EQMM, July 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  He headed for the Triborough, getting sudden darting pains in his gut. And the Hamster was sniffing up a storm. Maybe Franco was right—he was getting too old for these kinda gigs. But goddammit, he wasn't a kidnapper! It wasn't his M.O.

  They wound up at Franco's recently deceased aunt's house in the Bronx, a brick row that the don called a “safe” house, like he was CIA or something.

  They got an amazingly docile Swales into the house and parked him on a sagging sofa in the living room. God, the place, the curtains, stank of garlic like the dead old lady was still cooking up a paisano feast in the kitchen. Now Sally was hungry, ravenously hungry. He had had only a greasy cheeseburger for lunch, no fries—his stripped-down action diet when he was going out on a hit. Maybe it was the hunger that was giving him the stomach pains.

  Swales luxuriously stretched out his feet from the sofa. “Gentlemen,” he said in a muffled voice from behind the hood. “May I ask one of you to remove this hideous black pillowcase from my head?"

  Sally didn't answer.

  "What about these handcuffs? How do you expect me to enjoy the fine cuisine you'll be serving me tonight if I'm forced to use two hands every time I lift a fork?"

  We got a standup comedian here, Sally thought, amending that to a sitdown comedian in a hood. He noticed the Hamster was staring at Swales as if he were a statue that had suddenly learned to talk. Sally gestured him over to the door.

  "I gotta call the boss,” Sally told him. “Don't take your eyes off this guy. And don't talk to him.” Stupid advice; he doubted the Hamster had talked to anybody in years, including Mrs. Hamster, the wife.

  The Hamster nodded, not too happy about this.

  As Sally went out, he stopped, listening to Swales saying, “I'd like some sushi tonight, but hold the sake. I can't abide sake. But actually, I'll settle for a kobe steak. With all the ransom money you'll be getting I'm sure you gents can afford a kobe."

  Sally went around the side of the house. There was another, almost identical house alongside, half painted. He took out a stolen cell phone and punched in a weird overseas number that Franco had given him with the phone.

  It was awhile before Franco answered, “Yeah?"

  "Me."

  "Okay Me, you got the parcel?"

  "Yeah. Everything copacetic—so far."

  A pause while Franco drank something. “Okay, follow instructions tonight, Sally. I want this short and sweet. The parents give you a song and dance, call me. Call me anyway."

  "You got it. Anything else?"

  "The parcel give you any trouble?"

  "No trouble. Talks like a college professor."

  Franco laughed. “You want some guy talks like us?! Ciao, Sally."

  Sally pocketed the cell phone. He had a suspicion Franco was out of the country, probably in Italy with his cousins, drinking the local vino, screwing the local putana, but mostly establishing an alibi just in case the kidnapping went south. $453.19! Chump change, for Cris'sake. Ma aproprio pazzo, lui! Maybe Franco needed a whaddayacallit, a brain scan.

  In the living room the prisoner was talking nonstop to the Hamster, who looked like he desperately wanted some fresh air or a stiff drink.

  "How come you stay and you haven't said a word?” Swales suddenly asked him. “You still breathing?"

  "Because you can't shut up,” Sally replied.

  "Ah. The big man is back. I can tell you're big because of your voice. It resonates. You bring any food? Like that sushi I ordered?"

  Sally winced. “You'll be lucky to get some chink takeout.” What was it with these new kidnap victims—they get a choice now of what the hell they want from column A or column B? Or was this guy so scared he was putting on a couldn't-care-less act?

  Sally rummaged around in the old lady's fridge. Pretty empty, and the few things left were spoiled, maggots living it up in a big beautiful tube of imported Italian salami. Eat your heart out, Sally, chink takeout it's gotta be.

  While he was ordering on the cell phone, the Hamster suddenly broke his silence. “Eighty-six the mushi pork,” he said in a half-whisper. “Gives me gas."

  "Christ, I got another gourmet here.” Sally was disgusted. He finished the call, stamped outside, steeled himself, and punched in the crucial number.

  Some kind of servant answered and Sally asked to speak to the elder Mr. Swales.

