The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries

by Maxim Jakubowski

They don’t.

  Clean that from my mind as I limp over to Monty and see if he’s legit. Sure enough, the guy’s been holding. I pull two baggies of vials out of his pockets. He whistles as he breathes, tries to speak, but he don’t put up a fight. Go to Leon, get my money back and more besides. Leon’s hand clamps over mine.

  I bend two fingers till they snap. Leon finds the breath to scream again.

  “Hush up, Leon. Listen. You know Vince?”

  Leon shakes his head.

  Course he don’t know Vince. That’s what I call him. Reminds me of my old boss. It don’t matter what he’s called, though, ’cause the point’s the same:

  “Vince says you deal on this corner, you gonna get fucked up. You feel me?”

  Leon’s eyes get to slits.

  “You know me,” I say. “I’m a good guy. That’s why I didn’t fuckin’ kill you. When you get yourself stitched, you remember that. And pass it on to Monty.”

  I turn my back, go to the rental.

  Every time playing out the same shit in my head.

  I go to the car, there’s gonna be a gun. These guys, if they’re real dealers, they’ll have a fuckin’ piece between ’em.

  Welcoming the gun, hoping for it. Some fuck wants to put this Old Yeller out his misery, they can go right ahead. I seen that movie a million times and I know. Don’t matter what a good dog Yeller was. Once you get bit by the fuckin’ wolf, you’re a short time dying.

  Ain’t gonna happen with these kayfabe motherfuckers. Small time. Stick me with a boxcutter instead of shooting me. I check the leg situation as I get in the car: if I was still fighting, I’d be fucked. ’Cause the damage don’t matter – you have to do what your bosses tell you to do. Vince is the same. He wants me to fuck somebody up in Detroit, Baltimore, Cleveland, fuckin’ Anchorage, I do it. He got some wide-ranging business interests and a lot of ants trying to make off with his sugar.

  Start the engine. The rental coughs. I check the count on the cash. Couple thou, should be good for gas.

  And enough rocks in these bags to last me a while.

  Vince wants me to hit a corner in Atlanta tomorrow night. Don’t know if I can do that with my leg, but I’ll see how I feel after I hit the stem.

  ’Cause right now I need something. All us jobbers do.

  TO HAVE AND TO HOLD

  Ken Bruen

  “I should have married Johnny Cash.”

  The cop was taken aback. Of all the things he expected her to say, this was never on the table.

  He looked at her, the dishwater-blonde hair, the hard mouth, the slight, jagged scar along her cheek and the air of exhaustion she exuded. The coffee he’d sent out for was before her and she moved her manacled hands to take a sip, the Styrofoam cup tilted back, and he glimpsed very white teeth. He had her statement before him and if he could just get her to sign the goddamn thing, he might beat the gridlock, get home to supper before eight. His partner had gone for a leak and the tape recorder had been shut off.

  She raised her hands, asked,

  “Y’all could maybe take these off for a time?”

  He could see where the metal had cut into her wrists and angry welts ran along the bone. He said,

  “Now, Charlene, you know I gotta keep you cuffed ’til booking is done.”

  She sighed, then asked,

  “Got a smoke?”

  He had a pack of Kools in his suit pocket, for his wife, shook his head, said,

  “No smoking in a Federal building, you know that.”

  She gave him a smile and it lit up her whole face, took twenty years right off her. She said,

  “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  And what the hell, he took out the pack and a battered Zippo. It had the logo, “First Airborne.” He slid them across the table and she grabbed them, got one in her mouth, cranked the lighter, the smell of gasoline emanating like scarce comfort. She peered at the pack, Menthol, asked,

  “What’s with that, you’re not a pillow-biter are you? Not that I have anything against Gays but I can read folk. I’d have you down for a ladies’ man.”

  He nearly smiled, thinking,

  “Yeah, right.”

  In his crumpled suit, gray skin, sagging belly, he was a Don Juan. What was it his daughter would answer . . . Not.

  She wasn’t expecting an answer, said,

  “Years back, I was working one of those fancy hotels, still living high on the hog, and I ran the bar. Guess who walked in, with his band?”

