A collection of 11 mystery tales, from gangsters to domestic turmoil, with bonus tales from J.A. Konrath and Simon Wood.

 

CURTAINS

By Scott Nicholson

 

Copyright © 2010 Scott Nicholson

Published at Smashwords by Haunted Computer Books

http://www.hauntedcomputer.com

 

 

OTHER BOOKS BY SCOTT NICHOLSON:

The Skull Ring

As I Die Lying

Speed Dating with the Dead

The Red Church

Drummer Boy

Disintegration

Burial to Follow

Flowers

Ashes

The First

Gateway Drug

Murdermouth: Zombie Bits

Forever Never Ends

Transparent Lovers

Creative Spirit

Troubled

Solom

The Gorge

 

 

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. Dog Person

When the family dog turns up ill, a man is faced with a brutal choice while his wife carries her own dark secret.

2. Dead Air

A late-night deejay makes a special connection with a female serial killer.

3. How to Build Your Own Coffin

A man’s love of woodcraft is equaled only by his desire for a good wife and trustworthy companion.

4. The Name Game

Vincent wants to escape his past, but he has to do it as Robert Wells—or maybe Charlie Ehle. He’s not sure which.

5. Good Fences

Herman is suspicious of the new neighbor, who just might be the killing kind.

6. The Agreement by J.A. Konrath

A man who goes back on his word is in for a hot time in the old town tonight.

7. Kill Your Darlings

A writer should know better than anyone that crime—and crime fiction—doesn’t pay.

8. Making Ends Meet by Simon Wood

A man takes a special approach to family problems.

9. Sewing Circle

A reporter’s coverage of a local church group goes from Page 3 to the obituaries.

10. Nothing Personal, But You Gotta Die

Vincent almost got away, but Mikey is out to make a name for himself.

11. Watermelon

Ricky reads about a regional serial killer and gets some ideas of his own.

Afterwords

Biography

 

 

DOG PERSON

 

The final breakfast was scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, grits with real butter. Alison peeled four extra strips of bacon from the slab. On this morning of all mornings, she would keep the temperature of the stove eye just right. She wasn’t the cook of the house, but Robert had taught her all about Southern cuisine, especially that of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Before they met, her breakfast consisted of a cup of what Robert teasingly called a “girly French coffee” and maybe a yogurt. He’d introduced her to the joys of an unhealthy start to the morning, along with plenty of other things, the best of the rest coming after sundown.

Even after two years, Alison wasn’t as enthusiastic about the morning cholesterol infusion as Robert was. Or his dog. About once a week, though, she’d get up a half-hour early, drag the scarred skillet from beneath the counter, and peel those slick and marbled pieces of pig fat. The popping grease never failed to mark a red spot or two along her wrist as she wielded the spatula. But she wouldn’t gripe about the pain today.

Robert would be coming down any minute. She could almost picture him upstairs, brushing his teeth without looking in the mirror. He wouldn’t be able to meet his own eyes. Not with the job that awaited him.

Alison cracked six eggs in a metal bowl and tumbled them with a whisk until the yellow and white were mingled but not fully mixed. The grits bubbled and burped on the back burner. Two slices of bread stood in the sleeves of the toaster, and the coffee maker gurgled as the last of its heated water sprayed into the basket. Maxwell House, good old all-American farm coffee.

She avoided looking in the pantry, though the louvered doors were parted. The giant bag of Kennel Ration stood in a green trash can. On the shelf above was a box of Milk Bones and rows of canned dog food. Robert had a theory that hot dogs and turkey bologna were cheaper dog treats than the well-advertised merchandise lines, but he liked to keep stock on hand just in case. That was Robert; always planning ahead. But some things couldn’t be planned, even when you expected them.

Robert entered the room, buttoning the cuffs on his flannel shirt. The skin beneath his eyes was puffed and lavender. “Something smells good.”

She shoveled the four bacon strips from the skillet and placed them on a double layer of paper towels. “Only the best today.”

“That’s sweet of you.”

“I wish I could do more.”

“You’ve done plenty.”

Robert moved past her without brushing against her, though the counter ran down the center of the kitchen and narrowed the floor space in front of the stove. Most mornings, he would have given her an affectionate squeeze on the rear and she would have threatened him with the spatula, grinning all the while. This morning he poured himself a cup of coffee without asking if she wanted one.

She glanced at Robert as he bent into the refrigerator to get some cream. At thirty-five, he was still in shape, the blue jeans snug around him and only the slightest bulge over his belt. His brown hair showed the faintest streaks of gray, though the lines around his eyes and mouth had grown visibly deeper in the last few months. He wore a beard but he hadn’t shaved his neck in a week. He caught her looking.

Alison turned her attention back to the pan. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not much to say.” He stirred his coffee, tapped his spoon on the cup’s ceramic rim, and reached into the cabinet above the sink. He pulled the bottle of Jack Daniels into the glare of the morning sun. Beyond the window, sunlight filtered through the red and golden leaves of maple trees that were about to enter their winter sleep.

Robert never drank before noon, but Alison didn’t comment as he tossed a splash into his coffee. “I made extra bacon,” she said. “A special treat.”

Robert nodded, his eyes shot with red lightning bolts. He had tossed all night, awakening her once at 3 a.m. when his toenails dug into her calf. He must have been dreaming of days with Sandy Ann, walking by the river, camping in the hollows of Grandfather Mountain, dropping by the animal shelter to volunteer for a couple of hours.

Alison moved the grits from the heat and set them aside. The last round of bacon was done, and she drained some of the bacon grease away and poured the eggs. The mixture lay there round and steaming like the face of a cartoon sun. She let the eggs harden a bit before she moved them around. A brown skin covered the bottom of the skillet.

“Nine years is a lot,” she said. “Isn’t that over seventy in people years?”

“No, it’s nine in people years. Time’s the same for everybody and everything.”

Robert philosophy. A practical farm boy. If she had been granted the power to build her future husband in a Frankenstein laboratory, little of Robert would have been in the recipe. Maybe the eyes, brown and honest with flecks of green that brightened when he was aroused. She would have chosen other parts, though the composite wasn’t bad. The thing that made Robert who he was, the spark that juiced his soul, was largely invisible but had shocked Alison from the very first exposure.

She sold casualty insurance, and Robert liked to point out she was one of the “Good Hands” people. Robert’s account had been assigned to her when a senior agent retired, and during his first appointment to discuss whether to increase the limit on his homeowner’s policy, she’d followed the procedure taught in business school, trying to sucker him into a whole-life policy. During the conversation, she’d learned he had no heirs, not even a wife, and she explained he couldn’t legally leave his estate to Sandy Ann. One follow-up call later, to check on whether he would get a discount on his auto liability if he took the life insurance, and they were dating.

The first date was lunch in a place that was too nice and dressy for either of them to be comfortable. The next week, they went to a movie during which Robert never once tried to put his arm around her shoulder. Two days later, he called and said he was never going to get to know her at this rate so why didn’t she just come out to his place for a cook-out and a beer? Heading down his long gravel drive between hardwoods and weathered outbuildings, she first met Sandy Ann, who barked at the wheels and then leapt onto the driver’s side door, scratching the finish on her new Camry.

Robert laughed as he pulled the yellow Labrador retriever away so Alison could open her door. She wasn’t a dog person. She’d had a couple of cats growing up but had always been too busy to make a long-term pet commitment. She had planned to travel light, though the old get-married-two-kids-house-in-the-suburbs had niggled at the base of her brain once or twice as she’d approached thirty. It turned out she ended up more rural than suburban, Robert’s sperm count was too low, and marriage was the inevitable result of exposure to Robert’s grill.

She plunged the toaster lever. The eggs were done and she arranged the food on the plates. Her timing was perfect. The edges of the grits had just begun to congeal. She set Robert’s plate before him. The steam of his coffee carried the scent of bourbon.

“Where’s the extra bacon?” he asked.

“On the counter.”

“It’ll get cold.”

“She’ll eat it.”

“I reckon it won’t kill her either way.” Robert sometimes poured leftover bacon or hamburger grease on Sandy Ann’s dry food even though the vet said it was bad for her. Robert’s justification was she ate rotted squirrels she found in the woods, so what difference did a little fat make?

“We could do this at the vet,” Alison said. “Maybe it would be easier for everybody, especially Sandy Ann.” Though she was really thinking of Robert. And herself.

“That’s not honest. I know you love her, too, but when you get down to it, she’s my dog. I had her before I had you.”

Sandy Ann had growled at Alison for the first few weeks, which she found so unsettling that she almost gave up on Robert. But he convinced her Sandy Ann was just slow to trust and would come around in time. Once, the dog nipped at her leg, tearing a hole in a new pair of slacks. Robert bought her a replacement pair and they spent more time in Alison’s apartment than at the farm. Alison bought the groceries and let him cook, and they did the dishes together.

The first time Alison spent the night at the farm, Sandy Ann curled outside Robert’s door and whined. He had to put the dog outside so they could make love. They were married four months later and Robert was prepared to take the dog with them on their honeymoon, an RV and backpacking trip through the Southwest. Only a desperate plea from Alison, stopping just short of threat, had persuaded Robert to leave Sandy Ann at a kennel.

“You got the eggs right,” Robert said, chewing with his mouth open.

“Thank you.”

He powdered his grits with pepper until a soft black carpet lay atop them. The dust was nearly thick enough to make Alison sneeze. He worked his fork and moved the grits to his mouth, washing the bite down with another sip of the laced coffee.

“Maybe you can wait until tomorrow,” Alison said. She didn’t want to wait another day, and had waited months too long already, but she said what any wife would. She bit into her own bacon, which had grown cool and brittle.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday.” Robert wasn’t religious but he was peculiar about Sundays. It was a holdover from his upbringing as the son of a Missionary Baptist. Though Robert was a house painter by trade, he’d kept up the farming tradition. The government was buying out his tobacco allocation and cabbage was more of a hobby than a commercial crop. Robert raised a few goats and a beef steer, but they were more pets than anything. She didn’t think Robert would slaughter them even if they stood between him and starvation. He wasn’t a killer.

“Sunday might be a better day for it,” she said.

“No.” Robert nibbled a half-moon into the toast. “It’s been put off long enough.”

“Maybe we should let her in.”

“Not while we’re eating. No need to go changing habits now.”

“She won’t know the difference.”

“No, but I will.”

Alison drew her robe tighter across her body. The eggs had hardened a little, the yellow gone an obscene greenish shade.

Sandy Ann had been having kidney and liver problems and had lost fifteen pounds. The vet said they could perform an operation, which would cost $3,000, and there would still be no guarantee of recovery. Alison told Robert it would be tough coming up with the money, especially since she’d given up her own job, but she would be willing to make the necessary sacrifices. Robert said they would be selfish to keep the dog alive if it was suffering.

“Want some more grits?” she asked. Robert shook his head and finished the coffee. She looked at the fork in his hand and saw that it was quivering.

Sandy Ann ran away when Alison moved in. Robert stayed up until after midnight, going to the door and calling its name every half-hour. He’d prowled the woods with a flashlight while Alison dozed on the couch. Sandy Ann turned up three days later in the next town, and Robert said if he hadn’t burned his phone number into the leather collar, the dog might have been lost forever.

Sandy Ann was mostly Lab, with a little husky mix that gave its eyes a faint gray tint in certain light. The dog had been spayed before Robert got it at the pound. Robert’s mother had died that year, joining her husband in their Baptist heaven and leaving the farm to their sole heir. Sandy Ann had survived thirty-seven laying hens, two sows, a milk cow, one big mouser tomcat that haunted the barn, and a Shetland pony.

Until today.

Alison’s appetite was terrible even for her. Three slices of bacon remained on her plate. She pushed them onto a soiled paper napkin for the dog.

“Four’s enough,” Robert said.

“I thought you could give her one piece now.”

“It’s not like baiting a fish. A dog will follow bacon into hell if you give it half a chance.”

Robert finished his plate and took the dishes to the sink. She thought he was going to enter the cabinet for another shot of bourbon, but he simply rinsed the dishes and stacked them on top of the dirty skillet. His hair seemed to have become grayer at the temples and he hunched a little, like an old man with calcium deficiency.

“I’d like to come,” she said.

“We’ve been through that.”

“We’re supposed to be there for each other. You remember April eighth?”

“That was just a wedding. This is my dog.”

Alison resented Sandy Ann’s having the run of the house. The carpets were always muddy and no matter how often she vacuumed, dog hair seemed to snow from the ceiling. The battle had been long and subtle, but eventually Sandy Ann became an outdoor dog on all but the coldest days. The dog still had a favorite spot on the shotgun side of Robert’s pick-up, the vinyl seat cover scratched and animal-smelling. Alison all but refused to ride in the truck, and they took her Camry when they were out doing “couple things.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Alison asked. She had tried to draw him out. In the early days, Robert had been forthcoming about everything, surprising her with his honesty and depth of feeling. Despite the initial attraction, she had thought him a little rough around the edges. She’d been raised in a trailer park but had attended Wake Forest University and so thought she had escaped her breeding. But Robert reveled in his.

“Nothing left to say. Maybe later.”

“We can go down to the farmer’s market when you get back. Maybe we can get some sweet corn for dinner. And I’ve been looking for a philodendron for the living room.”

“I won’t feel like it.”

“Robert, I know it’s hard. Talk to me.”

“I am talking.”

“Really. Don’t shut me out.”

“Never have.”

She slammed her fist on the table, causing her flatware to jump and clatter. “Damn it, don’t be so stoic. You’re allowed to grieve.”

Robert wiped his hands on the kitchen towel that hung from the refrigerator handle. “Thanks for breakfast.”

He went past her to the hall. She heard him open the closet door and rummage on the upper shelf. One of the snow skis banged against the doorjamb. She had convinced Robert to try skiing, and they’d spent a weekend at Wintergreen in Virginia. He’d twisted his ankle on the first run. He said skiing was a rich kid’s sport and it had served him right to try and escape his breeding.

Robert came back to the kitchen, the rifle tucked against his right shoulder. A single bullet made a bulge in his pocket, the shape long and mean.

“Have you decided where to bury her?” Alison had always thought of Sandy Ann as an “it,” and had to consciously use the feminine pronoun. Alison wanted to show she cared, whether her husband appreciated it or not.

“She’s not that heavy, or I’d do it near where I was going to bury her. I’m figuring behind the barn. She loved to lay in the shade back there.”

Alison hated the back of the barn. It was full of barbed wire and blackberry vines, and once she’d seen a snake slither through the tall weeds. The garden lay beyond it, and she tended a bed of marigolds there, but she associated shadows with unseen reptiles. Sandy Ann would sometimes watch from the edge of the garden while Alison worked, but the two rarely communicated when Robert wasn’t around, though Alison often left bacon for it by the back steps.

The grease from breakfast coated Alison’s throat, and her chest ached. Robert went through the back door onto the porch. Alison followed him, trading the heavy smells of the kitchen for the tart, dry October morning. The mountains were vibrant in their dying glory, umber, burgundy, ochre.

Sandy Ann was sleeping in a hollowed-out place under the steps. The dog lifted its head at the sound of their feet. It must have smelled the bacon in Robert’s hand, because its dusty nose wiggled and Sandy Ann dragged itself into the yard.

The sun glinted in the tears that ran down Robert’s cheeks. “Good girl,” he said, giving the dog a piece of bacon. The dog swallowed it without chewing and ran its rough tongue over its lips, ears lifting a little in anticipation of more. Robert moved the bacon to his rifle hand and scratched the dog on top of the head.

“Come on, girl, let’s take a walk.” He headed toward the woods.

Sandy Ann looked back at Alison, eyes dim and hiding pain, brown crust in their corners. She held out the bacon in her hand. Unlike the other pieces she had fed it, this one wasn’t sprinkled with rat poison. The dog licked its lips once more, exhaled a chuffing sigh, then followed Robert, the yellow tail swinging gently like a piece of frozen rope.

Robert led the way across the yard, holding the bacon aloft so the dog could smell it. He and Sandy Ann went through a crooked gate and Robert leaned the rifle against the fence while he fastened the latch. He looked back at the porch. Alison waved and bit into her own bacon.

They started again, both of them stooped and limping. They reached the trees, Robert’s boots kicking up the brittle leaves, Sandy Ann laboring by his side. The last she saw of him was his plaid flannel shirt.

She should chase them. Maybe she could hold the bacon while Robert loaded the gun. After all, she had cooked it. And, in a way, she was replacing Sandy Ann. If Robert ever got another dog, it would be Alison’s home and therefore it would be the dog that would have to adjust, not the other way around. She didn’t think they would get another dog, not for a while.

Sandy Ann was just a dog, and Alison wasn’t a dog person. She was the practical one in the relationship. She could have driven Sandy Ann to the vet, even at the risk of getting dog hair in her car. The vet would have drawn out a nice, clean needle and Sandy Ann could drift off to sleep, dreaming of fast squirrels and chunks of cooked meat and snacks by the back porch of home.

Maybe Robert needed the catharsis of violence. Perhaps that would be his absolution, though surely he couldn’t view the dog’s infirmity as his fault. After all, it would have aged no matter the owner. Sandy Ann, like all of them, would die and go to whatever heaven was nearest. Robert’s way might be best after all. One split-second and then the pain would end.

Alison went inside and poured herself a half cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, looking through the window. The sunlight was soft on the stubbled garden. Some of the marigolds clung to a defiant life, their edges crinkled and brown. Collard leaves swayed in the breeze like the ears of small green puppies. The shovel stood by the barn, waiting.

Her coffee mug was to her lips when the shot sounded. The report echoed off the rocky slopes and the hard, knotty trees. Alison didn’t know whether to smile or pout against the ceramic rim. The house was hers.

