EQMM, September-October 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "My horse,” Sandra said, breaking her silence. “Want to see him?"

  "No, just get off my land."

  "What about my broken window?” Nick asked.

  "What is it, a rental? Just tell them it was vandalism. Their insurance will cover it."

  "All right. Can I have a chance to win back my money tonight?"

  Rainbow grinned. “Sure. We'll be there. Just stay off my land. I'd hate to shoot you by accident."

  * * * *

  On the way back to the motel, Nick asked, “What if he was a horse fancier and wanted to look at your nag?"

  "It was still pretty dark. He couldn't have seen him very well."

  "Well enough to tell a horse from an ostrich, I'll bet."

  "Nick, we have to take chances in this business, you know that."

  "Are you always this lucky?"

  She snorted. “I once served prison time for stealing a roulette wheel, as you well know."

  "Okay, what do you do now? Phone Renny Owlish?"

  "Exactly. We have a bird in the hand."

  "Or at least in the van."

  Sandra parked the van at the rear of the motel lot and detached it from her car. Nick brought out some water and snacks for the big bird, who didn't seem to mind his captivity all that much. Later he joined Sandra in her room and returned the trailer key to her. She called Owlish on her cell phone with the good news. “I have the product, Mr. Owlish. I'm ready to deliver it for the balance of the money."

  Nick could hear the raspy response. “Where are you? At the motel?"

  "Of course. Are you coming here?"

  "It may not be safe. I'll call you back in a few hours, when I'm in the vicinity."

  "Fine.” She gave him her cell-phone number. “I'll be hearing from you."

  "What now?” Nick asked.

  "We've got the bird. All we have to do is turn it over to Owlish and collect our money."

  "But why is he so valuable? Have you thought about that?"

  "I'm just a thief, Nick. You're the one who sometimes plays detective."

  "It has to be drugs or diamonds."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Ostriches will eat anything, and since they have no teeth, small stones often remain in their stomachs to grind foodstuffs. An adult ostrich can carry a couple of pounds of pebbles in its stomach for this purpose."

  "You've been surfing the Internet again."

  "That's what it's for."

  "So if it's drugs or diamonds, how did they get into the ostriches’ lair in the first place? Do you think they just fell from the sky?"

  "Exactly! Planes fly over Bainbridge Acres all the time. These were dropped in some sort of small containers to be picked up on the ground. Only the pilot missed the target area and the stuff landed among the ostriches."

  Sandra wasn't convinced. “Even if our ostrich swallowed some of it, why would that keep the others away from him?"

  "Oscar has a definite odor about him. Walt Bainbridge has allergies and couldn't smell it, but I certainly could and so could you. The containers for the drugs or diamonds or whatever were strongly scented so they could be located after being dropped from the plane. The scent was repulsive to the other ostriches and they steered clear of Oscar."

  "Nick, can you imagine grown men sniffing around the ground for these things?"

  "No, but I can imagine dogs."

  She'd walked to the window to peer out at the car, and suddenly she cried out, “Nick! There's someone at the horse trailer!"

  He was at the window in a flash, staring out at a red-haired man wearing a heavy leather coat. “Do you know him?"

  "I never saw him before."

  "I did. I played cards with him last night. His name is Henry Wilson. Come on!"

  They reached the horse trailer as Wilson was struggling to pick the lock on the back door and the ostrich was giving out his familiar hissing sound. But he wasn't the only intruder. Nick saw Charlie Rainbow's SUV pulling into the parking lot and heading for them. “Get away from that trailer,” Rainbow told them, brandishing the six-shooter he'd used earlier.

  Wilson turned, expressing annoyance at the interruption. “Put that gun away, you fool!” he told Rainbow. “It's broad daylight! Do you want the police on our necks?"

  "I want that bird,” Rainbow said, “and I mean to have him."

  "Wait a minute,” Nick urged. “Before we all get arrested, let's go to my room and talk this over."