  Her eyes shining at the memory, she continued,

  “The Man in Black, he’d done a concert and they dropped in for a few quiet brews and some chicken wings.”

  Foley was impressed. He liked Cash, except for that prison crap he did, and in spite of himself, asked,

  “No shit, the Man himself?”

  She was nodding, the smoke like a halo around her head, said,

  “I couldn’t believe it, I never seen anyone famous, not, like, in real life. I gave ’em my best service, and in those days, I was hot, had some moves.”

  Foley nearly said,

  “You still do.”

  But bit down and wondered where the hell his partner had got to. Probably gone for a bourbon, Shiner back. He’d return, smelling of mints, like that was a disguise. He asked,

  “You talk to him, to Mr Cash?”

  “Not at first. I was getting them vittles, drinks, making sure they were comfortable and after, I dunno, an hour, Johnny said,

  ‘Take a pew little lady, get a load off.’”

  She rubbed her eyes, then.

  “He had these amazing boots, all scuffed but, like, real expensive, snakeskin or something, and he used his boot to hook a chair, pull it up beside him.”

  She touched her face, self conscious, said,

  “I didn’t have the scar then, still had some dreams. Jesus.”

  Foley was a cop for fifteen years, eight with Homicide and he was, in his own cliché, hard bitten. There wasn’t a story, a scam, an excuse, a smoke screen he hadn’t heard and his view of human nature veered from cynical to incredulity. But something about this broad . . . a sense of, what . . .? He didn’t want to concede it, but was it . . . dignity? A few months later, a Saturday night, his wedding anniversary, he’d taken his Lottie for clams and that white wine she loved. Had a few too many glasses himself – that shit crept up on you – and told Lottie about the feeling and Lottie had gotten that ice look. He wouldn’t be having any lovemaking that night; she hissed,

  “You had a shine for that . . . that trailer trash?”

  His night had gone south.

  And c’mon, he hadn’t got a thing for Charlene, but something, her face now, in the middle of the Cash story, it got to him, she was saying,

  “I sat down and Mr Cash, he asked me my name, I done told him and he repeated it but with an S . . . like . . . Shur . . . leen. He had that voice, the gravel. Luckies and corn whiskey melt, give a girl the shivers, and then he said,

  “That’s a real purty name . . . how he said ‘pretty’.”

  She massaged her right wrist, the welt coming in red and inflamed. She said,

  “I had me a leather thong on my wrist. My Mamma done give it to me, real fancy, little symbols of El Paso interwoven on there, and I dunno, I saw him look at it and maybe it was the heat, it was way up in them there 90s, even that time of the evening, and I took it off, said,

  “Can I give you this?”

  “His boys went quiet for a moment, the long-necks left untouched and them fellers could drink. He took it, tied it on his wrist, gave me that smile, sent goose bumps all down my spine, said,

  “Muchas gracias, señorita.”

  “Then I noticed one of the guys give a start and I turned and June Carter came in, that bitch, full of wrath. Dame had a hard on so I got my ass in gear, got back behind the bar. They didn’t stay long after, and Johnny never came to say goodbye, that cow had him bundled out of there like real urgent business. The manager, he come over to
the bar, paid the tab and gave me one hundred dollars for my own self. What do you think of that, one hundred bucks, for like, real little service?”

  Foley knew hookers. For fifteen minutes, they’d be lucky to get thirty and change. Charlene’s face got ugly, a coldness from her eyes, mixed with . . . grief? She said,

  “I was on a high, floating, my face burning, like I was some goddamn teenager, and not even that Carter cunt . . .”

  The word was so unexpected and especially from a woman, that Foley physically moved back, reconsidered the handcuffs. Charlene finished with,

  “I was cleaning the table, them good ol’ boys sure done a mess of wings and long-necks and there . . . in the middle of the table, sliced neatly in half, was my Mama’s wrist band.”

  A silence took over the room, she fired up another Kool, taking long inhales like she was stabbing her body, her eyes like slits in her face and she said,

  “When I’d be clearing up, I’d been humming, I Walk the Line.”

