landed a plum job at an investment bank, but overwork and my always-racing mind led to a nervous breakdown. Six months later, an accident left me permanently crippled. I lost touch with everyone I'd ever known and began trying to drink myself to death, until Davy called me out of the blue to help him out when he was being blackmailed. That had been five months ago. We'd had dinner and drinks a dozen times since then, rekindling our old friendship. In fact, earlier this afternoon I had been wondering what to give Davy for Christmas. He already had everything money could buy.

  "Are you some sort of social worker?” I asked warily.

  "No, sir! I'm Bob Charles.” At my puzzled look, he added, “Cree's brother."

  "Got any ID?"

  "Uh ... sure.” He
dug around his coat's inside pocket. “Driver's license? Passport?"

  "Either."

  He handed me a military passport. Marine Corps issue, and the name under his picture read “PFC Robert E. Charles."

  I nodded, my mental wheels starting to turn. Cree was the actress-slash-model Davy had been talking about marrying. Like Cher and Madonna, she only used one name.

  "I guess you better come in,” I said.

  "Thanks.” He scooped up his duffel bag and entered my apartment, looking around curiously. I didn't own much these days: a worn yellow sofa, a pair of white-and-yellow wingback chairs, a battered coffee table, and thanks to the miracle of Ikea, two tall wooden bookcases mostly devoted to bric-a-brac. No clocks, no calendar, no TV—nothing to remind me of the outside world. Nothing to stimulate my mind and set it racing again.

  "How is Davy?” I asked.

  "Good. He and Cree just left for Cancun."

  "Oh? I thought he had business in New York tomorrow.” At least, that's what he'd told me over the weekend.

  Bob shrugged. “Cree's doing a photo shoot for Sports Illustrated—filling in at the last minute—so they decided to turn it into a vacation. They're flying out tonight. Probably already in the air."

  He pulled off his coat, revealing an off-the-bargain-rack suit. I waved vaguely at the sofa.

  "Sit down. Let me clean up. I wasn't expecting visitors. If you want a drink, help yourself—there's beer in the fridge."

  Twenty minutes later, I'd washed my face, run a razor over a three-day growth of beard, combed my hair, and put on nearly clean slacks and a sweater. I almost felt human again, and I'd gotten rid of the worst of the whiskey smell.

  Unfortunately, I had also begun to sober up, and with returning mental sharpness came all-too-familiar pains in both legs. Alcohol blunted my senses better than drugs; that's why I drank as much and as often as possible. I only stopped when I had to.

  Finally I limped back out to the family room. Bob leaped up when he saw me, running one hand quickly across his nearly shaved head and pulling his suit jacket straight.

  "Let me guess,” I said, really studying him for the first time. His too-short hair and well-developed muscles screamed military. “You just got out of the service and decided to pay your sister a visit. She suggested Davy might be able to find you a job."

  He gaped. “Did you talk to Cree?"

  Slowly I settled into one of the wingback chairs, folded my hands across my belly, and stretched out both legs; they hurt less that way.

  I said: “Why else would an ex-Marine come to Philadelphia, if not to see your sister and her fiancé? You're dressed up—I assume for a job interview—though I'd lose the baseball cap next time. But the real question,” I said, warming to the subject, “is why Davy Hunt sent you here."

  Bob frowned, brow furrowing. “He said he trusted your opinion. If you think I'm good enough, he'll take me on."

  "In what capacity?"

  "Bodyguard."

  I raised my eyebrows slightly. “Davy needs a bodyguard?"

  "My sister thinks so."

  After their problem with blackmailers, I understood Cree's concern. Davy's net worth ran somewhere upwards of fifty million dollars—more than enough to make him a target for opportunists.

  I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, the doorbell rang again. From outside came faint childish giggles.

  "You can start by taking care of those kids,” I said to Bob. “Ask them not to bother me again."

  "Sir!” Like a panther, he sprang to the door and threw it open. Ten-year-old boys scattered, screaming, as he gave chase. I heard Bob shouting something about “whooping hides” if they bothered me again, then several doors slammed shut.

  When he returned, he was grinning. “I love kids,” he said. “I don't think they'll bother you again, sir. At least, not for a few days."

  "Thanks.” Maybe bodyguards had their uses.

  "Then you'll give me a try?"

  I stared at him blankly. “I don't follow you."

  "Sir, I'm supposed to be your bodyguard for the next few days. You can kick the tires. Try me out. Make sure I'm everything I ought to be to keep David safe."

  "I don't need a bodyguard. I don't want a bodyguard. I leave my apartment once or twice a month at most!"

  "David knew you'd say that.” His brow furrowed. “He told me to tell you—beg your pardon, sir—to shut up and pitch in."

  Just like Davy to be blunt with me. Maybe I did object too much. Maybe it did take a kick in the pants to get me moving. But did I really need a bodyguard?

  It wasn't for me, though. It was for Davy. If he valued my opinion this much ... well, I needed to get him a Christmas present anyway. This would be it, as I would let him know the next time I saw him!

