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- Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
This issue has one of the best original stories we’ve published: Janet Law’s brilliant “Wrong Door,” a tale very much in the classic Twilight Zone tradition. Don’t skip it! Though Janice is best known for her mystery stories, this one proves she can write masterfully in any genre.
But great stories don’t stop there. Our Acquiring Editors, Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman, have both found original stories this time—from William Burton McCormick and Steve Janko. Plus I’m pleased to present another new mystery story from the late Henry T. Parry. Parry was very much a hobbyist writer for Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. His work started appearing there in the 1960s, and if the editor didn’t buy a story, he set it aside and moved on to another one. He didn’t send them to other markets, like any pro writer would have done. His daughter has entrusted his unpublished stories to me, and I am going through them and seeing which ones still work. (His last story appeared here in BCW #105.) I date “The Marina Case” to the early 1970s, and it’s a solid mystery that surely would have found a home had he submitted it to more than one editor.
Our mystery novel this time is William Le Queux’s The Crystal Claw, a Golden Age page-turner. And, as always, we have a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.
Turning back to the science fiction end of things, in addition to Janice Law’s tale, we have classics by Hannes Bok (miners on Venus!), William W. Stuart (a man wakes in a futuristic jail with no memory of how he got there!), and Charles L. Fontenay (envy leads to discovering an Earthman’s secrets!). Our SF novelet is an early space adventure from fantastist Manly Wade Wellman.
Here’s the complete lineup—
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Letter From a Lone Prospector to His Mother,” by William Burton McCormick [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Wild West Whodunit,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Confessions of an Invisible Hit Man,” by Steve Janko [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Grass Is Not Always Green,” by Henry T. Parry [short story]
The Crystal Claw, by William Le Queux [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Wrong Door,” by Janice Law [short story]
“One Touch of Terra,” by Hannes Bok [short story]
“A Prison Make,” by William W. Stuart [short story]
“Beauty Interrupted” by Charles L. Fontenay [short story]
The Invading Asteroid, by Manly Wade Wellman [short novel]
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Seitenzahl: 554
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
THE CAT’S MEOW
TEAM BLACK CAT
LETTER FROM A LONE PROSPECTOR TO HIS MOTHER, by William Burton McCormick
THE WILD WEST WHODUNIT, by Hal Charles
CONFESSIONS OF AN INVISIBLE HIT MAN, by Steve Janko
THE MARINA CASE, by Henry T. Parry
THE CRYSTAL CLAW, by William Le Queux
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
WRONG DOOR, by Janice Law
ONE TOUCH OF TERRA, by Hannes Bok
A PRISON MAKE, by William W. Stuart
BEAUTY INTERRUPTED by Charles L. Fontenay
THE INVADING ASTEROID, by Manly Wade Wellman
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.
Published by Wildside Press, LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
*
“Letter From a Lone Prospector to His Mother” is copyright © 2024 by William Burton McCormick and appears here for the first time.
“The Wild West Whodunit” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.
“Confessions of an Invisible Hit Man” is copyright © 2024 by Steve Janko and appears here for the first time.
“The Marina Case” is copyright © 2024 by the Estate of Henry T. Parry and appears here for the first time.
The Crystal Claw, by William Le Queux, was originally published in 1924.
“Wrong Door” is copyright © 2024 by Janice Law and appears here for the first time.
“One Touch of Terra,” by Hannes Bok, was originally published in Fantastic Universe, December 1956.
“A Prison Make,” by William W. Stuart, was originally published in Amazing Stories, July 1962.
“Beauty Interrupted” byCharles L. Fontenay, was originally published in Infinity, August 1958.
The Invading Asteroid, by Manly Wade Wellman, was originally published in 1932.
THE CAT’S MEOW
Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.
This issue has one of the best original stories we’ve published: Janet Law’s brilliant “Wrong Door,” a tale very much in the classic Twilight Zone tradition. Don’t skip it! Though Janice is best known for her mystery stories, this one proves she can write masterfully in any genre.
But great stories don’t stop there. Our Acquiring Editors, Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman, have both found original stories this time—from William Burton McCormick and Steve Janko. Plus I’m pleased to present another new mystery story from the late Henry T. Parry. Parry was very much a hobbyist writer for Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. His work started appearing there in the 1960s, and if the editor didn’t buy a story, he set it aside and moved on to another one. He didn’t send them to other markets, like any pro writer would have done. His daughter has entrusted his unpublished stories to me, and I am going through them and seeing which ones still work. (His last story appeared here in BCW #105.) I date “The Marina Case” to the early 1970s, and it’s a solid mystery that surely would have found a home had he submitted it to more than one editor.
Our mystery novel this time is William Le Queux’s The Crystal Claw, a Golden Age page-turner. And, as always, we have a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.
Turning back to the science fiction end of things, in addition to Janice Law’s tale, we have classics by Hannes Bok (miners on Venus!), William W. Stuart (a man wakes in a futuristic jail with no memory of how he got there!), and Charles L. Fontenay (envy leads to discovering an Earthman’s secrets!). Our SF novelet is an early space adventure from fantasist Manly Wade Wellman.
Here’s the complete lineup—
Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Letter From a Lone Prospector to His Mother,” by William Burton McCormick [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Wild West Whodunit,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Confessions of an Invisible Hit Man,” by Steve Janko [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Grass Is Not Always Green,” by Henry T. Parry [short story]
The Crystal Claw, by William Le Queux [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Wrong Door,” by Janice Law [short story]
“One Touch of Terra,” by Hannes Bok [short story]
“A Prison Make,” by William W. Stuart [short story]
“Beauty Interrupted” byCharles L. Fontenay [short story]
The Invading Asteroid, by Manly Wade Wellman [short novel]
Until next time, happy reading!
—John Betancourt
Editor, Black Cat Weekly
TEAM BLACK CAT
EDITOR
John Betancourt
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Barb Goffman
Michael Bracken
Paul Di Filippo
Darrell Schweitzer
Cynthia M. Ward
PRODUCTION
Sam Hogan
Enid North
Karl Wurf
LETTER FROM A LONE PROSPECTOR TO HIS MOTHER,by William Burton McCormick
February 12, 1921
Dearest Mama,
We’re rich!