When Robert returned, she would have tears in her eyes. She would hug him and let him sag onto her, and she would lead him to the couch. She would remind him of all the great memories, and let him talk for hours about the dog’s life. She would kneel before him and remove his boots and wipe the mud from them. He would have no appetite, but she would cook for him anyway, maybe something sweet, like a pie. If he wanted, he could have some more of the Jack Daniels. She would turn on the television and they would sit together, the two of them in their house.

Her house.

Alison finished her coffee. The remaining bacon was covered with a gray film of grease but she ate it anyway, her stomach finally unclenching.

She washed dishes, a chore she loathed. She rinsed the pans with hot water. Later in the evening, she would vacuum, try to remove the last traces of Sandy Ann from the living room carpet.

Something clicked on the porch steps. She wondered if Robert had decided to come back to the house before he began digging. Either way, Alison would be there for him. She would shovel until she raised blisters if he would let her. Alison wiped her hands on her bathrobe and hurried to the door, blinking rapidly so her eyes would water.

The scratching sound was at the door now, as if Robert were wiping his boots on the welcome mat. She braced herself for Robert’s crestfallen expression, the caved-in look of his eyes, the deep furrows at the corners of his mouth. She would never have inflicted such suffering if it weren’t for the best.

Alison opened the door. On the porch, Sandy Ann stood on bowed legs, working her dry lips. The dog lifted a forlorn paw and dropped it with a click of nails. There were spatters of blood across the dog’s snout.

One shot.

Robert couldn’t have missed.

Not from so close.

Could he have . . . ?

No, not Robert.

But it was the kind of choice Robert would make.

His only choice.

A dog person to the end.

“Robert?” she called, voice cracking, knowing there would be no answer.

Alison’s ribs were a fist gripping the yolk of her heart. Her legs were grits, her head popping like hot grease on a griddle. Her spine melted like butter. She sagged against her house and slid to a sitting position. Sandy Ann whimpered, limped over, and ran a papery tongue against her cheek.

The dog’s breath reeked of bacon and poison and unconditional love.

###

 

 

DEAD AIR

 

I leaned back in my swivel chair, my headphones vice-gripping my neck. The VU meters were pinned in the red, and Aerosmith had the monitor speakers throbbing. I turned down the studio sound level and pressed the phone to my ear, not believing what I'd heard.

"I've just killed a man," she repeated, her voice harsh and breathless.

"Come again, sister?"  I said, pulling my feet off the console. My brain was a little slow in catching on. I was two hours into the graveyard shift, and the before-work beers were crashing into my third cup of cold coffee like Amtrak trains.

"I've just killed a man," she said for a third time. She was a little calmer now. "I just wanted to share that with you. Because I've always felt like I could trust you. You have an honest voice."

I potted up the telephone interface and broadcast her live to my loyal listeners. All three of them, I chuckled to myself. In five years at WKIK, The Kick, I'd come to accept my humble place in the universe. The only people tuned in at this hour were hepped-up truckers and vampire wannabes, the unwashed who shied from the light of day. I'd long ago decided that I might as well keep myself amused. And now I had a nutter on the line.

I flipped my mic key and the red "ON AIR" sign blinked over the door.

"Yo, this is Mickey Nixon with ya in the wee hours," I said, in the slightly-false bass I'd cultivated over the course of my career. "I've got a talker on the line, she's there to share. Go on, honey."

"I just want everybody to know that I killed someone. This man I've been dating got a little bit too aggressive, so I blew his damned brains out. And it felt good," she said, her words pouring out over the monitors through the warm Kansas air.

My finger was poised over the mute button in case I needed to censor her. By station rules, I was supposed to send all live call-ins through the loop delay. But since I got so few callers, I usually took my chances. Plus I liked the razor edge of spontaneity.

"I want to tell you that the steam off his blood is still rising. He's lying here on his apartment floor with his pants around his knees and his brains soaking into the shag carpet. If any of you guys out there think date rape is a laughing matter, I'm sharing this little story so you'll think twice."

I gulped. This was really wacky stuff. I couldn't have written it in a million years. I'd paid friends before to call with outrageous stories, but they always sounded a little too rehearsed. Now here was some dynamite, and it was exploding at no charge.

"Wait a minute, woman," I said, playing the straight man. "You mean to tell us you're standing over a warm body right now with a phone in your hand, confessing murder?"

"It's not murder, it's self-defense. I may be a woman, but I've got my rights. Nobody touches me unless I let them. Besides, I've done this before, I've just never felt like talking about it until now."

"So maybe it's what you would call a 'justifiable' homicide. Have you called the police?"

I was starting to get a little nervous now. If this girl was acting, she was too good to be stuck in a Midwestern cow town like Topeka . She was starting to sound too weird, even for me. Her voice was as sharp and cold as an icicle, but with a touch of sexiness all the same.

"That's why I called you, Mickey. I've listened to your show for a long time, and I just knew you'd understand. You think the boys in blue would believe me?"

I was almost flattered, but a reality check rose like stomach acid. Sure, years ago I was a morning star in Los Angeles drive-time, but a little FCC controversy knocked me down faster than a Mike Tyson punch. I'd bounced around a few AM stations and tried my hand at ad sales, but now I was just riding the board until the years of chemical abuse caught up with me.

"Honey, I'm here for you," I said, getting back in the game. "We love you here at the Kick, and Mickey Nixon is not one to judge other people. Live and let live, I always say...to coin a phrase."

Now I could see a row of green lights blinking on the telephone board. Four callers were waiting to be punched in. I'd never had more than two, and that was when Lefty from Promotions had fingered me a couple of White Zombie tickets to give away. This girl, whoever she was, had the audience stirring.

"Mickey, men have always disappointed me. They talk sweet and walk straight until they get what they want. Then they treat you like a rag doll or worse. Well, I'm fed up. Now, I'm the one on the prowl for easy meat. Just ask Chuck here..."

There were a couple of seconds of dead air.

"Oh, sorry. Chucky can't come to the phone right now. He's got other things on his mind, and they're called my feet. Well, Mickey. I've got to go. It's been real, and I'll be in touch."

I could hear sirens in the background just before she hung up.

"If you're still out there, remember that you can talk to me. I'll never do you wrong," I broadcast to the sleepy world. I punched up caller number two, trying to keep some momentum.

"Hey, Mickey, that tart's gone out of her mind. Did you pay a friend of yours to call in or something?" a drunken voice slurred.

"Yeah, just like I did with you, upchuck breath." I cut him off and punched up the next caller.

"I just killed a beer myself, and I want you to know your show rocks, man."

It sounded like a college student who had seen " Wayne 's World" too many times. But I wasn't choosy and I doubted I'd be lucky enough to get anyone as interesting as my death-dealing diva as an on-air guest. What was I expecting, Howard Stern or the ghost of Orson Welles?

"That chick was really wild, man," the caller continued, adding a couple of "uhs" into the mix. This show was billed as the "Talk-n-Toonage Marathon ," but the talk never seemed to keep rolling.

"Thanks for the input, 'dude.' Gotta go." I sighed, stabbed the button on the cart machine, and AC/DC started ringing "Hell's Bells."

 

The next afternoon, I rolled out of bed and belched stale coffee. I stumbled through the dirty clothes and back issues of Rolling Stone that served as the carpet in my one-room bachelor's paradise and elbowed open the bathroom door. I showered and even screwed up my resolve enough to shave. I felt displaced and alienated, as if I'd just come back from a long drug trip. At first, I couldn't figure out what was different. Then it hit me. I actually felt rejuvenated, as if last night's caller had given me something to look forward to.

I drove my ragged Honda down to the station and parked at the far end of the lot. All the other jocks had personal spaces. I guess the station GM figured one day I'd just disappear and she didn't want me around badly enough to invest ten bucks in a lousy plywood sign. Well, no love lost.

I went inside and checked the shift schedule, then headed for the staff lounge. I was just about to scarf a couple of donuts when I saw the newspaper open on the table. I picked it up and searched the front page. No headlines screaming bloody murder.

I was turning to the crime section when Pudge, WKIK's answer to Benito Mussolini as well as Program Director, walked in. His eyes glared from under the caterpillars of his brows. He didn't bother saying hello. He had a marketing report in his hand and he waved it like an ax.

"Your numbers are down, Mick. You know the only reason we stay on during the graveyard shift is because it's cheaper than locking up and paying security for a few hours. But I want to lead in every time slot, and you're not up to speed."

Pudge was on a mission to inflate his own ego until his head could no longer fit through doorways. He gobbled up credit like it was free pizza, but when it was time to dish out the blame, he had a list as long as his belt, and his name was on the last notch. College communications courses taught me that radio was a personal medium, but Pudge must have skipped those. At every staff meeting, he argued for total automation of WKIK.

I rubbed my cheek and felt the first blossom of stubble in the weedbeds of my cheeks.

"Well, Pu—um, Andrew, if you'd give my slot a little promotion, it might do something. Besides, I've got a loyal audience."

"Well, your audience's demographic doesn't coincide with the one our advertisers want to reach. Even at your low wage, this 'Talk-n-Toonage Marathon ' is barely breaking even. I'm tempted to change your slot to a satellite feed."

I was barely listening because I was transfixed by the flapping of his plump lips. He bored me faster than a dinner date with Andre. I muttered something appropriately offensive and incoherent and left with the newspaper and a pair of chocolate donuts. The Honda whined a little before starting, but I coaxed it home so that I could rest before the night's shift.

As I gnawed a three-day-old slice of anchovy pizza, I thumbed through the paper. On page two of the local news section, I found my item.

 

MAN FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT HOMICIDE

Charles Shroeder, age 29, of 417 Skylark Place , was found shot in his home last night. Police responded after a neighbor reported hearing a gunshot. A medical examiner ruled that Shroeder died from a single bullet wound to the head at approximately 2:00 AM. There are no suspects at this time, according to Lt. C.L. Hubble of the Topeka Police Detective Division.

 

So my mystery caller was the real thing after all. I wondered if I should call the police. I didn't have any solid evidence, if you didn't count a phone conversation, and I didn't. I decided to wait until she called again. I wanted to hear her voice, the one of blood and smoke. I only hoped she wouldn't have to kill again, if indeed she had killed at all, to be motivated enough to give me a ring.

Four long, lonely nights crawled by. "Wayne " called once and requested some Beastie Boys, and a handful of callers asked about the "murder woman," but other than that, the phone set in its cradle like a cement slipper. I slid into my regular routine, ignoring the playlist and forgetting to air the paid ads according to the traffic schedule. My cynicism began to consume me again, a snake swallowing its tail. Then, on Thursday, she called.

I knew it was her the moment I saw the light on the switchboard. I snapped the phone to my ear. "Mickey Nixon at the Kick."

"Hi, Mickey. It's me again." Her voice rushed through the miles of cable like a May breeze, warm and fresh.

"You have me at a disadvantage. I don't know your name."

"That would sort of be like kissing and telling, wouldn't it? You already know so much about me. But just call me 'Night Owl.'"

I eyed the digits counting down on the Denon player and cued the next CD. So she'd given herself a pseudonym. Not exactly a sign of emotional stability. But, hell, my real name was Michel D'artagne.

"Well, do you want to tell our audience what you've been doing with yourself lately?"

"Anything for a thrill, Mickey. Have you missed me?"

"Sure. It's a lonely life, surrounded by these cold machines. The music helps, but it's the people that make it matter. I'm sending you out live now." I potted up the interface before beginning my introduction.

"Yo, shake out of those dreams, my friend, Mickey's got the Night Owl here, the one that's to die for, and you want to twist that dial right on up."

Deejaying was one of the few occupations where you could get away with referring to yourself in the third person, along with politics and professional sports. She picked up on my enthusiasm and jumped right in.

"Hey, out there in radio-land. This is Night Owl with more good news for the human race. There's one less piece of dirtbaggage in the world tonight. I just took down number three. Johnny picked me up in a bar and wanted a double-handful of hot romance. He got an earful of hot metal instead. Just because he bought me a drink, he thought he was buying the whole package."

I could see the switchboard lighting up like a Christmas tree. WKIK's phone system could handle eight lines, and every one had a caller on the end. Apparently, word had trickled out like electricity. I'd been searching my whole career for something to strike the audience's nerves, and it seemed death did the trick.

"Night Owl, some of our audience would like to talk to you. Go ahead, caller one..." I potted up our auxiliary phone link so we could have a three-way conversation.

"Thank you for bringing joy to my life," a woman's cigarette-scorched voice came over the monitors. "I've been married to a slob for eighteen years, and suddenly he's turned into Mr. Clean, minus the earring. He heard about you down at the Pump-And-Pay, and he figured he'd better get his act together, because you never know who's going to turn into a copycat killer. Keep up the good work, girl."

I punched up another. It was Wayne, my main man. Maybe he had something bright to say for once. He stuttered a couple of times before starting. "Hey, Miss Night Owl lady, I dig your style. I know us men can be, like, pigs and stuff, but don't you think killing's a little harsh?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Night Owl said. "I think thousands of years of male-dominated society are enough, don't you?"

"Well, uh—" Wayne was at a loss for words. Maybe he'd used up the dozen he knew. But he coughed and continued. "I guess there's some bad guys, but it's not, you know, a total washout with us dude-types."

"Oh, there are a few good men, and believe me, they're not in the Marines. Take our Mickey, for instance."

"Thanks, Night Owl." I was beginning to wonder if I knew this woman. I'd always had a soft spot for sweet psychos. "Do you have time for another caller?"

Wayne cut in like a cowboy at a line dance. "Would you like to, like, go out or something, Night Owl?"

"Well, you definitely sound like my type. My type of victim, that is. Who knows, maybe we'll meet. I'll keep one in the chamber, just for you."

I punched up another caller. It was a woman.

"I'm right with you, honey. I dated a clown for seven years, and ever doggone time I brought up marriage, he'd say, 'Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?' Well, I put a good dose of digitalis in a cherry cheesecake—do you bake? I got some good recipes. Been in the family for generations—well, the idiot ate it. He was grinnin' like a turtle eatin' saw-briars the whole time. Fell over dead right there at the kitchen table. Had a weak heart, I told the police. Well, I may be the cow, but he's the one who kicked the bucket. And I got you to thank for gettin' up my nerve."

"Another blow for freedom, my dear," Night Owl said. "Keep that oven warm. Sounds like you're a real killer cook. Well, folks, got to run. There's nothing I hate worse than being a cold-blooded murderer, so I try to leave before rigor mortis sets in. Bye, Mickey, smooches to you."

As she hung up, I felt like I was in a vacuum. I was annoyed by my attraction to her. I was beginning to understand the audience's fascination with Night Owl. I punched up another caller.

We filled the air of the black Kansas sky with talk about the Equal Rights Amendment, the best methods of undetected murder, and even shared a few culinary tips. The switchboard stayed full most of the shift. I slipped in a few hard rock tunes and a couple of ads without losing talkers. The night flowed by like warm honey.

By the time the sun was stabbing over the flat horizon, I was wrapping up the best shift I'd ever had. Reluctantly,. I turned the board over to Georgie Boy, host of the Kick's Morning Show. I signed off on the transmitter log and went home. I was so wired, I didn't fall asleep until noon. A lot of people probably called in sick that morning.

 

Night Owl didn't phone the next week, but plenty of others did. Some were women confessing murder. A few guys apologized for the whole male gender. Most people quite simply wanted to talk about death and dying, especially of the "unnatural" variety.

I played the role of arbitrator. I'd never fought in the battle of the sexes, so I just stood by and counted casualties. I changed the name of the show to "Death Radio," and I even had some celebrities dialing in. I was caught in the flush of excitement. I felt free, like a teenager with his first car and the whole bright future laid out in front of him like a six-lane highway.

There was a rash of homicides in the city, and officials had no explanation. Gun sales were up, but robbery and rape were way down. My show was number one with a bullet among the overnights in my market. When I went to pick up my check one Friday, I ran into Pudge. He looked like a cat that had swallowed curdled cream.

"Congratulations, Mick. In three weeks, you've escalated to the top of your time slot. We've got sponsors lining up to take your show. We can pretty much name our price. Freddie in sales is shopping for a new BMW, he's so confident this is going to be his big payoff. This 'death' thing is a stroke of genius. You should go into marketing."

And spend even more time with people like you, I thought. I'd rather eat digitalis cheesecake. I enjoyed having Pudge over the fire, so I rotated the spit a little.

"Well, I think we need to automate the show. People just love spending the night on hold." I was about to fan the flames a little more when smugness crept like a shadow across his doughy face.

"Oh, by the way," he interrupted, with an undisguised note of glee, "there's a policeman waiting in the lounge to see you. I hope you're not into those awful drugs again."

I'd been expecting this. The cops were slow in this town, but even they could follow a beacon like the one my show had become. I flipped Pudge a finger and walked past the studio into the lounge. At the table sat a short, wiry man in a rumpled tan suit. His eyes were beady and intelligent, like those of a field mouse. He was eating a glazed donut.

"You must be Mickey," he said, a jawful of pastry muffling his words. "I'm Detective Dietz from homicide."

He held out his hand for me to shake. My hand came away a little bit sticky.

"I've heard that you might know a little bit about this 'Night Owl' character. According to witnesses, she's called here at the station on at least two occasions, apparently just after committing murder."

"I can't control what people are going to say. There's that little matter of the First Amendment."

"There's also a matter called 'withholding evidence,' and its kissing cousin, 'aiding and abetting.' Surely you're familiar with the judicial system by now."

I was about to protest when he held up a hand. "Society considers those debts paid, Mickey. Or should I say 'Michel'? We just want to stop the killings. All this city needs is a female Charles Bronson running wild. The next thing you know, the papers pick up on it and we got a slew of imitators."

"You already know as much as I do. She says she killed some guys who did her wrong."

"Well, she seems to think you're on her side. You haven't done anything to encourage her, have you?" Dietz wiped the crumbs off his chin and licked his rodent lips.

