Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories (2 page)

You may now begin, if you haven't already, to partake of this slumgullion of mine. I hope you find it a savory blend, up to and including the fiftieth and final morsel.

Bill Pronzini

Sonoma, California

January 1988

"The Facsimile Shop" (as by William Jeffrey), "Once a Thief," "Sweet Fever," "Under the Skin," "A Cold Foggy Day," "Black Wind," "Changes" (as "Times Change"), "The Dispatching of George Ferris," and "The Terrarium Principle" were originally published in
Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine
. Copyright © 1970, 1975, by Bill Pronzini and Jeffrey Wallmann; copyright © 1976, 1977, 1978, 1979, 1980, 1981 by Bill Pronzini. Revised version of "The Facsimile Shop" copyright 1988 by Bill Pronzini and Jeffrey M. Wallmann.

"Waiting, Waiting. . . ," "Words Do Not a Book Make," "Don't Spend It All in One Place," "The Clincher" (as by Jack Foxx), "One of Those Days" (as by Jack Foxx), "A Dip in the Poole," "Perfect Timing," "Muggers' Moon," "The Imperfect Crime," "Skeletons" (as "Skeletons Go Forth"), "A Case for Quiet," "The Killing, "Shell Game," "Memento Mori," "Here Lies Another Blackmailer. . . ," "Unchained," "For Love," and "House Call" originally appeared in
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine
. Copyright © 1968, 1969, 1970, 1971, 1972, 1974, 1975 by H.S.D. Publications, Inc.; copyright © 1981 by Davis Publications, Inc. Various revised versions copyright © 1988 by Bill Pronzini; copyright 1988 by Bill Pronzini and Jeffrey Wallmann.

"Retirement," "A Little Larceny" (as "There's One Born Every Minute"), "On Guard!" (as "Dog Story"), "The Storm Tunnel," "The Same Old Grind," and "His Name Was Legion" originally appeared in
Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine
. Copyright © 1969, 1970, 1974, 1975, 1978, 1979 by Renown Publications, Inc. Revised versions copyright © 1988 by Bill Pronzini; copyright © 1988 by Bill Pronzini and Michael Kurland.

"The Man Who Collected The Shadow" and "Thirst" originally appeared in
The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction
. Copyright © 1971, 1973 by Mercury Press, Inc. Revised versions copyright © 1988 by Bill Pronzini.

"Buttermilk" originally appeared in
Charlie Chan Mystery Magazine
. Copyright © 1974 by Renown Books, Inc. Revised version copyright © 1988 by Bill Pronzini.

"Peekaboo" originally appeared in
Nightmares
. Copyright © 1979 by Charles L. Grant.

"Tiger, Tiger" originally appeared in
Mystery Magazine
. Copyright © 1981 by Mystery Magazine.

"Toy" originally appeared in
Shadows 8
. Copyright © 1985 by Bill Pronzini.

"Deathwatch" originally appeared in
Mystery Scene Reader
. Copyright © 1987 by Bill Pronzini.

"Hero" originally appeared in
The Silver Spur Anthology of Western Fiction
. Copyright © 1988 by Bill Pronzini.

"Incident in a Neighborhood Tavern" originally appeared, in slightly different form, in
An Eye for Justice: The Third Private Eye Writers of America Anthology
. Copyright © 1988 by Bill Pronzini.

"Something Wrong," "Dear Poisoner," "Little Lamb," "Defect," "Outrageous," "Mrs. Rakubian," "Cache and Carry," and "Whodunit" are original stories published here for the first time. Copyright © 1988 by Bill Pronzini; copyright © 1988 by Marcia Muller and Bill Pronzini.

T
he two men stepped off the plane from Boston at two o'clock on a cold foggy afternoon in February. The younger of the two by several years had sand-colored hair and a small birthmark on his right cheek; the older man had flat gray eyes and heavy black brows. Both wore topcoats and carried small overnight bags.