Remember, how you told me to stay in St. Louis with Joanna? Warned me not to trek on out to the Nevada badlands looking for my fortune? That it was a one-in-a-million chance, and I might die in some rocky side canyon off the Colorado River from avalanche, poisonous critter, or heat exhaustion? How you said even if I found a gold strike, some devilish claim jumper would split my head open from behind and take it all?
Well, none of those terrible things happened, Mama, though you were right about the landscape. It’s hotter here than Hell on a July day. The Devil himself sleeps in the shade and only comes out at night. I know. I seen him. Or thought I did once. And there are rattlesnakes called diamondbacks, Mama. Some of them are as long as a man is tall. I found ’em in the holes and curled up on the roads at sundown. And sidewinders too that move, well, sideways when they should move back. But the snakes don’t trouble me none. The people are good for the most part and the winters are tolerable, even pleasant, if you avoid the mountains.
I built a cabin at the bottom of a rocky gulch near the Colorado. Used old wood from an abandoned mine. It’s twenty miles outside a gold town called Searchlight. No one comes here. I can prospect for days without seeing another soul. Once a month I get supplies in Searchlight, but other than that I’m on my own. They’re all afraid in town. You see. Mama, there’s a ghost. He’s the devil I said I glimpsed earlier. Not an actual spirit, but a living man who haunts these lands. An outlaw. A killer. He preys on lone prospectors, murdering them for their food, boots, and any ore they’ve found. Some say “The Ghost” is a white man from San Francisco. Others believe he is a Paiute Indian named Queho or Quejo. The townsfolk say he is a half breed, who’s killed men of all his mixed bloodlines. Who knows? No posse can catch him. That’s why there’s a rule in Nevada that no man should prospect alone. As you said to me, dear mother, when last we said goodbye. “Don’t go gold huntin’ without your comrades.” Well, they gave up long ago, Mama. And I’m still here. The Ghost hunts down stragglers out in those isolated canyons. The last murder was in a small houseboat moored at a bend in the Colorado near Bullhead Canyon on the Arizona side. Snuck in through the porthole. Strangled the owner in his bed, according to the sheriff. Took only shoes, tobacco, and a harmonica. Some nights, I swear I hear that harmonica on the river winds but can’t say from whence it came.
Pardon the ink splatters on the page, Mama. I have to keep getting up from the table while composing this letter to check the desert around. The nighttime coyotes are yipping a terrible fuss outside the cabin. Maybe a cougar’s come down from the mountains. Those cats will eat coyote pups, Mama, if they get hungry enough in winter. That must be it. Nothing else big enough out here to scare ’em like that. Horses can’t get down these steep canyon walls. I guess a mule could. Or a man. But the man would have to be terribly determined.
I threw a few empty cans to scatter the coyotes, but it won’t shut ’em up. Anyway, I’ve kept you in suspense long enough. How did we come to be rich, Mama? Down in the deepest gulch in these abandoned lands, betwixt Boulder Canyon and ElDorado, I found ore. With my trusty pickax, it’s as fine an instrument as ever made in my hands, Mama, I split the stone in a cave at the base of the canyon wall. Discovered a pure vein of gold, unlike any since the Quartette or Duplex mines outside Searchlight. I hung out a claim notice on the rock that read “Any sheepherding sons of bitches that I catch digging in these here claims, I will work buttonholes in their pockmarked skins.” Pardon the language Mama, and the unchristian threats, but you’ve got to use these kinda words to intimidate jumpers. I’ve already registered the claim. Five days it took me to reach the county seat in Pioche and five days back. Now, I’m waiting in my cabin for the government man to confirm. He’s slow in coming. Two days overdue. Hope the Ghost didn’t snare the inspector on some remote desert road. Why if he did, that outlaw would have a map right to the gold site and this cabin. That’s a joke, Mama. Those government men are well-armed. Carry Colt revolvers. No one’s harmed a government man in almost thirty years. What are the odds my fellow would fall prey to a highwayman? More likely he fell prey to a Searchlight cathouse. (I heard rumors there are cathouses in Searchlight, Mama, not that I know from personal experience). Well, if the inspector ain’t here by the time I go into Searchlight to mail this letter, I’ll register a complaint. Government never does what you want, do they? Not in a timely manner.
We’re going to have a nice life, Mama. I’ll use the claim to get a loan and hire thirty men to mine the site. I think it’ll cost about five dollars to unearth a ton of rock, but gold is twenty-six dollars an ounce. Should be richer than Croesus. Soon, I’ll send for you and Joanna. Joanna deserves a wedding. I kept her waiting too long. You’ll have grandchildren to look after. Like you always wanted. They got nice houses out here on parts of the river. Like the mansions of the Deep South. We’ll build you one. Import the wood from Crescent Mountain.
Excuse the bad penmanship, Mama. Can’t see well with the candlelight flickering so fierce like someone just opened a door or window. Of course, that’s impossible. I’d have heard ’em even with darkness around me. No one’s that quiet. In the desert you can hear things for miles around. Nothing to worry about with my shotgun here across my lap. The coyotes have stopped their yippin’ outside, whatever was stirring ’em must have gone out of their sight. That’s a relief. Though it’s getting hellishly cold in here. Teach me to build a cabin from old mine lumber, but it paid off. That lucky pickax which found our fortune is right here against the table leg, Mama. Or I thought it was. Must have set it elsewhere, maybe near the window just out of candlelight. I’ll get up and check it when I’m done with this letter. Would hate to lose that ax, even if we are rich, Mama. The steel tip is well-cast, sharpest I’ve ever felt, prick your finger with just a touch and the ax-head flawlessly balanced. It makes a perfect woosh sound in the air when you bring it down to split a stone. Can split anything with ease. Woosh, woosh all day when prospecting. Like I’m in Heaven, like the wooshes are the fluttering wings of angels looking over me. Well, we soon will be in Heaven, Mama with all these riches around us.