  "Who shall I say is calling, sir?"

  "Friend of Steve's."

  The voice that finally answered sounded old, not one-foot-in-the-grave old, but old. “Steve hasn't come home yet,” he said. “May I ask who is calling?"

  "I got your son,” Sally said, as ominous as he could make his voice, trying to light his cigar. “If you want him back you gotta pay—” God, he was drawing a blank on the amount, fumbled for the slip in his pocket. “Ah—four hundred and, ah, fifty-three smackers and nineteen cents."

  "What is this?” the old man roared. “Some new kind of phone solicitation?” Slam!

  Oh jeez, Sally thought, still trying to light the cigar. I call back, he's not gonna take the call. What do I do then, send him a telegram, if Western Union still exists? If he called Franco, the crazy would probably spit out his Chianti right into the receiver, curse a blue streak, and then order him to get the father's money at gunpoint.

  Ah, the cigar was lit and his mind was beginning to clear like new water in his fish's fishbowl. He called the number again, puffing furiously, girding himself. This time the servant said Mr. Swales was “indisposed” and Sally knew he wasn't in the bathroom.

  He was about to go back in the house as a spic delivery kid arrived with the takeout. Sally paid him and took the smelly bag inside.

  "I smell vittles!” the captive cried out.

  "Well, you don't get any,” Sally said, “till we get a problem solved."

  He told Swales about his recalcitrant father and the fact that he had no way now of setting up a ransom drop.

  If Swales wanted his freedom and his life, he better think of a way of convincing his old man to pay the money.

  "I'll talk to him. That's a promise. But can't a starving man eat first?"

  "No. I'll get him on the phone."

  "Well, if I talk, you'll have to take this silly hood off."

  "No way.” He punched in the number, waited till the servant guy answered, and handed the cell to Swales.

  "Charles, get my dad, will you?” A wait, then: “Dad? Yeah, it's me. I know, ‘cause they got this thing on me muffles my mouth. I'm fine, fine. Reason I'm calling, pay them the money.” He stopped, listening, obviously getting an earful. “But Dad, you ever want to see me again? I mean, I'm your only child. How much are they asking?” He listened and then turned in Sally's direction. “That amount seems very familiar.” Then to phone: “So they're not asking for a million. For God's sake, Dad, what's a ridiculous paltry sum like that?” Another look in Sally's direction before he said to his father: “You want to give the finger to organized crime, probably the Mafia? You think that's smart?” He listened again, then his vast sigh almost blew a small air bubble in the hood. “Okay, okay. You're wrong as usual, but this time I hope you know it's your son's life."

  Sally's cigar had gone out—like his hopes that the kid's call would be successful. There was an expanding emptiness in his stomach, but his appetite had fled.

  "He thinks the whole thing's a joke,” Swales said. “If you had asked for a million or something, he'd figure it was legit and probably fork it over. What can I tell you?"

  Sally put his cigar to rest in one of the old lady's spotless ashtrays. There was no way he could call Franco, because he knew what the response would be: Get the goddamn money! It's the principle of the thing!

  He was suddenly aware of the Hamster, who had been standing silently (what else?) in the kitchen doorway. He came hesitantly into the room. “You got time now for my problem?” he asked Swales in a surprisingly authoritative voice. Sally couldn't believe it; this guy hadn't talked this much in a decade.

&
nbsp; "Oh yeah—your problem,” Swales said, distracted.

  "What problem?” Sally asked the Hamster. “We got a much bigger problem staring us in the face, or didn't you hear?"

  There was a laugh from behind the hood. “Your friend needs some help; like how he can write off his gun collection big-time without us guys red-flagging his return. I mean, he claims to be a stamp collector-dealer on his tax return."

  Sally almost lost it. “Hamster, this guy's our goddamn kidnap victim not your friendly neighborhood H and R Block.” He turned in frustration to the Hamster's new tax consultant. “So your father doesn't care if we ice you?"

  "Apparently not. I think he always wanted a girl. And then when I refused to go into the family business—industrial-waste textiles—well, I guess he wrote me off. Hell, would you go into industrial-waste textiles? I'd much prefer a life of crime like yours."

