Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/12 (15 page)

"How do you do, Sam."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. . . . Mozart?"

"Just call me Wolfgang." He turned to me. "I thought you told me your daughter is
a police officer."

"She is."

He stared at her. "Okay, I can see it now. But there's something . . . more.
You're an unusual person, Ms. Samson."

"Is that unusual-good or just unusual-different?" Sam asked.

"Good. Definitely good. You will do things in your life."

"No need to butter her up. She's not here to arrest you," I said.

"We'll see how it goes," Sam said. "No promises."

I said, "They're complaining about you out there. They say you should be trying
to get more morphine out of them."

"It's only pain," Wolfgang said.

"There have been developments since I was here yesterday."

"Do I want to know?"

"Probably not, but there will be consequences for you." I sat beside Sam to tell
the story of the previous evening. As it went on, Wolfgang looked increasingly
weary. Weary and unbelieving.

"Elaine
is responsible for what happened?"

"I don't know how the law will interpret it, but hers was the big bang from which
the rest of yesterday's universe followed."

"But
why?
I took her in. I fed her. Her and her child."

"It was about her, Wolfgang, not you."

He absorbed this. "Okay. I can see that. I'm thinking narrowly."

"She was desperate to get rid of her boyfriend. She never intended for anyone to
get hurt. And, like yourself, she hasn't had a good experience with the
police."

He glanced at Sam, who said, "So she went to her best friend. She got the friend
to ask Harvey, the boyfriend, what it would take to get him to leave Elaine
alone once and for all. Harvey said money."

Wolfgang shook his head slowly, sad about the way human nature plays out. Maybe
he was wishing his dad had taken him along to Planet Other.

"So Elaine and the friend hatched up a plan," I said. "The friend told Harvey
that you keep a lot of money around the house. Elaine
thought
he'd go
to your place alone and that between you and the women there you'd subdue him
and he'd be arrested."

I paused while Wolfgang revisited what had happened in his house the previous
day. "When I saw the four masked men," he said, "I shouted for all the women to
get out. Everyone ran out the back door."

Except for Nicole. I said, "Maybe Harvey smelled some kind of rat when Elaine's
friend became cooperative. But for whatever reason he recruited some friends of
his own for the visit to your house. Friends willing to rough you up for some
easy money."

"All wearing those terrorists' masks." Wolfgang shook his head, looking wearier
and wearier.

Sam said, "We have Harvey in custody, Mr. Mozart. I hear that he gave up the rest
of the ‘terrorists' in about five seconds."

"They're sad, silly men," Wolfgang said. "I've been thinking about how they acted
when they had me in their car. They were childish and squabbly. And if they
needed money so badly, they should just have asked. I'd have given them
some."

"That's not how things are expected to work on Planet Earth," I said. "And
chances are it was greed rather than need anyway. For which they'll all go down,
for assault with deadly weapons."

"I won't press charges."

"What?"

"I won't testify against them. I should have talked more with Elaine. I should
have learned more about
her
problems. I should have worked out some way
to help her. I could have talked with this Harvey."

"Had him hold your stone and let it make him see the light?"

"You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"I'd say you are otherworldly, but you'd just agree with me," I said.

Sam said, "Your refusal to testify won't keep them from being charged, Mr.
Mozart. They'll testify against each other. The medical records here will
establish the injuries. They'll plead out. And they will go to jail. They're
dangerous and they need to be prevented from hurting more innocent people."

I said, "Why wouldn't you help punish idiots who are willing to stab people to
get a few bucks?"

"Because jail is not the answer. We have a higher percentage of our population in
jail than any other country in the world and things like this
still
happen."

"You could ask the judge to give them twenty-five years of community
service."

Wolfgang sat up in his bed. "I want to talk to them." He looked at me but then
settled on Sam. "Can you make that happen, Officer Samson? I
need
to
talk to them. All of them."

16.

 
Sam and I stood in the parking lot before we went our separate
ways. "Weird guy, your friend Wolfgang," she said.

"He's not my friend."

"Why does he want to talk to Harvey and the other idiots?"

"I think he believes he can spread peace on earth, one peace at a time."

"Is he a megalomaniac?"

"He's got this piece of limestone that he thinks has his extraterrestrial
father's handprint on it. Wolfgang believes that people who touch the stone feel
better. Maybe even become better people."