  Sandra started to protest but he gave her a light jab in the ribs to urge her agreement. The four of them trooped up to Nick's room with Rainbow still keeping a hand on his gun. Nick sat them down and began talking. “I think you'll all agree that what we have here is a very valuable bird. I believe a flight by a private plane from Mexico purposely dropped several small containers holding a valuable substance, something you couldn't risk being found by Customs if you brought it across by car. They were meant to land on your property, Rainbow, but they fell into your neighbor's ostrich farm by mistake. We know ostriches will eat virtually anything, even small stones, and this one the Bainbridges named Oscar ate your valuable cargo. The pellets were strongly scented so they could be located by your dogs after they hit the ground. You mentioned at the poker game that you had German shepherds, which are often considered better than bloodhounds at picking up a scent. But the dogs merely led you to the ostrich farm, where Bainbridge heard them barking last week. After studying them and noting the ostracized one, you were sure it was the tracking scent that was keeping the others away. You contacted Renny Owlish and Owlish hired Sandra to steal the ostrich."

  "What's Wilson's part in all this?” Sandra asked.

  Nick smiled. “Owlish booked your hotel room so he knew where you'd be staying. He arrived here earlier and took a room under his real name, just to keep an eye on things."

  "You mean Henry Wilson and Renny Owlish are the same person?"

  "That's right,” Nick told her, keeping an eye on Wilson.

  "You knew that because of the bird in Owlish's name,” she said.

  "No, I knew it because Renny Owlish is an anagram for Henry Wilson."

  "Oh."

  "Let's cut the talk,” Rainbow said. “The chips are mine and I intend to recover them from that bird's stomach."

  "Diamond chips?” Sandra asked. “Is that what this is all about?"

  Henry Wilson sighed. “Computer chips, the most powerful yet developed in Japan, stolen and smuggled into Mexico on their way to the highest bidder in Silicon Valley. Worth far more than diamond chips these days. They're packed into small metal capsules, twelve to a capsule. Six capsules were dropped. That ostrich has seventy-two computer chips in its stomach."

  Sandra took over then. “The deal was one hundred grand to steal that ostrich, and I did it, with Nick's help. I want the balance of my money. Then you can have the bird."

  "You've got a third of it. That's all you're getting,” Wilson said. “You may have the ostrich but we've got you."

  "Hand over the key to the horse trailer,” Rainbow ordered. The six-shooter was back in his hand. “I can't miss at this range."

  "You get the key when I get my money,” Sandra told them.

  Wilson slapped her across the face and Nick grabbed him around the neck, yanking him backward. But Rainbow moved in with his gun and pointed it inches from her head. “One move and she dies,” he shouted. “Give us the key!"

  "You'd better do it,” Nick told her. “They mean business."

  "Nick—"

  "Do it."

  She slipped the key from the pocket of her jeans and handed it over. “Shall we tie them up?” Rainbow asked.

  "No need,” Wilson decided. “She's got a bum leg and he's past his prime. They can't hurt us.” He took a packet of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and tossed it on the bed. “Here's another ten thousand. Consider yourselves paid in full."

  They left Nick and Sandra and headed for the horse trailer in the far corner of the lot. Rainbow brought his car
around and hooked it up to the trailer. They didn't want to risk anyone seeing the ostrich in the busy motel lot, so they drove several miles out of town before they found a deserted side road where they could unlock the rear door and view their prize.

  It was only then that they discovered the trailer was empty.

  * * * *

  "How'd you do that, Nick?” Sandra Paris asked as they headed north with the ostrich in a horse trailer.

  "When I went down to feed Oscar just after we got back to the motel, I saw the night manager, Sid Rawson, going off duty. I gave him a thousand dollars to rent a duplicate trailer. I knew one or both of those guys would show up. That's why I poked you to help get them up to the room and away from the trailer, so Sid could make the switch. I bought a new padlock for him to put on the duplicate trailer, and gave you the key to that lock, keeping the original key in my pocket. I promised him another thousand when we met him just now and reclaimed the bird."

  "What now?"

  Nick shrugged. “You should be able to find a veterinarian who can remove those capsules from Oscar's stomach without doing fatal harm. Then you drive to Silicon Valley and shop them around to the highest bidder. Maybe you can even get Oscar back to Bainbridge Acres."

  "Come with me, Nick,” she urged. “We'll have a fine old time together."

  "I can't do it,” he told her, a bit sadly. “I helped you this far as a favor, because you called on me. But my job is done now. You can pay me for expenses, but that's all. Drop me at the San Jose airport and I'll be on my way home."

  "Gloria's waiting."