I can almost hear that woosh now, like that angel is hovering over my shoulder, looking out for me, right beh
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William Burton McCormick (williamburtonmccormick.com) is an Edgar-award nominated writer of thrillers and short stories. His first story for Black Cat Weekly, “House of Tigers,” was selected to the Honor Roll in The Mysterious Bookshop Presents the Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2023. His forthcoming novel Ghost, co-written with the late Senator Harry Reid of Nevada, will explore the murders and background of the mysterious outlaw mentioned in “Letter from a Lone Prospector to His Mother.”
THE WILD WEST WHODUNIT,by Hal Charles
Entering through the saloon doors newly affixed to the high school gym entrance, State Police Detective Kelly Stone felt as if she had been transported back in time. Wooden facades of general stores, barber shops, and even a jail lined the walls where bleachers once stood. Overhead, a painted canvas sign blared WELCOME TO THE WILD WEST WEEKEND.
“Kelly, Kelly,” called a woman in a heavily painted face who was dressed like a dance hall queen, “thank goodness you’ve come so quickly.”
“Is that really you, Madge?” the detective asked the head of the chamber of commerce.
“Right now,” Madge admitted, “I wish it weren’t.” “What happened?” said Kelly.
“Someone stole Sutter’s gold dust. Well, it’s not really Sutter’s, but it is an authentic bag of gold dust, and we’re supposed to open our doors in less than two hours to my latest extravaganza. You’ll notice only three vendors are set up at the moment.”
“You locked the doors when you found out the gold had been stolen?”
“Absolutely. The gold thief has to be one of the three vendors.”
“That explains the long line outside of people screaming and cursing,” said the detective.
“What else could I do?” said Madge. “You’ve got to identify the thief quickly so that I can still open by noon. Even though I authenticated their resumes, I’m convinced one of these three vendors is really a thief.”
“No pressure,” said Kelly. “I guess I’ll start with that booth in front of the jail.”
“Hi,” said Kelly, badging and addressing the first vendor who with his long coat and bright vest was dressed like an old-west gambler. Among the treasures, she spotted a Bowie knife, a saloon spittoon, and five playing cards in a plastic sleeve. “Three aces and two eights,” she said.
“Deadman’s hand, purportedly belonging to Wild Bill Hickok when his game of five-card stud was interrupted by a bullet to the head. I’m Bart Matthison. Interested in any of my items?”
“Thanks, but I’m just looking.” At that moment Kelly realized how hard it would be to find a bag of gold dust, so discovering the thief had to be based on her deductive skills.
She moved on to the next vendor, who with pigtails, a vest, and two toy pistols was dressed as many pictured Annie Oakley.
“Betsy Brannigan,” said the woman, boldly shaking her hand. “I watched you and Bart. At least he didn’t refer to you condescendingly as ‘little lady?’”
Smiling, Kelly looked down at the spread of western pulps and comic books. Her eyes gravitated to one of a plastic-encased comics. “Hopalong Cassidy,” she said. “I remember my grandfather talking about him. I knew he was in movies and TV, but not comics.”
“That’s issue 99 from DC Comics,” explained Betsy. “The first 85 were published by Fawcett till they went out of business. I can give you a deal.”
“Maybe later,” said Kelly. As she walked across the gym to the third vendor, she pulled out her phone and checked Betsy’s version of Hoppy’s publishing history. Absolutely accurate. Vendor three was dressed as an old-time peddler, complete with the pince-nez. On his table were a series of hats from sombreros to Stetsons to smaller ones.
“You see them up close, even the sombreros,” Kelly said to the vendor, “and you realize that ten-gallon is a misnomer.”
“Very observant,” he said. “Even the biggest hat could hold only a few quarts, and if it did, the hat would be forever ruined. I’m not really a haberdasher, officer,” he said. “Virgil Weeks is the name. I would say that any of them look better than those straight-brimmed hats your troopers wear.”
“How did you know I was state police?” posed Kelly.
“Madge told us.”
“I did indeed,” said Madge, appearing from behind. “I hate to press you, but we need to open.”
Glancing at the clock, Kelly said, “Go ahead. It’s not even high noon yet, but I know who’s lying.”
SOLUTION
Kelly arrested artifact-dealer Bart. While every school child knows a dead man’s hand consists of two black aces and two black eights, nobody knows what the unturned card was in Hickok’s hand. The gold dust was found in the lining to the coat worn by Bart, and the real Bart was found tied up in a motel.
The Barb Goffman Presents series showcasesthe best in modern mystery and crime stories,
personally selected by one of the most acclaimed
short stories authors and editors in the mystery
field, Barb Goffman, forBlack Cat Weekly.
CONFESSIONS OF AN INVISIBLE HIT MAN,by Steve Janko
I finally got up the nerve to move to a spot closer to her during class. I’d been watching her for almost two weeks since first deciding to give yoga a shot. I needed to stay in shape, and the classes were free, or at least covered by our HOA dues here at Siesta Harbor Haciendas, a fifty-five-plus active-seniors living community. Plus, I thought there might be some attractive single women doing downward dog. Turns out she was the only one. The rest were mostly zaftig, overly made-up, bottle-blond, aging Midwestern women, trying their darndest to stay attractive for their overweight and overbearing retired husbands. And, I guess, so they could try to look their best as they spent their afternoons sunning themselves in their bathing suits by the pool. Funny, none of their husbands seem to feel the same need, as I was the only man in the class.
I didn’t position myself right behind her, but a row back and off to the side. Unlike the other women, she was thin, slim-hipped, with small breasts. She had her long, gray-streaked locks tied back in a careless ponytail with a purple scrunchie. Her firm, lithe body defied her age as she performed the various yoga stretches. I liked what I saw and made up my mind that I’d strike up a conversation as soon as class ended.
“You’re pretty good at this stuff,” I said as we rolled up our yoga mats.
“Excuse me?” she replied, finally noticing me.