"Look, she's good for ratings. The audience loves her. She connects with people. Maybe there's a murderous streak in all of us. It's not my place to censor immorality."

"That's why there's a Federal Communications Commission, my friend. I'd be willing to bet that a death forum is not what they consider 'in the public interest.'"

"What can I do?" I shrugged. I got the impression that Dietz would be on me like a fly on stink until he wrapped up this case.

"We want to set up a wiretap in the studio and wait for her to call again. You'll need to keep her going long enough for us to get a trace. Our technician tells me that takes about two minutes if she's on a local exchange."

I shrugged again. He would have no problem getting a court order if necessary. "I never know when she's going to call."

"We'll wait. We're on salary. And you have good donuts here. We start tonight."

 

My Honda broke down, so I had to catch a bus back to WKIK that night. As I walked to the entrance, I noticed a sign with my name on it. It was a good space, right next to the GM's. I noted with satisfaction that it was a little closer to the door than Pudge's.

It was a little past midnight, so I was late signing on. Dietz and an engineer who looked like a junkie were already on the job. The engineer was splicing into the phone system. Bits of bare wire littered the floor like copper worms.

I checked the transmitter readings and apologized to the jock who had to stay late to cover for me. He had a little acne around his mouth. Probably an intern. He looked at me with a flash of something like hero worship in his eyes.

"No problem, Mr. Nixon," he said, handing me the playlist. For a second, I thought he was going to ask for my autograph.

I settled behind the console like a pilot about to launch a jumbo jet. Dietz slouched in one corner with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. The engineer held an earphone against his gaunt head and nodded at him. All systems go, prepare for lift-off, I said to myself. I flipped over the mic key and addressed the waiting ears of Topeka .

"Have some fear, Mickey's here, welcome to 'Death Radio,' only on the Kick. Give me a buzz and let me know what's going down in the dark corners of your mind."

I grinned at Dietz as the board lit up. "Go ahead, caller. You're on," I said, cranking up the pot.

A woman with a stuffy nose began talking. "Mickey, I just wanted you to know how much we love 'Death Radio' here at Floyd's Truck Stop. You don't know how many loafers sit around here on their lazy hind ends soppin' up free refills and listenin' to your show."

"Glad to have you aboard, honey. So, have you killed anybody lately?"

I saw Dietz wince as she laughed. "Now, I don't think that girl's as bad as all that. So she shot a few, sounds to me like they had it comin'. And all the guys around here been tippin' real good this week. Been mindin' their manners, and eatin' with their hats off. Ever bad wind blows somebody good, I say."

"Amen to that," I said. I was beginning to wonder, and not for the first time, if I was playing to people's fears just to be a big shot. To be honest with myself, I was enjoying the success. Let people die if it was good for the ratings. I was beginning to think like a television news producer. Give the people what they want and damn the consequences.

I steadily punched up callers, and every one had a story about some man they knew who was finally shaping up or had died trying. A few knew, "first-hand", about somebody who met their Maker over a little marital indiscretion. Dietz was pale, furiously scribbling on a note pad with the stub of a pencil. He hadn't realized just how out of control the show had gotten.

"Folks, I love you," I said at the end of the shift. "Thanks for opening your hearts to me, not to mention a few holes in people's heads. Night Owl, if you're out there, fly right and keep your barrel smoking. Tune in again tomorrow, skip work if you feel like it, and deep-six somebody if you must. This is Mickey Nixon, stick a fork in me, I'm done."

Dietz was as white as a nurse's bra. He would probably be in an all-day powwow with the District Attorney's office, scrambling for offenses to charge me with. Georgie Boy walked in and surveyed the electronic carnage the police engineer had inflicted. I winked at him and poked the Denon machine with my finger. The Cars started playing "Let The Good Times Roll."

 

Three nights passed that way, with Dietz as my co-pilot and the skeletal technician as navigator. The phone lines stayed busy. Other stations were covering my show as a news event, and a few were trying their own Death Shows. But I was the only one with Night Owl. She called that Tuesday at about 4 AM, just after the hourly station ID.

"Hey, Mickey, honey, it's Night Owl," her voice purred over the speakers.

Dietz jumped up, spilling his coffee and adding another stain to the studio floor. The police tech rolled the tape recorder and watched his meters. I reached a trembling finger to my mic switch.

"Hello, Night Owl, it's good to hear your voice. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten old Mickey here."

"I'd never do that. Just thinking about you gets me all hot and bothered. I've been listening, and I like what I hear. It seems like murder's the biggest game in town."

"Yes, but nobody does it like you. Have you done it lately?"

"Well, now that you mention it, I was just with a gentleman who knows how to show a lady a good time. He even did the driving. It's funny how if you walk down certain streets at night, guys just pull over and ask if you want a ride. They'll even try to give you money. But, oh my, the things they ask you to do."

"What did this one want?" I was excited and scared at the same time. Dietz flicked his eyes from the tech to his wristwatch, then to my sweaty face.

"You know I don't talk dirty over the phone, Mickey. That would be unladylike. Let's just say we wound up on a dead-end road. I could feel the pounding of his cheap heart beneath his polyester suit. He said I could do it any way I wanted. The way I wanted was to put it right between his meaty chins and scatter his pea-sized brain all over his nice, clean upholstery."

"Way to go, girl," I said. The switchboard was clogged with callers wanting to talk to Night Owl. There was no time to punch someone in. The tech started nodding down the seconds, his bony head wobbling like a frog on a wire, and I felt dread squeeze my throat.

"Mickey, nobody knows how to treat a lady anymore, except you. Thanks for keeping me going when the rest of the world is going crazy. If only every man were like you--"

I suddenly felt sick.

"Hang up, there's a police trace!" I screamed into my mic, covering it with saliva. I heard a click on the monitors. It was the sound of my world coming to an end, in a stream of dead air instead of the guitar feedback I'd always imagined.

Dietz rushed at me, anger twisting his face into a mask. The tech threw his scrawny arms up in surrender. I leaned back in my swivel chair and stared at the zeroed-out volume meters. "Good-bye, Night Owl," I said, to no one in particular.

Everything moved in slow motion after that. Dietz read me my rights and was about to snap on the cuffs, but in my condition, I was about as dangerous as a goldfish. Once he regained his composure, he was kind enough to let me run the board until another jock showed up. They couldn't reach Pudge, but the GM sent in the pimply intern. I signed off with The Who's "Song is Over."

 

I've got a battery of lawyers from the American Civil Liberties Union, and they tell me my case will be tied up for years, years I probably don't have. Night Owl left a message on my answering machine at home.

"Mickey, you said you'd never do me wrong, but you're just like all the rest." Sadness had replaced the fire in her voice, and her words twisted in my chest like a corkscrew. "All the joy's gone, but at least I still have my work. I'll see you around. And now I think I'm supposed to say, 'Don't call me, I'll call you.'"

I kept my deejay job. There was no one to fire me. It seems Pudge was found dead in his car. Ballistics tests match those of the other Night Owl murders. The GM decided I have just enough notoriety left to draw a few listeners. They've removed the interface from the studio, and all we have is a request line.

So now I sit and wait. I heard there's been a string of shootings over in Council Bluffs , with a familiar M.O., and it's not a long drive to get here. The request line blinks, as lonely as the last morning star. Wayne is on the other end.

"Looks like it's just you and me," I say.

"Rock on, dude."

I do.

###

 

 

HOW TO BUILD YOUR OWN COFFIN

 

Blood and nails, that's all you need.

Larry ran his hand over the wood. Smooth as a baby's ass and a mother's tit. He'd planed the cherry himself, by hand, not with one of those machines. Sure, he'd caught a few splinters, but that was the blood part of this business.

And what were a few calluses? Skin turned to dust just as surely as brain and bone did. And your heart probably crumbled faster than any of it. The meat didn't matter. What mattered was how you walked off the stage. That's what they remembered. And Larry McMasters was going to go out in style.

He dipped his brush into the shellac and lifted it to the lamplight. The thick, golden material hung from the brush like honey. If he sealed the wood, it would keep underground for a few months longer, maybe even a year. Would that be honest, though? Wouldn't that be putting just another layer between him and his return to the dirt?

Larry wiped the brush clean on the edge of the bucket and set it to soak in turpentine. Best to go with plain, bare wood. Like what surrounded him here in the barn. The barn itself was like a coffin, except it was filled to busting with life, chickens and pigs and old Zaint the horse. Zaint was so far faded he was about half glue, but he kept heading to the pasture of a morning and turning up again every night.

Larry's pastures had seen more drought than plenty. His days in the world hadn't added up to much. Fourteen years loading produce on trucks paid him with a bad back and a smoking habit. Oh, he'd had about eighteen good years before that, when his parents were still around to pay the bills, but those were so long ago and far away that they might as well have been in a book, or somebody else's memory.

Once in a while over the years, he'd had stretches where getting out of bed wasn't such a lost cause. This last year had shown some promise, which made it the cruelest and slowest of them all. And the blame belonged squarely on Betty Ann Armfield. Betty Ann. Betty Ann.

Larry gritted his teeth and laid the crown molding along the edge of the coffin to test for length. When you mitered the joints, you had to allow for that little bit of extra distance. There would be no putty or wood filler used on this job. No crack could be wider than a spider's leg. Larry's coffin had to be as airtight as possible so the rotting would be proper, from the inside out.

The phone rang in the house. That would be her.

Larry slammed his hammer against the work bench, causing his tools to jump and raising a ruckus among the hens. He looked at the angled box before him, six sides, planks straight, the knots aligned in something approaching art. Not that Larry had much use for art, besides the art of dying. But you did things right while you were on this earth, and let things take care of themselves after you were under it.

The phone bleated again, as insistent as a pregnant ewe. Larry wiped the hammer handle and hung the tool from its pegs. The handsaw gave a dull grin, hungry for another meal of hardwood. Or maybe that was only his blurred reflection. He'd have to polish the saw later. But right now he had to answer the phone.

He stepped out of the barn into sunshine and tasted the mountain air. Rocks, water, grass, and trees, he had plenty of those. He owned seven acres of dirt, some bottom land and a ridgeline. He couldn't own any woman, though, and he couldn't make any of them love his land.

The walk to the house took thirteen seconds, another seven to get through the kitchen, and two more to get the phone to his ear. Betty Ann knew the distance, probably had an egg timer running at her end, and if Larry was ever more than five seconds late—

"Hello?"

Usually he just said, "Hello, Betty Ann," but once in a while he got a call from work and those damned telemarketers had been trying to give him credit cards lately. He didn't believe in borrowing. You pay as you go, and when you had a chance, you paid a little bit ahead.

"Larry."

"Hey, Betty Ann."

“Where you been?”

“Working in the barn.”

“You and your damned wood. You ready?"

"We ought not talk about this kind of thing on the phone."

Her laughter sounded electronic, as if she were one of those pull-string dolls. "You've always been paranoid, ain't you, Larry?"

"Just cautious, is all."

"Cautious, my ass. Chickenshit, you mean. If it wasn't for me, you think you'd ever have a woman? Think anybody else could stand you? Any other woman let you play smoochie and run your hand down her skirt and—"

"That's not proper talk for a lady."

"I ain't a lady no more. Not after tonight."

Larry looked out the window, at the long dirt drive that led to the highway. "You sure you want to go through with this?"

"You ain’t thinking of backing out on me now, are you? You better grow some balls and fast."

Larry expected the blue lights to come down the drive any minute, because cops could probably read minds. And if not, they knew how to tap into phone lines, and Betty Ann never could keep her damned mouth shut. "I—I'm with you, honey. I promised, didn't I?"

"A promise from a man. Hah, that's worth about as much as an egg from a mule. You only promised because I was giving you my yummy sweet sugar at the time. Remember?"

Larry clenched his hand around the phone. He nearly flung it at the Franklin stove, but the Franklin had been in the family for four generations. Maybe he'd start a fire with his coffin scraps and melt down the phone later. "Of course I remember, darling."

"And after, that part about snuggling in the dark. Bet you never heard pillow talk like that before."

He had to admit he hadn't. But he didn't want to admit it out loud. Not when they might hear. It was bad enough, him knowing. And Betty Ann knowing. And whoever Betty Ann blabbed to, at the hairdresser's or the Baptist Church or the Stateline Tavern.

"You know that kind of thing gets me all worked up," Larry said. "That's stuff's for in the dark, not out here in the daylight where God and everybody can see."

Betty Ann laughed. "You must have forgot about that time in the hayloft."

"Don't do this, Betty Ann. It's hard enough as it is."

"You know all about hard, don't you?"

Larry looked out the window at the far slopes of granite, the worn edges of the Blue Ridge. When you got mad, you just had to look way off in the distance, his Daddy always said. Daddy wasn't born a fool, just ended up that way. "That's enough of that. I made a promise, and I'll keep it. Are you going to keep yours?"

"But you ain't said what you wanted yet." She lowered her voice into the husky whisper that sounded like the result of a lot of practice. "But I got a good idea."

"I'll pick you up at seven. Like we planned."

"Like we planned."

"Bye, now."

"Bye. I love you."

The click of the phone rattled around inside his skull, bouncing against that word "love." He'd heard that word a time or two before. And then push always comes to shove, and you find out it doesn't mean a thing. It's just a word.

He went back to the barn. He spread the velvet lining in the coffin and stapled it into place. Most people went with black velvet, but Larry believed in Royal blue. There was something churchy and sacred about it. When you went under the dirt, you wanted all the comfort you could get.

Glue had leaked from one of the corners where the angled wood met. Larry took a chisel from the workbench and scraped the clot free. He felt along the joint. Not a stray splinter, tight as a mouse's ear. He was getting better with practice.

He finished up just as the sun set on the hills. He tested the fit of the lid one last time. The lid wasn't so heavy, and he'd drilled holes where the nails would go. This would work just fine.

At least, the part you could count on. Wood was straight up and honest, you could shape it and trim it and make something that would last. You could build your own coffin with no problem. But you had to have somebody to drive the nails, because you damned sure couldn't do it from the inside.

He set the lid aside, wiped his tools, and saw that everything was laid out on the workbench. He blew out the lamp and hung it by the barn door. It was time to pick up Betty Ann.

 

Larry sat in his Ford and looked around the trailer park. Betty Ann could do better than this place. She was plenty dumb enough to marry some farmer and have a bunch of kids. You got married to the dirt up here, one way or the other. Some put it off for as long as possible, but the mountains always took you anyway.

He blew the horn. Betty Ann wanted him to be right on the button, but she didn't mind a bit to keep him waiting. Finally, the trailer door opened and she waved.

Larry swallowed hard. She was wearing the red dress. Not a good choice for what they were about to do, because it made her easy to remember. Larry remembered just fine. Maybe a little too fine, because his pulse was running hard, and he needed to be calm for what they were about to do.

She slid into the truck beside him and squeezed his leg. "Ready for anything?"

He pushed her hand away. "I keep my promises."

"So that's how you're going to be about it."

"The things I do for you."

"Don't forget the things I do for you."

Larry wanted real bad to lean over and kiss her. She was the prettiest of them all. But she said "love" too easy and often. She looked like the lying kind.

They'd find out about all that later, whether this was for real or not. He had a promise to keep, and so did she. He started the Ford and headed toward Tennessee.

They drove fifty miles, running past the dark quiet of Watauga Lake, winding through Shady Valley where the cows outnumbered the people, and then followed a gravel road along the river.

"You scared?" Betty Ann said. She'd been quiet for the last half-hour, a long stretch for her. She must have been thinking.

Larry had been thinking, too. "Not about this. I'm scared about the rest of it. About later."

"I'll take care of you." Her hand was on his leg again. This time, Larry didn't push it away. He stared ahead where the black road met the headlights.

"I know. Because you promised."

Betty Ann murmured happily beside him. She'd probably been looking for a dream man all her life. And that was what she found. A dream man.

He said, "Other women made promises. Some got broken."

"Larry, you ought to know by now that I ain't like other women." She leaned over and her breath was on his neck, and then, brief as a hummingbird, her tongue flicked across his skin.

"You'd best quit that so I can drive."

They were under the lights now, on the four-lane. Cars skimmed by in the night. Larry wondered where the cars were headed. He was willing to bet that everybody else in the world planned on sleeping in a normal bed tonight, that they didn't have the kind of dreams Larry had.

"Here it is," Betty Ann said.

The gas station had four pumps, and Larry was relieved they didn't take credit cards. An electric Marlboro sign flickered in the window. The man behind the counter was hidden by a row of fan belts. "You sure this is it?"

"Trucker told me about it. The owner's weird, he don't believe in banks. Thinks they're all run by thieving Jews."

One truck was parked behind the store, a slow hunk of steel that had four wheels on the back axle. It was a Chevy. No need to worry about getting chased down.

Larry parked by the door and left the engine running. If he had any sense, he ought to push Betty Ann out and let her thumb and screw her way back to North Carolina. But he didn't have a lick of sense, not where she was concerned. Plus, he'd made a promise.

He took the gun from the glove box. It was Daddy's, a .32 revolver that didn't have much knock-down but was big enough to move money. He tucked the gun under his arm and opened the door.

Betty Ann leaned over and kissed him before he got out. "For luck," she said.

The kiss tasted of sawdust.

The lights were dim, probably because the cheapskate owner tried to save on the power bills. The beer cooler in back looked tempting, but Larry had a long drive home. Rounded mirrors hung in the corners of the ceiling, but there were no video cameras. He went up to the counter and chose a can of snuff, the real kind, not that sissy, grainy stuff in the plastic cans.

He laid the snuff on the counter and met the man's eyes.

"That all?" The man looked to be a hundred-and-fifty, or maybe it was the bad fluorescent lights. He looked mean and cheap. Larry didn't dread this anymore. It was just another chore, something you did to get what you wanted. It was like making two pieces of wood fit.