  "Yes, that too. I hope she'll always be waiting."

  When she dropped him at the airport she said, “I guess this is goodbye, then."

  "If you ever get kicked by another ostrich, give me a call. You've got my number."

  (c)2007 by Edward D. Hoch

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  BLUES IN THE KABUL NIGHT by Clark Howard

  A professional writer for more than 30 years, and a contrib-utor to this magazine for al-most as long, five-time EQMM Readers Award-winner Clark Howard is most often associated with the crime genre. He has, however, written more than 200 short stories in other genres. And it isn't only fiction that he excels at. His true-crime books have brought him equal acclaim. This time out he writes of soldiers. It's a world he knows well.

  The old four-engine Constellation cargo plane dropped down out of the darkening Afghanistan sky shortly after flying over the border from Pakistan, and received landing instructions from the tower at Kotubkhel Airport outside Kabul. Morgan Tenny, hunched in a jump seat behind Benny Cone, the pilot, looked down on the squa-lid outskirts of the Afghan city as the runway lights came into sight.

  "You sure I'm not going to have any problem at the airport?” Tenny asked.

  "Trust me,” said Benny Cone. “I been sneaking people in and out of this country for three years and haven't lost a client yet."

  "What's your secret?” Tenny asked.

  "Hershey bars,” Cone replied.

  "Hershey bars?"

  "Yeah, with almonds. Afghanis are nuts about almonds. Excuse the pun."

  The old plane's landing gear bumped hard against the blacktop runway, rose, bumped again, harder, then settled roughly into a jerky, lurching landing and decreased speed as it rolled toward the cargo terminal. When it came to a stop, Morgan Tenny followed Benny Cone through a narrow aisle between large, cable-secured wooden crates, to a high, wide cargo door which Cone unbolted and slid open on ball-bearing runners. Four forklift off-loaders were already driving toward the plane. Opening a hatch next to the cargo door, Cone unfolded an aluminum ladder that reached to the ground. Swinging a carry-on over one shoulder, he climbed down.

  "Hand me your duffel,” he said.

  Tenny lowered an ancient sea bag on which could barely be distinguished four stenciled letters: USMC.

  "Ain't seen one of these in a long time,” Cone said. The closure of the bag folded in quarters over a steel hasp through which a combination padlock was fastened. “Heavy, too,” the pilot observed. “Whatcha carrying?"

  "The usual things,” Morgan Tenny said as he climbed down. “Guns, ammunition, laundered currency."

  "Everything a tourist in Kabul needs,” Cone said with a smile. He nodded toward the terminal. “Follow me. Keep your mouth shut and do what I say. You ever been to Kabul before?"

  "No."

  "Well, it's a real shit hole. It's like no place you've ever seen, man."

  "I've seen a lot of places, Benny,” said Morgan Tenny. “Zaire, Saigon, Nairobi, Angola—"

  "Yeah, well, you ain't seen noplace like Kabul. It is a real shit hole. The whole place."

  "I thought the U.N. was cleaning it up after the Taliban got bounced?"

  "The U.N. is a joke, brother. Wait and see."

  The two men entered the Customs and Immigration section of the shabby cargo terminal and found a heavyset, droopy-eyed Afghan man browsing through a U.K. edition of Playboy.

  "Moazzah, my friend!” Cone greeted him jovially. “How are you?"

  "Passports and visas,” the man named Moazzah said, without looking up from the magazine.

  "Moazzah, look what I have for your lovely wife,” Cone announced, pulling a carton of two dozen Hershey bars, with almonds, from his carry-on.

  Moazzah looked up and took the carton. “Very nice, thank you.” He held out a hand. “Passports and visas."

  "And,” Cone further declared, “look what I have for your beautiful mistress!” He produced half a dozen packages of black pantyhose, held together by a thick rubber band.

  "Such generosity I do not deserve,” the Afghan official said. His free hand was still out. “Passports and visas."

  "Moazzah,” Cone pleaded pitifully, “you know I am a stateless person without papers. All I want is a permit to unload. I won't even be leaving the terminal."

  "And your friend?” Moazzah inquired.

  "A tourist, that's all. He missed his commercial flight from Karachi and out of the goodness of my heart I gave him a ride. But his passport is still at the Arabian Air desk back there. Be kind, Moazzah. He just wants to spend a few nights with the China girls at the Escalades."