"If they do let him talk to Harvey," Sam said, "they won't let him take a lump of
stone into the interview room. They'd be afraid your Wolfgang would just whack
him on the head with it."

"That'd make
us
feel better, in his place," I said. "But then again you
and I are not extraterrestrials."

"I suppose I should be thankful that you're human, no matter what Mom says."

"She was never
that
beautiful," I said. "It was her brains I went for.
But then they ran out."

"Why didn't you tell Wolfgang that he can't run his house as a refuge
anymore?"

"Maybe he'll pass his handprint around Children's Services and they'll sign him
up and everyone will live happily ever after."

"You think?"

"With him, I don't know what to think," I said. "Will Elaine face charges?"

"She and Laurie didn't tell Harvey ‘Go stab,' but they provided information
knowing it was likely to result in a felony crime. Most judges won't like that
much, especially in an election year."

"Maybe Wolfgang will want to fund a high-priced lawyer for her."

"Has he got a lot of money?"

"I have no idea."

"Will you go back in there now and tell him that Elaine might be in trouble?"

"Do you think I should?" I said.

"Maybe for Nicole," Sam said.

"Yeah, all right. Good kid, isn't she?"

"Yeah."

"Like you," I said. And she didn't even smack me for calling her a kid.

Copyright © 2012 by Michael Z. Lewin

 
When Jim Davis debuted in
EQMM's
Department of First
Stories in February of 2011 he said he had more short story ideas for his
private detective Bradley Carter. Here we have the fruit of one of those ideas,
a case in which Carter goes on a high-tension chase through the Ozark Mountains,
a scene familiar to his creator, a veterinarian who lives on a farm near the
Lake of the Ozarks.
 

 
I was sitting at a corner table in a smoke-filled biker bar just off
Route 16 in northwest Arkansas. My stack of quarters glinted on the bumper under
the Stag Beer light that illuminated the stained felt of the pool table. My
momma, if she were still alive, would not have approved.

I nursed a lukewarm Budweiser longneck waiting for Seymour "Tiny" Buckman to
hustle twenty bucks off a half-breed kid who was way too drunk to steer his bike
back to Oklahoma. Tiny had probably been drinking all day himself, from the
looks of it. I was sure of it when he double-tapped the cue ball before sinking
the eight ball in the corner pocket. He stared the breed down as he chalked his
cue; his glare daring the kid to call him on it. His eyes were red, and his
pupils were dilated like he might be on something besides an alcohol buzz.

The kid reached in his pocket and flipped a wadded-up pair of tens out onto the
felt and handed the cue to me. He staggered toward the door without a word. He
was listing slightly to the left as he aimed for the opening. He suddenly reeled
and fell headlong into the shuffleboard table, scattering pucks and sending up a
cloud of Ultra Glide powder. He rolled off and slid under the table and lay
still. No one seemed to notice.

Tiny scooped the money off the table as he staggered over to where I sat. He wore
a jean jacket with the sleeves cut out, the armpits wet with sweat, and a pair
of Levis so shiny and dark that I would guess they had never been washed since
they came off the shelf at Walmart. He weighed at least two-fifty and smelled
like a hog eating onions. He reached out a hairy paw, snatched my beer off the
table, and chugged it in two gulps. He wiped the foam from his beard with the
back of his arm and tossed the bottle on the table, where it spun to a stop. He
leaned down into my face and let out a mighty belch. I felt my hair move, but I
managed to keep from breathing until he stood back up and said, "Rack 'em."

It is always in the wee hours in a place like this that I wonder why I wanted to
be a private investigator. The air was close and damp, and smelled of stale
beer. The establishment had one window air conditioner stuffed through a hole at
the end of the bar, where it chugged away; condensation ran down the wall and
disappeared through a crack in the floor. I had ridden here on a 1969 Shovelhead
Harley-Davidson that my granddaddy had bought new, and I was wearing an old
leather flight jacket over a black T-shirt. But that was as far as my biker
cover went. I didn't have a single tattoo and would have been more at home in a
Polo shirt and golf shorts. I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of leaving the
old Colt semiauto in the saddlebag.

