AHMM, October 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Smiley Burdette recognized his mind was warped by his imagination and called him on it, hanging back during the pee-and-puff break, saying, “Who are you, kid?"

  "Meaning what, Smiley? I don't understand."

  "Meaning yourself you ain't been for a while,” he said. “Getting worser and worser, and I'm not the only one noticing. I got a shoulder for you to lean on, you feel like spilling your woes to old Uncle Smiley, and if there's anything I can do to help you ... ?” He plugged the offer with a question mark, took a step away from the desk to give Ebersole thinking room.

  Ebersole popped a breath mint and weighed the offer, what was left of his jagged, picked-upon fingernails typing out a nervous tune on the desk's surface.

  Despite his age and diminutive size, Smiley was one feisty individual, not intimidated by the bigger, stronger, bullying likes of a Cooke. Confronting Ricardo on his behalf, if it became necessary, was not outside the realm of possibility.

  Would it make a difference with Ricardo? It was worth a try, he supposed.

  He confessed to Smiley and asked, “You think I might be overreacting?"

  Smiley didn't have to think about it. “No,” he said. “Stealing's the misdemeanor here. Taking and selling the story as your own after you filleted his ego by putting the story down, that's a felony where Ramirez comes from.” He ran a finger across his throat.

  "Maybe I should just quit, get the hell out of here before the issue comes out and—"

  "And hide where? He has people on the outside who know how to find people. Street justice ain't pretty, but it is permanent."

  "What do I do, Smiley?"

  "Cancel out the sale. Get the story back. Give the magazine something else. You have a new Bogey Brothers? I told you how much I like them Bogey Brothers stories."

  "That wouldn't work,” Ebersole said, leaving it at that. No desire to explain his terminal writer's block. If he could write a Bogey Brothers, anything at all, he wouldn't be in this mess.

  Smiley pushed out a noisy sigh, shook his head, and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Okay, in here these things have a way of taking care of themselves sometimes, but meantime, I'm on it."

  "'On it.’ What's that mean, Smiley?"

  The inmates were filing back into the room.

  Smiley said, “Ask me that when we meet again on Tuesday.” He zipped his lips and retreated to his seat.

  * * * *

  Ebersole survived the weekend on volcanic nerves and vodka, most of the time stretched out on the sofa in the den, watching old movies on the wall-mounted TV. Monday was no better, Tuesday morning worse. He cursed a mammoth migraine impervious to poppers and prayer on the bumper-to-bumper rush hour drive to Central he measured in inches.

  Anxiety was an even worse enemy by the time he reached the reception desk, where the overweight deputy who regularly escorted him to the classroom, Don, waited with his usual cheery smile and chatterbox gossip.

  Don said, “I suppose you already heard how the lockdown was only lifted last night or else you'd still be home right now and I'd be talking to myself."

  "First I'm hearing."

  "Didn't raise much of a fuss on the news this time around. Another killing in the exercise yard, another throat cut with a toothbrush shiv. Nobody saw anything, of course. Some wise asses suggested we make sure to check everyone with dirty teeth.” He laughed. Ebersole didn't. “Commander Foley said to tell you there might be a swell Inspector Phogg story here, seeing as how you knew the victim, him being in your class and fancying himself a writer."

  "Who?” Ebersole said, feigning shock while he fought back a grin as his mind conjured an image of Ricardo Ramirez stretched out on the yard's concrete surface, his head resting at an impossible angle on a pillow of his blood. Now he understood what Smiley had meant. He owed him a big payback.

  "Nice old bird too. Burdette. Smiley Burdette."

  "What? What about Smiley?"

  "The vic I was telling you about,” Don said. “Him. Smiley Burdette."

  They had reached the classroom.

  Ebersole pushed a hand against the corridor wall for support and battled to keep his legs from collapsing under him while he imagined what must have happened on the yard.

  Playing intermediary, Smiley approached Ricardo and explained about the story sale to C&P. Instead of placating Ricardo, he only made him angrier. In the absence of Ebersole, Ricardo took out his fury on Smiley, the toothbrush his weapon of choice, like before—

  Ebersole was now more certain than ever it was Ricardo who murdered the sexual predator.

