The 56th Man

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "You've been to Paris?" she breathed. "And Rome? And..." Her grasp of foreign lands rapidly faded. "All those other places?"

  "We've been there," Matt said in a griping tone.

  "Where?" his wife asked, still gazing up at Ari.

  "All those places. You remember." He was aggrieved that she should so soon forget all the great landmarks he'd taken her to, but he used the opportunity to tell Ari that he was a systems analyst. This sounded like a very vague profession to Ari. There were social welfare systems, weapons systems, solar systems...the list was infinite. He assumed it had something to do with computers, and suspected Matt had told him this as proof he could afford to take his wife to all those swell places and buy a house on the river, to boot.

  "It was Howie Nottoway who told me about what happened here."

  If Ari had forced them to drink sour milk he would have expected a similar reaction. But which did they find more distasteful: the murders, or Howie Nottoway?

  Tracy began to draw back, then decided Ari's arm was too nice and strong to abandon entirely and left her fingers draped over his sleeve. Ari had had no personal experience with inebriated women and found it difficult to distinguish between the woman who was loose and the woman who was tight. Smiling at Tracy, he decided there was little to choose between them. Which was entirely too bad. He had a great thirst.

  Not since the week before the invasion. Astonishing.

  "Were you at home the night of the murders?" Ari asked a little hopelessly, as if it was more likely that they had stopped for the night in Trieste before resuming their journey to Athens.

  "We didn't hear anything," said Matt, cutting right to the chase.

  In all likelihood he was telling the truth. Whatever cocktails of liquor and drugs that they assembled and consumed during a typical day would lead to a typical night of near-comatose oblivion. And since the killings took place during the holiday season, it was even more probable that the Mackenzies had been dead to the world while their neighbors were being slaughtered.

  But they had been up and waiting for the kayakers.

  Was there some kind of schedule? Ari doubted it. Last night's weather would have chased even hardened boaters off the river. But it seemed even less likely that Matt and Tracy would sit up night after night waiting for their shipments.

  "We can't see Beach Court Road from our house," Matt continued. "We can barely see the Riggins house. When all the police hoopla began, we didn't have a clue."

  "We heard about it on the news." Tracy seemed oddly pleased by this, aloofness from neighbors, even friendly neighbors, being the height of fashion. And she was fashionable.

  Ari was weighing the pros and cons of asking them about the rockets on the island when a loud motor revved in the direction of the Nottoway house. Hearing a tremendous buzz, Ari lifted a brow of inquiry.

  "That's Nottoway's wood chipper," Matt snarled, and for the first time since he had met them, the Mackenzies proved they could impose wrinkles on their faces when properly motivated.

  "Do you have a problem with Mr. Nottoway?"

  They had drifted over to the gazebo. Ari gestured for them to seat themselves, but they declined. They suddenly seemed aware that this conversation had wandered, when they had intended it to be brief and to the point.

  "Actually, it's about Nottoway that we came to see you," Matt began uncertainly. Tracy nodded with some vigor. She had allowed her fingers to drift away from Ari, but they had left sensuous invisible vermin in the sleeve of his jacket. Ari was scarcely able to refrain from scratching his arm.

  "We like to think of this as a live-and-let-live community," said Matt, looking towards the house as if the Rigginses were still there to nod agreement.

  "And Howie Nottoway doesn't share your concept?"

  "We call him 'Achtung Howie'," said Tracy, carefully nudging a bang out of her eyes, but not so far as to disturb her all-natural just-out-of-bed but ready-for-the-Great-Indoors coif. Tracy sent a howl of a smirk in her husband's direction. "Tell him about the petition."

  "Oh yeah. We were only here a few months when Howie showed up at our door and asked us to sign this damn paper. He wanted to ban drinking in public--including your own yard--outdoor parties, shouting, swearing, public displays of affection...you name it."

  "He even wanted to ban smoking in your own house," Tracy added, nodding at the pack of Winstons bulging in Ari's shirt pocket.

  "No," said Ari, genuinely amazed.

  "Oh, hey," said Matt, noticing the cigarettes for the first time. "Can I bum one of those?"