 
I was put on the trail of one Delbert Fish by his maiden aunt, Miss
Etta Mae Fish, who had been my Sunday-school teacher twenty-five years ago.
Delbert was wanted in connection with a rape and assault that had occurred down
by Fort Smith. According to the news reports, it was a brutal crime, and the
victim was in a coma. Miss Etta Mae was certain that her nephew was not capable
of such abominations. She had come to see me in the back-room office that I
occasionally used at the Fayetteville, Arkansas, law firm of Gantry and
Grizzell, a couple of fraternity brothers of mine.

"It is inconceivable that little Delbert could have done those—those
horrible things." She sat upright and prim in a captain's chair across from my
desk. She wore a light-blue, floral-print dress that she had probably made
herself and clutched a big black purse with both hands. "I'm not familiar with
what a private eye charges," she said, opening the purse. "I can give you two
hundred dollars." She pulled out a wad of fives and ones that I knew had come
from piano lessons she'd given over the years.

"Miss Etta Mae," I began, wondering how I was going to get out of this. "I've got
other cases right now . . ."

"Young man," she interrupted. "Don't you tell a story to me! That nice woman out
front told me that you needed the work."

"Now Miss Etta . . ."

"Bradley Carter, you listen to me. Half the law-enforcement officers in the state
are looking for Delbert down in the delta. If they find him, they will shoot
him. Now I'm coming to you because I want you to find him first, so he can turn
himself in. Besides, he's not in the delta."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"Don't you take that tone with me." She gave me a look of reprimand. I was
suddenly back in the basement of the old brick church on Sycamore Street.
"Delbert spent the night at my home last Friday."

I was incredulous. Miss Etta Mae Fish was aiding and abetting a fugitive? My
mouth was open, but no words were coming out.

"I had no idea at the time that he was wanted by the law. I haven't watched the
news since David Brinkley retired, but I turned on the radio after Delbert left,
and there it was."

"You didn't go to the police?"

"Of course not! Delbert couldn't have done those things."

I was leaning over my desk, doodling on a yellow legal pad. I had seen
little
Delbert's picture on the news and heard the story. He
certainly looked like he was guilty. He had black tattoos running up his neck,
his nose was askew, and he had a puckered scar running from the corner of his
mouth up to his left eye. He had already done time in the Cummins Unit of the
Arkansas Correctional System.

"Bradley, you just
have
to find Delbert before the police do."

I just stared at her.

"They will kill him!"

What she was asking me to do was like crawling into a cave full of rattlesnakes.

"The radio also said that the girl's father has offered a ten-thousand-dollar
reward." She pursed her lips defiantly, causing her bifocals to shrug up on her
nose.

Ten thousand dollars.

My demeanor must have changed, because she took out a pen and paper from the
purse and said, "Let me show you where he went."

 
And now here I was, shooting pool with Delbert's "associate," Tiny
Buckman; the two fellows became fast friends while awaiting trial in the
Washington County Jail on drug charges a few years back. Although it was
tempting, I did not clear the table after Tiny's lame attempt at a break. No one
else had put any money on the table, so I let him win the first game. It cost me
twenty bucks, but it would be cheap if I could find the location of his family's
notorious still back in the mountains. That may sound strange, but this is
Arkansas. We have a number of dry counties, and moonshiners continue to ply
their trade back in the hills. Etta Mae was convinced that Delbert was headed to
the Buckman still to hide out until the search cooled off. I did not even ask
how she knew where to look for the place.

Seven beers and three games of eight ball later, Tiny looked no more drunk or
talkative than he had been to start with. In fact, he seemed to get surlier as
the night went on. I had been dropping hints about how some of the Benton County
high rollers had developed a taste for good moonshine, and how I intended to
cash in on that trend if I could find a supply of quality product. He showed
absolutely no interest until I finally came out and asked if his grandpap still
made shine up in the hills. That got his attention, but not the way I had hoped.
He picked up his cue in midshot and turned it around, backing me up against the
bar. I jerked a leg up to protect myself as he swung the cue at my ribs. The cue
stick hit my knee with a loud crack, and fell to the floor in pieces. That was
going to hurt when the adrenaline wore off. Before I could slither away and run,
Tiny had a forearm across my neck, bending me backwards over the bar. His hairy
arm was up under my chin, and he was bellowing obscenities as he attempted to
crush my windpipe. He only succeeded in propelling me down the bar on my back.
My T-shirt was soaking up spilled beer as glasses went crashing to the
floor.