  And who next?

  Him. Gus Ebersole would be his next victim, for insulting him in class about his story—then stealing it.

  He wanted to run, flee, quit this place, the class, as far away as possible from Ricardo.

  Ebersole remembered what Smiley told him about Ricardo having people who know how to find people. Street justice ain't pretty, but it is permanent, he'd said.

  The deputy pushed open the classroom door for him.

  Ebersole made the sign of the cross, then a second time. He took a tentative step inside. Quit. Wheeled around. Said, “I need to speak to the watch commander. Now!"

  * * * *

  "You're saying Ricardo Ramirez did it?"

  "Murdered Smiley, yes,” Ebersole said.

  The watch commander moved his tac boots off the desk, sat upright, and studied Ebersole over his coffee mug. “And you know this how?"

  Ebersole had an answer ready. “Smiley told me so,” he said. “He and Ramirez had been having bad words between them—over what, he didn't say—but he said Ramirez threatened to get him, told him to watch his back."

  The commander tweaked his bulbous nose and thick brush mustache and nodded like he was weighing Ebersole's response. After a few moments, he said, “You suppose, instead of his back, Smiley should have been guarding his neck?” He angled his face at Don and winked.

  Ebersole bit down hard on his back teeth to suppress his anger. “Commander, you're treating this as a joke? Smiley Burdette is the second inmate killed like that, his throat slashed out on your exercise yard."

  "And you're saying Ramirez was also responsible for that death?"

  "Draw your own conclusion."

  "Tell you what, Mr. Ebersole. I'll pass word up and see what comes down, but I think there's something you should know.” He bit off a hunk of the jelly doughnut camped on a pile of blue-jacketed file folders and washed it down with a slug of coffee. Rolled his tongue around his lips. “What happens when we're on inmate overload, a couple hundred receive early release, a ‘Get Out of Jail’ card. Ramirez was one of the lucky ones sent home the day before Smiley was killed.” The watch commander smiled benevolently. He finished the rest of his jelly doughnut and hand-toweled off his mouth, used a glance to send a message to Don, who caught it immediately.

  "Mr. Ebersole, you got a class waiting for you,” Don said.

  Ebersole wanted to quit the program. There and then. Run and hide. Where? Definitely not home, where Ricardo could be waiting for him. Maybe he'd get into the car and drive—

  He put the brakes to his panic.

  Supposing Smiley never had a chance to talk to Ricardo?

  That being the case, Ricardo wouldn't know to come after him until the story appeared in print. If Smiley did talk to Ricardo, there still was time to eliminate the problem with a call to the magazine.

  Ebersole berated himself for overreacting, for overlooking the obvious.

  He said, “Lead the way, Don."

  * * * *

  The inmates quit the quiet chatter among themselves when Ebersole walked through the door. He settled at the desk, faked a smile apologizing for his tardiness, and said, “Anyone have something new to share?"

  Cooke said, “Call on Smiley Burdette, why don't you? Oh, wait, the old pain in the ass has quit the class permanently.” His laughter drowned out a round of hisses and boos.

  Rauschenberg stood. “Maybe next time,�
�� he said and sat back down.

  George Murdock looked up from the legal-size yellow pad he'd been studying and raised his hand for attention. He cleared his throat. Screwed self-doubt onto his face. Dismissed the idea of reading with a gesture.

  Ray Lemmon had another four pages in the story he'd been working on about the dead detective. The inmates applauded him after he finished and Ebersole gave him an encouraging critique.

  Absent volunteers from among the slackers, Ebersole read them a locked-room mystery from one of the old issues of C&P he carried in his attaché case and talked briefly about story structure before signaling the guard that class was ending early today.

  * * * *

  Ebersole reached his home off Ventura Boulevard, behind CBS Studio Center in the flats of Studio City, within the hour. His worries about Ricardo Ramirez had resumed and consumed him throughout the drive, eviscerating his earlier common sense conclusions, building a fear that compelled him to circle the shady tree-lined block twice in search of strangers hunkered down in unfamiliar cars. He exercised similar caution entering the house and exploring the rooms before he felt safe, secure, and comfortable enough to pour himself a double vodka and dial Syd Moretti at C&P.

