Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 09/01/12

by Dell Magazines

  “What’s the matter with you today?” Frank asked.

  “Too much coffee,” I said, starting to think Frank was playing with me, teasing me. The way he was staring at Elise he had to have seen it—how the painted lashes separated from the real ones, and the way the real ones were flicking back and forth as her eye opened and closed.

  Frank said, “You’d better lay off the caffeine,” and I stared at his lip and tightened my grip on the palette knife, but then Elise’s eye did a slow yawning blink and I saw the flaw had grown bigger and darker, the brown now closer to a deep black-purple, and I started shivering.

  “Maybe you’re coming down with something,” Frank said, taking a step back from me but still staring at Elise. “You did a really great job with the eyelashes, but you may have to do a little touch-up; it’s a bit smudged, almost like I’m seeing double, you see where I mean?” He leaned in and pointed. “What’d you do, use false eyelashes as well as paint?”

  I shook my head up and down while Elise’s real lashes batted against the painted ones and I knew Frank had to see it. He had to.

  “Stop!” I screamed, and Frank froze. “I know you see it!”

  “Sure,” he said. “I can see it. And it’s great work. I keep telling you that.” He smiled and the scar tugged his lip and moustache into a weird angle and it was just too much, too much, his knowing smile, his scar, Elise’s eye blinking over and over, the flaw worse than ever.

  “Stop teasing me! Stop taunting me! I know you can see it!”

  “See what?”

  “Her eye. Her eye!”

  “What about her eye?” Frank looked from me to Elise, frowning. “You’ve got to take it easy.”

  Elise’s eye was open wide now, that black-purple zigzag the only thing I could see—and I knew Frank saw it too.

  “I was just trying to make her perfect!” I cried. “You have to understand! You have to see that!”

  “I can see that you need to relax,” said Frank, and he reached out for me, but I grabbed him and tugged him down so that he was only inches from Elise’s face, from her open eye.

  “Look,” I said. “Look. You see it. You must see it. I know you see it.” I tried to hold him there but he struggled and used Elise to push himself away and when he did his hands slid off her body, leaving streaks, and he stumbled back and stood there a minute just staring at his hands, at the flesh-colored paint on his fingertips, his face all screwed up and his mouth—his lip—all twisted. Then he looked back at Elise, and said, “Oh my God . . .” really slow, his scarred lip quivering, and if my hands hadn’t been shaking so bad I might have helped Frank become a better version of himself and stripped him of his scarred lip, but it was all suddenly too much, I was just so tired, my back and leg aching so much I could hardly stand, so I just lay down next to Elise and stayed there for I don’t know how long, and then the police came and took me away.

  The newspapers made it sound so much worse than it was, IN BED WITH DEAD LOVER, and they called me a “sicko” and said that I slept beside a “rotting corpse for days,” which was a lie—I didn’t sleep for days, and I did my best to make sure Elise smelled good and she wasn’t rotting.

  Lately, I’ve started making tattoos and it turns out I’m really good with a ballpoint pen and a pin and the guys in here line up with all sorts of requests— anchors and hearts and names and pictures of their girlfriends that I copy perfectly onto their arms or legs or chests, and it fills the time and gets me respect too.

  I hear they’ve got Elise on display at some science lab in Washington, D.C., because the linseed oils and varnishes I used—and maybe even that awful Happy perfume—preserved her body pretty well and they want to find out why. I would have liked it better if she were on display at Frank’s gallery or at the Guggenheim Museum or the Museum of Modern Art, but you don’t get everything in life, right? I’m just glad my artwork is being seen and appreciated, and it keeps me going in here, to think about all those people gazing at my work, at Elise. I’m just hoping someone had the decency to close her eye.

  Copyright © 2012 by Jonathan Santlofer

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  FICTION

  A PATH TO SOMEWHERE

  by Lou Manfredo

  Lou Manfredo began his Gus Oliver series in EQMM with the August 2009 story “Central Islin, U.S.A.” and continued it with January 2012’s “Home of the Brave.” This new episode brings in characters from his non-series 2006 story “The Alimony Prison.” In it, Oliver is presented with a case involving the former madam of a New York City brothel who has come to live in his small town in Long Island. Lou Manfredo’s latest novel is Rizzo’s Daughter (Minotaur 3/12).

  Early Wednesday morning, March 2, 1960, Gus Oliver sat in the jury box of the county courthouse with eleven fellow citizens, quietly awaiting the judge’s appearance. The courthouse was located in the Suffolk County seat at Riverhead, Long Island, New York.

  Gus finished the Newsday article he had been reading. He shook his head grimly, reflecting on the story: A crowd estimated at over one hundred thousand had given a rousing, confetti-strewn welcome to Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev as he rode through the streets of the capital city of some strange country called Afghanistan. Apparently, the United States had offered only a few million dollars in aid to the Afghans. The Soviets had then stepped in with 300 million more in aid and material to strengthen the Afghan army in its struggle with neighboring Pakistan.

  Gus didn’t possess great insight into international affairs, but he knew this much: The news could mean only one thing—trouble for the U.S. somewhere down the road.