  "Maybe we should have kidnapped him," Sally said, his mood as sour as his stomach. “Call him back."

  "What good would it do?"

  "I'm at the end of my rope. Call him back.” He punched in the number, handed the cell to him.

  "Charles, get my father, please.” Long wait. “Your son again. Have you thought it over? You have?! I'll bet you talked to Mom. What's the address? Uh-huh. Okay, thanks, Dad. Maybe I will go into the business."

  He hung up and handed Sally the phone back. “The old man came through. He's going to wire me the money to Western Union. He gave me the address."

  "You sure you can trust him?"

  Disgruntled: “Yeah, I know, who the hell can trust their father?"

  * * * *

  Sally drove them back into town. It was ten in the morning and nobody had slept the night before. Sally had a bristly gray stubble, but the Hamster looked the same, except now his nose hair was almost kissing his lips. Swales slept the whole way in, his snores filling the spaces between the Hamster's nasal eruptions. These guys should make a rap album, Sally thought. Top Ten.

  At the Western Union office on upper Broadway, he let the Hamster and Swales out of the van, Swales unshackled and unhooded. He wasn't a bad-looking guy, with a shoehorn of black hair framing his bald head and a growth of black stubble. He got a good look at Sally on his way to the office, but what the hell could he do? He knew the Hamster was carrying, so he was crazy if he tried any funny business when he picked up the money. Besides, the amount was a joke.

  It wasn't a long wait, but Sally's eyes were roaming both sides of the street and what he could see in the rearview mirror. The old man might have called the cops, who had the office staked out, just waiting for them. Trying to batten down his nerves, he managed to light the dead butt of his cigar and take a few exploratory puffs before his two guys suddenly came out of the office and got back in the van.

  "No dice,” Swales said bleakly, kneading his facial muscles with the palms of his hands. “He didn't send it. Guess he really wants my cousin to take over the business."

  Sally sat for a bleak, blank moment, hands on the wheel, thinking. All this for a friggin $453.19. Why did he even take this lousy stupid job? He must be getting as pazzo as Franco.

  Then the obvious swam into his consciousness like his pet fish. He turned in the seat. “Hamster, how much money you got on you?"

  Sniff, sniff. “Dunno."

  He waited while the Hamster crabbed fingers through pockets. “Twenty-three bucks, Sally."

  "How ‘bout you, Steve?"

  "Ah, let me see, ah—two bills and change."

  "How much change?"

  "Aha,” Steve said, smiling. “I see where you're going with this. Looks like—forty-four dollars."

  Sally did some cumbrous addition. “Well, that adds up to about, let's see, two hundred sixty-seven. Not enough."

  Steve's smile looked permanent. “Why don't you make up the rest? You can afford it, can't you?"

  Sally turned on the engine, suddenly and gloriously at peace with himself and the situation. “Where can we drop you off?"

  "Try Grand Central. That's where you picked me up, remember?"

  * * * *

  Sally was with a tanned and rested Franco in his study, both smoking celebratory cigars and drinking brandy. “Good job,” Franco announced. “Everybody's happy. I love it—the old father came through with the money in a New York minute."

  Back to a minute, Sally thought, sipping his scotch. Funny how things always return to normal.

  "Everybody's been taught a lesson,” Franco continued, patting his pet Puzo. “You hear what happened?"

  Wary: “No. What happened?"

  "Steve Swales left the I.R.S. He's with a terrific accounting firm, save you a fortune on your taxes. I'm thinking maybe he should handle my stuff."

  "You kidding?” Crazy, still crazy.

  "Hell no. In fact, he should be here in a few minutes. I got some more tax problems."

  Sally got up abruptly, cigar in mouth, drink unfinished.

  "Where you going?” Franco asked. “You told me the kid saw you, so what's the big deal? Maybe he can handle some of your tax stuff, too."

  "Nah, gotta see my bookie. Owes me some money.” He paused, not trying to be dramatic. “As does you."

  Franco took the cigar from his mouth. “Sally, what the hell you talking about?"