  Years after, Johnny came on the juke, the radio, that tune, Foley would have to turn it off.

  Go figure.

  When Foley’s partner got back, minted almighty, his face with that bourbon glow, he brought some sodas and if he noticed the cuffs were off, he let it slide, turned on the tape recorder, asked,

  “You grew up in El Paso, am I right?”

  Charlene gave him a look, a blend of amusement and malice, said,

  “Cinco de Mayo.”

  He looked at Foley, shrugged, and Charlene took a slug of the soda, grimaced, asked,

  “No Dr Pepper?”

  Then,

  “Damn straight, between Stanton and Kansas, you get to the bus station? . . . Turn right on Franklin, walk, like maybe a block-and-a-half? . . . Little side street there, we had us our place, me and my Mom, near the Gardner Hotel. That building is, like, eighty years old?”

  Foley’s partner gave a whistle, said,

  “No shit?”

  Like he could give a fuck.

  Foley was pissed at him, felt the interview had gone downhill since he had joined them. Something like intimacy had been soiled, and he had to shake himself, get rid of those damn foolish notions. Charlene stared at him, asked,

  “I know he’s Foley. Who are you?”

  “Darlin’, I’m either your worst nightmare or your only hope, comprende, chiquita?”

  She tasted the insult, the loaded use of the Spanish, then said,

  “No me besas mas, por favor!”

  He didn’t get it, said,

  “I don’t get it.”

  She laughed, said,

  “The next whore sits on your face, ask her.”

  He leaned fast across the table, slapped her mouth, hard, and Foley went,

  “Jesus, Al.”

  His fingers left an outline on her cheek and she smiled. The week after, when Al asked his regular hooker for a translation, she told him,

  “Please don’t kiss me.”

  Foley wound back the tape, couldn’t have the slap on there, then asked,

  “So what brought you back to Houston?”

  She shrugged, said,

  “A guy, what else.”

  Foley looked at his notes, double-checked, then,

  “That’d be the deceased, one Charles Newton?”

  She lit up the cigarette she’d been toying with, blew a cloud of smoke at Al, said,

  “Charlie, yeah, he promised me he’d marry me, and he was into me for Five Gs.”

  Al gave a nasty chuckle, more a cackle, asked,

  “The matter with you broads, you give your dollars to any lowlife that says he’ll marry you?”

  She looked away, near whispered,

  “He had a voice like Johnny Cash.”

  Al spread his hands in the universal gesture of the fuck does that mean? Charlene was thinking of her third day in Houston: one of those sudden rainstorms hit and she ducked into a building. Turned out it was a library and she looked to see if maybe they had a book on Johnny. Passing a Literature section, she saw a title . . . To Have and Have Not.

  For some reason, she read it as To Have and To Hold and was about to open it when the librarian approached, a spinster in her severe fifties, demanded,

  “Are you a member, Miss?”

  A hiss riding point on the Miss. Charlene knew the type – the dried-up bitter fruit of TV dinners and vicious cats. Charlene dropped the book, said,

  “If you have anything to do with it, I’m so fucking out of here.”

  And was gone.

  She’d have asked Foley about the book if Al wasn’t there, but she shut it down. Charlie was the usual loser she’d always attracted, but he had an apartment near Rice University and she was running out of time, looks and patience. When she caught him going through her purse, she’d finally figured,

  “What the hell?”

  And knifed the bastard, in the neck. Then it felt so good, she stuck him a few more times . . . twenty five in all, or so they said. What, they counted? She was still holding the blade when the cops showed up and it was, as they say, a slam-dunk.

  Foley said,

  “You turned down the offer to have an attorney present.”

  She gave him what amounted to a tender smile, said,

  “They’d assign some guy, and you know what? I’m sick to my gut of men.”

  Al was unrolling a stick of Juicy Fruit, popped it in his mouth, made some loud sucking noises, said,

  “You’re a lesbian, that it? Hate all men?”

  She let out a breath, said,

  “If I sign this, can I get some sleep, some chow?”

  Foley passed over a pen, said,

  “Have you some ribs, right away.”