  "I see,” said Moazzah. The Escalades was the most notorious of Kabul's brothels. It was currently being run by a White Russian woman who called herself Madam Kiev, who had the best body in the brothel but never sold it, and had two former sumo wrestlers at her side at all times to keep the peace in her busy establishment. Moazzah knew the place well. He eyed Morgan Tenny for a long, solemn moment. “Pray tell, what do you have in your duffel?” he asked.

  Morgan shrugged. “The usual things: guns, ammunition, laundered currency."

  For a split second Moazzah frowned, then laughed out loud and pointed a finger at Morgan. “Your friend,” he said to Benny Cone, “is a very funny fellow."

  "Yeah, a million laughs,” Cone agreed, smiling nervously. He handed Moazzah a British fifty-pound note.

  "Take him to the taxi queue,” the Afghan official said. “But you remain in the terminal."

  "Blessings on your house,” Cone said as Moazzah put the candy and pantyhose into a deep desk drawer and locked it.

  The pilot led Morgan outside where several rattle-trap taxis waited. “You'll find Donahue at the Dingo Club,” he told Morgan. “He's partners in the joint with an Aussie ex-pat. Tell him I said cheers."

  Morgan nodded. “Thanks for the help."

  "Thank you,” said Benny, “for the stack of hundreds. Good luck."

  I'll need it, Morgan thought, getting into a taxi.

  * * * *

  The Dingo Club was on Chicken Street, one of Kabul's main potholed thoroughfares. Night had fallen now and multicolored neon lit up the sidewalks and the milling people entering and exiting shops selling handicrafts, carpets, pastries, hijacked Western food, pirated DVDs, and, farther along, bars, clubs, brothels, massage parlors, fast-food joints, tattoo kiosks, and the like, all of
it reminding Morgan of the last week before Saigon fell. Slim and slung Asian girls wearing purple and orange makeup plied their trade to passing mercenaries, war-zone hangers-on in combat fatigues, along with contract laborers in denims, U.N. workers in dress shirts with rolled-up sleeves and neckties stuck in trouser pockets, and a few young U.S. Marines on liberty. All of them were armed: automatic rifles held casually, shoulder holsters holding Walther PPKs, revolvers tucked under bullet-filled cartridge belts. It was a totally dangerous street, but no one seemed to be bothered by it.

  Morgan stepped inside the entrance to the Dingo Club. During the taxi ride to town, he had unlocked and opened his sea bag, and now had a Sig P230 automatic pistol in his waistband under his coat, an extra magazine of 60-grain bullets for it in his coat pocket, and a smaller automatic, a Kahr K9, in his belt at the small of his back. Standing just inside the club door, the big sea bag slung over one shoulder, he scoped out the noisy, raucous, smoky scene before him. Like a cautious falcon in unknown woods, his eyes flicked along the packed bar, the booths lining the walls, the tables in between, looking for familiar, especially unfriendly, faces among the patrons, bartenders, waiters, and pimps for the China girls who were working the room. Even after he spotted Donahue, the man he was looking for, his light-blue eyes kept moving, shifting, searching, until he had satisfied himself that he had no enemies there—at least none on the surface. Only then did he make his way to a back table where Donahue sat with three other men.

  "Hello, Donny,” he said when he got to the table. Donahue looked up.

  "Well, well, well,” he said. “If it ain't the calm half of the infamous Tenny twins. I wondered when you'd get here."

  "You can stop wondering now,” Morgan said.

  The man at the table stood up. Michaleen Donahue was a great bull of an Irishman, sixty-six years old, thick-necked, massive-chested, muscular-armed, wearing a skin-tight camo shirt over which was strapped a Roto shoulder holster and magazine rig holding a Glock 17 automatic on one side and a double magazine pack on the other. He grabbed Morgan in a grand bear hug. “How are you, boyo?"

  "Good, Donny. You?"

  "Never better, lad. Come on, I've an office where we can talk. ‘Scuse me, mates,” he said to the other men at the table, and led Morgan into a nearby hallway to an office where he closed the door behind them. It was a sparsely furnished little room, with a metal utility desk, metal chairs, and several metal ammo boxes on the floor being used for files.