“This yoga stuff, you look like you’ve been doing this for a while.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve been at it for quite some time. Puts me…in tune with myself.”
“Well, obviously it’s paid off. You’re in great shape.”
“Thank you.” She sat back on her haunches, strapping her rolled up mat. “It’s more than just the physical part though. Clears my mind and gets me focused for the day.”
“I see.”
“This your first time here?”
“Actually, I’ve been coming for the past two weeks.”
“Oh, I don’t remember seeing you before,” she said as she gazed at me queryingly.
“So much for your focus.” I smiled. “I seem to be the only guy in here.”
“I’m sorry. That’s funny, I’m usually pretty observant.”
“Oh yeah?” I covered my eyes with my hand. “What color are my eyes?”
She laughed. “Okay, you got me,” and then she said, “Blue!” when I removed my hand and held it out to her.
“Charlie Murdoch.”
“Katie. Katie Sinclair.”
“Care to grab a cup of coffee?” I asked as we headed for the door.
* * * *
She didn’t want coffee but suggested the juice bar adjacent to the Siesta Harbor Haciendas’ pickleball court. She ordered some green concoction with soy-something and kale. That didn’t sound like something I wanted. I remembered having and liking OJ and carrot juice once, so I ordered that. I thought the carrot juice might impress her.
“I still can’t believe I didn’t notice the one man in yoga class for the past two weeks.”
“Don’t worry about it. I have a knack for that. Being invisible. It helped me for years in my line of work.”
“I take it you’re retired now?” she asked.
“I suppose so. I’m here now. This is a retirement community, isn’t it?”
“I guess so.” She grinned, showing off the crow’s feet at the corners of her green eyes and the smile lines on her cheeks. It was the only hint of her age that betrayed her. Even her naturally gray-streaked locks, now free from her scrunchie, had more of a youthful appearance than any woman I’ve seen trying to battle age with hair coloring.
“But you’re not retired, are you? I’ve seen you working at that art store, or gallery, or whatever it is.”
“It’s an artist co-op. We use it as a gallery, but we all put time in working there. Have you been there?”
“Yes, I was in last week. I bought one of your paintings. The harbor scene. I put it up in my living room. It spoke to me.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I remember selling the painting but… I didn’t even recognize you.”
“That’s okay. No one ever notices me. And you were busy. Story of my life I guess.”
“That seems rather sad.”
“Not really. I’m used to it.”
“You said it helped you in your career. So, what were you, some kind of a secret agent or something?”
“No.” I smiled. “But good guess.”
“So, what did you do?”
“I was a professional hit man.”
Katie laughed at the absurdity of my answer. I knew she would. But it was the truth. She played along, humoring me. “Is that something you had to go to school for?”
“No, I kind of fell into it.” I’d never told anyone the truth about my career, but I wanted to get to know her better, so I decided to be honest. After all, what could she do?
“Fell into it?”
“Yeah. I did someone a favor. Got away with it. Word got around in the right circles, and business just kind of took off. I guess you can say I was following in the family business. My father was an exterminator.”
“You’re funny,” she said, still smiling, not taking me seriously.
“He was. But he died when I was kid. Cancer. I think it was from all the chemicals he used. Back when they were using DDT and all that toxic stuff. But he killed a lot of rats and vermin in his day. I guess I just followed in his footsteps.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York. The Bronx originally but lived all over the city at one time or another.”
“Well, that explains it. Being a professional hit man, I was going to say New York, Chicago, or maybe Kansas City, but you don’t have that Midwestern vibe.”
“And you? Where are you from?”
“I grew up in Connecticut, Greenwich, then moved to the Palm Beach area after I got married.”
“Married, huh? And, your husband? Divorced…?”
“Dead. Technically, missing presumed dead. They never found his body.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Had he stuck around we would have been divorced.”
“How’d he’d go missing? Went out for a loaf of bread and never came back?”
“No. He uh, chartered a sailboat. Had this idea that we should take separate vacations so we could see where our marriage was heading as it was falling apart. I was all ready to file but he urged me to wait. He said he was going to go out and”—she indicated with air quotes—“find himself.”
“You think he did? Find himself?”
“Maybe. But no one else found him. They found the boat, but no Frank. Had to wait three years to have him officially declared dead and collect the life insurance.”
“So, he just vanished?”
“It appears so. Fell overboard and drowned most likely.”
“Interesting… Kids?”
She shook her head. “What about you? Ever married?”
“No, it didn’t really fit with my line of work. I was in a couple of long-term relationships, but it’s hard to lie all the time. You understand, I had to be very secretive. About what I did, that is.”
“Being a hit man and all,” she said, smirking, still thinking I was joking.
“Exactly. It’s not something you can talk about at the dinner table. You know, ‘How was work today, honey?’ ‘Oh fine, blew a guy’s brains out while he was getting a haircut.’”
She laughed. “I can see how that would be a conversation stopper.”
* * * *
We had finished our drinks and compared notes about Siesta Harbor Haciendas. She’d been living here for two years after finally selling her McMansion in Palm Beach once her husband was declared deceased. She said she always preferred the Gulf Coast. I explained that I just moved in about a month ago. We were hitting it off fairly well when Katie noticed the time and said she had to get to the co-op. I walked her to her hacienda, a west-end waterfront stilt house, dodging golf carts that many of the residents used for transportation. We talked about her painting. She’d had a career as an illustrator for years until her husband, who was twelve years older than her, made her give it up so she could be his eye-candy trophy wife, on his arm for all his business functions. He was one of those South Florida land developers who always had some shifty real-estate deal going. It helped him reel in the big money types having a younger, attractive, artsy, educated wife who could entertain, mix cocktails, and befriend investors’ wives while Frank did the dog and pony show. Frank had some big successes that made his name in the right circles, but there were more than a few times his investors lost money on sham development deals. But no matter how big a flop a deal turned out to be, Frank never lost a dime and somehow always made out handsomely. I was starting to see how Frank might go missing.
