Kwik Krimes (30 page)

At 6:20 a.m. he returned to the bedroom. The candles were out, lights off. Twenty-eight, and Allie still slept on her belly, same as the kid.

He looked through the curtains. He couldn’t see those eight other planets dragging themselves mindlessly into position, but he could feel it, the inevitability.

He considered frying up some eggs, serving Allie in bed. She was going to die tonight—this he knew with scientific certainty—but in the hours before her death he wanted to treat her right. Yet she looked comfortable, and there was still so much to do: propane to buy, and those horseshoes. A firepit to dig in the backyard, in case the evening became chilly. A big, deep pit. He’d chop down the half-dead cedar for firewood.

The ax needed sharpening—so there was another task.

He would dig a deep pit. He would sharpen the ax.

And tonight, his whole world would change.

Michael Kardos is the author of the novel
The Three-Day Affair
and the story collection
One Last Good Time.
He is originally from the Jersey Shore and currently lives in Starkville, Mississippi, where he codirects the creative-writing program at Mississippi State University.

Marvin Kaye

H
ilary Quayle is not an armchair detective. Technically, of course, she’s not any kind of investigator; she runs a PR firm, for which I’m secretary. She never had the patience to serve the apprenticeship needed to become a sleuth, but I’ve still got a PI’s license, so from time to time we’ve done some symbiotic detecting together.

But the day we lunched at the Fifth Avenue Club with Scott Miranda, president of Trim-Tram Toys, Hilary reluctantly agreed to play secondhand sleuth for a friend of Scott’s—perfectly understandable, considering that Trim-Tram is our biggest PR client.

A bushy-haired gent in brown tweed joined us. “Hilary, Gene,” said Scott, “this is my pal, Mike Prendergast. He’s an insurance investigator, and he needs your help.”

“Luce Novelties,” said Prendergast, “took out a hefty insurance policy last summer. The size of it surprised us because Benny Luce is the biggest tightwad since Scrooge. Cut to New Year’s Eve: the Luce warehouse burns down.”

“And you’re understandably suspicious,” Hilary said. “Fill me in.”

Prendergast bit a breadstick and consulted a yellow legal pad. “Here are the facts: This year, Benny added a line of Christmas
decorations—Italian Nativity sets, strings of Japanese tree lights, garland, tinsel, the works—but the line tanked. The cost must have killed him, but he sent out mailing pieces, ran an incentive contest, even set up a giant Christmas tree outside and lit it up every night—still, the company ended up with a crappy season.”

Hilary brushed a strand of blonde hair away from her sky-blue orbs (she’d finally listened to me and stopped tying it into a back-knot). “Tell me about the fire.”

He nodded. Luce had been moving inventory down to the basement all day on December 31 to make room for spring merchandise. He was tired and knocked off early, locking up at five thirty. His wife had nagged him for weeks to take her to dinner on New Year’s Eve, so he did, but, halfway through the meal, his son phoned and told him the warehouse was burning down. Benny jumped up and ran out.

“I arrived on the scene a few days later,” Prendergast continued. “The night watchman said he’d discovered the fire shortly after seven p.m., while Benny was out dining. It was just getting dark out, and the watchman turned on the Christmas tree lights, then stepped over to the coffee machine in the building entry. He got a cup, sat down, and was drinking it when he smelled smoke. By the time the engines arrived, the place was nearly gutted.”

Prendergast paused while the waiter served him coffee and a snifter of Glenlivet. He didn’t notice Hilary’s lip twist, but I did; she’s a bit of a single-malt snob.

After a sip of the scotch, he proceeded. “Of course I talked to the fire chief. The blaze started in the cellar. Benny recently received a shipment of defective angels’ hair from overseas. Evidently it was not flameproof, and he’d stowed it in the basement prior to shipping it back. The fire reached it, and the stuff went up so fast that if the watchman had been downstairs, he would have been incinerated PDQ.”

Hilary fidgeted. “This is all suggestive, but weren’t there any clues as to how the fire started?”

“Yes, one, maybe. I don’t know how it fits. The fire chief found this badly charred block of black wood in the middle of the floor. It was nearly reduced to ashes, but part of it survived. In it there’s a circular depression and a smear that might have been copper wire.” Turning his legal pad around, he made a sketch.

Hilary asked me if I recognized it.

“Looks like what’s left of a magician’s flash pot, which could certainly touch off a fire. A flash pot has a treadle, which has to be pressed. It shoots a charge of electricity from a battery through a short length of wire into this round hole where explosive powder is placed.”

“Yes,” said Prendergast, “but Benny’s son is an amateur Houdini and keeps—kept—his equipment in the basement. And if anybody was near enough to step on that treadle, he would have burned to death. So I’m stymied.”

“It’s definitely arson,” said Hilary Quayle, “and I think you might be able to prove it.”

“How do you know?”

“It hinges on Benny Luce’s stinginess. Assuming he did commit arson, he would do it before the end of the year for tax purposes. He’d surely pick a night when he had to take his wife to dinner. When his son called him and he jumped up and ran out, I’ll bet he left her to pick up the check.

“Motive? A bad year because of an unprofitable line.

“Means? His son’s flash pot and lots of flammable angels’ hair, which arrived suspiciously late in the season. And since it was defective and had to be shipped back, why would he move it to the basement?