  "Certainly."

  "And a light?"

  Both men lit up. Matt seemed to relish knocking ashes onto the fescue he so much admired. This close to Howie-land, it must have provided him with the ecstasy of social revolution.

  "You don't mind us having parties or..." Tracy applied her mind. "You don't mind us having some fun every now and then, do you?"

  "Isn't your country's motto 'the pursuit of happiness'?"

  "You got it!" Tracy exclaimed in relief. Ari was one of those good foreigners who understood the underlying philosophical principles of his adopted country.

  His cadging instinct satisfied, Matt leaned against a gazebo post and puffed away. Now that he was at ease, he could volunteer information without being prodded by Ari.

  "You want my opinion, if Jerry and Moria hadn't been killed, they would have been in Splitsville by now."

  "I'm sorry..."

  "Separated. Divorced."

  "I thought they were the perfect couple."

  "Then explain why the same day those goons showed up and snuffed them, Jerry was going off like a maniac."

  "You saw something?"

  "We heard him screaming his head off."

  "And whopping the hell out of something," Tracy said. "It sounded like..."

  "Like he was slamming doors," Matt continued. "I mean really slamming. It went on for twenty minutes or so."

  "What time was it?"

  "It was just starting to get dark. That time of year? Maybe five-ish."

  For something like this to happen in broad daylight, Howie Nottoway had said.

  "Did you call the police?"

  "Hell no." Tracy gave a start, as if realizing her spontaneous answer might be too revealing. "I mean, it was a domestic thing. You don't call the cops every time you have a tiff."

  The look she shot her husband hinted that if such were the case, the police would have a permanent camp on their lawn.

  "We don't know if it was domestic," Matt said uneasily.

  "Well he wouldn't be yelling 'Moria' if he was chopping wood."

  Ari thought a moment. "Did Jerry Riggins own a gun?"

  Matt relaxed and chuckled.

  "Jerry was terrified of them," Tracy answered. "He said more people were killed accidentally than ever shot a bad guy." She parsed her sentence, found it wanting, but let it stand. It was understood that people knew what you intended to say even if you didn't exactly say it. Ari smiled, but he knew better than to accuse the Americans of corrupting their own language. The plague of unfocused meaning was worldwide. Tracy continued: "Why do you ask?"

  "In this case, a gun may have saved Jerry and his family."

  "Yeah, I guess."

  "Would you like to come inside?"

  At first they thought Ari meant the gazebo. Tracy stepped back when she saw him look toward the house.

  "Oh no," she said immediately.

  "What's the matter, afraid of ghosts?" But Matt too seemed uneasy at the prospect and allowed himself to be drawn by his wife's reluctance. "I guess we don't have time."

  "You need to analyze a system?" Ari said politely.

  "Uh...something like that. We just came over to...uh..."

  "Enjoy your party. It can't possibly disturb me."

  As they walked away, Tracy suddenly stopped and turned. "You're invited!"

  Matt stopped, too, and drew a visual line between his wife and Ari. "Oh. Yeah. Sure."

>   "I might take you up on that." The American phrase sat nicely on Ari's tongue.

  Matt suddenly brightened. "Hey, did you see the news this morning?"

  "I don't have a television," Ari said.

  This admission floored Matt, who took a moment to recover. "There was a big shoot-out in the West End. Three people killed!" He grinned broadly. "Welcome to the U.S. of A!"

  Howie Nottoway seemed prepared for any dangerous alien that came his way. Not Ari's kind of alien, but extraterrestrial. Yellow eye goggles would ward off retinal burn, as well as keep his eyes safe from any inanimate object an oncoming Martian might toss in his face. Large Husqvarna ear protectors (which might well double as a commando radio headset that allowed him to eavesdrop on Venusian communications) would screen out alpha-beta waves designed to garble his brain. While a safety helmet was just the thing to put a dent in the extended gear of any flying saucer that swooped down for a landing.