When we reached Katie’s house, I asked her out, and she agreed to have dinner with me that evening. Told her I’d pick her up at seven and walked back to my place overlooking the marina. I picked it because I had the idea of maybe getting myself a boat someday. Maybe do some fishing.
* * * *
Back at my place I finished my normal workout doing my push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups on the bar I rigged up under my stilt house. I then fixed a sandwich for lunch, read the New York Post online, and stared at Katie’s painting. It was a sunset scene of a quiet marina with many docked boats and masts shearing the sky. It was very detailed for a watercolor, and I wondered if that was the illustrator in her showing herself. There was one single sailboat heading out the channel and on one of the empty docks stood a lone woman in silhouette, waving. I looked closer and wondered, was that Katie waving goodbye to her husband? I filed that away to bring up over dinner if the conversation lagged.
Later, I took a nap, then shaved, showered, and dressed for our dinner date. I put on my new off-white linen suit with a navy-blue shirt, hoping I didn’t look too much like I was auditioning for some senior-citizen version of a Miami Vice spin-off. Katie met me at the door when I came to pick her up. She wore a demure, floral-print, sleeveless dress that showed off her figure and firm arms and was short enough to show off her toned, tanned legs. It clung to her body where it should and hung free where it should. She looked like a million bucks and blushed slightly when I told her so. I suggested an upscale seafood place in town on the pier, overlooking the bay that I had passed a few times as I was checking out the area. She said that was a great choice, having been there before.
* * * *
Being new to town we traded small talk on the drive over about different restaurants in the area. She gave me the lowdown on the local attractions, the best beaches, and the ones to avoid during tourist season. At the restaurant I tipped the maître d’ for a window table in a quiet corner. It overlooked the water as the sun was setting. We ordered cocktails and eased into conversation.
“So, are you going to come clean with me about what you did for a living?” she asked, smiling warmly.
“I already did.”
“Come on, you put down ‘professional hit man’ as your occupation on your tax returns?”
“No, of course not. The IRS thinks I was an investment consultant. Which was partially true.”
“Aha, now the truth comes out.”
“Well, I did that out of necessity. It’s not like I got a regular paycheck. I had to set up a legitimate business for myself. Over the years, I acquired a number of different identities, or aliases if you will. Some of these identities also became my investment clients. The way I worked it was, I was paid in large sums of money, which were deposited into offshore accounts, under different names, different shell companies, different accounts that I’d set up. I’d then move it around into different investments, through my consulting firm. It was a bit of work juggling it all and avoiding suspicion, but I enjoyed the challenge. Taxes were paid when and where needed, and any improprieties were virtually untraceable. Sometimes being visible is the best way to be invisible. It protected me, my money, and people who hired me.”
“How did you learn to do all that?”
“That is what I went to school for. Accounting mostly. Some finance, economics, tax law. Got an MBA and even completed a CPA course, but never bothered to get the certification.”
“Sounds like you could have made a good living just doing that. My husband could have probably used you.”
“Yeah, but then I’d have to deal with real clients. That would have been a big risk factor. Better to be invisible in that respect and not have to trust anyone else.”
“So, Charlie Murdoch? Is that an alias?”
“No, that is my real name.”
“Aren’t you afraid I might go to the police with everything you’re telling me?”
“And tell them what? That some old geezer in your senior-citizen community is telling you he’s a retired hit man? What do you think they’d do?”
“I guess you have a point.” She chuckled. “But I wouldn’t consider you an old geezer.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling.
She leaned in over the table conspiratorially after looking around to see if anyone was paying attention to us. “Did you really kill people?”
“Yes, quite a few actually.”
“How exactly does one get started in something like that?”
“Well… I think I mentioned the first time was sort of a favor. I was twenty. I had a good friend, name was Tony. Me and Tony grew up on the same street, hung out together ever since we were kids. He had a younger sister, Teresa—I think she was sixteen at the time, still in high school—who’d had been…raped, I guess would be the best word for it. She ended up getting pregnant. They were from a good Italian Catholic family, and it really tore them up for Teresa to get an abortion. I was pretty close to them, the whole family I mean. They tried to keep it all hushed up. Never went to the police or anything.
“One day not long after it happened, Tony and I were out drinking, and he told me the whole story. Teresa told him who did it. This guy named Sal from the neighborhood. A real slimeball. Thought he was God’s gift to women. One of those Disco-boy assholes. This was 1979, and he thought he was John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Sal somehow got with Teresa and gave her a quaalude. She passed out or was too out of it to know what was going on, and he had his way with her. Tony was livid. I had never seen him so angry. He was dead serious when he told me he was going to kill the bastard. Told me how and when he would do it. I told him, no, don’t do it. He was too close to it, and he’d be sure to get busted if word about what happened to Teresa got out. Sal just wasn’t worth going to jail for. I don’t know why, maybe I just wanted justice or felt protective of Teresa, but I told him I’d do it. I told him to make sure he was at work at his father’s deli so he’d have a solid alibi. Tony said he couldn’t ask anyone to do what he wanted to do. I told him that he didn’t have to ask.”
Katie was staring at me more intensely now. “So you…did it?”
“Yep. Dug up my old man’s .32 snub nose and waited for him outside his job to get off work.”
“Nobody saw you? Or heard gunshots?”
I shook my head. “He worked at a body shop in an industrial area. Nothing but junkyards, garages, old warehouses. It was winter, so by time he got off work, the place was dark and deserted.”
“And you got away with it?”
I nodded. “Got away with all of them.”
Katie sat there gaping at me. I think she was starting to see I wasn’t pulling her leg. Just then the waiter came by to take our orders. Katie opened the menu and tried to focus but couldn’t, so I ordered for both of us, including a bottle of wine. The waiter had collected our menus and left before Katie finally looked back at me.
“How do you live with yourself after taking someone’s life?”
“Well, it was weird. I felt guilty, but I also felt good for putting the bastard in his place for what he’d done. I was scared too. If I had gotten caught right away, I probably would have confessed. But I didn’t. I got away with it. The more I thought of it, the more I felt and told myself I was justified in what I did. That’s what you do, you try to justify it to yourself.