He pulled out the gun, and the rest of it went like they were in a movie, like they both knew what to do and wanted to get it over with. The old man cleaned out the register, handed over his wallet, and even put the snuff in a bag. Larry backed out, checked for traffic, and tucked the gun under his arm. The old man even waved good-bye.

"Here." Larry tossed the money and the wallet into Betty Ann's sweet lap. "Like I promised."

"I love you," she said.

Larry glanced into the rear-view mirror. He wondered what kind of description the old man would give. Should have shot him. But that wasn't his way. You met the dirt when the time was right. He gunned the truck out of the lot and roared away into the Appalachian night.

 

They went back to his farm, the way they had planned. Larry had to admit the whole thing had gone smoothly. At least the first part of it, her part. He wondered if his part would be smooth, too.

They stood under the stars. Not a streetlight marred the dark view. This was how a man was supposed to live. Too bad none of his women wanted to live this way.

"Seven hundred and twelve dollars," Betty Ann said. "Plus some change."

"I could get the tractor fixed with that."

"You and your tractor."

"All you think about is getting out of here. You know how many gas stations you'd have to rob to even make it to the Mississippi?"

"It's a start."

"No. You're born to this mountain dirt. You belong to it."

"Don't start getting weird on me again, Larry."

"You're the one that keeps talking about love. And promises."

Betty Ann shut up for the second time that night. Larry would have to remember that for the future. If they had a future.

"I kept my promise, what about yours?" he said.

She came to him and hugged him, pressed those curves against him. The bills in her hand scratched his cheek. Her lips were soft. The red dress was thin.

"Want to go inside?" she whispered.

"The barn."

"Ooh. The hayloft again."

Larry took her hand and led her down the path that he knew so well. The barn was still, the animals mostly asleep. Old Zaint had put himself up in the stall, and the chickens had their heads tucked under their wings. Nobody would see.

Except maybe the cops. One day they’d get around to digging behind the barn. But maybe Larry wouldn’t be here when that happened. Betty Ann might be, or might not be, depending.

He lit the lamp and took her to the workbench. The coffin glowed in the lamplight. It was his best ever. He couldn't keep down the pride that warmed his chest.

"What do you think?" he said.

"Damn, Larry. It's a . . ."

"What do you think?"

"What's going on?"

"Your part of the promise. I need to know if I can trust you."

Betty Ann backed away. She looked scared, but she didn't let go of the money.

"Do you love me?" Larry said. He picked up the hammer. And the most important part, the nails.

Betty Ann made it to the door, but Larry knew about how they tried to run. The first one had almost made it to the creek. Almost. But Larry had fixed the door after that.

She pressed against the wood, her eyes rolling around, looking for a place to hide. There was no hiding from promises. Larry approached her, holding out the hammer and nails.

"You promised," he said.

This time her whisper wasn't the husky, practiced kind. "Don't hurt me."

"I would never hurt you. I love you, remember?"

"What do you want?"

"I did for you, now you do for me." He pointed to the coffin, hoping she'd be impressed by the craft he'd put into it. "I want you to seal me up."

She didn't understand. They never understood. "Bury you? But you ain’t dead yet.”

"I’m just trying it out beforehand. Dying’s too important a business to put off till the last minute. Need to check for size and comfort, and I can't do it alone. It takes two."

"You're crazy."

Larry stared at the lamp until his eyes burned. "You love me. At least, that's what you said. I risk life and jail and reputation for you, and you won't do one little thing for me."

He turned away. She was like the others. You ought to know better than to hope. You ought to know by now that love is just a word, a selfish, lying, hurting word.

Then her hand was on his shoulder. Something had changed between them. Maybe, seeing that Larry was willing to kill for her if necessary, Betty Ann had found a strange respect. "I always knew you was weird."

He smiled. Money didn't matter, not next to the other thing. "It won't take but a minute. And I ain't got nobody else. Nobody I can trust, that is."

He gave her a look like the one from that time in the hayloft, the one she seemed to get all swoony over. "You'll have to put the lid on. Do you think you can drive the nails?"

Betty Ann nodded. He kissed her. She took the hammer and nails. He climbed into the coffin and inhaled the cherry. She looked so good in her red dress.

The lid fit perfectly. The first nail was awkward, she missed and busted her thumb. Her blood was likely soaking into the wood. He was glad he’d passed on the shellac.

Love was built on blood and nails. You had to have both, or it didn't mean a thing.

By the third nail, she was in the rhythm, and drove it home with four blows. Sixteen nails total, while Larry's heart pounded in time to the hammer.

Her voice was muffled, but he could understand her. "Are you all right in there?"

He said nothing. The air was stale. The coffin was the perfect size. He could be buried in this, when the time came. It would be a proud way to meet the dirt.

"Larry?" she hollered.

He waited.

“Can you breathe?”

She wouldn’t hear him if he answered.

“I been thinking,” she said. “If I don’t let you out, I get the money all to myself.”

God damn. She was a keeper. Not like those others, the ones who folded when they hit a knot or caught a splinter. This might be the one he could trust sharing his land with, his life with, his death with. Two holes and two tombstones, side by side, forever.

They could get to that part later. First, he needed to see how good she was with a shovel.

He pulled the hammer and crowbar from the secret fold in the velvet and began loosening the lid from the inside, too excited to concentrate. Hope pulsed through his flesh.

This one might work out. She was the real thing, better than the others. A killer. Tight nails, warm blood, a wooden soul. And cold, cold dirt in her heart

A woman who could nail your coffin was worth keeping around.

One way or another.

###

 

 

THE NAME GAME

 

When Vincent awoke, he felt as if he'd been dropped headfirst from the Statue of Liberty's torch.

He moaned and rolled over into a stack of moldy cardboard and newspapers. The avenue tasted of Queens, smog stung to the ground by the long rains of the week before. A car horn bleated, amplified by the brick canyons so that the noise rattled Vincent’s eardrums. He tried to peel back his eyelids so that the brilliant green in his vision could be scrubbed away by the orange crash of daylight.

Damn this city, he thought, each word a hammer blow. And since he was bothering to think, he figured he might as well try to remember. That was a little harder. He was on his knees, supporting himself against the slick skin of a Dumpster, by the time he got past the previous two seconds and on into the last few hours.

It was morning. The aroma of bagels and coffee drifted from some back door along the alley, fighting with the stench of gutter garbage before mingling into a deeper smell of rot. And if this was morning, then Vincent was—

Late.

He was supposed to catch a pre-dawn flight, to be out of town before another sorry New York sun rose. No, he wasn’t supposed to catch the flight. He remembered harder, and more painfully. Robert Wells was supposed to catch that flight.

Robert Daniel Wells, his new identity, a boring tourism official from Muncie. The Feds had set it up that way. A tourism official could go places, sleep in a few motels, get lost in America’s excess. Los Angeles for a convention to pitch movie locations, then Oregon for a meeting of the Christmas Tree Growers Association, zippp down to, where was it? Oh, yeah, Flagstaff, Arizona, to sell Muncie to wealthy retirees. Good old Indiana, that scenic destination, that mecca of the masses.

Dumb damned Feds. Like Joey Scattione couldn’t figure that one out. With Joey’s resources, Vincent was meat no matter what identity they gave him. What he needed was a new face, new bones, a new brain, because his brain was halfway down the back of his neck. He touched the welt on his head.

Ouch.

He struggled to his feet, took a step, and nearly tripped over a pile of rags. The pile stirred, a bottle rolled to the asphalt, and a bleary eye opened amid a dark crack of cloth.

“Suh—sorry,” Vincent said. He waited a moment for the bum to acknowledge him, but the eye closed, extinguished like an ember dropped in mud.

His hand went to his back pocket. No surprise, his wallet was gone. It had contained nothing but cash, a few hundred bucks. No biggie. He hadn't dared carry his fake IDs in there.

Vincent took a couple more steps. Even if he missed the flight, he still had the ticket. They’d let him catch a later one. If he had a connector in St. Louis, maybe he’d slip out of the terminal and throw Robert Wells in the ditch somewhere, dig up some new papers. It could be done. Easier that way than screwing around and counting on the Feds.

That’s why he’d went alone. With a spook escort, Joey’s people would have spotted Vincent a mile away. Feds' shoes sparkled like skyscrapers, and they always looked as if they should be wearing sunglasses. Might as well carry a sandwich sign that said, “Hey, bad guys of the world! I’m a spook.”

So Vincent had talked them into playing it his way. Take up the tourism official act, gawk at the skyscrapers, do the same kind of dumb things an Indiana bumpkin would do. Like try to catch a cab at four in the morning.

Whoever had clobbered him must have been an amateur. Certainly wasn’t any of Joey’s muscle. Joey would want Vincent whole, uninjured, wide awake, and ready for some slow face-to-face. Joey's people would show Vincent ten thousand ways to die, all at the same time, and none of them easy. Joey would want it all on videotape, since he couldn't be there in the flesh.

And the Feds, they weren’t in for the double-cross. Not only were they too dumb, Vincent had given them the slip back at the hotel at around midnight. Sure, they probably would have a spook or two haunting the airports, but they wouldn't want to make a scene. Better to let Vincent get out of town and track him later.

Vincent neared the end of the alley, the traffic thick on the street in front of him. Pedestrians clogged the sidewalks, hustling off to make the nine o’clock ritual. He felt better already, though his pulse was playing “The War Of 1812” in his temples. Safety in numbers, and nowhere were numbers more numerous than on a Manhattan street.

He attempted to whistle, but his throat was too dry. He put on his indifferent grimace, the mask that New York wore, and slouched into the crowd. He fell in behind a woman walking her poodle. He nearly stepped on the poodle when it stopped to relieve itself. The woman pretended not to notice either Vincent or the steaming brown pile on the concrete.

Vincent reached inside his jacket, to the inner pocket. He stopped. The ticket was gone.

Someone had taken his papers. The social security card, the Indiana driver's license, the credit card made out to "Robert Wells," even a blood donor card. All the FBI's clever forgeries, along with four more bills, were now in the hands of some idiot mugger. Or mugger of idiots, whichever way you wanted to look at it.

Vincent had been so wrapped up in worrying about Joey Scattione that he hadn't considered falling victim to a less ruthless and much more random predator. His predicament hit him like a wrong-way cab. If he were forced to be Vincent Hartbarger, he wouldn't last a half a day in this city. Not with Joey's people on the hunt. And Vincent Hartbarger at the moment was broke, no way out, no standby plane ticket, no bulletproof vest. No gun.

"Out of the way, dude," growled a kid with a skateboard under his arm. The kid shoved past Vincent, greasy black hair shining in the lights from a nearby shop window. Vincent moved against the glass, out of the main crush of foot traffic. He glanced at the passing faces, on the lookout for Joey's people.

Calm down, take a breath. Think.

Thinking brought the headache roaring back. Goon must have used a tire iron.

He fumbled for a cigarette, then remembered that Robert Wells didn't smoke. But he wasn't Robert Wells anymore. He searched for the secret folds in his coat, the place where he'd kept his Vincent effects. Because he'd planned all along that, once he blew this town and shook the spooks, he'd return to being Vincent, at least until he could scrape together a new identity. He didn't have much faith in the Feds and their "witless protection program."

But the worse got worser. His fingers came away empty. The mugger had taken his Vincent stash, along with the extra fifty he'd tucked back for hard times. Vincent closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, inhaling car exhaust as if the carbon monoxide would dull his headache.

I'd rather be anywhere than right here, on Joey's turf, in Joey's town. Hell, I'd even take Muncie. At least in Muncie, the only thing I'd have to worry about would be dying of boredom. And I hear that takes YEARS...

Voices to his right pulled him back to the morning street. Two people were shouting, pointing into the shop window. In New York, two people talking on the street either meant a drug deal, a sex solicitation, or the beginning of a murder. But these seemed like ordinary folks, the kind who talked to windows instead of invisible demons.

Vincent looked into the storefront. It was a pawn shop, bars thick across the window, a bank of surveillance cameras eyeing the street like hookers on payday. A Sanyo television lit up the window, the flickering images reflected in the glass. It took Vincent a moment to register what he was seeing.

A shot of the East River, a harried-looking reporter trying vainly to control her hair in the breeze, a cutaway to emergency response and fire vehicles, then a wide shot of Kennedy Airport. Back to the river, a small orange speck in the water. Zoom in. A torn life jacket.

A computer graphic popped up in the corner of the screen, the station logo a leering eye. Underneath, in slanted red letters, "Flight 317 Crash."

Poor bastards, Vincent thought. Imagine what kind of headache you get from dropping a mile-and-a-half from the sky.

He was turning back to the street, his pity for the victims already fading, when the number "317" bounced back into his roaring head. He froze, got shoved by a balding man in a suit, yelled at by a package courier.

317. Hadn't that been his flight? The one that was supposed to whisk Robert Wells to a new life?

He went into the pawn shop. A bank of TVs filled one wall, half of them tuned to news coverage of the crash. The anchor had her hair in place now, must have snagged some hair spray during the cutaway. The computer graphic now read "Live!" under the station logo, in those same blood-red letters.

"We're at the scene of the crash of NationAir Flight 317, which plummeted shortly after takeoff from Kennedy Airport this morning—"

"What a mess, huh?" said a voice behind Vincent. He thought at first it was one of Joey's boys. But it was the pawn shop proprietor, a small man with glasses and a scar across one cheek. His nose looked like an unsuccessful prizefighter's.

"Yu—yeah," Vincent agreed.

"Took about a minute for it to hit the water," the shop owner said, leaning over a glass case of watches. "Just enough time for them to pray and crap their pants."

The man starting laughing, the laugh spasmed into a coughing fit. The news anchor's voice fought with the racket of the man's lungs.

"—no survivors have been found. The Boeing 747 was reported to be carrying a full contingent of 346 passengers, according to NationAir records. F.A.A. authorities are arriving on the scene—"

"It was one of them Aye-rab bombs, I bet," said the shopkeeper. "Don't see why the rest of us got to suffer 'cause the kikes and the ragheads can't get along."

"They said the plane was full," Vincent said, half to himself.

"Yep. You know how they are these days. Wedge 'em in with a crowbar. They interviewed the man who was first in line to go standby. Everybody showed, so he never got on. He was thanking God seven ways to Sunday."

No standby passengers. But what about the ticket belonging to Robert Wells? Someone must have used it. Someone—

Vincent stumbled toward the street, his head reeling.

"Hey, got a special today on handguns," the shopkeeper called after him. "No waiting."

But Vincent was already out the door. He walked fast, fell into the New York rhythm, blind to everything.

Someone must have used his ticket. Who?

The mugger.

The mugger must have checked in with the ticket, became "Robert Wells" himself, and grabbed a seat across the country. Maybe the mugger wanted out of this town so bad that he'd risk having the authorities waiting for him at LAX. And for his trouble, the idiot was probably now in a thousand pieces, feeding fish in Long Island Sound.

If so, the creep had gotten what he deserved. Vincent touched his sore head to remind himself that everybody had to go sometime. Everybody had to pay that one big debt. The trick was to put it off as long as possible.

As he turned the corner, another thought came to him. Unless the spooks had been watching, then they didn't know that Robert Wells a.k.a. Vincent never boarded the plane. They would get the list, see the name, go over the data on the terminal computer, and verify that indeed Robert Wells had met his end on Flight 317.

A perfect bow-tie on their witness protection program. Case closed. The Fed's star witness against Joey Scattione was now utterly and forever safe from the mobster's long reach. Even Scattione couldn't finger a man in the afterlife.

Vincent walked faster, excited, his pulse racing, red wires of pain shrieking through his temples. He realized that Scattione would also think him dead. Scattione was way sharper than the Feds, even though he'd been convicted on racketeering and drug charges. Thanks to Vincent, who'd been one of his best street lieutenants.

But Vincent knew a good deal when he saw one. When the net tightened and the Feds needed a pigeon, Vincent did even better than squawk: he'd sung like a deflowered canary. After, of course, he’d elicited a long sheet of promises, including permanent immunity and protection. And a new identity.

An identity that was dead.

What he needed right now was his old friend Sid.

Vincent turned into a bar, though it was scarcely ten o'clock. A man in drag who looked like he hadn't slept was slumped in one corner, holding a cigarette that was four inches of ash. Two cabbies were drinking off the effects of the third shift. The bartender kept his attention focused on the tiny black-and-white that hung in one corner. It was tuned to the same news coverage of the crash.

"Help you, buddy?" the bartender said, without turning.

"Scotch and water. A double."

"Poor bastards," the bartender said, still watching the television as he reached for the stock behind him. "We think we got it bad, but at least we ain't been handed our wings."

"Yeah," Vincent said. Catholic humor. Like everybody was an angel.

The man poured from the Johnny Walker bottle as if dispensing liquid gold. The ice cubes were rattled into the glass before Vincent could complain about the weak mix. Then Vincent remembered he had no money. He acted as if reaching for his wallet, then said, "Excuse me, where's the rest room?"

The man nodded toward the rear, eyes still fixed on the set, where the field anchor was now interviewing a witness. As Vincent headed for the dark bowels of the bar, he overheard the witness talking about airline food. The news team was groping, fumbling to keep momentum, the tragedy already sliding toward ancient history. The transvestite winked as Vincent passed, and up close Vincent couldn't tell if she were a man dressed as a woman or vice versa.

Sheesh, and I thought I had an identity problem.

But maybe the she-male was onto something. In the bathroom, Vincent studied his own face in the mirror, trying to picture himself in lipstick. He shuddered. Better to take on Joey Scattione than to pluck his eyebrows and duct-tape his gut.

He washed his hands and went out. The transvestite was waiting by the door. Vincent cleared his throat. "Say, you got change for a phone call?"

The transvestite sneered and produced some coins, then dumped them into Vincent's palm as if afraid to catch a disease. Vincent mumbled thanks and stopped by the pay phone. He dialed a well-remembered number. As the phone rang, he watched to see which gender of bathroom the transvestite chose.