  His solution to the problem with Ricardo was simplicity itself.

  He would tell Syd he had to renege on the contract for “A Snitch in Time,” having only now remembered that the story was sold earlier in the year to C&P's major competitor, Killer Thrills & Chills, by his ex-agent. He'd stress the ex. Apologize profusely. Assure Syd there was no problem with “Unnecessary Lives.” He'd have to endure some serious flak, but it beat anything Ricardo would have in store for him.

  "I was just thinking to call you,” Syd said, hopping on the line. “Got good news, buddy. Great news. You sitting down?” Before Ebersole could answer, Syd said, “I somehow came up a story light for the next issue. ‘A Snitch in Time’ was a perfect fit. We're on the presses now, and as a bonus, your name's plastered on the cover ... Gus, you there? You hear me? You sharing the excitement, Gus?"

  "Sharing, Syd,” Ebersole said, trying to sound excited, trying to remember where he had stored the .38 Special he learned to use while doing research at the Police Academy for an early Inspector Phogg story. He found it in the W-X-Y-Z drawer of the metal file cabinet in the guest bedroom he'd turned into his office after buying the house six years ago. The .38 needed a lube job. Bullets too. By evening he had it in prime working condition, in easy reach on the nightstand when he stumbled into bed.

  * * * *

  Three weeks later, the program quit Ebersole before he could quit the program.

  He was relieved to get Commander Foley's call, the commander using “attrition” as the cause, with no mention of the times Ebersole had shown up nursing a hangover and launching disjointed lectures that may have made sense to him, but to no one else.

  The class was down to the sleepy silent minority and, if one were to believe Foley, the current jail population lacked anyone anxious to fill the desk seats vacated by Cooke, Murdock, Rauschenberg, Lemmon and, of course, Smiley Burdette and Ricardo Ramirez.

  Cooke had waltzed out on bail after his appeal hearing was granted. Murdock's lawyers had successfully argued for a change of venue, and their client was now resident at the Presley Detention Center in Riverside. Rauschenberg had completed his sentence. Lemmon was among the latest beneficiaries of early release.

  And Ebersole was getting no writing done.

  None.

  Not for lack of trying.

  Every story idea petered out after a page or two, every creative thought supplanted by the quick brown fox, every noise or vodka-burnished notion reminding him the mail would bring the new issue of C&P any day now, and a visit from Ricardo Ramirez in its wake.

  * * * *

  Instead, Ricardo showed up a week before the magazine arrived, in his mug shot on the six o'clock news, tied to a report about an attempted armed robbery turned deadly at a 7-Eleven in Koreatown.

  The clerk had been quicker with the double-barrel shotgun under counter than Ricardo was with his Saturday Night Special, a Raven Arms MP-25 semiautomatic handgun.

  R.I.P. Ricardo.

  Ebersole toasted the screen with his vodka and, loaded down with renewed energy and enthusiasm, stumbled to the computer. The quick brown fox quickly overpowered his euphoria, but he slept through the night for the first time in months.

  * * * *

  The noises that awakened Ebersole two nights after C&P hit the newsstands sounded like breaking glass at the rear of the house, followed by the squeak of rusty door hinges, then footsteps cautiously advancing along the hardwood floor leading to his bedroom.

  His adrenaline kicked in. His heart took off like a jazz drum solo. His breathing matched the beat. Recently there had been a series of home invasions in the neighborhood. One, a block over, had resulted in the deaths of an elderly couple. Was he about to become the latest victim? He didn't dare move as one thought after another charged through his mind, squeezing his eyes tighter when he felt the subtle heat of the flashlight beam stroking up and down his face.

  The .38 Special was in the nightstand drawer.

  Should he risk it?

  He didn't have time to think it through before a muffled, vaguely familiar voice prompted him, “Time to rise and shine, Gus."

