Black Cat Weekly #151 E-Book

Veronica Leigh

• Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 735

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

This issue, we have five mystery stories, three of which are originals—tales by Tracy Falenwolfe (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken), Veronica Leigh, and Teel James Glenn—these last two names should be familiar to regular readers from previous issues. We also have a great modern tale by Jonathan Santlofer (thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman) and a classic pulp crime story set in the dark world of Las Vegas casinos by Bryce Walton. Plus, of course, a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

On the science fiction end, the Lancelot Biggs space opera series from Nelson Bond continues with “F-O-B Venus.” F-O-B was a more common term in early to mid 20th century. It stands for “Free on Board”—a term used in international shipping to indicate that the seller delivers the goods to a ship at a specified port, and the buyer assumes responsibility once the goods are on board and is responsible for shipping costs, insurance, and other expenses related to transporting the goods to their final destination. Rounding things out are a pair of novels: pulp action-adventure from Edmond Hamilton, then Lester del Rey’s classic tale of an atomic power plant heading toward meltdown. Great stuff!

Here’s the complete lineup—

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Jamming at Jollies,” by Tracy Falenwolfe [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Case of the Carried-off Coins,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Lola,” by Jonathan Santlofer [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Divine Discontent,” by Veronica Leigh [short story]
“White Face, Blood Red,” by Teel James Glenn [short story]
“Murderers Three,” by Bryce Walton [short story]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“F-O-B Venus,” by Nelson S. Bond [short story, Lancelot Biggs series]
Outside the Universe, by Edmond Hamilton [novel]
Nerves, by Lester del Rey [novel]

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE CAT’S MEOW

JAMMING AT JOLLIES, by Tracy Falenwolfe

THE CASE OF THE CARRIED-OFF COINS, by Hal Charles

LOLA, by Jonathan Santlofer

DIVINE DISCONTENT, by Veronica Leigh

WHITE FACE, BLOOD RED, by Teel James Glenn

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MURDERERS THREE, by Bryce Walton

F-O-B VENUS, by Nelson S. Bond

OUTSIDE THE UNIVERSE, by Edmond Hamilton

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

NERVES, by Lester Del Rey

DEDICATION

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

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Black Cat Weekly

blackcatweekly.com

*

“Jamming at Jollies,” is copyright © 2024 by Tracy Falenwolfe and appears here for the first time.

“The Case of the Carried-off Coins” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

“Lola” is copyright © 2011 by Jonathan Santlofer. Originally published in New Jersey Noir. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Divine Discontent” is copyright © 2024 by Veronica Leigh and appears here for the first time.

“White Face, Blood Red,” is copyright © 2024 by Teel James Glenn and appears here for the first time.

“Murderers Three,” by Bryce Walton, was originally published in Dime Detective, September 1951. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“F-O-B Venus,” by Nelson S. Bond, was originally published in Fantastic Adventures, November 1939.

Outside the Universe, by Edmond Hamilton, was originally published as a 4-part serial in Weird Tales, July to October 1929.

Nerves, by Lester del Rey, originally appeared (in a shorter version) in Astounding Science Fiction Magazine in 1942. The book-length edition is copyright © 1956, renewed 1984 by Lester del Rey. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR & PUBLISHER

John Betancourt

ART DIRECTOR

Ron Miller

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

EDITORIAL BOARD

Thomas A. Easton

Ryan Hines

Vicki Erwin

Paula Messina

Richard Prosch

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

This issue, we have five mystery stories, three of which are originals—tales by Tracy Falenwolfe (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken), Veronica Leigh, and Teel James Glenn—these last two names should be familiar to regular readers from previous issues. We also have a great modern tale by Jonathan Santlofer (thanks to Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman) and a classic pulp crime story set in the dark world of Las Vegas casinos by Bryce Walton. Plus, of course, a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

On the science fiction end, the Lancelot Biggs space opera series from Nelson Bond continues with “F-O-B Venus.” F-O-B was a more common term in early to mid 20th century. It stands for “Free on Board”—a term used in international shipping to indicate that the seller delivers the goods to a ship at a specified port, and the buyer assumes responsibility once the goods are on board and is responsible for shipping costs, insurance, and other expenses related to transporting the goods to their final destination. Rounding things out are a pair of novels: pulp action-adventure from Edmond Hamilton, then Lester del Rey’s classic tale of an atomic power plant heading toward meltdown. Great stuff.

* * * *

Thanks to everyone who responded to my request for first readers. I’m delighted to say we now have five new staff members reading submissions at our submissions portal. (If you want to submit a story to us, it’s at blackcatweekly.com.) Best of all, most of our new readers are also writers—a good thing, trust me. Writers make the best editors. Check out the “Team Black Cat” page to see all the new names.