Neither. The transvestite went out the back door. The line clicked as the connection was made. "Hello," came the welcome though nasal voice.

"Sid, hey, it's me. Vincent."

"Vincent? Like I know any Vincent?"

"Hartbarger. You know."

"Afraid not, friend."

"Jesus, Sid. Vincent Hartbarger. You sold me the damned name yourself, for crying out loud. Driver's license, Rotary Club membership, credit cards."

"I don't know from Hartbargers."

Vincent sighed and remembered he’d used a fake identity to get his fake identity. "It's Charlie Ehle."

"Charlie? Why the hell didn't you say so? You expect me to remember every job or something?"

"Yeah, yeah. Listen, I need another one. Like pronto."

"Rush jobs cost extra, my man. But for you, I can have you set up by five o'clock."

Vincent nodded into the phone. Sid always got chummy when he smelled green. For a document man, Sid had enough smarm to work every side of the fence: green cards, counter check scams, fake IDs, forgery, bogus lottery tickets, anything that involved paper or photographs. But Sid liked cash, lots of it, payable when services were rendered.

"Can't you do better than five? I'm kind of in a jam."

"Oh, the Scattione thing."

The Scattione thing. Damn those Feds. Vincent's testimony was delivered in closed court, the records sealed. Sure, Vincent expected stoolies in the judicial branch to leak to the Mafia. This was America, after all. But when even the criminal fringes such as Sid knew the score, that meant the clock was ticking down twice per second on Vincent's remaining life span.

"Fix me up, what do you say, pal? Just the basics."

Sid let out a slow whistle. "It don't pay to cross Scattione. But I guess you already know that, huh?"

"I can give you five grand."

That shut up the weasel. For a moment. Then the shrewd voice came across the wires. "How come the spooks didn't set you up? Figured you'd be a family man from Des Moines by now."

"We decided to part company," Vincent said. "You think I could hide from Scattione while some of them secret agent types were guarding me?"

"Suppose not. So, what are you in the mood for? Irish? Got some McGinnitys all ready to roll off the press."

"With my coloring? You got to be kidding." He glanced at the bartender, who was watching the news as if it were a boxing match. The transvestite entered through the back door, ignoring Vincent.

"Okay, okay, already. Where you at?"

"Just off Van Wyck."

"Meet me at Naomi's Deli on Greenway. Five o'clock."

"You need a recent photo?" Vincent asked out of habit. He knew Sid kept files on all his old customers. You never knew when blackmail might come in handy.

"No. And let's make it six grand. I got two kids to put through college." The phone clicked and then hummed. Vincent hung up and went back to the bar. He thought about asking the transvestite to pay for his drink, but that would be pushing it. Instead, he walked past the bar, hurried out the door, and was lost in the crowd before the bartender could react.

He walked for a while, ten blocks, until his feet were sore. He didn't know if Joey's people could find him more easily if he kept moving, or if he tried to hole up. Eventually, fatigue and the dull ache in his head sent him to a bench in one of those half-acre dirt patches that the city called a public park. The two trees clung stubbornly to their oxygen-starved leaves.

Someone had stuffed an afternoon edition, the Daily News Express, in the trash can. Vincent fished it out. More crash coverage filled the front page, photos of the obligatory grieving survivors, bits of wreckage, FAA talking suits. On page seven was a list of those believed to have been on board NationAir Flight 317.

Vincent ran his finger down near the bottom of the list. Wells, Robert.

So far, so good. Wells was officially presumed dead.

And Scattione, with his resources, would know that Vincent Hartbarger had become Wells. Scattione would get the word in his Sing Sing cell, his lips would veer to the right in churlish anger, and he'd pound his fist against the hard mattress. Nothing could tick Scattione off more than revenge denied. Vincent had to smile.

But not laugh.

He couldn't laugh until later, when Vincent Hartbarger was officially laid to rest, along with Charlie Ehle and the half-dozen other identities that Vincent had adopted over the years. Fingerprints were no problem, really. All he had to do was build up the kitty, turn a few deals, and grease a few palms. Everywhere a record was kept, there was a human recorder who had access to it. All Vincent needed was access to the recorder.

Vincent had learned that it wasn't a question of whether integrity could be bought and sold. It was only a question of price.

He managed to nap a couple of hours, keeping the newspaper over his face. Scattione had probably passed out a hundred photos. Vincent could change his name, but he was stuck with those same recognizable features. At least until he got to Cayman, where he knew a decent plastic surgeon. First things first, he needed to live long enough to get his new identity.

The walk downtown took longer than he expected. When he entered the deli, Sid gave him the once-over. Vincent's suit was rumpled, the knees dirty from being rolled by the mugger. He hadn't shaved, either.

"How the mighty have fallen," Sid said, as Vincent slid into the booth opposite him.

"I haven't fallen yet," Vincent said.

Sid was eating a Reuben, and though Vincent hadn't eaten all day, the smell of the sauerkraut curdled his stomach. Vincent checked the door. Sid wasn't known as a double-crosser. He couldn't afford to be, in his line of work. But, with Scattione in the mix, everything was subject to change.

Sid brought out a large envelope, put it beside his plate. "Hello, Mister Raymond Highwater," he said.

"Highwater? What sort of name is that? It's so phony, I won't make it to Jersey."

"I stole it out of the phone book. That's what you get when you ask for a rush job." A piece of corned beef was stuck between Sid's teeth.

"Listen, I got to ask you for a favor."

Sid patted the table. "Pay for the last one, then we can talk."

Vincent leaned over the table. A group of Hassidic Jews were across the room, two women were chatting over coffee, a college-aged kid, probably a film student from Columbia, was reading a magazine at the counter. None of them looked like Scattione's people. But in this city, the walls had ears, eyes, and sometimes a .45 automatic.

"I'm short at the moment," Vincent said. In the ensuing silence, he heard a bus honk outside, and somebody in the kitchen dropped a pan.

Sid stopped in mid-bite, took a slow chew, and then began working his jaws like a ferret. "Short," he said, spraying rye crumbs across the table.

"Listen, I can make it good." Vincent's words came fast, like bullets from a clip. "You know me. I can have it for you tomorrow. And—what say we make it ten big ones? All I need is a little time as this Highwater guy."

Sid wiped at his mouth with a paper napkin. Then he put one hand on the envelope, and in a smooth motion, slid it back inside his jacket.

"Come on, Sid," Vincent said, checking the door again. "We've done business for years."

"Always cash on delivery."

Vincent tugged at his collar, sweat ringing his forehead. He knew the window of opportunity was small. Even though Scattione thought "Robert Wells" was dead, at least one person knew that Vincent was still breathing. Sid.

With a fake credit card, Vincent might still be able to get out of the city. All he needed was a name. He'd already died once today, he'd killed off a dozen other identities in his time, but he'd always been the one to deep-six himself. By choice. "I can deliver, Sid. I know you got skills, but it only takes you an hour to crank out a set of documents."

Sid shook his head. "It's not about the money. It's about pride and reputation."

Same with Scattione. What sort of rep could a Mafiaso have if the man who'd fingered him was walking around as free as sin?

"Nobody will know, Sid. I promise. I'll deliver, then you'll never see my ugly mug again. I'm thinking Cozumel, maybe Rio."

Sid sat back and pushed his plate away. The group of Hassidic Jews continued chattering. The college kid set down his magazine and ordered something. Vincent looked at the clock.

"Please, Sid."

Sid pursed his lips. Then he stood, dropped some bills on the table to cover the cost of the sandwich, and brought out the envelope. Except this one had come from a different pocket. He dropped the package in front of Vincent and shrugged. "Joey pays twenty, and this is who he wants you to be."

The bell rang as Sid went out the door. Vincent stooped, picked up the envelope, and tore it open. Who was he this time? Not that it mattered. He'd even be a damned McGinnity if he had to.

He stared at the driver's license.

It didn't make sense. It was his face, all right. But this license was gone, floating somewhere in the East River. He read the name slowly, his lips shaping the syllables.

Robert Daniel Wells.

He moved fast, got to the street, but Sid was gone.

Vincent glanced at the crowd, among the eyes that seemed to shine like search beacons. Which ones belonged to Joey's people?

He broke into a run. A laugh tore itself from his lungs, a spasm borne of fear and hysteria. He should have known that Joey's reach, even from a prison cell, was longer than the longest arm of the law. Vincent had been around long enough to know that Joey liked to play.

Like a cat with a cornered mouse, like a spider with a stuck fly.

Vincent ran on. He thought that maybe if he ran fast enough, someday he'd catch up to himself. But somedays never come, and Robert Wells had a debt to pay.

Under any name.

 

 

GOOD FENCES

 

That fence post was leaning again.

Herman could tell just by looking out the window, though the neighbor’s yard was over two hundred feet away. You’d think people would have a little pride. Back in Herman’s day, you kept your split rails pointing straight up to God, even here in the Blue Ridge mountains where level ground was as scarce as hen’s teeth. Of course, you were supposed to keep your grass mowed down close, too.

A hippie lived in that house. The new neighbor drove by every morning, hunched over the wheel of a Japanese junkaroo with a ski rack on top. The hippie had waved the first week after moving in, but each time Herman had given him a no-nonsense, get-a-haircut stare. Nowadays the hippie didn’t even look over, just rattled up the road to whatever job Communists held while plotting the revolution.

Too bad. The hippie could learn something about American pride from Herman. You keep your house painted and your windows clean. Your mailbox flap doesn’t sag open. The flag comes down when it rains, even if a stoned-out longhair would rather burn one than fly one. But most of all, by God, you set your fences straight.

Fences were the first impression, the first line of defense against those who thought the world belonged to everybody. Herman would bet his John Wayne video collection that the hippie at 107 Oakdale had a peace sign poster on his bedroom wall. The peace sign was nothing but the footprint of the American chicken. Herman didn’t mind a peaceful neighbor on general principle, but the lessons of history were clear. Peace started with strong borders, strong fences.

Herman was a picket man himself. There was something trustworthy about the sharp picket tips, a row of threatening teeth that promised to nip at unwelcome guests. Best of all, you could paint them church-white. Not that split rails couldn’t look proper if you took a little pride in them.

The door to 107 opened. Herman dropped the curtain in disgust and sat again at his bowl of oatmeal. Doctor said oats would clean out his pipes, and if a healthy diet didn’t do the job, then a pervert with a medical degree and a hospital hose would. The fear of a stranger meddling up his backside was about the only thing that could make Herman eat oatmeal. The stuff was barely fit for livestock.

As he spooned a butter-heavy dose into his mouth, he looked out the window. The hippie’s front door swung open wide, and a shaggy little dog raced out and squatted in the weeds. Hippie didn’t even have enough self-respect to get a boxer or a hound, something territorial that would chew the leg off a trespassing little brat. No, he had an overgrown lap dog, one that would probably be plopping piles of dookie all over Herman’s yard if the picket fence weren’t there.

The dog finished its business and ran to the hippie, who patted it on the head. Herman scowled into his oatmeal. Public displays of affection were the mark of a sissy who couldn’t be trusted. He waited until the hippie’s car passed, then he went into the garage. Tools neatly lined the rear wall, hanging on pegboard and shining under the glow of a single fluorescent tube.

He selected a claw hammer, then gritted his teeth and swung it viciously, imagining the hammer head sinking into the hippie’s skull. He swung again and again, his breath rapid and shallow, his heartbeat like the salvos of an anti-aircraft gun. His arm soon grew tired and he let the hammer rest against his thigh.

The August morning sun was bright on the dew when he went outside. Mrs. Breedlove from 103 had her television turned up too loud. That was okay, because Mrs. Breedlove kept her flower gardens in military formation, heads up and rumps tucked in tight. She had her flaws, but maintaining appearances wasn’t one of them.

Herman gathered a spare picket from the woodpile and tucked it under his arm. He stepped through the gate and walked down Oakdale, frowning at the dead leaves that clustered along the curb. He’d be needing the rake before long. One of the neighbor kids from 108 squealed in the distance. Brats. The budding delinquents would wear a path in your grass and not think twice.

A kid on a bicycle came out from the trees near the end of the block. It was a girl, one of the ugly redheads from 104. You’d think she’d be in school, since this was Friday. Ever since they’d made a big fuss over teachers’ rights, the brats did most of their learning from each other. And the lesson they learned best was how to mess on other people’s property.

Herman tucked his hammer behind his back. The redhead pedaled up, then stopped. She wore a New York Jets jersey, and the only thing worse would have been Yankee pinstripes. The early settlers of Aldridge Falls should have barred the dirt roads and burned all the bridges, because outsiders had the run of the place now. Rich folks with their Florida tans and fast New England accents and property law attorneys.

“Morning, Mr. Weeks,” the girl said. “What you doing with that stick?”

“Fixing things,” he said, smiling and holding up the picket. Maybe it wasn’t too late to pass along the concept of respect.

“A fence?” she asked.

He nodded. “I like good fences.”

“My daddy said fences are for greedy people.”

“You should always listen to your father.” Herman kept smiling, his face like warm wax in the sun.

The kid smiled back, confused, then pedaled on past. Herman walked to the hippie’s leaning fence post. It was cedar, a little more manageable than locust though it would rot a lot faster. He knelt and examined the base of the post.

He’d repaired the same post twice already this week. Usually he fixed things right the first time, but once in a while you got hold of a stubborn piece of wood. He leaned the post until it was ninety degrees, then eyeballed the angle against the corner of the hippie’s house. Satisfied, he wedged the picket into the ground, driving it with the hammer until the dirt was packed.

He reached for the top of the post to test it for sturdiness. He touched wood, and a sharp pain lanced along his finger. At first he figured he’d drawn a splinter, but the wound was clean. Herman bent for a closer look.

A razor blade had been embedded in the cedar. Its silver edge glinted in the dawn.

“Tarnation.” Herman muttered under his breath, sucking on his wounded finger. A closer study of the fence revealed several more razor blades in the crosspieces.

Herman glanced at the houses along the street. This was a Community Watch neighborhood. He didn’t dare trespass on the hippie’s property. But he was within his rights to walk the perimeter of the yard. As a concerned citizen, mind you, checking up on things.

At one corner of the fence, the ground was bare where animals cut through the forsythia. Herman saw a long fishhook wedged into a crack in the fence. Bits of cat fur and a tiny piece of shriveled flesh hung from the hook’s barb. The fur was light gray, the color of Widow Hampton’s cat.

Herman hadn’t seen the cat in several days. It had a habit of spraying in Herman’s yard, stinking up the petunias. Cat had no sense of territory and could scamper over a fence like it wasn’t there. He grinned at the thought of the cat yowling in pain after getting snagged by the hook.

Herman headed back to his house with new admiration for the hippie. You had to fight to protect what was yours. Hell, when you come right down to it, a hippie could be just like any normal person. All it took was a haircut and a Bible.

The red-headed girl rode up on her bike, stopped with a scruffing of brakes. “Sorry, mister.”

Herman had been lost in thought. “Huh? Sorry for what?”

She pointed up the street. “I ran into your fence.” She blushed beneath her freckles.

Herman saw leaning pickets, a whole section of them, one snapped in half. He bit back a curse. His hand went to his back pocket for the hammer. His cut finger bumped into the handle, and the pain drove his anger away.

“It’s okay, honey,” he said. He resisted the urge to pat her head, because he was afraid he might grab her hair and jerk her off the bicycle. A curtain lifted in nosy Mrs. Breedlove’s house. Community watch at its finest.

He walked back to his house as the girl pedaled away, off to her next act of trespassing and destruction. Herman spent the rest of the morning repairing his own fence, then went in for lunch and his daily bout of Gospel radio. He took a nap in the afternoon, charging his batteries for the night’s mission.

Supper was liver mush and potatoes, plus some pole beans grown in the garden out back. Back when Verna was alive, they kept up with the canning, making preserves from the apples and sauce from the tomatoes. With Verna passed on to the Lord, Herman saw little need to stock up for the future. He grew most of what he needed and in the winter there were grocery stores. Gas was so high, thanks to them sand-nigger terrorists, he didn’t drive much anymore. And the radio said the Democrats had gutted Social Security again, so he tried to pinch a penny where he could. Mostly, he kept to the house, which is why he wanted the fences in good shape. When your world got smaller, the part that was yours took on new value.

 

Night fell, and Herman left the lights on while he snuck around the house and into the vacant lot that ran beside the hippie’s house. The land had belonged to a dentist up on the hill, but when the dentist died, it fell into the hands of his sons, who were living somewhere contrary like Oregon or New Hampshire. The land had been a Christmas tree farm, and lately a hay meadow, but now it mostly just raised briars and bunnies.

He fought off the thorns and ducked into the forsythia, crabapple, and jackvine that straddled the property line. After checking the crosspieces for sharp edges, he slipped through the fence and waited. Soon enough, the hippie’s door opened and the shaggy, post-pissing mongrel came out, the hippie right behind. Even with the moon out, the hippie wouldn’t be able to see Herman crouching in the thicket, but the dog started whining right away. The hippie made a beeline for the post that Herman had straightened that morning. The hippie put a hand on it and leaned it forward, careful to avoid the razor blade embedded in the wood.

“There,” the hippie said to the whimpering mutt. “That ought to give the geezer something to fix tomorrow. Or else a heart attack.”

The hippie jumped as if electrocuted when Herman flipped on the flashlight. The longhair froze in the orange cone of light, pupils the size of BBs. Probably on meth heroin or whatever dope his kind cooked up these days.

“They look better if you do them square,” Herman said.

The hippie squinted against the flashlight’s beam. “Who’s there?”

“A concerned neighbor,” Herman said.

“You the one with the picket fence, up at 101?”

“None other.” Herman stood and flicked off the light. They stared at each other’s silhouettes under the quarter moon.

“Why have you been messing with my fence?” The hippie folded his arms across his chest. The shaggy mutt stopped whimpering and crouched at its master’s feet.