  "Very well.” I motioned unhappily with one hand. I'd need rent money soon, anyway. “You can start bodyguarding in the morning. It's time I ran some errands, anyway."

  Rent money meant a trip to Atlantic City and the casinos. Sometimes having a trick memory helped, like when I needed to know the number of face cards played from an eight-deck blackjack shoe.

  "It'll be over sooner if I start tonight, sir."

  "'Over sooner'?” I chuckled. “Bob, you sound like you don't want to babysit a seedy drunken cripple!"

  "Sir!” He looked alarmed. “I never said that!"

  "Then you do want to babysit a seedy drunken cripple?"

  "That's a fool's argument, sir.” He shrugged with wry humor. “You know I can't win. I just thought you'd want me out by Christmas Day."

  "I don't care. Start when you want. End when you want. It's all the same."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Do you have a place to sleep?"

  "Uh ... not yet. I was hoping to bunk here."

  It figured. Why did I suddenly feel like Oscar Madison from The Odd Couple, with an eager-beaver Felix about to move in?

  "There's only one bed,” I said, “and I'm usually passed out in it."

  "The sofa is fine—after sleeping in a humvee for six months, pretty much anything will do. Just give me a blanket and I'll be out like a log."

  "There's one in the linen closet.” I jerked my head toward the back of the apartment. “And an extra pillow on the top shelf."

  Using my walking stick, I levered myself unsteadily to my feet. My legs ached again. Slowly I limped toward my bedroom, thoughts of Jack Daniel's and sweet oblivion dancing in my head.

  Sometime later—it could have been hours, it could have been days—a loud humming filled my ears. It took a few minutes, but I finally realized the noise came from outside my skull. It shrilled on and on, incessant and very annoying.

  When I couldn't stand it any longer, I rolled over and opened my eyes. Daylight leaked in around the blinds, casting a pallid gray light over my bedroom. Groaning, I got my feet to the floor and sat up.

  The world swung and tilted. My head throbbed and my eyes burned. It had been a long while since I'd felt this sick. Usually when pain and nausea and headaches hit I can lie still and wait for them to pass. This humming grated on my nerves so much, though, that I rose and stumbled toward the door.

  When I entered the kitchen, the noise grew louder. But what brought me up short was the brilliant, blinding light.

  Every surface gleamed. Steel and chrome and glass shone and glistened. The burnt-out bulbs in the ceiling fixture had been replaced, the dishes in the sink had been washed, and my months-old collection of pizza boxes had disappeared from the counter. Underfoot, the white-with-gold-specks linoleum had a new glossy sheen. Even the trash can had a fresh white plastic liner.

  The humming came from the family room. Bob Charles slowly moved into view, pulling a little canister vacuum around the floor, sucking up dirt and dust bunnies. He wore a clean white shirt and tie, but had on the same brown pants as yesterday.

  "Good morning,” he called cheerfully, switching off the vacuum. “Ready for breakfast?"

  "What do you thi
nk you're doing?” I demanded. My voice came out as a croak.

  "Tidying up."

  "Don't you know the difference between a maid and a bodyguard? I was still in bed!"

  "It's ten-thirty in the morning. You've been asleep for more than sixteen hours, Pit. Half the day is gone!"

  "Not asleep. Unconscious. Delightfully, painlessly unconscious. And how do you know my nickname?"

  "Nickname?"

  "Pit. Short for Pit-bull. Got it in college."

  "Didn't you mention it yesterday?"

  I shrugged. “Maybe."

  But I hadn't. I could remember every word we had exchanged from the second I opened my front door to the second I'd gone to bed. Names, faces, facts, figures—I never forgot anything.

  Maybe Davy had called me Pit, and Bob picked up on it subconsciously. I could only think of one other person besides Davy who still called me by my old nickname, and it seemed unlikely that Bob had ever met an organized crime figure like “Mr. Smith,” as he called himself.

  Bob was staring at my legs. I realized I hadn't put on a robe. Gray Jockey shorts didn't do much to hide the hideously scarred flesh running from my ankles to my hips.

  Swallowing, Bob looked away. Pity—that was always the worst. It showed in his eyes.

  "In case you're wondering,” I said bitterly, “I got run over by a taxi.” Everyone always wanted to know what had happened, even if they were too embarrassed to ask.

  "David didn't say anything about that.” Bob forced his gaze back to my face. “He did tell me to take you out for breakfast today, though—on him."

  "I don't like going out. But maybe I'll make an exception this morning.” Time to pay Davy back for sticking me with Cree's brother. I used to read Gourmet magazine; I knew some very expensive places to eat in Philadelphia.

  An hour later we left my apartment. Bob wanted to drive downtown in his battered old VW Rabbit, but I refused. Folding my legs into that tiny box of a car would have been torture.

  Instead, we ambled up the sidewalk toward the Frankford El, our breaths pluming in the cold December air. The sun played hide-and-seek through holes in the clouds, while an icy wind stirred leaves in the gutter. Far off, I heard an elevated train rumble past.