Just when I thought I was going to pass out, I heard a loud crack, like when
Albert Pujols knocks one deep into left-center, and the pressure on my neck was
released. As my vision cleared I saw Tiny's eyes roll up into his head. The
bearded, sweaty, slobbering face of Tiny Buckman went blank as he fell away to
the floor. I coughed and massaged my throat as I slid off the bar and steadied
myself against it.

Standing before me was a small woman with stringy black hair holding the narrow
end of a pool cue. She calmly set the cue down on the table and looked at me.
She wore a black Jack Daniels T-shirt cut off short, revealing twin dragon
tattoos peeking out of her low-riding jeans on either side of her navel. She had
a square jaw and coarse chin. "Can you give me a ride home?" she asked. "I don't
think Tiny's up to it."

I looked at Tiny lying facedown on the floor. He was already starting to snore.
"Boyfriend?" I asked.

"Husband," she said.

 
It was well after midnight when I started up the old motorcycle. The
woman looked skeletal in the blue mercury-vapor light in the parking lot. She
was older than I had thought; she had fine wrinkles around her mouth and eyes
like a chronic smoker. She stared off at the darkness when she spoke; her eyes
were glassy and dark with a bovine emptiness.

"It's a ways out there. Got plenty of gas?" she asked.

"I think we can make it," I said.

The bike had the original buddy seat on it, so she climbed on behind me with
practiced ease. I pulled away slowly, while she lit up a cigarette. I kept the
pace slow since I didn't know the road and she was giving directions.

 
We had passed a closed liquor store half an hour before. That was
just before we hit the gravel roads. I figured the store was on the county line,
and we were now in one of the dry counties. The night was so dark it seemed to
swallow the feeble light the old bike put out. I hadn't seen a dusk-to-dawn
light for a good fifteen minutes when a battered house-trailer loomed into the
sweep of my headlight.

The place looked deserted, but as I turned off the bike, the bark and howl of a
coon dog announced our arrival. I could hear the dog's chain dragging against
the skirting of the trailer. No lights came on, but I heard a screen door open
and could make out the silhouette of a child as the woman reached the front
door.

"Momma?"

"Go back to bed," she scolded.

"But I'm hungry . . ."

"I ain't got nothing for you. Now, get to bed!"

She turned my way. I could barely see her as my eyes tried to adjust. "Thanks for
the ride," she said.

"Will I get lost getting out of here?" I asked.

"Ain't but one road out," she said. "Don't stop till you get to the county road.
They let them dogs run loose at night."

"Coonhounds?" I asked.

"Hell no, they's part pit bull or somethin'. You best get out of here."

She didn't have to tell me again. I found myself taking the rutted two-track road
a lot faster than I normally would have. Summer was about gone but the air was
thick with humidity and, if anything, the night had gotten darker. A flash of
lightning illuminated the surrounding hills as I came to the county-maintained
road. Thunder rumbled across the valley before me as I rolled on the throttle; I
did not want to get caught in a storm at night in the Ozark Mountains.

 
The sky in the east was streaked with red and orange as the sun
pushed away the early-morning mist. The sky to the north was gunmetal gray as
thunder echoed down the valley. I spotted the little store that I had seen
coming in with its beer and liquor signs now muted by the coming daylight. The
place had gas pumps, the old kind with number wheels and bells, not the kind
where you can swipe your card and go. I pulled up to a pump and shut off the
ignition. Without the noise of the bike, I could hear the rushing of a stream as
it gushed past the little store and shot under the highway bridge. The violence
of the water attested to the heavy rains that were falling farther up the
valley.

"Need some gas?"

I managed not to jump. I hadn't heard the man come up behind me.

"Hell of a storm up top," he said, pointing his chin up the valley. He was thin
with longish gray hair and a Gabby Hayes beard.

"Yes, sir," I said. "I need gas all right. How about coffee?"

"It'll be done, time you get your gas," he said, turning to go back inside. "I'll
turn the pump on."

After I filled the bike, I walked past a minnow tank under an open shed. Aerators
bubbled and hissed, and the shed smelled like a sardine can. The little store
was homey, with a long wooden table and handmade benches around it. The old man
talked as he turned on the lights in coolers and display cases. His blue-gray
flannel shirt was thin enough to see through on the elbows. I poured myself a
cup of coffee.