“Why you been making me?” Herman snapped his shoulders back Marine-style, even though it was dark and the hippie couldn’t get a cheap lesson in proper posture. This was his neighborhood. He had a right to take an interest.

“I like to know my neighbors,” the hippie said. “The faster you peg the weirdoes, the faster you can take steps to protect yourself.”

Herman’s jaw loosened. “You mean you done this on purpose? Like some kind of trap?”

The hippie’s high-dollar teeth caught the scant moonlight as he smiled. “One of them. The other traps are scattered around the perimeter.”

A light came on upstairs in the Hampton house. From his dark vantage point, Herman could see the top half of the widow as she slipped off her robe and stepped into the shower. His pulse jumped a gear and he felt a flush of shame. Spying like trash, that’s what he was doing. But she’d left her curtains open, so it was her fault.

“Ain’t seen Miss Hampton’s cat around lately,” Herman said. “You wouldn’t know nothing about that, would you?”

“You might find it at the foot of the dogwood,” the hippie said, nodding to the corner of his lot.

“Dogwood?”

“I thought that was fitting punishment,” the hippie said. “Get it? A cat and a dogwood?”

The mutt’s ears perked up at the sound of its master’s laughter.

“You buried her cat on your property?” Herman’s thumb twitched against the flashlight, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh with the hippie or addle the fool’s brains with a sideswipe.

“Don’t worry, the dogwood’s bark is worse than its bite.”

Herman eased backward a step, and the scrub vegetation that had minutes earlier afforded protection and cover now seemed like a prison wall, cutting off his escape. He thought about yelling, but his throat was tight and he was afraid he would sound like a sissy girl.

“I have some blueberry bushes along the rear of the property,” the hippie said. “Do you think it’s fair that the brats can just come on over anytime they please and stuff their faces? I pay my taxes and I send my mortgage payment to the bank on time. I’ve got rights.”

“That why you planted the razors?”

“Yeah. Of course, they can come down the driveway, but I figure that’s not sneaky enough for them. You know how kids are, they like to think they’re outsmarting the grown-ups.”

“Snagged any of them yet?”

“Just the cat. But it only takes once and I don’t have to worry about them anymore.”

“What about their parents? What if they call the cops, or Social Services?”

“I’ll just say the blades came with the property. How was I to know the previous owner was insane?”

“Now you just hold on a second,” Herman said. “That house belonged to Ned Loggerfeld, and not once did he let a post sag. He cleaned his gutters twice a year and snow never had a chance to melt in his driveway so long as he owned a shovel.”

“I heard he died of a heart attack,” the hippie said. “In the cold, your arteries narrow. Shoveling snow is about the worst thing you can do if your heart is bad.”

Herman recalled the February day when Ned had flopped on his back near the mailbox, arms spread like he was making a snow angel. Turned out he was making a real angel. Herman had dialed 9-1-1 while Mrs. Breedlove performed some pervert-looking maneuvers she said was CPR. If old Ned could have seen the woman sucking and blowing on his mouth, he might have come back down from heaven for a chance to smooch back.

“Okay,” Herman said. “Looks like a standoff. I got no gripe with a fellow doing what he wants on his own property, as long as he keeps up appearances.”

“Oh, I’m pretty good at keeping up appearances, Mr. Weeks.” The hippie grinned like he was in an organic produce market and the tofu was half price.

“How’d you know my name?”

“Deeds Office down at the courthouse. Like I said, I like to get to know the neighbors. Before I buy.”

“Don’t blame you none,” Herman said. He wished the ugly redheaded family had left on their porch lights like they usually did. The moon wasn’t bright enough to dull the shine in the hippie’s eyes.

“You’re a registered Republican.”

“So? What are you?”

“Libertarian.”

“That mean you don’t eat eggs or cheese?”

“Only in a free market economy,” the hippie said. “I also know you bought your two acres back in 1956. You were probably married once, judging from the Elvis decanter on the sewing machine in your living room. While you might have been an Elvis fan, I doubt you idolize him enough to collect. And being a product of the Eisenhower administration, you never saw fit to have your wife listed as co-owner of the property.”

“You been peeking in my windows?”

“No. Not on purpose. You can see it when you drive by. Your house sits a little below the road and Elvis is right there between the curtains. You ought to look at your surroundings with new eyes now and then. You might be surprised at what you see.”

Herman wished he had the hammer. He would fix the hippie, and then fix that damned fence post. Then he’d do what he should have done right after Verna’s passing, take the Elvis decanter out back and pound it into dust. But he couldn’t help himself, his head turned and he scanned the neighborhood, from 101 to 108 and back again.

All of the houses had gone through several families in his time. Widow Hampton’s kids, who used to stub around in diapers, were now grown and gone, he didn’t know the names of the couple in 107 or if they were even married, half of the houses now had vinyl siding, and, when you got right down to it, even with all the care and tending, his own house looked a little shabby and shopworn under the street lights. Like him, it had seen its best days, and an invisible earth digger was waiting in the wings to claim both of them.

“This is a nice neighborhood,” Herman said. “Why, look at the pride Mrs. Breedlove takes in her flowers.”

“Appearances are important, but they can also be deceiving. Order on the outside can often hide disorder inside.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Herman said. “Maybe your fence ain’t none of my business.”

The hippie’s dog skirted under the fence and pushed its nose to the ground, following the curb down to 103, where the Pilkingtons had left the trash out.

“Doggie bags,” the hippie said. “They’ll learn sooner or later.”

“Reckon so,” Herman said. “What’s your name?”

“Reynolds. Peter Reynolds.”

Herman was afraid that the hippie was going to stick his hand out in some jive shake or other, but he just stood there with that educated smile. Peter Reynolds had the home-field advantage, and he knew it. Herman had been caught where he didn’t belong. He looked over at the Pilkington house, where the mutt was gnawing through a plastic trash bag, scattering cellophane and rumpled paper towels.

“I’d best be going,” Herman said.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Herman thought of the razor blades, and wondered for the first time if Peter Reynolds maybe had a knife in his pocket. “What?”

The hippie pointed to the leaning fence post. “I don’t know about you, but my mom taught me to leave things just the way I found them.”

Herman started to argue, then thought of the maybe-knife and swallowed hard. He eased the post perpendicular to the ground and stomped his foot to tamp the dirt tight. “Good night, now,” he said.

“Watch your step,” the hippie, Peter Reynolds, said.

“Sounds like good advice.” Herman didn’t look back until he was inside his own home. He closed the curtains and hid the Elvis decanter in the closet with the rest of Verna’s things.

 

The next day, he called the Sheriff’s Office. The hippie wasn’t the only one who knew how to work the system. Herman had to sit on hold for a couple of minutes, but he finally reached Bud Millwood, a deputy who had made an unsuccessful run for sheriff a decade back. Herman had supported his campaign with cash and two signs in the yard, and though Millwood had lost the race, rural politics required his repaying of such a favor.

“I need you to check something for me, Bud,” Herman said.

“The city council trying to zone you again?”

“No, nothing like that. We voted that bunch out five years ago. The ‘Z’ word is a one-way ticket to hell around these parts.”

Millwood laughed. “You can set that in stone. A fellow’s got a right to do what he wants with his land.”

“Sometimes. Maybe sometimes.”

“What’s your problem?”

“I wondered if you could run a check on a fellow. Name of Peter Reynolds. He might not be from around here, but he ain’t Yankee, judging by his accent. Has Tennessee plates on his car.” Herman read off the license numbers he’d written on a scrap of paper.

“He do something wrong?”

“No, not yet. He just moved into the neighborhood, and you know how it is.”

“A fellow likes to know who his neighbors are.”

“Yep. So if you can dig anything up, I’d appreciate it.”

“Well, normally I got to have a reason to run a check. But maybe if you think he was growing dope or something.”

“He’s the type who might.”

“Good enough for me. I’ll call you when I learn something. If there’s so much as a counterfeit aspirin on his record, I’ll drive out and pay a personal visit.”

“No, I can handle him. Just let me know.”

“Sure, Herman, whatever. If you smell something funny, though, give me a holler. The way they’re cutting into our DARE programs, it’s a wonder the whole blessed county ain’t going up in smoke.”

Herman was midway through his oatmeal and eyeing a grapefruit half when Bud Millwood called back.

“I ain’t for certain, but if your Peter Reynolds is the same as the one from Trade River, just over the state line, then you might want to lock your doors of a night,” the deputy said. “Got into a quarrel with his neighbor over there. Deputies got called out three times for a domestic dispute.”

“I thought a domestic dispute was when a man was beating up his wife.”

“Yeah, that’s what they thought this was, but turns out Mr. Peter James Reynolds was whopping up on a forty-year-old woman. He claimed she snuck out in the middle of the night and moved the surveying stake that marked the corner of his property. Eased it over a good three feet and then dug up the ground and planted gladiolas.”

“He beat a woman for something like that?”

“Might not be the worst of it. This woman up and disappeared one night. That was a few months after the complaints. A thing like that, you figure people need to talk it out for themselves, maybe take it to small claims court instead of declaring war.”

“Do they think this Reynolds fellow done her in?”

“At first. They had the bloodhounds out and shoveled up some of her yard, thinking he might have buried her there out of spite. They checked out his crawl space, took him in for questioning, but he said he didn’t know nothing, sat there as cool as a ladybug in a cucumber patch. Six months later, when no body turned up, the detectives over there let the case slide. Apparently the family was happy to see her go, sold the property and split up the money. Wasn’t long after that old Peter Reynolds put his own house up for sale.”

“Along about April?”

“Yeah.”

Herman wiped a gummy speck of oatmeal from his lip. “Probably ain’t the same Peter Reynolds. Even a cornshuck place like Tennessee probably got dozens by that name. And license plates have been known to get stolen.”

“Funny, though. The detective I talked to remembered something Peter Reynolds repeated over and over while they questioned him.”

“What’s that?”

“Said, ‘She had no respect for another man’s property.’ Just like that. Said ‘had’ instead of ‘has,’ like he knew she was dead.”

“Yeah. Funny, ain’t it? I appreciate it, Bud. Send along my blessings to your folks.”

“Sure will. Take care, now.”

Herman hung up the phone and looked out the window at the hippie’s house. All the hippies he’d ever heard of were into that peace and love business. Somehow that didn’t square with murdering your neighbor. But neither did razor blades in your fence posts. Or a cat nabbed on a fishhook and buried at the foot of a tree.

 

Herman didn’t mess around with stalking the bushes that night. He went straight down Oakdale, into the hippie’s driveway, and up on the porch. He knocked hard enough for his knuckles to ache. The mutt started yapping behind the closed door.

The door opened a crack. Peter Reynolds gave a smile as if Herman were delivering a bouquet of flowers. “I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Weeks. Please come in.”

Herman’s anger took a left turn toward confusion. “Look here, I just come to talk about your fence.”

“I know. We’re neighbors. We need to talk these things out or else we’ll end up enemies. You know what the Good Book says.”

“You mean the Bible?” The mutt leaped forward and licked at Herman’s shoes. He looked down and saw dried oatmeal had formed white scabs on his trousers.

“It says to love thy neighbor.”

“It also says live and let live.”

“I hate to disagree since we’re trying to be friends, but that’s not written anywhere in the Bible. There’s an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, but not a thing about live and let live.” Peter Reynolds opened the door wider. “Please come in. The neighbors might be watching.”

Herman took a long look behind him at the row of houses. They seemed too quiet, still, and dark. What if Peter Reynolds had been busy over the last day or two, and there were now a dozen mounds of raw earth at the foot of the backyard dogwood? Mrs. Breedlove’s legs tangled in the roots, the Pilkingtons with dirt in their lungs?

He stepped inside, surprised at how bright and neat the room was. He’d expected it to be dank and furnished with heavy vinyl pieces, the way it had been when Ned and Eileen lived here. But the hippie must have watched a few home improvement shows. The carpet was plush and the color of gunsmoke, the window treatments were light gray, and the trim was painted in white semi-gloss, giving the room the sort of forced order you’d expect in an FBI office or a doctor’s waiting room. A computer sat on a bleached oak desk, and the rest of the furniture was arranged around it. Herman peeked into the kitchen and didn’t see a single dirty dish.

“Have a seat,” Peter Reynolds said, motioning toward the couch. It looked like a regular-guy sort of couch, the kind where you could prop your feet on the arm rest and balance a bowl of chips on the back cushions, scratch your balls if you felt like it. Watch the Panthers whoop up on the 49ers. Except the hippie didn’t have a TV. All he had was the computer.

Herman sat, uncomfortable, wondering if dried mud filled the cracks on the bottoms of his shoes.

“You heard about Tennessee,” Peter Reynolds said.

“Did you kill her?”

“I’m surprised you’d ask something like that. I would have taken you for a man who minded his own business.”

“Did you bury her like you did the cat?”

“You should worry about your own problems instead of going around being suspicious of everybody.”

“I don’t have no problems.”

“That you’ll admit, anyway.”

“No worries nothing.”

“You’re old and alone and it’s slipping away. The last thing you have left to fight for is that patch of grass up there”—Peter Reynolds waved at the dark window in the direction of Herman’s house—“and a picket fence. And it’s getting harder to keep that fence standing straight, isn’t it? The winds keep coming, a little stronger every year, the snow leans on it, the neighborhood kids get a little bigger and bolder, and a fence starts looking like a dare instead of a warning. Yes, Mr. Weeks, I understand fences. I’m territorial myself.”

The hippie’s gray eyes, which were the same color as the carpet, seemed far too old. “All I want is a place to spread out, a yard for my dog to dig in, a roof over my head, and no barbarians at the gate.”

“Barbarians at the gate,” Herman repeated, as if he had the slightest idea what the hippie was going on about. He had a fleeting image of one of those old chariot movies, where the Romans were always punished because of nailing Jesus to the cross. You never saw John Wayne in a toga, that was for sure. Charlton Heston, maybe, but that was a different nut altogether.

“I’m a loner like you,” Peter Reynolds went on, standing across the room even though his guest was sitting. “I take care of what’s mine. That’s why I was so upset when I saw you had fixed my leaning fence post. It was an insult, you see.”

Herman could see that plain, now. At the time, he’d thought the hippie has bone lazy, without a stitch of pride. But the truth was the hippie was just like Herman, proud to the point of stubbornness. Ready to fight for home ground.

“I didn’t mean nothing,” Herman said. “But from where I come from, you set your fences straight.”

“I’m tired, Herman. I don’t mind burying a trespassing cat once in while.” The hippie gave Herman a look that said maybe cats weren’t all he’d buried. “But I don’t want to run anymore. Every time I think I’m settled in for good, that I’ve staked out a place to call my own, along comes some lousy neighbor to spoil it all.”

Herman didn’t want to think that he was spoiling anything for Peter Reynolds. Because the hippie’s left eyelid was twitching just a little.

“Well, I’m not running anymore. This time, I’m trying to recruit an ally. A good neighbor. A man who respects the property rights of others.”

“I’ve always been a good neighbor,” Herman said.

“You’ve got more to fight for than any of us do, since you’ve been here the longest.”

“I’ll fight to protect what’s mine. I registered for the draft, though I had the bad luck to come of age between Korea and Vietnam.”

“You don’t have to go overseas to find the enemy,” the hippie said, and those gray eyes had gone even darker, on toward charcoal. “The barbarians are right at the gate.”

Herman’s stomach was in knots and his bowels gurgled, scoured raw by fiber. He didn’t like the distant anger in the hippie’s voice. That was a murderer speaking, someone who could deprive another human being of the ultimate in property rights, the right to possess a living and breathing body. He flinched when the hippie spun and stormed toward the computer.

“It’s a technological age we live in, Herman,” Peter Reynolds said, tapping some keys. “All the public records are right here on the county Web site. Birth certificates, deaths, deeds, criminal charges, tax liens. And look here. Building applications.”

Herman squinted, trying to see around the hippie’s back, that long pony tail nearly down to his rump. From behind, wearing a dress, he could have passed for a girl. Assuming he shaved his legs. But he heard women didn’t hardly do that anymore. Barbarians at the gates was right.

“Next door,” the hippie said. “The Devereaux heirs have been busy.”

“The dentist’s boys?”

“Yes. They’ve sold the lot to an outfit out of Texas. Highland Builders LLC.”

“Damn. I knew that was going to be developed sooner or later. Wonder who the new neighbor is going to be?”

“Neighbors,” the hippie said. “Plural.”

“Do what?”

“Apartment complex. Six buildings. A hundred-and-fifty-two parking spaces. Legal occupancy of up to 122 unrelated persons.”

Herman dug a finger into his ear, as if wax buildup prevented his brain from accepting the words he’d just heard. “No way. You can’t fit that many people on such a little scrap of ground.”

“You must have missed the zoning hearings. This application says the property was zoned for multi-family back in the 1980s.”

“Oh, that. We didn’t go to none of those. We stayed away as a protest against zoning.”

“They zoned anyway.”

“Tarnation.”

“A foreign developer like that has absolutely no respect for the neighbors. Oakdale would be changed forever. For the worse.”

“I’ll say. How we going to keep all them people off our property?
“You know what they say. A good fence is the first line of defense.”

Herman wasn’t sure he liked the gleam in the hippie’s eyes. Those were Osama’s eyes, the look of a man who would just as soon bury you as nail up a “No Trespassing” sign. He thought of the fence post with its embedded razor, the barbed hook big enough to snag a cat. He wondered what sort of contraption the hippie could cook up to deal with a major invasion.

“I’ll bet they’ll put up crooked fence posts,” Herman said.

“No doubt. A Texas developer wouldn’t know the first thing about building in the mountains.”

“And those apartments will have kids.”

“Lots of kids,” the hippie agreed.

“Squalling, squabbling little yard monkeys who will wear a path in your grass deep enough to bury a mule.”