  Ari approached warily, not wanting to startle Howie so much that he put an arm instead of a log down the hopper of the wood chipper. But Howie must have had eyes in the back of his head, or his helmet had tiny rearview mirrors, because he switched off the chipper motor and turned to greet Ari before he was halfway across the yard. It was then Ari noted that the helmet did indeed have tiny rearview mirrors.

  "Good morning, Mr. Nottoway!" he said with gooey provincial cheer.

  Howie nodded with friendly indecision. Perhaps he did not want to get Ari's name wrong. Perhaps he had forgotten it already. The memory of the average American seemed to be extraordinarily short.

  "Hey there," Howie said.

  Ari extended his hand and waited for Howie to remove his thick work gloves and take it. He took it readily enough--but did not remove his gloves. Where Ari came from, such an insult could get you killed. Justifiably so, in his opinion.

  He smiled.

  In fact, Nottoway appeared strangely reluctant to remove any of his gear. This may have been a less-than-discreet indication that his yard work could not wait for neighborly chitchat. That, as Ari's old English phrase book had put it, he had to make hay while the sun was shining. Or perhaps he believed Ari might jump forward and knock him on the head, box his ears, poke out his eyes and rip out his fingernails, contingencies for which he was well-prepared. All he was missing was a Kevlar vest.

  "Your machine is quite impressive," Ari said in a voice he hoped was loud enough to be heard through the ear protectors.

  "Getting rid of this old wood pile," Howie said, raising his voice so he could hear himself. He pointed at a few cords of firewood stacked at edge of the yard.

  "But winter will be arriving soon," said Ari. The wood looked perfectly seasoned to him. "Won't you need it?"

  "I can always get more. This is all buggy and dried out. A real fire hazard. And the HOA doesn’t approve of it."

  Howie was wasting a good natural product, so far as Ari could see. Having noted persistent litter on the roadsides, however, he concluded it was the prevalent mindset. Use and toss, or don't use and toss. It was better than throwing away lives wholesale.

  "Do you use your fireplace very often?" Ari asked. "I ask because I noticed the Riggins don't seem to have ever used theirs."

  Howie seemed dismayed by what he was partially hearing, and finally removed his ear protectors to hear it better. "You said you looked in the fireplace?"

  "Is that abnormal?"

  "No. You should check it regularly. But...you should get a professional to take a look at it. You know, a chimneysweep. To check out the creosote deposits…and stuff." Howie's voice had taken a step back. He removed his goggles. "You find anything?"

  "In the chimney?"

  "Uh...yeah."

  "Is there something I should be looking for?"

  "Uh...like what?"

  "I'm just seeking advice. We don't have chimneys like that in Sicily. Can animals come down it? Or get stuck?"

  "I wouldn't worry about that," said Howie, removing his gloves. "Most houses around here have grills to keep out pests. So what...you looked up the flue?"

  "I noticed the chimney damper open so I checked inside. Would you expect me to find something?" Ari stepped across to the chipper, peered inside the hopper, and tried not imagine what some men in his homeland would use it for. He glanced over at the garden shed. The door was open.

  Howie had taken off his head gear and now stood like a man who had only just learned that no earthly power could resolve his sins. Ari had seen plenty of frightened men in his day, and this was most definitely one of them. It was silent fear, however. Anyone who showed fear too openly only drew attention to himself.

  "The chimney seems fine," Ari continued. "I don't think I'll be using it much, though. Central air is so much more efficient. And cleaner."

  "Yes," Howie said, finally managing a smile. This was something he could relate to.

  "I had some visitors this morning. The Mackenzies."

  Howie could relate to this, too, only in a different direction. His hard-won smile vanished. "They're a pair."

  "Indeed," said Ari. "They told me you tried to get them to sign a petition."

  "Yes!" Howie exclaimed, finding courage in disapproval. "This neighborhood was going to the dogs. I even found syringes at the end of Beach Court. Kids were coming down here, shooting up, and just throwing the needles out their car windows."

  "That's terrible," said Ari.

  "That's just the beginning," said Howie, quickly warming to the topic. "Really, what happened to that family...you could see it coming."

  "What do you mean?'