“When word got out about Sal, I think Tony must have told his old man I was the one who did it, because he never let me pay for another thing in his deli. And he always made sure there was food sent over to me and my mother’s house. I think word got around the neighborhood too. No one ever mentioned it, but people started treating me different. Everyone was nice to me. Like they were proud of me. Respected me. That helped me get through it.”
“So, you decided to make a career out of it?”
“Like I said, I kind of fell into it. I was going to City College at the time, still living with my mom. About a year later she got sick and couldn’t work anymore. Money got tight. We were late with the mortgage. Bills were piling up. Had tuition to pay. Then, an opportunity presented itself. This local mobster approached me. Wanted me to take out a drug dealer who was ripping him off. He offered me ten grand. Showed me half of it to have right then and there as a down payment. That was more money than I’d ever seen before. We needed it, so I took it. After that, I guess you can say business took off.”
“That doesn’t seem like much money to take someone’s life.”
“Looking back, I guess it wasn’t. Not in today’s money, that’s for sure. But again, I justified it to myself with the fact that my mark was just another criminal. Probably cost some lives himself. All my marks were criminals. So were the people hiring me. Mobsters mostly. I know it might sound crazy, but I would only take a job if the target was another criminal, not some innocent guy who happened to piss someone off. And I never took a job if it was a woman or a kid. That, to me, was crossing the line. The way I saw it, every one of my marks had it coming. They lived outside the law, so they died outside the law. The more experience I got, the better I got. And the better I got, the more money I got.”
“And you never got caught?” she asked incredulously.
“Not even close. It helped being invisible.”
“What do you mean invisible? You keep saying that. You’re not invisible. You’re right there.” She pointed at me.
“I’m right here because I invited you out to dinner. Before I struck up a conversation with you this morning, you never even noticed me. I was in yoga class for two weeks and even came to your shop and bought one of your paintings, and you didn’t even know I existed. That’s my talent, or curse, whatever you want to call it. One of my biggest jobs was taking down a mob boss on a busy midtown street during Christmas season. As he was getting out of his car at a restaurant to have dinner, I shot him and his bodyguard practically point blank as I casually walked by, and just kept walking. Now granted, this was the days before there were cameras everywhere. The police questioned dozens of people that were in the area when it happened, and not a one of them was able to describe me. They saw everything from a black homeless man in a hoodie to a Hispanic guy in a Santa suit. But they didn’t see me.”
“That was in the papers, wasn’t it?”
“Front page.” I leaned in closer. “He was a big-time Mafia capo. I took a nice long vacation after that one.”
“Weren’t you afraid someone would want revenge? Put a hit on you? I mean, you were dealing with big-time mobsters. Isn’t that what they do?”
“By then I was a pro, had my tracks covered. My mom had passed years before. I’d sold the house, and I was living on my own. I had a place upstate in the country where I could practice my shooting, and a couple of different places rented out in the city under different names to move around to. Had several false identities by then and had a whole underground network set up in order to get ahold of me. You had to know someone, who knew someone, who knew somebody else that could get a message to me. And then if you requested my services, I would check you out and your prospective target. If you both checked out okay, I got a message to you with my fee and terms of payment. I was using pagers, pay phones, burner phones, and even satellite phones when they came out. Used all the latest technology over the years, updating constantly so nothing could be traced back to me. If someone was trying to kill me, they would have one hell of a time trying to find the invisible me. And I would probably find out and find them first. You have to realize, the people I dealt with were not necessarily the sharpest tools in the shed.”
Our food came and we ate in relative silence for a while. I could tell Katie was trying to digest everything I told her. I had to admit she was taking it quite well, considering. I’d been hoping I wouldn’t scare her off and was happy it seemed I hadn’t. Finally, it had been quiet so long I decided to ask her about her painting, if the woman in it waving to the sailboat was her, waving to her late husband.
“Funny you ask,” she said. “A friend of mine, another artist at the co-op, pointed that out to me. It wasn’t intentional, but I guess, maybe, subconsciously…”
“Were you sorry to see him go?”
“No. He had really…upset me. I hope I don’t sound too cold, but I was happy to see him go. Somehow, I knew I’d never see him again.”
“Upset you how?”
“Oh, many ways. If I would have intentionally put myself in the painting, I would have been flipping him the bird, not waving.”
That cracked me up, and she joined in the laughter.
“I put up with a lot in our last few years. Should have left him long before,” she said.
“So, why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. I ask myself that all the time. Maybe my life was too comfortable. We did live well. I guess I thought things would change. Get better. But they didn’t.”
“Sounds like he didn’t know how good he had it. But I, for one, am glad he didn’t.” I reached over and took her hand. “I’m glad you were able to join me this evening. It’s not like I get to talk about myself much. I mean truthfully. And to a beautiful lady.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She smiled. “Just promise me you’re not going to kill me.”
“Only with kindness.”
* * * *
We finished our dinner, went outside, and strolled along the waterfront pier. There was a chill in the air. Katie hugged herself from the cold, so I took off my jacket and put it around her shoulders. We stopped and stood at the rail overlooking the moonlit bay, breathing in the cool salt air breeze.
“You’ve led quite a life,” she said. “Do you ever feel remorseful?”
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. Wasn’t the most noble career.” I turned to face her, leaning on the rail. “What about you? Any remorse? Any regrets?”
“Sure. I did a lot of things for my husband and his business that I’m not particularly proud of. He used me, and I suppose I let him. Playing the charming, happy, and…flirtatious wife helped him seal many a deal. Helped him secure investors even when I knew they were sometimes betting on a risky, losing proposition.”
“Did your husband know they were losing propositions?”
“Not always. Not at first. He was always very confident in his business savvy. Maybe too much so. He always thought his deals were going to be lucrative. And sometimes they were. At least at first. Quite lucrative. That’s how he was able to get people to believe in him and his pie-in-the-sky schemes. But once he figured out how to come out ahead regardless of whether his investors did or not, it started to not matter to him. Oh, he tried his best for them at first, but if there was a hint of things starting to go south, he would cut and run. And usually leave his investors high and dry.”