“Most important, he had string upon string of unsold Christmas tree lights, which means an ample amount of copper
wire. All he needed was to splice wire together and run it outside to the Christmas tree, which he knew the watchman would turn on after Benny quitted the premises. I suggest you look for traces of that wire. With any luck, you’ll find some.”

Prendergast turned to his friend. “Thanks for having me talk to her, Scotty. She’s as good as you said!”

“
De rien
,” Scott demurred. “But I don’t see how you put it all together, Hilary.”

She laughed. “It was that outdoor tree. Why would a tightwad like Benny Luce run up his electric bill and turn on that tree every night through December 31—
six days after the Christmas selling season was over
?”

Marvin Kaye has written sixteen novels, including
The Last Christmas of Ebenezer Scrooge,
optioned as a feature film, and
The Passion of Frankenstein.
He has edited many mystery and fantasy anthologies, including
The Fair Folk,
which won the World Fantasy Award for Best Anthology of 1996. He edits
Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine
and
Weird Tales.

Nicola Kennington

“D
addy?” I call out from a safe distance, just in case.

The man in the denim jacket and the faded cords sitting at the blackjack table and looking like he’s gotten used to handing over his chips, turns around. It’s him. Christ. After nearly twenty-five years and so many false leads, I’ve finally found my daddy.

I feel a vibration in my pocket, and I slip around the corner of a line of slot machines. I peer back as I retrieve my cell—the man has a puzzled look on his face, but he soon returns to his game. One of the doll-faced hostesses offers him a beer on the house. He takes two. He won’t be going anywhere soon.

“Yes?”

“Hey, Chicken, how’s it hangin’, baby?” Shit, it’s Paolo. Why didn’t I check caller ID?

“Hey, Paolo, just takin’ a break,” I say.

“Well, here’s the thing, Chicken. I hear you ain’t been workin’ for a coupla hours.” I hear him take a deep drag and exhale slowly. “Could even be more than that.”

That may be true—I’ve been combing Cleopatra’s Casino since dinner, and Vegas since forever. Everyone ends up in Vegas. Some never leave. Like me.

“I’ll get back to it, baby,” I say. “It’s just that—”

“It’s just nothin’, Chicken,” Paolo says pleasantly. “Now, get back to work an’ stop moping. Time is money.
My
money.” He takes another drag. “If you don’t wanna, remember what happened to Lola.”

Everyone remembers what happened to Lola. She slacked off, tried to get herself a real job ’cause of her little girl. She got visited by two friends of Paolo and now wears a permanent smile, ear to ear.

“Okay, baby, I wanna,” I say.

“Good girl,” Paolo says. “Go suck me some dick, lie back and pretend it’s me humpin’ ya, and remember who keeps you safe around here.”

I return the phone to my pocket. Shit, stop shaking, calm down. I look around again, just in time to see him getting up and heading toward one of the exits. Seems like Lady Luck isn’t on his side tonight. I tail him—it’s not difficult; he’s walking the careful walk of the slightly hammered.

Once outside, he finally pauses by a Dumpster and slumps against it. He burps, loudly. I go up to him and gently touch his arm.

“Hey, Daddy, it’s me,” I say. “It’s Rosie. Your little girl.” He stares at me with out-of-focus eyes.

“Wha’ the fuh?” His breath stinks of beer and nachos. His belly strains at his T-shirt, faded AC/DC decal and stained with something bad.

“You must remember me,” I say. “You used to read me stories at bedtime? Bathe me and Cassie when Mom was out working?”

“Sorry, lady, I think you want someone who gives a shit.” He’s sobering up quickly, confronted by a madwoman. He shakes his head, snorts, and tries to shuffle away.

The redness descends on me—my scalp starts to burn and crackle, and my heart is pounding like a drummer on acid. I grab the photo out of my back pocket and thrust it in his face.

“That’s me and Cassie!” I cry. “The last time we were happy! When you used to love us and tell us that we were your only girls and that no one made you feel like we did! We didn’t tell, Daddy! We didn’t tell!”

Now he’s scared, eyes wide, and he’s trying to run, but I kick him—hard—in the leg and he goes down. “I didn’t know Mom would come home early, I didn’t know she’d throw you out! You shouldn’t have left us, you motherfucking bastard!”

I stand over him, raise my foot, and then bring it down, over and over and over, just to stop the screaming.
Whumpf!
That’s for Mom, who cried herself to sleep for weeks, steadily drank herself into a stupor and out of a job, and then calmly stepped out in front of a train at Mayhew Crossing one bleak Thanksgiving.

Whumpf!
That’s for Cassie, who felt so mixed-up and confused that she got herself pregnant by the first hick who snuck his hand down her pants, and who now has five snotty brats, a trailer home in the asshole of Crapsville, and a husband who beats her up on a regular basis to remind her how lucky she is.

The final heel in the face is for me, one of the hardest-working whores in Vegas, who has to keep turning tricks before her face and body give up on her, because she knows no other fucking trade, because somewhere and somehow a guy has to love her the way her daddy loved her. I turn over the sniveling wreck with my toe. Better make this look like a robbery. I feel inside his jacket pocket and pull out a wallet.

I take the bills and shove them down my shirt. I pull out his driver’s license. Hmm, so he calls himself Mike LaSalle now. Then I check his date of birth.

Oh no.

Fuck.

He’s only twelve years older than me. He can’t be my daddy. But he looks like him.

Doesn’t he?

I turn to Daddy—Mike—and I can’t be sure but I think he’s stopped breathing.

Shit, not again.