  She signed and Al said,

  “Now the bad news darlin’. Ol’ Charles, he was the son of a real prominent shaker right here in Houston. Bet he didn’t tell you that. You’re going away for a long time.”

  She stretched, asked,

  “And what makes you think I give a fuck?”

  She got fifteen years. As she was being led down, Al leaned over, said,

  “Come sundown, a bull dyke’s gonna make you think of Johnny Cash in a whole new light.”

  She spat in his face.

  Six months later, Foley went to see her. He didn’t tell Al. When they brought her into the interview room, he was shocked by her appearance. Her frame had shrunk into itself and her eyes were hollow, but she managed a weak smile, said,

  “Detective, what brings you out to see the gals?”

  He was nervous, his hands awash with sweat, and he blamed the humidity, asked,

  “They treating you okay?”

  She laughed, said,

  “Like one of their own.”

  He produced a pack of Kools and a book of matches. She looked at him, said,

  “I quit.”

  He felt foolish, tried,

  “You can use them for barter, maybe?”

  She had a far away expression in her eyes, near whispered,

  “They got nothing I want.”

  He had a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but couldn’t think how to frame them and stared at the table. She reached over, touched his hand, said,

  “Johnny was on TV last week, did a song called Hurt, he sang that for me.”

  Then she changed tack, said,

  “You ever get to El Paso and want to cross the border, take the number 10 green trolley to the Santa Fe Bridge. Don’t take the Border Jumper Trolley – it’s, like, real expensive. Walk to the right side of the Stanton Bridge and it’s twenty-five cents to cross and in El Paso, you want some action, go to the Far West Rodeo, on Airways Boulevard. They sometimes got live rodeo, and hey, get a few brews in, you might even try the mechanical bull, that’s a riot.”

  Relieved to have something to talk about, he asked,

  “You went there a lot?”

  “Never, not one time. But I heard, you know?”

  He looked at his watch and sh
e said,

  “Y’all better be getting on, I got to write me a letter to Johnny, let him know where I’m at.”

  Foley was standing and said,

  “Charlene, he’s dead. He died last week.”

  For a moment, she was stock still, then she emitted a howl of anguish that brought the guards running. She wailed,

  “You fucking liar – he’s not dead. He’ll never be dead to me – how do you think I get through this hell?”

  As he hurried down the cellblock, he could still hear her screams, his sweat rolling in rivulets, creasing his cheap suit even further.

  As he got his car in “drive,” he reached in his jacket, took out the packaged CD of Johnny’s Greatest Hits . . . slung it out the window, the disc rolling along the desert for a brief second, then coming to a stop near some sagebrush.

  A rodent tearing at the paper exposed Cash’s craggy face, and, viewed in a certain light, you’d think he was looking towards the prison.

  Impossible to read his expression.

  THE 45 STEPS

  Peter Crowther

  Luddersedge’s Regal Hotel lived up to its grand name in only one way.

  The building was forbidding rather than imposing, a towering grey edifice of soot-ingrained stone and stained, greasy windows that squatted alongside the traffic lights on the corner of Smithfield Road and Albert Street. The somewhat less-than-impressive facade looked more like an old mill building – examples of which could still be seen dotted around the Calder Valley landscape, all the way from Halifax to Burnley and points even further west – than like a supposedly luxurious establishment catering for visiting gentry. But then, it was highly unlikely that any gentry taking advantage of the Regal’s dubious hospitality would actually be visiting Luddersedge itself. Rather, such occasional tenants would more realistically be those whose misfortune was so dire that their mode of transportation between departure and arrival points had chosen Luddersedge to give up the vehicular ghost . . . and at a time to render impossible any solution other than booking into the Regal.

  On the top of the five-storey building, amongst the aerials and the blackened windows, pigeons and starlings roosted noisily beside the quieter permanent residents, a troupe of bizarre gargoyles intermittently positioned amidst the stone balustrades and fashioned by Cecil Blenkinsop at the turn of the century. These monolithic decorations – whose artistic merit was questionable at the very least – were presented by Blenkinsop to the hotel in a rare demonstration of generosity.