  He folded the newspaper and dropped it to the floor. Idly, he began looking around the courtroom. After a moment, he smiled. Well, now, he thought. That’s mighty interesting.

  Superior Court Justice Robert Basil Maull gazed across the large mahogany desk in his chambers. Sitting before him were County Prosecutor Jack Daino, prominent Long Island attorney Andrew Saks, and Gus Oliver.

  “Mr. Oliver,” Judge Maull began. “As a prospective juror in this case, you have been challenged for cause by Mr. Saks. What that translates to is, he does not wish to use one of his limited peremptory challenges—one which would excuse you from consideration for no specifically stated reason. Instead, he has chosen to use one of his unlimited challenges for cause by raising the issue of your thirty years’ service as town constable in Central Islin. He believes your law-enforcement background may inadvertently

  prejudice you toward the prosecution. How do you respond to that, sir?”

  “Well, Judge, as everyone here knows, I retired some time ago. I’m just a local farmer now, and Central Islin has hired itself a police chief and two patrolmen.”

  “Yes,” Saks said from Gus’s right. “But since your retirement, Mr. Oliver, you’ve been involved in two private investigations, and with some spectacular results, I might add. As far as my clients’ interests lie, you are, sir, still active in law enforcement.”

  Prosecutor Daino spoke up. “Now hold on, Andrew, that’s just nonsense. Are you going to challenge every citizen that ever supported his local police department? If you want Oliver off this panel, you use one of your peremptories. I will not agree to—”

  Judge Maull held a palm up and outward as he spoke. “All right, just relax, Jack, hold your horses.” He turned to Gus before continuing. “I think we can settle this matter easily enough if you’ll answer me one question, Mr. Oliver.”

  Gus shrugged. “Sounds reasonable, Judge. Go ahead. Ask.”

  “I was delayed for a bit in my robing room. After you and the other prospective jurors were seated in the box, you had some fifteen minutes before I came into the courtroom.” The judge sat back in his seat, his large blue eyes twinkling with what Gus believed to be mild amusement.

  “Tell me, Mr. Oliver. From your experiences as a policeman, did you happen to draw any inferences a
s you sat there? Notice anything that might be, shall we say, an impediment to your impartiality?”

  “Funny you should ask, Judge,” Gus said, returning the man’s smile. “I did sorta make an assumption or two.”

  Judge Maull nodded. “I suspected as much. Would you mind telling us what they were?”

  “Well, now, Judge, I believe you said I’d have to answer only one question, and by my count that one’s number three. But—no, I don’t mind one bit.”

  Gus turned slightly to his right, addressing both attorneys.

  “We were told this here was a drug case. That young fella sitting at the defense table is accused of sellin’ narcotics to some of those rich city folk who’ve been coming out to the Hamptons these last coupla summers and partying a lot. Now, I don’t have much experience with drug dealers per se, but I ain’t stupid either. That young man out there has a codefendant, also represented by Mr. Saks, only he’s not present in the courtroom. You folks are trying one defendant and one empty chair. I also noticed the county sheriff’s deputy sittin’ way across the courtroom reading a magazine, not payin’ the slightest bit of attention to the defendant. That means the young fella is out on bail, not incarcerated, so that deputy ain’t at all concerned about a possible escape. Now, you’re pretty well known, Mr. Saks, and I’m figurin’ your services don’t come cheap. That there wristwatch you’re wearin’ is probably worth more than my fifty-nine Edsel. So, what have we got? A local young man accused of sellin’ drugs who somehow has enough money to A) post his bail and B) hire himself a big-ticket lawyer. Plus, we got a second defendant who isn’t even here. That sorta puts a bee in my bonnet, gentlemen. I’m thinking that second young man musta posted his bail too. Then he skipped out, forfeiting every dime. If he gets acquitted, he comes back to town and apologizes. ‘Oops, sorry. I forgot.’ If, on the other hand, he gets convicted, good luck findin’ him. Either way, he’s not real concerned about that lost bail money.”

  Andrew Saks, color coming into his cheeks, interrupted. “Now you look here, sir—”

  Gus waved a friendly hand at him. “Take it easy now, Counselor, just relax. Seems to me I’m gettin’ you that challenge for cause you’re looking for. A really good lawyer knows when to dummy up.”

  Saks considered it. “Go ahead then,” he said.

  “Well, here’s what I’m startin’ to suspect. We got us a coupla big-earning drug dealers on trial here. Now, can I be wrong? Sure can. But—somebody’s maybe gonna have to prove to me I’m wrong. That might be you, Mr. Saks. And the law says the defense never has to prove any damn thing. That’s the prosecutor’s job.”

  Gus turned back to the still-amused face of Judge Maull. “So, your honor, what do you think? You ready to swear me in just yet?”

  Maull chuckled. “You are excused for cause, Mr. Oliver. With our thanks and, I might add, my compliments on your powers of observation. Please, sir, report back to Central Jury. And, under punishment of contempt of court, do not discuss any aspect of what has transpired here with anyone. Am I understood?”

  Gus stood and reached for his folded copy of Newsday.

  “Perfectly, Judge. Couldn’t be clearer.”