  Gus. The intruder knew his name. This was no random home invasion.

  Ebersole pushed up into a sitting position. He clamped a hand over his eyes to block the flashlight's dazzle. “Please take what you want and leave,” he said, answering a question he had nursed for years: How would he react if he ever found himself in this situation?

  The intruder made a dismissive noise. “You write better dialogue in your stories, Gus."

  "You read my stories?"

  "How Mrs. Marlowe was always saying, ‘You naughty boy, you. I could be your dear mother.’ That was a real hoot every damn time.

  "'Your mama's dead and gone to hell, where she belongs, along with that damn maggot passing himself off as your papa.’”

  "I can't recall writing that,” Ebersole said. “Mrs. Marlowe would never speak that way."

  "Not her, Mrs. Marlowe. It's in the story that just came out, ‘A Snitch in Time.’ Maybe you can't remember because you didn't write the story, although it has your name as the author."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Like you don't know without me explaining it to you?"

  The overhead light clicked on, momentarily blinding Ebersole.

  The intruder was hiding his identity inside a black woolen ski mask and a heavy olive-colored overcoat a size too small that quit at his ankles. The coat was open, exposing a poorly fitting uniform of some sort.

  "That's my story, I wrote it,” he said. “I named it ‘A Cutthroat Death,’ but nothing else was different about it except your name. Your damn name on my story."

  "Who are you?"

  "Who do you think I am? I'm my own avenging angel.” He dropped the flashlight into a coat pocket, reached inside the coat, and came out with a foot-long knife.

  "Maybe you remember this from the story, Gus? The black Glock Survival Knife with the six and a half inch blade sharp enough to split nose hairs in half. A utility saw on the back of the blade? My weapon of choice, but not available while I was at Central, forcing me to be inventive with toothbrushes."

  "You killed Smiley Burdette?"

  "Yes. And the other one, the damn predator. Perverts like him have no business walking this earth instead of feeding earth worms six feet under."

  "But why Smiley?"

  "He told me he was going to snitch to you about the favor Ricardo did for me by passing off the story as his own. It was nobody's business why I wanted it to be a secret, but after you tore into it like a rabid dog, I knew I had been right. Ricardo didn't mind though. He said forget it, it was only a flea bite. And I did—until I saw it in Crime & Punishment Magazine. Your name. You lied about my story to the class so y
ou could steal it for yourself, making you a different kind of predator."

  Holding the knife out like a bayonet, he moved in on Ebersole.

  The blade cut into the pillow seconds after Ebersole reflexively rolled sideways.

  He scrambled to his feet on the side of the bed opposite the intruder and pulled open the nightstand drawer. The .38 wasn't there. He cursed himself for forgetting he'd moved it back to the W-X-Y-Z file drawer the morning after celebrating the news of Ricardo's murder.

  The intruder had come around the bed and was advancing on him.

  Ebersole rolled across the bed, dashed out of the bedroom and down the dark hallway, the intruder in noisy pursuit. He slammed the office door shut, turned the bolt lock, and scrambled to the file cabinet, dropped to his knees, and went after the .38. The intruder was rattling the knob, pounding and kicking on the door. Ebersole padded across the room and took a shooter's stance, arms extended and two hands on the weapon. He squeezed the trigger, again, then another time, then twice more. The bullets crashed through the door, at first causing undecipherable outbursts from outside in the hallway, then nothing at all.

  Ebersole, raining sweat, held his position for another minute and played catch-up with his breath. He half expected the intruder to come crashing through the door, blood spilling from his wounds, attempting another murderous charge. How many times had he written that scene in one of his short stories? How many times had he watched it played out that way in the movies and on TV? He eased his grip on the .38, but kept his finger on the trigger while unlocking and opening the door a creaking inch at a time.

  The intruder was a motionless pile of bloody, bullet-riddled dead meat a few feet away, still clinging tightly to the knife. Ebersole approached the body cautiously. Satisfied, he settled on his haunches and sucked in a year's supply of oxygen before lifting the intruder's ski mask to see who owned the eyes staring blindly at him.