  "One hundred and eighty-six nineteen. Expenses I incurred on the job."

  Franco stared at him—not quite as long as a New York minute—and would have probably been open-mouthed except his lips had to clutch the cigar.

  Then Sally played his big ace, and he couldn't stop himself from grinning. “It's what you keep telling me, Franco . . . Isn't it the principle of the thing?"

  Copyright © 2010 William Link

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  Fiction: OFF DUTY by Zoe Sharp

  "Anyone who thinks contemporary crime fiction is a genre driven by testosterone-crazed protagonists—and writers for that matter—obviously hasn't read Zoe Sharp or her novels featuring former British Army SpecialForces soldier turned bodyguard Char-lotte ‘Charlie’ Fox. Ill-tempered, aggressive and borderline psychotic, Fox is also compassionate, introspective and highly principled: arguably one of the most enigmatic—and coolest—heroines in ... genre fiction.” (The Chicago Tribune) And here she is!

  The guy who'd just tried to kill me didn't look like much. From the fleeting glimpse I'd caught of him behind the wheel of his brand-new soft-top Cadillac, he was short, with less hair than he'd like on his head and more than anyone could possibly want on his chest and forearms.

  That was as much as I could tell before I was throwing myself sideways. The front wheel of the Buell skittered on the loose gravel shoulder of the road, sending a vicious shimmy up through the headstock into my arms. I nearly dropped the damn bike there and then, and that was what pissed me off the most.

  The Buell was less than a month old at that point, a Firebolt still with the shiny feel to it, and I'd been hoping it would take longer to acquire its first battle scar. The first cut is always the one you remember.

  Although I was wearing full leathers, officially I was still signed off sick from the Kerse job and undergoing the tortures of regular physiotherapy. Adding motorcycle-accident injuries, however minor, was not going to look good to anyone, least of all me.

  But the bike didn't tuck under and spit me into the weeds, as I half expected. Instead it righted itself, almost stately, and allowed me to slither to a messy stop maybe seventy meters further on. I put my feet down and tipped up my visor, aware of my heart punching behind my ribs, the adrenaline shake in my hands, the burst of anger that follows on closely after having had the shit scared out of you.

  I turned to find the guy in the Cadillac had completed his half-arsed maneuver, pulling out of a side road and turning left across my path. He'd slowed, though, twisting round to stare back at me with his neck extended like a meerkat. Even at this distance I could see the petulant scowl. Hell, perhaps I'd made him drop the cell phone he'd been yabbering into in
stead of paying attention to his driving. . . .

  Just for a second our eyes met, and I considered making an issue out of it. The guy must have sensed that. He plunked back down in his seat and rammed the car into drive, gunning it away with enough gusto to chirrup the tires on the bone dry surface.

  I rolled my shoulders, thought that was the last I'd ever see of him.

  I was wrong.

  * * * *

  Spending a few days away in the Catskill Mountains was a spur-of-the-moment decision, taken in a mood of self-pity.

  Sean was in L.A., heading up a high-profile protection detail for some East Coast actress who'd hit it big and was getting windy about her latest stalker. He'd just come back from the Middle East, tired but focused, buzzing, loving every minute of it and doing his best not to rub it in.

  After he'd left for California, the apartment seemed too quiet without him. Feeling the sudden urge to escape New York, and my enforced sabbatical, I'd looked at the maps and headed for the hills, ending up at a small resort and health spa just north of the prettily named Sundown in Ulster County. The last time I'd been in Ulster the local accent had been Northern Irish, and it had not ended well.

  The hotel was set back in thick trees, the accommodation provided in a series of chalets overlooking a small lake. My physio had recommended the range of massage services they offered, and I'd booked a whole raft of treatments. By the time I brought the bike to a halt, nose-in outside my designated chalet, I was about ready for my daily pummeling.

  It was with no more than mild annoyance, therefore, that I recognized the soft-top Cadillac two spaces down. For a moment my hand stilled, then I shrugged, hit the engine kill-switch, and went stiffly inside to change out of my leathers.

  * * * *