“Or bury a person.”

Herman looked at the window, at the dark, empty field. Fireflies blinked above the ragged vegetation. A crabapple tree swayed in the wind. Headlights cut twin yellow arcs across the small plot of land as a pizza delivery car cut into the neighborhood. Herman tried to picture the security lights, the view-wrecking walls, the cars crowded around the buildings. Four stories of noise and strangers. Bad neighbors.

The best way to stop bad neighbors was with good fences.

Fences like the hippie made.

“Want to see my shop?” Peter Reynolds said.

“You bet.”

Herman was sure it was full of sharp, shiny things and heavy, black hammers. He got up from the couch, feeling younger than he had in years. His heart, which usually beat in a tired and uneven rhythm, now burned with pride and a sense of duty. There was work to be done and fences to be mended. Herman, as old as he was, figured he could still learn a thing or two about handling property disputes. They could beat this problem together.

After all, what else were neighbors for?

 

Bud Millwood pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, something he’d probably seen in a detective movie somewhere. Herman let the door stand open, and though the October air was brisk, he didn’t invite the deputy in. Herman had nothing to hide, but a man’s home was private property and Bud was here as an officer of the law, not as a friend. Plus, his breakfast was getting cold, and nothing went down rougher than cold oatmeal.

“Find anything on that Reynolds fellow?” Herman asked.

“No. It’s been two months. We figure he knew the Tennessee law was closing in, so he cut out, started a new identity, maybe drifted to Canada or Mexico.”

“That kind, they don’t understand the value of setting down roots. They think they can just barge in any old where and call it ‘home,’ with no respect for what went on before.”

“Maybe so,” Bud said. “But he left a lot of his tools and clothes and furniture. Like he got up and drove off in the middle of the night.”

“How else do shiftless hippies know how to do it?” Herman looked past Bud to 107 Oakdale. A metal “For Sale” sign was stuck in the grass, its hinged metal face swinging in the faint breeze. Bud had explained the property wasn’t a crime scene anymore because there was no evidence of any crime. A new neighbor would be moving in soon, now that the bank had taken it over. There was no way such prime real estate would stay on the market for long, what with the mountains becoming such a desirable destination and all, like the Chamber of Commerce said.

“Hard to believe he killed a poor old woman over a property stob,” Bud said.

“Well, that’s Tennessee for you. And hippies.”

“The M.E. over there said she bled to death real slow. She might even have still been alive when he poured the cement over her.”

Cement. Herman looked over at the Devereaux property, the site of the new apartment complex. Those Texas developers hadn’t wasted any time, they’d moved in the backhoes and bulldozers and already a cement mixer was maneuvering to pour the oversize footers, beeping as it backed up, its gray sluice chute extended.

“So, you sure you didn’t see nothing?” Bud’s mouth was tucked in tight at the corners, but Herman stared straight into his own reflection doubled back in Bud’s sunglasses.

“I’m a big fan of this Community Watch program, but even neighbors can’t keep track of every little thing that goes on. Crosses the line into nosiness.”

“Reckon so.”

“It’s just as well,” Herman said. “That fellow didn’t have any sense of pride nor place. Just look at that fence post up yonder, leaning like a Thursday drunk.”

Bud looked at the fence at 107 Oakdale, then at the construction site. “Going to get real crowded around here soon.”

“They call it ‘progress,’ I reckon.”

“Well, let me know if you remember anything. I got to get on to the real cases, not make garbage runs for Tennessee.” Bud started to the sidewalk, back to the white picket gate and his patrol car.

“Don’t lose no sleep over him,” Herman called after Bud, over the rumble of the earth machines. “To run out on a mortgage like that, and to leave the place in such a mess, it goes to show he had no respect.”

Bud stopped at the gate. “You said ‘had,’ Herman. Past tense.”

“He’s past tense to me. We don’t need people like that around, them who think their way is the only way.”

Bud nodded and lifted his hand in a half-wave, then climbed into his cruiser and eased up the street.

The red-headed girl passed in the other lane on her bicycle, the shaggy mutt running down the street after her, barking and snapping at the bike’s rear tire. That dog wasn’t as bad as its former master. At least the dog had a sense of territory. And it kept its bones buried.

Herman looked once more at the construction site, the men in their hard hats milling around the loud machines. The cement would be hard by sundown. New neighbors on the way. More barbarians at the gate. But, for now, the fences were mended and order restored.

He went into his garage to clean his tools.

###

 

 

THE AGREEMENT

By J.A. Konrath

 

Hutson closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to stop sweating. On the table, in the pot, thirty thousand dollars worth of chips formed a haphazard pyramid. Half of those chips were his. The other half belonged to the quirky little mobster in the pink suit that sat across from him.

“I’ll see it.”

The mobster pushed more chips into the pile. He went by the street nick Little Louie. Hutson didn’t know his last name, and had no real desire to learn it. The only thing he cared about was winning this hand. He cared about it a great deal, because Bernard Hutson did not have the money to cover the bet. Seven hours ago he was up eighteen grand, but since then he’d been steadily losing and extending his credit and losing and extending his credit. If he won this pot, he’d break even.

If he didn’t, he owed thirty thousand dollars that he didn’t have to a man who had zero tolerance for welchers.

Little Louie always brought two large bodyguards with him when he gambled. These bodyguards worked according to a unique payment plan. They would hurt a welcher in relation to what he owed. An unpaid debt of one hundred dollars would break a finger. A thousand would break a leg.

Thirty thousand defied the imagination.

Hutson wiped his forehead on his sleeve and stared at his hand, praying it would be good enough.

Little Louie dealt them each one more card. When the game began, all six chairs had been full. Now, at almost five in the morning, the only two combatants left were Hutson and the mobster. Both stank of sweat and cigarettes. They sat at a greasy wooden card table in somebody’s kitchen, cramped and red-eyed and exhausted.

One of Louie’s thugs sat on a chair in the corner, snoring with a deep bumble-bee buzz. The other was looking out of the grimy eighth story window, the fire escape blocking his view of the city. Each men had more scars on their knuckles than Hutson had on his entire body.

Scary guys.

Hutson picked up the card and said a silent prayer before looking at it.

A five.

That gave him a full house, fives over threes. A good hand. A very good hand.

“Your bet,” Little Louie barked. The man in the pink suit boasted tiny, cherubic features and black rat eyes. He didn’t stand over five four, and a pathetic little blonde moustache sat on his upper lip like a bug. Hutson had joined the game on suggestion of his friend Ray. Ray had left hours ago, when Hutson was still ahead. Hutson should have left with him. He hadn’t. And now, he found himself throwing his last two hundred dollars worth of chips into the pile, hoping Little Louie wouldn’t raise him.

Little Louie raised him.

“I’m out of chips,” Hutson said.

“But you’re good for it, right? You are good for it?”

The question was moot. The mobster had made crystal clear, when he extended the first loan, that if Hutson couldn’t pay it back, he would hurt him.

“I’m very particular when it comes to debts. When the game ends, I want all debts paid within an hour. In cash. If not, my boys will have to damage you according to what you owe. That’s the agreement, and you’re obliged to follow it, to the letter.”

“I’m good for it.”

Hutson borrowed another five hundred and asked for the cards to be shown.

Little Louie had four sevens. That beat a full house.

Hutson threw up on the table.

“I take it I won,” grinned Little Louie, his cheeks brightening like a maniacal elf.

Hutson wiped his mouth and stared off to the left of the room, avoiding Little Louie’s gaze.

“I’ll get the money,” Hutson mumbled, knowing full well that he couldn’t.

“Go ahead and make your call.” Little Louie stood up, stretched. “Rocko, bring this man a phone.”

Rocko lifted his snoring head in a moment of confusion. “What boss?”

“Bring this guy a phone, so he can get the money he owes me.”

Rocko heaved himself out of his chair and went to the kitchen counter, grabbing Little Louie’s cellular and bringing it to Hutson.

Hutson looked over at Little Louie, then at Rocko, then at Little Louie again.

“What do you mean?” he finally asked.

“What do you mean?” mimicked Little Louie in a high, whiny voice. Both Rocko and the other thug broke up at this, giggling like school girls. “You don’t think I’m going to let you walk out of here, do you?”

“You said...”

“I said you have an hour to get the money. I didn’t say you could leave to get it. I’m still following the agreement to the letter. So call somebody up and get them to bring it here.”

Hutson felt sick again.

“You don’t look so good.” Little Louie furrowed his brow in mock-concern. “Want an antacid?”

The thugs giggled again.

“I...I don’t have anyone I can call,” Hutson stammered.

“Call your buddy, Ray. Or maybe your mommy can bring the money.”

“Mommy.” Rocko snickered. “You ought to be a comedian, boss. You’d kill ‘em.”

Little Louie puffed out his fat little chest and belched.

“Better get to it, Mr. Hutson. You only have fifty-five minutes left.”

Hutson took the phone in a trembling hand, and called Ray. It rang fifteen times, twenty, twenty-five.

Little Louie walked over, patted Hutson’s shoulder. “I don’t think they’re home. Maybe you should try someone else.”

Hutson fought nausea, wiped the sweat off of his neck, and dialled another number. His ex-girlfriend, Dolores. They broke up last month. Badly.

A man answered.

“Can I speak to Dolores?”

“Who the hell is this?”

“It’s Hutson.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“Please let me speak to Dolores, it’s real important.”

Little Louie watched, apparently drinking in the scene. Hutson had a feeling the mobster didn’t care about the money, that he’d rather watch his men inflict some major pain.

“Dolores, this is Hutson.”

“What do you want?”

“I need some money. I owe a gambling debt and...”

She hung up on him before he got any farther.

Hutson squeezed his eyes shut. Thirty thousand dollars worth of pain. What would they start with? His knees? His teeth? Jesus, his eyes?

Hutson tried his parents. They picked up on the sixth ring.

“Mom?” This brought uncontrollable laughter from the trio. “I need some money, fast. A gambling debt. They’re going to hurt me.”

“How much money?”

“Thirty grand. And it need it in forty-five minutes.”

There was a lengthy pause.

“When are you going to grow up, Bernard?”

“Mom...”

“You can’t keep expecting me and your father to pick up after you all the time. You’re a grown man Bernard.”

Hutson mopped his forehead with his sleeve.

“Mom, I’ll pay you back, I swear to God. I’ll never gamble again.”

An eternity of silence passed.

“Maybe you’ll learn a lesson from this, son. A lesson your father and I obviously never taught you.”

“Mom, for God’s sake! They’re going to hurt me!”

“I’m sorry. You got yourself into this, you’ll have to get yourself out.”

“Mom! Please!”

The phone went dead.

“Yeah, parents can be tough.” Little Louie rolled his head around on his chubby neck, making a sound like a crackling cellophane bag. “That’s why I killed mine.”

Hutson cradled his face in his hands and tried to fight back a sob. He lost. He was going to be hurt. He was going to be very badly hurt, over a long period of time. And no one was going to help him.

“Please,” he said, in a voice he didn’t recognize. “Just give me a day or two. I’ll get the money.”

Little Louie shook his head. “That ain’t the deal. You agreed to the terms, and those terms were to the letter. You still have half an hour. See who else you can call.”

Hutson brushed away his tears and stared at the phone, praying for a miracle. Then he had an idea.

He called the police.

He dialled 911, then four more numbers so it looked like it was a normal call. A female officer answered.

“Chicago Police Department.”

“This is Hutson. This is a matter of life and death. Bring 30,000 dollars over to 1357 Ontario, apartment 506.”

“Sir, crank calls on the emergency number is a crime, punishable by a fine of five hundred dollars and up to thirty days in prison.”

“Listen to me. Please. They want to kill me.”

“Who does, sir?”

“These guys. It’s a gambling debt. They’re going to hurt me. Get over here.”

“Sir, having already explained the penalty for crank calls...”

The phone was ripped from Hutson’s hands by Rocko and handed to Little Louie.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Little Louie hung up and waggled a finger at Hutson. “I’m very disappointed in you, Mr. Hutson. After all, you had agreed to my terms.”

Hutson began to cry. He cried like a first grader with a skinned knee. He cried for a long time, before finally getting himself under control.

“It’s time.” Little Louie glanced at his watch and smiled. “Start with his fingers.”

“Please don’t hurt me...”

Rocko and the other thug moved in. Hutson dodged them and got on his knees in front of Little Louie.

“I’ll do anything,” he pleaded. “Anything at all. Name it. Just name it. But please don’t hurt me.”

“Hold it boys.” Little Louie raised his palm. “I have an idea.”

A small ray of hope penetrated Hutson.

“Anything. I’ll do anything.”

Little Louie took out a long, thin cigarillo and nipped off the end, swallowing it.

“There was a guy, about six years ago, who was in the same situation you’re in now.”

He put the end of the cigar in his mouth and rolled it around on his fat, gray tongue.

“This guy also said he would do anything, just so I didn’t hurt him. Remember that fellas?”

Both bodyguards nodded.

“He finally said, what he would do, is put his hand on a stove burner for ten seconds. He said he would hold his own hand on the burner, for ten whole seconds.”

Little Louie produced a gold Dunhill and lit the cigar, rolling it between his chubby fingers while drawing hard.

“He only lasted seven, and we had to hurt him anyway.” Little Louie sucked on the stogie, and blew out a perfect smoke ring. “But I am curious to see if it could be done. The whole ten seconds.”

Little Louie looked at Hutson, who was still kneeling before him.

“If you can hold your right hand on a stove burner for ten seconds, Mr. Hutson, I’ll relieve you of your debt and you can leave without anyone hurting you.”

Hutson blinked several times. How hot did a stove burner get? How seriously would he be hurt?

Not nearly as much as having thirty thousand dollars worth of damage inflicted upon him.

But a stove burner? Could he force himself to keep his hand on it for that long?

Did he have any other choice?

“I’ll do it.”

Little Louie smiled held out a hand to help Hutson to his feet.

“Of course, if you don’t do it, the boys will still have to work you over. You understand.”

Hutson nodded, allowing himself to be led into the kitchen.

The stove was off-white, a greasy Kenmore, with four electric burners. The heating elements were each six inches in diameter, coiled into spirals like a whirlpool swirl. They were black, but Hutson knew when he turned one on it would glow orange.

Little Louie and his bodyguards stepped behind him to get a better look.

“It’s electric,” noted Rocko.

Little Louie frowned. “The other guy used a gas stove. His sleeve caught on fire. Remember that?”

The thugs giggled. Hutson picked the lower left hand burner and turned it on the lowest setting.

Little Louie wasn’t impressed.

“Hey, switch it up higher than that.”

“You didn’t say how high it had to be when we made the agreement.” Hutson spoke fast, relying on the mobster’s warped sense of fairness. “Just that I had to keep it on for ten seconds.”

“It was inferred it would be on the hottest.”

“I can put it on low and still follow the deal to the letter.”

Little Louie considered this, then nodded.

“You’re right. You’re still following it to the letter. Leave it on low then.”

It didn’t matter, because already the burner was fiery orange. Rocko leaned over and spat on it, and the saliva didn’t even have a chance to drip through the coils before sizzling away and evaporating.

“I think it’s hot,” Rocko said.

Hutson stared at the glowing burner. He held his trembling hand two inches above it. The heat was excruciating. Hutson’s palm began to sweat and the hair above his knuckles curled and he fought the little voice in his brain that screamed get your hand away!

“Well, go ahead.” Little Louie held up a gold pocket watch. “I’ll start when you do. Ten whole seconds.”

“Sweet Jesus in heaven help me,” thought Hutson.

He bit his lip and slapped his hand down on to the burner.

There was an immediate frying sound, like bacon in a pan. The pain was instant and searing. Hutson screamed and screamed, the coils burning away the skin on his palm, burning into the flesh, blistering and bubbling, melting the muscle and fat, Hutson screaming louder now, smoke starting to rise, Little Louie sounding off the seconds, a smell like pork chops filling Hutson’s nostrils, pain beyond intense, screaming so high there wasn’t any sound, can’t keep it there anymore, Jesus no more no more and...

Hutson yanked his hand from the burner, trembling, feeling faint, clutching his right hand at the wrist and stumbling to the sink, turning on the cold water, putting his charred hand under it, losing consciousness, everything going black.

He woke up lying on the floor, the pain in his hand a living thing, his mouth bleeding from biting his lower lip. His face contorted and he yelled from the anguish.

Little Louie stood over him, holding the pocket watch. “That was only seven seconds.”

Hutson’s scream could have woken the dead. It was full of heart-wrenching agony and fear and disgust and pity. It was the scream of the man being interrogated by the Gestapo. The scream of the woman having a Caesarean without anaesthetic. The scream of a father in a burning, wrecked car turning to see his baby on fire.

The scream of a man without hope.

“Don’t get upset.” Little Louie offered him a big grin. “I’ll let you try it again.”

The thugs hauled Hutson to his feet, and he whimpered and passed out. He woke up on the floor again, choking. Water had been thrown in his face.

Little Louie shook his head, sadly. “Come on Mr. Hutson. I haven’t got all day. I’m a busy man. If you want to back out, the boys can do their job. I want to warn you though, a thirty grand job means we’ll put your face on one of these burners, and that would just be the beginning. Make your decision.”

Hutson got to his feet, knees barely able to support him, breath shallow, hand hurting worse than any pain he had ever felt. He didn’t want to look at it, found himself doing it anyway, and stared at the black, inflamed flesh in a circular pattern on his palm. Hardly any blood. Just raw, exposed, gooey cooked muscle where the skin had fried away.

Hutson bent over and threw up.

“Come on, Mr. Hutson. You can do it. You came so close, I’d hate to have to cripple you permanently.”

Hutson tried to stagger to the door to get away, but was held back before he took two steps.

“The stove is over here, Mr. Hutson.” Little Louie’s black rat eyes sparkled like polished onyx.