“Sounds like he may have pissed a few people off.”
“No doubt about it. At the end, he had more lawsuits than business suits. And I was left to deal with them.”
She turned away and looked off across the bay, lost in thought. I watched her longingly as the breeze blew through her hair and the moonlight cast its glow on her face. There seemed to be a distant, mournful sadness to her. I longed to take her in my arms, protect her from whatever haunted her, and let her know everything would be all right.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories,” I said.
“I know. It’s not your fault.”
“Maybe we should head back.”
She turned back to me, teary-eyed and forlorn. “You’re a sweet guy, Charlie. I had a really nice time tonight.”
I took this as my cue to place one hand on her shoulder, pulling her close while gently lifting her chin with the other, and kissed her softly. She smiled, put her arms around me, and pressed her head against my chest. I returned the embrace, wrapping my arms around her, taking in the sweet scent of her perfume. She felt good in my arms. Like we fit together.
She finally pulled away taking both my hands in hers. “You’re right. We should probably head back,” she said, smiling up at me.
* * * *
We drove back in relative silence, I guess each of us reflecting on the evening. When we got to her place, I was a bit surprised when she invited me in for a nightcap. But I was happy she did and readily accepted, not wanting to leave her, nor for the night to end. Her place was elegantly decorated and furnished with an offbeat, artsy flair. Many of her watercolors and drawings were hung on the coral-colored walls.
She showed me her studio, set up in what was the second bedroom overlooking the bay, with a sliding glass door that led to the wraparound porch. It was sparsely furnished with white walls, and I imagined it was a bright sun-filled room in the daytime. Reference photos were tacked up to a cork board on her wall, with a drafting table beneath it. Her supplies were neatly organized on a rolling cart with her paints and brushes. On her easel sat her latest work in progress. It was the beginnings of a beach scene with sandpipers at the water’s edge, sea grass sprouting from the sand, and cumulus clouds hovering in the distance over the gulf. I thought it could be a scene right outside her window. It contrasted with the still lifes, portraits, and figure studies that hung in her living room, but it was similar to her paintings I saw at her co-op gallery.
“You’re very talented,” I said.
“Thank you. Cognac?” she asked as I followed her back out to living room. She poured us both a couple of snifters as I admired one of her paintings of what was probably an Eastern European or a gypsy woman. She wore a colorful patterned scarf, and the detail in it was sharp and precise. We retreated to the couch with our drinks as she kicked off her shoes and pulled her legs up under her.
I commented that the painting on her walls were quite different from what she had in the gallery.
“It’s what sells around here,” she said. “Girl’s got to eat.”
“I have to imagine you did all right selling your Palm Beach McMansion and with your husband’s insurance.”
“Yes, but he also left me with the lawsuits. After three years waiting to collect, being able to sell the house, paying lawyers, I was barely able to afford this place.”
“I’m sorry. I could see how that would upset you.”
She took a sip of her drink before saying, “That was the least upsetting.”
“How so?”
She sighed and took another long sip.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. It’s not really any of my business,” I said.
“It’s okay. I guess I don’t mind telling you. It seems like a long time ago now.” She sipped again. “Let’s see, where to start? Well, I guess it started when I found out Frank was cheating on me. One day I walked in on him in our bedroom, on our bed, with some heavily augmented redhead. He didn’t even seem to mind that I discovered him there with another woman. He actually smiled and asked me to join them. I couldn’t believe it. I was furious. I went straight to the closet and packed a bag. He tried to stop me, but I gathered enough things and went to a hotel. Cried and drank for three days while he kept calling and texting me to come home. Somehow, he found out where I was and came to my room begging me to take him back. He needed me. I told him I’d think about it just to get rid of him. But he kept calling, texting, pleading with me to forgive him. Well, I did think about it. I realized I had nowhere to go. At that point my life revolved around his. So, I went back to him. I guess you think that’s crazy.”
I shrugged. “No. Not crazy at all.”
“When I came home he gave me a diamond necklace and treated me like a queen for the next few months. He couldn’t have been nicer. I almost thought we might be able to patch things up and put it behind us. But then I started finding little signs that he was still cheating. Signs I had seen before but never thought anything of.”
“Did you confront him?”
“No. I knew then it was over between us. It could never be as it was. I swore to myself that I would get back at him some way, rather than just walking out. So I played my role as the dutiful wife, entertaining his guests and business partners. Then, he was in the process of putting a deal together to buy a huge tract of land up the coast. Prime location. He had the financial backing from the bank and developers in place, ready to invest. The trouble was, the land was owned by the Wendell Corporation, a family conglomerate, and he had to convince the board to sell. But they wanted to turn the property into some kind of wildlife sanctuary or conservation preserve. So, Frank went after the CEO, Malcolm Wendell, who was chairman of the board and also the family patriarch, knowing if he could sway him, he could get the needed votes from the rest of the board. Frank thought he could bribe him. He had done so in the past on other deals with reluctant sellers, zoning officials, crooked politicians. He discussed it with his investors, and they agreed they could come up with a half a million, in cash under the table, to close the deal. Mr. Wendell was a very successful, classy older gentlemen. Frank had him over the house several times trying to negotiate. But Wendell wasn’t interested in money. He had plenty. He was in his seventies and his wife had passed away a few years earlier. What he was interested in, was me,” she said before downing the rest of her cognac.
“When Frank told me, at first I laughed. Then Frank told me I should consider it. I was outraged he would even think of it. But he was desperate and told me he had a plan. He would tell his investors that Wendell had accepted the offer of cash, and if I agreed, it would all be mine. His investors would put up the cash and be none the wiser. Frank said we would also stand to make much more when the deal went through, but the half mil in cash would be mine to do with what I pleased. Thinking it over, I thought this could be my way of finally getting back at Frank. I would use it to hire the best divorce lawyer money could buy, and I would take him to the cleaners. So, I agreed to his little plan.”
“You slept with the CEO?”