  Later, sitting on a hard-backed bench in Central Jury, Gus again tossed down the newspaper and sighed.

  “World can’t get much crazier than right now,” he said softly.

  “And why is that, Mr. Oliver?” he heard. Looking up, he saw Andrew Saks standing beside him. He smiled up at the lawyer.

  “Well now, Mr. Saks, I just read that baseball fella, Willie Mays, has signed a new contract with the Giants. Eighty-five thousand dollars, it was. For playin’ a game every young boy in the country is playing for free.” He shook his head. “It’ll never get any crazier than that.”

  Saks glanced around nervously. “Mr. Oliver, may I ask a favor? I’d like to speak to you. Privately. As you can imagine, Central Jury is the last place a lawyer on trial is supposed to be. The clerk is a friend, he allowed me in, but I must leave immediately.” He handed Gus his card. “Please, call me. Perhaps we can set up a meeting, at your convenience and at a location of your choosing. But I’m afraid I must ask that it be soon, quite soon.” He leaned downward, lowering his voice. “A woman’s life may well depend on it,” he said.

  Gus glanced at the card, then raised his eyes back to Saks’s.

  “Well then, guess I don’t have much choice,” he said. “I’ll call you later this evening. How’s five-thirty sound?”

  It was six o’clock the following evening. Gus sat at a rear table in The Green Lantern Tavern on Central Islin’s Main Street. Sitting across the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth was Andrew Saks.

  “I guess you’re accustomed to more fancy eating than this, Mr. Saks,” Gus said. “As for me, this is my favorite place. Food’s simple and cheap, but very good. I hope you’ll like it.”

  “May I call you Gus?” Saks asked. “And I’m Andrew.”

  “Sure, Andrew.”

  Saks nodded. “Good. And as for The Green Lantern, I grew up in East Patchogue on the South Shore. Real blue-collar town. My dad worked a charter fishing boat for thirty-five years, my mother was a housewife. I think you may have the wrong impression of me.”

  Mabel Taylor, owner-operator of The Green Lantern, approached the table, a large serving tray in hand. Balancing the tray on the table’s edge, she placed two sirloins, baked potatoes, and tossed green salads before them.

  “Enjoy it, gentlemen,” she said. “More beers?”

  Both said yes, and she hurried off to get their drinks. They seasoned their meals and arranged their napkins. After Mabel had left them a second time, Gus, cutting into his steak, spoke casually to Saks.

  “Well, Andrew, maybe I have misjudged you. Didn’t know you came from humble beginnings. I figured you for a New York City hot-shot transplant.”

  “Nope. Born and raised right on Long Island. Been practicing law here since day one.”

  “So,” Gus went on. “What can I do for you? Who is this woman whose life you fear for?”

  “She’s a client of mine. Her name is Lily O’Rourke. Are you familiar with the name? It’s been in the papers.”

  Gus thought for a moment. “No, it’s not ringing a bell.”

  Saks put his utensils down and patted at his lips with the white linen napkin. He cleared his throat before going on.

  “Gus, you’re aware of the kind of practice I have—I make quite a good living.” Here he smiled. “Nearly as good as Willie Mays, and I’m not the greatest center fielder in baseball. But here’s something you may not know: I often do pro bono work. Are you familiar with the term?”

  “Sure. You take on cases for free.”

  “Exactly. When I believe in a defendant’s innocence and I know they can’t afford me. Especially when there are other considerations.”

  “Such as?” Gus asked.

  “Such as societal pressures—prejudices or preconceived police notions.”

  “Is this O’Rourke some kinda victim here, Andrew? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes. She’s a victim of her own past. Lily is fifty-nine years old. O’Rourke is her maiden name. In nineteen twenty-seven, she was known as Lily Cosenza. She was married to Big Dominick Cosenza, a low-level gangster and owner of a speakeasy called The Alimony Prison. Ever hear of it? It was in New York City, Greenwich Village, specifically.”

  Gus shook his head. “No, can’t say as I have. Back in those days I was just a young kid doin’ a three-year hitch in the Navy. I did my drinking legal, all over Europe, not in some New York speakeasy.”

  “Lily had some shady days back then. In fact, she was the madam of a brothel her husband ran at The Alimony Prison. When Prohibition ended, Mr. Cosenza branched out into other rackets. In nineteen fifty-two, he crossed the wrong man and was shot to death. Lily’s life has been—shall we call it—colorful. Then a couple of years ago, she moved out to the town of Shirley, about fifteen miles east of here. She bought a small ca
bin and has been making do with local work: supermarkets, clothing stores, things like that. In fact, that’s how I came to be involved. She once worked at a dress shop my wife frequented, and they became somewhat friendly. When Lily was arrested, my wife had me go see her, and after I did, every bit of my experience told me she was innocent. She’s been around, remember: She knows you never lie to your lawyer. Not if you want to win at trial anyway.”

  Gus considered it, cutting more steak. Then he raised his eyes to Saks’s. “Unless, of course, she figures she’s better off with you representing her under a false impression than some kid from the public defender’s office with the truth. And, maybe she figures you’d only take the case pro bono if you figured her innocent.” Gus took some steak, chewing it slowly. “You ever consider that angle?”