They walked through the terminal and down to one of the rental-car agencies on the lower level. The older man paid for the rental of a late-model sedan. When they stepped outside, the wind was blowing and the wall of fog eddied in gray waves across the airport complex. The younger man thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his topcoat as they crossed to the lot where the rental cars were kept. He could not remember when he had been quite so cold.

A boy in a white uniform brought their car around. The older man took the wheel. As he pulled the car out of the lot, the younger man said, "Turn the heater on, will you, Harry? I'm freezing in here."

Harry put on the heater. Warm air rushed against their feet, but it would be a long while before it was warm enough to suit the younger man. He sat blowing on his hands. "Is it always this cold out here?" he asked.

"It's not cold," Harry said.

"Well, I'm freezing."

"It's just the fog, Vince. You're not used to it."

"There's six inches of snow in Boston," Vince said. "Ice on the streets thick enough to skate on. But I'm damned if it's as cold as it is out here."

"You have to get used to it."

"I don't think I could get used to it," Vince said. "It cuts through you like a knife."

"The sun comes out around noon most days and burns off the fog," Harry said. "San Francisco has the mildest winters you've ever seen."

The younger man didn't say anything more. He didn't want to argue with Harry; this was Harry's home town. How could you argue with a man about his home town?

When they reached San Francisco, twenty minutes later, Harry drove a roundabout route to their hotel. It was an old but elegant place on Nob Hill, and the windows in their room had a panoramic view of the bay. Even with the fog, you could see the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay Bridge and Alcatraz Island. Harry pointed out each of them.

But Vince was still cold and he said he wanted to take a hot shower. He stood under a steaming spray for ten minutes. When he came out again, Harry was still standing at the windows.

"Look at that view," Harry said. "Isn't that some view?"

"Sure," Vince agreed. "Some view."

"San Francisco is a beautiful city, Vince. It's the most beautiful city in the world."

"Then why did you leave it? Why did you come to Boston? You don't seem too happy there."

"Ambition," Harry said. "I had a chance to move up and I took it. But it's been a long time, Vince."

"You could always move back here."

"I'm going to do that," Harry said. "Now that I'm home again, I know I don't want to live anywhere else. I tell you, this is the most beautiful city anywhere on this earth."

Vince was silent. He wished Harry wouldn't keep talking about how beautiful San Francisco was. Vince liked Boston; it was his town just as San Francisco was Harry's. But Vince couldn't see talking about it all the time, the way Harry had ever since they'd left Boston this morning. Not that Vince would say anything about it. Harry had been around a long time and Vince was just a new man. He didn't know Harry that well—had only worked with him a few times—but everybody said you could learn a lot from him. And Vince wanted to learn.

That was not the only reason he wouldn't say anything about it. Vince knew why Harry was talking so much about San Francisco. It was to keep his mind off the job they had come here to do. Still, it probably wasn't doing him much good. The only way to take both their minds off the job was to get it done.

"When are we going after him, Harry?" Vince said.

"Tonight."

"Why not now?"

"Because I say so. We'll wait until tonight."

"Listen, Harry—"

"We're doing this my way, remember?" Harry said. "That was the agreement. My way."

"All right," Vince said, though he was beginning to feel more and more nervous about this whole thing with Dominic DiLucci. He wished it was over and finished with and he was back in Boston with his wife. Away from Harry.

After a while Harry suggested they go out to Fisherman's Wharf and get something to eat. Vince wasn't hungry and he didn't want to go to Fisherman's Wharf; all he wanted to do was to get the job over and done with. Harry insisted, so he gave in. It was better to humor Harry than to complicate things by arguing with him.

They took a cable car to Fisherman's Wharf and walked around in the fog and the chill wind. Vince was almost numb by the time Harry picked out a restaurant, but Harry didn't seem to be affected by the weather. He didn't even have his topcoat buttoned.

