The Death in the Willows

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The Death in the Willows

A Lyon and Bea Wentworth Mystery

Richard Forrest

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

In memory of the folks
—

Georgia and Bill

1

The Wobblies didn't care for the Times Square area. In protective phalanx they flanked Lyon Wentworth as he walked Forty-second Street toward the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Two barbed tails switched in disapproval while long snouts pointed disdainfully from adult book store to X-rated movie.

Lyon blinked into the dying sun as he stopped at the corner of Eighth Avenue to wait for the light to change. He felt the unseen presence of his benign monster creations on either side and knew they would glare at the passing menagerie with fire-red eyes as if screening potential assassins from some archaic potentate.

The Port Authority squats nearly in the geographical center of Manhattan, its refurbished facade a hulking contrast to the immediate surroundings. Looking south he could see the tip of the Minnesota Strip where young Nordic girls, enticed from small farming communities, ambled in slow gait like neophyte sirens along nonexistent rocks with eyes turned dull above smiles that fooled only the most blindly lecherous. Further along Forty-second Street, young men bobbed heads on high steps, another increment of this group that pretended they were alive.

As the light changed and the crowd propelled him across the street, the Wobblies began to fade, to reappear at another time and place. He felt the reassurance of the slender briefcase tucked under his arm that contained the contract from his publisher for his next children's book,
The Wobblies Find A Clue
.

It had been a good and satisfying day. The conference with his editor had gone well, his work had been appreciated, plans had been formulated, and he'd even received a passing smile from the editor in chief. The terminal entrance immediately expunged the glare of the sun and the macabre dance of the undead outside.

A scan of the departure board told him that he had time to spare before the bus to Middleburg, Connecticut. He walked to a small bar tucked in a corner of the terminal, slid onto a stool between two other men, and ordered a Dry Sack sherry.

“Sherry?” the bartender replied with a blink of rheumy eyes.

“Please.”

“I got some muscatel that won't blind you.”

“Harvey's Bristol Cream will do.”

“A shot with a beer chaser's been popular today.”

“Chivas Regal with a dash of soda.”

“How about some all-purpose brandy that we can cut with something?”

Lyon nodded. Another loss in life's battles, but his good feelings were still strong enough to enable him to ignore it. He sipped the drink with a pretense it was something else and thought about Wobblies.

The three men sitting at the bar were of divergent natures and origins, brought to this place by coincidental destination with a departing bus; their only similarity was that two of them carried guns.

Willie Shep, the youngest, occupied the stool near the wall to Lyon's left. He wore Levi's, boots with high heels, and a multicolored shirt that fell loosely over his waist and successfully hid the flat .32 Walther PPK automatic tucked in the waistband of his trousers.

Willie sucked on a draft beer served in a large frosted glass. Within moments only a thin line of foam curled along his lip, and he stared angrily at the glass, as if fate had once again conspired to complicate his life. He jammed an impatient hand into his pocket, plunked a handful of change on the bar, and pushed three quarters, four nickels, and seven pennies toward the bartender.

The bartender looked at the assortment of change with a lethargy born of long wisdom in such matters and scooped it from the counter, ostentatiously leaving two pennies. He refilled Willie's glass, letting foam dribble down the side, and slid it across the bar. Willie wiped it with his index finger, and using the remaining pennies as eyes, drew a face, extended the finger in pistol fashion toward the center of the caricature, and made a
poo
sound from the corner of his mouth.

He gulped half the beer and glanced down at his wrist toward a watch no longer there. His eyes jerkily scanned the small room until they found a clock above the cash register and noted the time.

He had an intense, pointed face with a chin that jutted forward as if daring life to deal another blow. His medium build appeared slight due to a concave chest that he tried to hide by constantly hunching his shoulders forward. He seemed to writhe on the stool. His fingers played incessant nervous games, constantly becoming more agitated until he slid from the stool in an abrupt motion and took the few steps to the men's room.

The facility was empty and he threw the bolt on the door, urinated, zippered his pants, and slid the Walther from his waistband. Extracting the clip, he slammed it back in the gun and briefly considered activating the slide to pump a live round into the chamber. He decided otherwise; the gun's precarious position in his pants needed an extra safety factor. He replaced the gun and patted his rear pocket, which held two extra clips.

The door handle turned and he whirled, instinctively reaching for the gun. He dropped his hand back to his side, forced his body to relax, and nonchalantly slid back the door bolt and stepped out.

He stood next to the bar stool and let his fingers drum a tattoo on the bar. There were only minutes left—and then it would start.

The man on Lyon's right carried a .44 Smith and Wesson Magnum revolver in a long holster strapped to his left side and hidden from view by a light poplin jacket. He wore a heavy dark beard that covered half his face and a cap pulled low over his forehead, but his eyes were a sharp sky blue that impassively watched the bartender mix his martini. The bartending was contrary to his explicit directions, but he chose not to correct it as he turned his head slightly to observe Willie out of the corner of his eye.

The man's obvious nervousness ticked a warning bell. His eyes switched from Willie's pointed face down the sport shirt to the slight bulge at the waist. He knew what was under the shirt, and he rapidly considered the possibilities: undercover cop, hotgun, or denizen of the area carrying a piece for protection. The man's agitation ruled out cop, but increased the possibility that he intended to hold up the bar. It would be an insane action that even the most inexperienced hood would discard. There were half a dozen cops in the terminal corridor, some of them within yards of the bar. No, it was something else … but what?

He considered the possibility of immediately leaving the bar and putting distance between himself and the nervous man with the gun, and then decided that leaving a full drink on the counter would be more conspicuous. He paid for the drink, looked fixedly ahead, and sipped the martini without comment.

He was a careful man who kept his actions quietly unobtrusive, and although he had discarded the impulse to reject the lousy martini and leave, he shelved the feeling in a far compartment of his mind where it crouched unforgotten, but was held in check by the close control he always maintained. His body, which had momentarily tensed, began to relax. At the same time he automatically appraised the third man at the bar who clutched a thin briefcase as if it held something valuable. He reached across the counter for a pretzel with a glance that assimilated Lyon: tall, with sandy hair turning brown, and the eye lines of a smiling man. He wore a casual but expensive sport coat and slacks with scuffed shoes and mismatched socks. The man's invisible sensors retreated with a harmless verdict.

A rasping voice over the loudspeaker forced a long enunciation of vowels as it announced, “New England Express for Middleburg, Hartford, Springfield, and Bennington now loading at Gate Twenty-nine.”

Willie Shep walked rapidly toward the corridor as the man with the beard picked up a small flight bag at his feet and followed. Lyon was last, and the three men were quickly lost from each other's view.

Willie Shep hurried and damned himself for that last beer. It was important that he board the bus first, and he nearly ran until his pace was broken by a uniformed policeman leaning against the wall directly in his path twirling his club by its leather thong. He crossed to the far side of the passageway and brushed against a diminutive man who cursed him in Spanish. Willie stopped and let his hand caress the hidden gun. The Puerto Rican's sneer faded as if he sensed some quality that stilled further aggression. He turned abruptly and hurried in the opposite direction.

Hate filled Willie Shep. Its tendrils radiated from him with a harshness that left a bitter residue. He wished that the weapon at his belt were a fully automatic rifle that he could level before him, turn to full fire, and cut a swath of death. He had considered that alternative for several days and nights as he lay on his narrow bed on East Tenth Street, but had finally settled on the plan he would now carry out.