Rocko steered Hutson back to the stove. Hutson stared down at the orange glowing burner, blackened in several places where parts of his palm had stuck and cooked to cinder. The pain was pounding. He was dazed and on the verge of passing out again. He lifted his left hand over the burner.

“Nope. Sorry Mr. Hutson. I specifically said it had to be your right hand. You have to use your right hand, please.”

Could he put his right hand on that burner again? Hutson didn’t think he could, in his muddied, agony-spiked brain. He was sweating and cold at the same time, and the air swam around him. His body shook and trembled. If he were familiar with the symptoms, Hutson might have known he was going into shock. But he wasn’t a doctor, and he couldn’t think straight anyway, and the pain, oh Jesus, the awful pain, and he remembered being five years old and afraid of dogs, and his grandfather had a dog and made him pet it, and he was scared, so scared that it would bite, and his grandfather grabbed his hand and put it toward the dog’s head...

Hutson put his hand back on the burner.

“One...............two...............”

Hutson screamed again, searing pain bringing him out of shock. His hand reflexively grabbed the burner, pushing down harder, muscles squeezing, the old burns set aflame again, blistering, popping...

“...............three...............”

Take it off! Take it off! Screaming, eyes squeezed tight, shaking his head like a hound with a fox in his teeth, sounds of cracking skin and sizzling meat...

“...............four...............five...............”

Black smoke, rising, a burning smell, that’s me cooking, muscle melting and searing away, nerves exposed, screaming even louder, pull it away!, using the other hand to hold it down...

“...............six...............seven...............”

Agony so exquisite, so absolute, unending, entire arm shaking, falling to knees, keeping hand on burner, opening eyes and seeing it sear at eye level, turning grey like a well-done steak, meat charring...

“Smells pretty good,” says one of the thugs.

“Like a hamburger.”

“A hand-burger.”

Laughter.

“...............eight...............nine...............”

No flesh left, orange burner searing bone, scorching, blood pumping onto heating coils, beading and evaporating like fat on a griddle, veins and arteries searing...

“........ten!”

Take it off! Take it off!

It’s stuck.

“Look boss, he’s stuck!”

Air whistled out of Hutson’s lungs like a horse whimpering. His hand continued to fry away. He pulled feebly, pain at a peak, all nerves exposed–pull dammit! –blacking out, everything fading...

Hutson awoke on the floor, shaking, with more water in his face.

“Nice job Mr. Hutson.” Little Louie stared down at him. “You followed the agreement. To the letter. You’re off the hook.”

Hutson squinted up at the mobster. The little man seemed very far away.

“Since you’ve been such a sport, I’ve even called an ambulance for you. They’re on their way. Unfortunately, the boys and I won’t be here when it arrives.”

Hutson tried to say something. His mouth wouldn’t form words.

“I hope we can gamble again soon, Mr. Hutson. Maybe we could play a hand or two. Get it? A hand?”

The thugs tittered. Little Louie bent down, close enough for Hutson to smell his cigar breath.

“Oh, there’s one more thing, Mr. Hutson. Looking back on our agreement, I said you had to hold your right hand on the burner for ten seconds. I said you had to follow that request to the letter. But, you know what? I just realized something pretty funny. I never said you had to turn the burner on.”

Little Louie left, followed by his body guards, and Bernard Hutson screamed and screamed and just couldn’t stop.

 

 

"—KILL YOUR DARLINGS—"

 

I was wiping down the counter with an old shirt rag when he came in. The man in the yellow slicker. I saw him without looking up, drank him in the way my customers downed their Scotch and water. Years of bartending had made me a quick study. Call it survival instinct.

Big guy, woolly Groucho Marx eyebrows, but his nose was small and sharp, more like a hawk's bill than an eagle's beak. He was an easy 6'  2" if he was an inch, and he was at least an inch. He was slouching down into the collar of his slicker, trying to make himself invisible. Fat chance.

He shook off the afternoon rain that had collected on his broad shoulders. Even in the dim light of neon beer signs, I could see his black smoldering eyes roaming over the joint. He wasn't here for the atmosphere, though we had plenty of that. A television in the corner, tuned to a 24-hour sports station, the sound turned down. A row of ragged barstools, their cotton stuffing oozing out from under the vinyl seats. A jukebox by the restrooms, broken down and so old that it featured "The Brand New Hit from Hank Williams!" A couple of regulars slouched in a booth, deep in their cups despite the early hour, whiling away the day until it was time to get down to some serious drinking. And all of that was doubled back in the long, foggy mirror that covered the wall behind the bar, the mirror that had a perfect round hole from a passionate gunshot maybe twenty years ago. He wasn't here for the scenery.

And he wasn't here for the smell. Stale urine laced with crusted vomit that never completely dried, just sort of congealed half-heartedly. The musty smell of the soggy carpet, worn down to the threads or, in places, all the way through to the rough pine planks underneath. The odor of old cigarettes which had seeped so deeply into the walls that you could kill a nicotine craving by chewing on a piece of the peeling wallpaper. And, of course, the grainy smell of every kind of imbibement known to man, at least the stuff that was under twenty bucks a bottle.

No, despite all this decadent splendor, he was here for something besides a blind date with a watered-down slug of rotgut. He was looking for someone. He walked across the floor to the chipped bar and sat down in front of me.

"What's your pleasure?" I asked, still not looking up, rubbing on a cigarette burn I had been working over for a few weeks.

"Business is my pleasure," he said, his voice husky and raw, his throat a clearinghouse for phlegm and bitterness—

 

"Honey, time to go to work," my wife called from the kitchen. She put up with my writing, humored my foolish ambitions, and served as a whimsical sounding board for my evolving plots. She even let me use our apartment's overgrown pantry as a study. At least my new hobby kept me at home, unlike my earlier flings with surfboarding and collecting Civil war relics. My writing was fine with her, as long as the bills were paid.

I gulped down the gritty dregs of my coffee and looked at my wristwatch. "Coming, dear."

I left Marco in the middle of his story, along with the guy with the raincoat. I thought of him as "Fred," but that would probably change to something more noble and tough, like "Roman." Yeah, Roman would work just fine. Roman would be looking for his wife, who had run off in the middle of the night with his best friend. Naw, that was too banal—

"Honey!"

"Okay, I'm really coming." I hit the "save" button on the word processor and jogged out of the study and into the kitchen and gave Karen a husbandly peck on the cheek. I turned before going out the door. "Be home this evening?"

"No, I've got to pick up Susanne after her soccer and then I've got a fundraiser meeting at the library."

"Then I'll grab a burger on the way back in."

"No, you're going to heat up the pot roast and microwave some potatoes for us."

"Oh, yeah. Bye. Love you."

I was two minutes late at the magazine stand where I worked. I liked the job. From my position at the register, I had a clear view of the street, and the company was good, mostly educated people who actually relished honest differences of opinion. And it was great place for scoping out characters, finding faces that I could press into the two-dimensional world of fiction.

Henry, the store owner, gave me a little ribbing about being late, but he was never in a hurry to be relieved. I tried to picture his life outside the shop, but when my imagination followed him down the street, with a couple of newspapers tucked under his pudgy elbow, my imagination always gave out when he turned the corner. He was like a minor character who served his plot purpose and then dutifully shuffled off the page.

I restocked a few monthlies and had to rotate a couple of the afternoon editions that had just rolled off the presses. One of my favorite parts of the job was getting to smell the fresh paper and ink. I'd open a box of magazines or comic books and take a big relaxing sniff, like one of those turtlenecked actors "savoring the aroma" of a cup of expensive French roast.

To me, words on paper were magic: entire universes lined up in neat rows on the bookshelves, filled with heroes and heroines that dared to dream; fantastic voyages to the outermost edges of the cosmos or the inner depths of the mind; unthinkable horrors and profound rhapsodies; the vast revelations of consciousness, all for cover price and tax.

I was arranging the cigar showcase when Harriett Weatherspoon came in. She had parked her poodle by the door, and it pressed the black dot of its nose against the glass.

"Hello, Sil," she said, in her canary voice.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Weatherspoon. What will it be today?"

"I think I'll just browse through the bestsellers today."

"We've got the new Michele McMartin in. And probably a R.C. Adams or two. Seems like they come out every couple of months nowadays."

"Now, Sil, you know those are ghost-written. They come out of one of those prose-generating computer programs I read about in Writer's Digest."

"Million-sellers all. What does that say about the state of literacy today?"

"Charles Dickens is rolling over in his grave."

"Along with the ghosts of several Christmases."

Mrs. Weatherspoon bought a paperback and a couple of nature magazines and went out into the bright spring afternoon. She stopped at the door and unhitched her poodle's leash, and for a split-second, I thought she was going to hop on the little varmint and ride off into the sunset. But she wrapped the leash around her wrist and went down the sidewalk, chin-first.

I was watching her slip into the human stream when I saw the man in the raincoat. He stood out from the crowd because the coat was canary yellow and also because the day was sunny and warm, with not a cloud above the skyline. Unexpected showers occasionally blew in off the coast, but most of the other pedestrians needed only an umbrella in their armpit for security. The raincoat-wearer was on the edge of a meaty crush at the corner, waiting for the light to change, and in the next moment he was gone.

"Canary yellow," I said to the empty store. "Good piece of detail. Roman's slicker will be canary yellow instead of just plain yellow."

I searched my memory to see if I could dredge any more fictional sludge out of the fleeting vision. He had been Roman's height, and he had a jot of black hair. Not the dark brown that most people call black. This was shoe-polish black. But I could steal no other features from him, because I had only seen him from behind.

Arriving home after work, I started warming up dinner and went into the study. I turned on the word processor and began spewing words, with my tongue pressed lightly between my teeth the way it does when I'm onto something and I forgot where I am, when I get sucked into a world that is trying to create itself before my eyes.

 

"Business is my pleasure," he said, his voice a clearinghouse for phlegm and bitterness. I hadn't heard that corny line in a few months, but I wasn't about to bring up  his lack of originality.

I looked into the pits of his eyes. His pupils were as dark as his shoe-polish black hair, and they were ringed by an unusual reddish-gold color. Our eyes met for only a second, and mine went back down to the bar.

In that instant, I had seen plenty. Pain. Anger. And unless I'm a bad judge of character, which I'm not, a touch of crazy as well.

"Odd place to do business," I said, with practiced carelessness.

"I'm looking for somebody." His voice was grave-dirt.

"Ain't we all?"

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, and suddenly his hand was on the bar, palm-down. The back of his hand was a roadmap of blue veins, lined with tiny creases, and wiry black hairs stuck out in all directions. But what really caught my eye was the fifty-dollar bill underneath.

"Bartenders see things, know things," he muttered under his breath.

It was an occupational hazard, all right. I saw lots of things and knew things I wouldn't tell for twenty times that amount. But a fifty didn't walk in every day, and a G-note never did. I nodded my head slightly, to let him know I understood.

His hand suddenly balled into a fist, his veins becoming swollen with rage.

 

I smelled something. Smoke. I ran out to rescue the pot roast and was just sliding its black carcass out of the oven when my wife and daughter walked in.

"Order out for pizza?" I asked in greeting.

We ate the pizza, then I plowed ahead with the story. After a couple of pages, I was fighting for words, torturing myself through painful paragraphs, dangling from the cliff-edge of plot resolution like a sixth-grader's participle. What do I do with these people? I needed some fresh ideas.

After work the next day, I stopped down at Rocco's Place. Rocco was a short, paunchy Italian who was born into bartending. He wasn't a close friend, but I figured he was fair game as a model for my story. Marco. Rocco. Close, but he'd never know the difference. He probably dangled from the cliff-edge of literacy by a thin rope anyway.

His bar was much cleaner than the one in the story, but this place was too sterile to make good fiction. Readers wanted fantasy, not reality. They got plenty of reality. They got plenty of hard-backed chairs and plastic potted plants, scores of vapid muzak melodies piped through polyester speaker grills. I sat in one of the hard-backed chairs and ordered a beer.

"You that writer fella?" Rocco set a frothy brew in front of my face.

I was surprised. I didn't make a habit of telling people I was a "writer." I didn't wear tweed jackets with leather elbow patches or chew thoughtfully on a thick maple pipe. I might be crazy for trying to write, but I wasn't insane enough to advertise. But it was also nice to have my humble accomplishments recognized.

"I've published a little," I said, trying not to swell.

He wasn't looking at me anyway. He was wiping down the bar that was already so shiny customers were afraid to set down their drinks.

"Fella was in looking for you."

I stopped in mid-hoist, sloshing a little sticky liquid on my cuff. Who would look for me in a bar? I wasn't Hemingway. I could barely afford this beer, much less becoming one of Rocco's house fixtures.

"Big guy. Kinda mean-lookin'."

I laughed. "Let me guess. He thinks I'm messing with his wife, right?"

"Some people don't think it's funny. Especially certain husbands." His words were clipped and he kept his eyes down. "You're an okay guy. Don't spend a fortune, but ya never cause trouble. Been known to tip."

I was wondering if he was waiting for me to grease his palm, perhaps with my measly pocket change. But he continued.

"I know it's none of my business. But I thought I'd give you some advice, friend to friend. Keep an eye out for him. He's the dangerous type. Seen 'em before." He nodded to the perfect round bullet hole that was the only blemish in the clean silver glass of the bar mirror.

I played along. "What did he look like?"

"Beefy guy, black hair, black like licorice kinda. Weird eyes, a color you hardly ever see. And he was wearing a big yella raincoat, and we ain't had rain for a week."

Karen must have put him up to this. She must have read my work-in-progress and planned this little joke. Surely she didn't think it was me that was having the affair?

I paid Rocco and left him to wipe up the ring my half-empty mug had made. I ran the three blocks home and went into the study to re-read what I had written last night. Sweat was pooling under my arms and my scalp was tingling, the way they always did when I was lost in an unfolding plot, only this time my intestines were unfolding along with it.

 

His hand suddenly balled into a fist, his veins becoming swollen with rage.

I was staring at that fist, that big hunk of ham that looked like it could smash a city bus. I waited for it to relax, for the little muscles to stop twitching. When it was back in his pocket, leaving the bill, he said, "Wimpy little smart-assed writer type. Shifty-eyed know-it-all, been in here with a tall blonde. You woulda noticed her. Green eyes. Legs all the way down to the floor."

I had noticed, all right. Some hoity-toity wiseacre getting a looker like that, and us lonely bartenders paying through the nose for our company.

"What of 'em?"

"The fifty's for you. A fringe benefit of knowing things. And it's got a twin here in my pocket."

"Knowin' is cheap, but sayin' ain't."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a greasy smile slip across his face.

"Double or nothing, then. The double's for forgetting you ever saw me."

"Saw who?"

He laid another three fifties down on the bar. I eyed the joint in the mirror to make sure no one was watching. Then I swept the money away with my towel and had it in my pocket, where it would stay until I caught up with Leanna tonight.

"Lives three blocks down. Number 216 East."

He stood up, making an awfully big shadow on the scum-stained bar. Then the shadow, and the man in the yellow slicker, were gone. I felt sorry for that weeny little guy. Any minute now, he was gonna hear a knocking on his door—

 

The words danced in golden orange on the black screen of the word processor. Bad writing. A little too much Spillane and Chandler . The story had gotten away. Time to dive in, chop out its heart. Where to begin? Better finish reading it first.

A pounding on the door interrupted my thoughts.

 

—knocking on his door, then he's going to hear a yell, a crazy voice of phlegm and bitterness—

 

The crazy voice that was outside the apartment door, yelling "Hey, scumbag, open up or I'll bust the door down"; yelling "I'll make you pay for all the misery you caused"; yelling "Nobody's going to mess around with my wife, especially some snot-nosed fancy boy like you."

 

—kicking at the door with those big heavy boots, reaching inside that canary yellow slicker, grabbing a fistful of cold gat—

 

And the boots were on my door, making the hinges groan under the splintery strain.

 

—busting through and standing over the poor little loser, who's lookin' up at his killer, beggin' , pleadin', offerin' up money he ain't got and prayin' to a God he don't believe in—

 

And the man in the yellow slicker is standing at the study door, holding a gun, his reddish-gold eyes blazing with insane hatred. I can see his finger tightening on the trigger. It's like a Stephen King story gone south, without the plot twists. Writer's character becomes real and comes to get him. It's been done too many times. Too trite even for me.

But the smell of metal and tension is too real, and the door is hanging like a wino from a boxcar.

 

—and he's sittin' at his little writing desk with his wimpy finger over the "delete" button, all he's got to do is press it and the man will go away. But he can't bring himself to do it. His work is too precious, too IMPORTANT to wipe out.

 

I take two hot slugs to the head, feel my brains begin their awkward eternal journey to the study wall. In its last moment of awareness, the ruined cerebellum searches frantically for a tidy ending, some way to bring the plot to completion, only it's much too far gone, much too hopeless, and the curtain of darkness...no, the veil of shadows...no, the wall of nothingness descends...

 

When Sil came home from work, he found Karen sitting in the study, staring at the word processor. The screen was full, and her face was orange in its glow. "What are you doing in here?" he asked.

"Oh, just messing around."

"Working on something?"

"I figured since everybody else was playing 'writer,' I might as well try my hand at it. Put myself in your shoes, to coin another cliché. Walk a mile in your gloves. But it's a lot harder than I thought. I believe I'd better take Faulkner's advice and kill my darlings."

She was reaching out to press the "delete" button when Sil caught her wrist. "Don't I get to read it first?"

"Well, if you really want to. But promise not to make fun of me."

"After some of the garbage I've written?"

Karen got up and let Sil take the chair. She said, "At least one good thing came out of this. Now I understand how you get so caught up in this stuff. You writers are nuts."

"That's we writers, dear." Sil laughed. He loved her. He began reading.

 

I was wiping down the bar with an old shirt rag when he came in. The man in the yellow slicker. I saw him without looking up...

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