On a personal note, if you stream your music, please check out the band Diversicat. I write many of their songs, and their new album Monster Hits will be out in a couple of weeks. (Most of the songs are about monsters, from Frankenstein’s to ghosts to serial killers...and more!) They just dropped the first single, “Too Much Hair Down There” (which I wrote). I spotted it at YouTube yesterday. It should be everywhere else shortly, if it isn’t already.

And I’m proud to say my first novel in nearly 20 years has just been published. It’s The Things from Another World, a sequel to John W. Campbell’s classic Who Goes There? (filmed as The Thing by John Carpenter) and is currently shipping to Kickstarter backers. The book will be available to the general public in late August.

Now, returning from our commercial break, here’s the complete lineup for #151—

Cover Art: Ron Miller

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Jamming at Jollies,” by Tracy Falenwolfe [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“The Case of the Carried-off Coins,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

“Lola,” by Jonathan Santlofer [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

“Divine Discontent,” by Veronica Leigh [short story]

“White Face, Blood Red,” by Teel James Glenn [short story]

“Murderers Three,” by Bryce Walton [short story]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“F-O-B Venus,” by Nelson S. Bond [short story, Lancelot Biggs series]

Outside the Universe, by Edmond Hamilton [novel]

Nerves, by Lester del Rey [novel]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

JAMMING AT JOLLIES,by Tracy Falenwolfe

“So,” the drunk slurred. “What time do you get off?”

“Not soon enough.” Zee wiped up the beer he’d spilled and palmed his keys in the process. He’d be face-down in the Corn Nuts before her shift was over, and it was a shame, because he was a nice guy, and she wouldn’t have minded some companionship. But she didn’t date guys who didn’t know their limit.

Unfortunately, he didn’t realize that yet. “I like your tattoos.”

Zee just snorted at him.

Pretty Boy waved at her from the end of the bar. She’d tracked him from the moment he’d walked in the door. His date looked uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable like she didn’t want to be with him. Uncomfortable like Jollies wasn’t her kind of place.

Good for her.

Jollies was admittedly a dive bar. People came in to drink and shoot pool and shake off the day. The lone television in the joint was mounted behind the bar, and tuned to whatever Sugar, the owner, was in the mood for. The spot in the corner was reserved for whichever local band or musician Sugar fancied at the moment, for as long as they played what she wanted to hear—anything by The Eagles, .38 Special, Thin Lizzy, or Lynyrd Skynyrd except for “Free Bird.” Tonight, it was all jukebox, and Sugar was in a mood. She’d been upstairs in her office since she arrived.

That was fine. So far, Zee had been handling the crowd on her own. She made her way down the bar to where Pretty Boy had planted both elbows on the mahogany. She lifted her chin.

“Yeah,” Pretty Boy said to her. “Let me get a beer and a slippery nipple.”

Zee eyed him and his date, Miss Priss. “You have ID?”

Pretty Boy grabbed his chest. “Are you kidding me?”

Miss Priss dug her ID out of her purse and handed it over.

It checked out. Zee handed it back and looked at Pretty Boy. His face was red, but he passed Zee his driver’s license. She took her time with it before handing it back. He’d turned twenty-one the day before. Made him legal, even if he was an ass about it.

She rattled off the list of beers they had on tap, and he picked one. He flashed his cash while sliding his license back inside the little plastic window in his wallet, then put the wallet in his back pocket. Easy pickins. Strictly pay-as-you-go for him. If she ran him a tab, there was a good chance he’d have lost his cash by the time he was ready to settle up. A real good chance.

She pulled the beer and let it set while she layered the shot. That’s when she started getting the feeling. She glanced into the mirror behind the bar and scanned the room. Her heart raced as she caught a glimpse of a guy who was the right height and build milling around in the corner near the jukebox. Was it him? She’d been on high alert for the past three days, and the suspense was killing her. The guy’s back was to her, and her stomach bottomed out waiting for him to turn around.

“What’s the word, Zima?” Randy flipped open the bar flap, drawing her attention away from the boogeyman in the mirror. Randy was the size of a rhino and served as barback, bouncer, and boy toy at Jollies. He squeezed past Zee and emptied a tub of ice into the trough.

“Slow night, Randy.” Her tips wouldn’t come close to covering the trip to the grocery store she’d planned. Especially after she gave him his cut. Not that she was complaining. He was worth every penny.

Even though she could handle herself, she felt safer with Randy around. She was smart and wiry, but he was a wall. His black T-shirt strained at the biceps and across his massive shoulders. He wore V-necks because his neck was so thick it didn’t fit through the hole of a crew neck shirt.

Thankfully, she didn’t think she’d need him tonight. When she’d turned and looked, she saw the guy at the jukebox was one of the regulars shooting pool. Probably just looking to play his favorite song. At least she thought it was one of those guys. He was the only one in the place wearing the same color sweatshirt as whoever she’d seen. But the guy at the jukebox had been wearing a hat, hadn’t he? And the pool player was not. Doubt started creeping in.