Harry sat by the window in the restaurant, not eating much, looking out at the fishing boats moored in the Wharf basin. He had his face close to the glass, like a kid.

Vince watched him and thought:
He's stalling
. Well, Vince could understand that, but understanding it didn't make it any easier. He said finally, "Harry, it's after seven. There's no sense in putting it off any longer."

Harry sighed. "I guess you're right."

"Sure I am."

"All right," Harry said.

He wanted to take the cable car back to their hotel, but Vince said it was too cold riding on one of those things. So they caught a taxi and then picked up their rental car. Vince turned on the heater himself this time, as high as it would go.

Once they had turned out of the hotel garage, Vince said, "Where is he, Harry? You can tell me that now."

"Down the coast. Outside Pacifica."

"How far is that?"

"About twenty miles."

"Suppose he's not there?"

"He'll be there."

"I don't see how you can be so sure."

"He'll be there," Harry said.

"He could be in Mexico by now."

"He's not in Mexico," Harry said. "He's in a little cabin outside Pacifica."

Vince shrugged and decided not to press the point. This was Harry's show; he himself was along only as a backup.

Harry drove them out to Golden Gate Park and through it and eventually onto the Coast Highway, identifying landmarks that were half hidden in fog. Vince didn't pay much attention; he was trying to forget his own nervousness by thinking about his wife back in Boston.

It took them almost an hour to get where they were going. Harry drove through Pacifica and beyond it several miles. Then he turned right, toward the ocean, onto a narrow dirt road that wound steadily upward through gnarled cypress and eucalyptus trees. That's what Harry said they were, anyway. There was fog here too, thick and gray and roiling. Vince could almost feel the coldness of it, as if it were seeping into the car through the vents.

They passed several cabins, most of them dark. Harry turned onto another road, and after a few hundred yards they rounded a bend. Vince could see another cabin then. It was small and dark, perched on the edge of a cliff that fell away to the ocean. But the water was hidden by the thick fog.

Harry parked the car near the front door of the cabin. He shut off the engine and the headlights.

Vince said, "I don't see any lights."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"It doesn't look like he's here."

"He'll be here."

Vince didn't say anything. He didn't see how Harry could know with that much certainty that Dominic DiLucci was going to be here. You just didn't know anybody that well.

They left the warmth of the car. The wind was sharp and stinging, blowing across the top of the bluff from the sea. Vince shivered.

Harry knocked on the cabin door. After a few moments the door opened and a thin man with haunted eyes looked out. He was dressed in rumpled slacks and a white shirt that was soiled around the collar. He hadn't shaved in several days.

The man stood looking at Harry and didn't seem surprised to see him. At length he said, "Hello, Harry."

"Hello, Dom," Harry said.

They continued to look at each other. Dominic DiLucci said, "Well, it's cold out there." His voice was calm but empty, as if there was no emotion left inside him. "Why don't you come in?"

They entered the cabin. A fire glowed on a brick hearth against one wall. Dom switched on a small lamp in the front room, and Vince saw that the furniture there was old and overstuffed, a man's furniture. He stood apart from the other two men, thinking that Harry had been right all along. For some reason that didn't make him feel any less nervous.

Harry said, "You don't seem surprised to see me, Dom."

"Surprised?" Dom said.

"No, I'm not surprised. Nothing can surprise me anymore."

"It's been a long time. You haven't changed much."

"Haven't I?" Dom said, and smiled a cold humorless smile.

"No," Harry said. "You came here. I knew you would. You always came here when you were troubled, when you wanted to get away from something."

Dominic DiLucci was silent.

Harry said, "Why did you do it, Dom?"

"Why? Because of Trudy, that's why."

"I don't follow that. I thought she'd left you, run off with somebody from Los Angeles."

"She did. But I love her, Harry, and I wanted her back. I thought I could buy her back with the money. I thought if I got in touch with her and told her I had a hundred thousand dollars, she'd come back and we could go off to Brazil or someplace."