“Yes. I spent a weekend with Malcolm at his estate down in the Keys. It was a lovely place. He was very sweet and gentle. Could not have been kinder. I know I made him happy. And I think I actually enjoyed myself too. When it was over, he said he was going to give me a very special gift. I told him it wasn’t necessary. He told me not to worry, he’ll see to it that I was taken care of.” She then looked over at me, questioningly. “Do you think less of me for that?”
“Not at all. We all do things we have to do sometimes. Hell, I killed people for a living. Who am I to judge?”
She smiled, leaned over to me, and kissed me. We wrapped our arms around each other, and the passion grew, lips locked, tongues entwined, hands caressing. It was blissful. Then she arose off the couch, extending her hand. I took it, and she led me to the bedroom.
* * * *
I awoke the next morning to the shower running, as the sun poured through the windows. Looking around at my surroundings, I smiled, recalling our passionate night of wild abandon. The shower stopped, and Katie came out wrapped in a terry-cloth robe. She sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand.
“Good morning,” she said, smiling. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
I smiled back at her. “Not at all. I’m usually up by now.”
“Feel free to use the shower while I whip you up some breakfast, big boy.”
She leaned in, kissed me, and scurried off to the kitchen.
By time I stepped out of the shower, I could smell coffee brewing and bacon frying. I dressed and went to the kitchen to see Katie plating bacon and eggs.
“Help yourself to coffee. Thought we’d eat out on the porch. I usually do.”
“Sounds good,” I said, pouring myself a mug.
“Been a long time since I made a man breakfast.”
“You didn’t need to go to all the fuss, you know.”
“No fuss. I wanted to.”
We went out to the porch and sat looking out over the water, eating our breakfast.
“It was a wonderful evening,” she said. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you!” I replied and reached over and took her hand. “It was more than a wonderful evening. You’re a very special woman, Katie.”
“And you’re a very special man, Charlie.”
We smiled joyfully at each other. I have to admit I felt like a lovestruck teenager, enamored with a girl I had a crush on, who finally noticed me.
“You know, telling you about me, my career, I feel like this great weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I’ve kept my life a secret for so long. Forever.”
“I’m glad. I feel the same telling you my story. I’ve never told anyone about what happened with me and my husband.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“And yours, with me.”
“We’ll see each other again, won’t we?” I asked, rather lamely.
“Of course. Don’t be silly.” She smiled again. “Hey, we better get moving if we’re going to make yoga class. I imagine you want to stop at your place and change.”
“Yes, and I have something to give you.”
She looked at me quizzically.
“Don’t worry, you’ll like it,” I said.
I drove us back to my place and showed her my meager surroundings. She saw her painting hung proudly in my living room. I went into my bedroom to change into my workout clothes. When I came out she was standing in front of it, looking it over. I came up beside her.
“You ever get the half a million in cash from your husband? Did he keep his part of the bargain?”
“No. When I came back from the Keys with Malcolm, he had already gone off in his chartered sailboat. The money was in our safe, but it was gone too. He took the cash but left me the jewelry. I don’t know what he was thinking. Or what he was going to do with the money. Start a new life? Maybe that’s what he did and he’s not dead at all. The money was never recovered when they found the boat. But Frank was out of my life. And truthfully, that’s all I cared about. The irony was that his big land deal went through. Malcolm kept up his part of the bargain. He got the board of directors to approve the sale. Sadly, he passed away a short time later. The bank and the developers were able to buy the land, and they built a very successful luxury resort. Everyone involved made out handsomely. Whatever happened to Frank, he lost out on the biggest deal he ever put together. And me, I lost it all and had to put up with all the crap he left behind. I guess him not coming back was somehow worth it. Funny though, sometimes I think he’ll show up on my doorstep someday. I pray he doesn’t.”
I pulled out a letter I had printed out in my bedroom and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” she asked, unfolding it.
“It’s an account in your name with one of the banks I use in the Cayman Islands. There’s roughly one point two five million in it. Still drawing interest. It’s all yours.”
She looked up at me, surprised, confused.
“I took the cash your husband had on the sailboat and invested it, along with a gift that Mr. Wendell wanted you to have. Minus my fee, of course.”
“You?! Frank…?”
I nodded. “No need to worry about him showing up on your doorstep.”
Tears welled up as she smiled, staring at the amount in the letter. I put my arms around her and pulled her close. She hugged me tightly, then looked up at her painting.
“You are in the painting too, you know.”
“What? Where?”
“Right there, next to me,” she said, pointing to the waving women. “Except, you’re invisible.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steve Janko’s (aka Jankowski) first novel, Below the Line, was published in 2020 by Down & Out Books. He drew on his experiences in the entertainment, music, and film industries, as well as his love for sailing. “Confessions of an Invisible Hit Man,” marks his first short story publication with Black Cat Weekly. Originally from New York City, Steve currently resides in Los Angeles, CA. Learn more at stevenjankowski.com.
THE MARINA CASE,by Henry T. Parry
“I didn’t know it was Mary Jane.”
“Mary Jane?” Jan asked, knowing only too well what the young man meant.
“Pot. Grass. Weed. Marijuana.”
Jan swung her wheelchair around and faced her visitor, a man in his early thirties, dressed as though he had been called away from some rough outdoor work. His eyes were deep-set and puzzled, and he held his mouth slightly open, which added to the unworldly aspect of his face. A look not so much naive as unaware of the world about him.
“I didn’t know anything about the marijuana. I just had no idea. Believe me.”
Jan believed him, although she had the cop’s, or in her case, the ex-cop’s skepticism. Pierce Freeman was a distant relative of her husband and, until he arrived that morning at her office, she had never met him. Peter, her husband, had told her the little he knew about Freeman. A serious painter, living somewhere in Connecticut, unmarried, subsisting on a series of dead-end jobs, and devoting his main energy to art.
“A sense of dedication wholly absent from the rest of the family,” Peter had said, a statement Jan rejected, knowing the twelve-hour days which Peter devoted to his architectural practice.