  "Things were out of whack. This was a safe, quiet community. Then you get kids from outside, nobody keeping an eye on them, parking near the river and doing whatever they wanted. The crime rate went up. Yes, it was petty. I had a couple things stolen before I got smart and double-locked my shed. But...the whole atmosphere...it seemed to...I don't know...infect some of the people living here."

  "Like the Mackenzies?"

  "Oh them...they're part of the problem. Those parties they have..."

  "Did the Riggins have parties?"

  "Sure, but nothing like next door to them. They get wild. You'll see."

  "Is all of this why you joined the Neighborhood Watch?"

  "I began the Neighborhood Watch around here. Submitted all the forms, met with the precinct commander, put up the signs, got together volunteers."

  "Are there a lot of volunteers?"

  "Do you want to join?" Howie asked eagerly.

  "I'd like to get settled in, first."

  "Sure, sure. We've got about a dozen people." His face fell. "Not all of them are that dependable, right?"

  "Was someone from your group patrolling the area the night of the murders?"

  Howie Nottoway stiffened. "Well...yeah...it was Bobby Lovelace's turn. He swears he was doing the route and he didn't see anything. But he's..."

  "Not trustworthy?"

  "He parties with the Mackenzies."

  "Ah. Well, you must admit, Tracy Mackenzie is hard to resist."

  "I don't admit nothing," Howie said in a surly tone.

  "I didn't mean to offend you." Ari made an apologetic gesture. "You seem to have doubts about anyone who associates with the Mackenzies."

  "It's nothing I can prove..." Howie took a deep breath. "I wouldn't be surprised if they're into drugs. But don't quote me. Like I said..."

  It's something I can prove....

  Ari smiled.

  "Anyway, it's not just that. There's all the drinking--"

  "And parties."

  "You can tell they're all looped. Drunk." Fear and envy soaked Howie's analysis.

  "And the Riggenses...?"

  "Sure they partied, but not like that. And most of them were like social events. They had good people over. Well, city officials. Even the deputy mayor, once." Howie lowered his voice. "A lot of blacks."

  He choked up, suddenly realizing that in some quarters Ari might be considered a person of color
. Ari pretended not to notice.

  "Did they ever attend the Mackenzie parties?"

  Howie was stumped. "I don't have a clue. Maybe they did. I was surprised Jerry didn't volunteer for the Neighborhood Watch--if just for appearance’s sake. Maybe he didn't want to end up calling the police down on one of their loud parties. He'd never get invited back."

  So the Mackenzie's weren't the only ones with a low opinion of the civic hoopla surrounding Jerry and Moria. Yet Howie's interpretation varied from Matt and Tracy's sour view of the accolades bestowed on their neighbors. Some manifestations of hypocrisy were more acceptable than others, and Howie did not think the Rigginses had been too outrageous on that score. In fact, he was remarkably sedate about it, if what Ari was thinking turned out to be true.

  "You never went to one of their parties?"

  "At the Mackenzies? Wouldn't have gone if I was invited."

  "Yes, Matt smokes cigarettes."

  Howie had already noted the bulge in Ari's shirt pocket and prudently refrained from comment.

  "Matt Mackenzie seems to think there was a disturbance at the Riggins house some hours before the murders."

  The silence regarding cigarettes carried over to the new topic.

  "They both say they heard Jerry having some kind of fit, that he was slamming something."

  Howie's head slid sideways, as though his thoughts had become unhinged. "They probably hear pink elephants stomping on their gardenias, too."

  "You didn't hear anything?"

  "No."

  "But you were here that day?"

  "Yes. I think I told you that before." Howie's eyes narrowed. "You're really curious about this?"

  "I'm pestering you," Ari apologized.

  "Well, it's going to take me the rest of the morning to do these logs."

  "Of course." Ari made a show of suddenly remembering why he had come here. "Oh...if it's possible, could I borrow your sledge hammer?"

  Howie stared like a man dazed by a hit from a sledge hammer. "Why...?"

  "There's a little job I need to perform. I could have it back to you in an hour."

  With a nervous glance at the shed, Howie said, "I don't have one. Sorry. That was one of the things stolen before I locked everything up. I haven't gotten around to replacing it."