“Zima.” The drunk caught his second wind and picked his head up off the bar. “Zima.” He squinted. “That sounds familiar. Have we met before?”

They hadn’t. It sounded familiar because her parents had been stupid kids in the 90s and thought naming their kid after an alcoholic beverage that had played a huge part in her conception would be cool. So, Zima Melissa Pawlowski was born. Her parents finished high school before splitting up and dumped baby Zima on her father’s mother, who’d done the best she could before dropping dead at forty-nine.

Zima went by Zee now, and usually inflicted punishment on anyone who called her otherwise, but Randy was different. Randy had her back.

Zee served a second beer and a third martini to two guys who were talking sports and edging closer to each other. She topped off three glasses of wine for the desperate housewives she’d overheard plotting murders they’d never work up the nerve to commit. How many times could one person work the word hypothetically into a conversation, anyway?

She closed out a tab for a regular and accepted a generous tip. “Thanks, Paul.” She slid the cash into her front pocket. Maybe she’d eat this week after all.

Paul played pool Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays with Marcus and Bateman and Sanders. Some weeks, the four of them were the only thing holding her head above water. Sanders was the one she’d mistaken for trouble earlier. But now that she glanced at him again, there was no way he could have passed for who she thought he was. The build was wrong, and he was definitely not wearing a hat. There wasn’t even one hanging on the coat rack where the pool players usually kept their stuff.

“See ya, Zee.” Paul gave her a two-fingered wave on his way to the door.

Zee said goodbye but kept her eye on the end of the bar near the drunk, where a middle-aged couple had been parked for an hour or so. First date, she guessed, but not strangers. The Frump and The Suit. Trying to decide if they were going to take whatever they had going any further. Maybe they were cheating on their spouses. Maybe they were coworkers forbidden from fraternizing. Maybe they were something else. But Zee had the feeling that whatever they were to each other was going to change tonight.

“Zima.” The drunk raised his head. “Hit me again.”

“Sorry,” she said. “You’re cut off.”

“Seriously?” he slurred. “I’m not even drunk.”

“You’re sloshed. I’m not serving you anymore. Time to settle up and head home.”

“Zimaaaa,” he whined.

“Don’t call me that. Now come on. Pay up and get out.”

He reached into his shirt pocket and threw a wad of cash on the bar. Then he called her a word that, if he’d been sober, would have had her rearranging his gonads. He twisted around and patted his pockets. “Where are my keys?” He kept patting and twisting, patting and twisting.

It wouldn’t do him any good. His keys were in the box under the cash drawer, where they would stay until he came back for them when she was sure he could pass a breathalyzer. Of course, most people never knew their keys had been swiped. They assumed they’d left them somewhere, or lost them, or dropped them down a sewer grate in their stupor. That’s why there were fourteen other sets of keys in the box, along with a handgun, two tasers, and a couple of bags of psychedelics. Zee liked to avert trouble when she saw it coming. She said, “Call yourself an Uber.”

“You don’t have much of a bedside manner,” he slurred.

“We’re not in bed.”

“But we could be.” He had trouble focusing on her.

“Not a chance.” At least not anymore.

While he was arguing with her, The Frump slid off her stool and headed toward the ladies’ room. The Suit watched her until she rounded the corner, then pulled a clear vial out of his breast pocket. He looked up and down the bar, discounting Zee and the drunk. As he began to uncap the vial, Zee grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the bar.

“Son of a bitch.” He tried to pry her fingers away with his other hand. “That hurts.”

Zee divested him of the vial and slipped it into her pocket with her tips. “Don’t try to tell me those were eye drops.”

A vein bulged in his neck. He twisted, and Zee heard his shoulder pop. “I’m going to fucking sue you if you don’t let go of me.”

“Randy,” Zee called.

Randy appeared. “You need some help taking out the trash?”

Marcus and Bateman and Sanders all looked up from their game of Cutthroat, ready to lend a hand if Zee or Randy needed one. She knew Bateman and Sanders carried. The flannel shirts they always wore didn’t do much to hide that fact. She wasn’t sure about Marcus, but she knew she didn’t want the situation to escalate.

Zee let go of The Suit’s wrist. He stumbled backward and rotated his shoulder, then rubbed it with his opposite hand.

“You need to leave,” Zee said.

The bar quieted.

The suit opened his mouth to argue, but Randy took a step toward him, convincing the guy to turn and flee instead.

Conversations resumed. The guys went back to their game. The drunk took out his phone and called a ride, but not before giving her a glad-I-dodged-that-bullet glance.

The excitement was all over by the time The Frump returned from the ladies’ room. She’d made her decision. Zee could see it on her face. Whatever she’d been thinking of doing with the Suit, she’d decided not to. Maybe he knew she was headed there, and that’s why he’d decided he had to drug her. Or maybe he was just a scumbag.

The Frump looked around. Caught Zee’s eye. She pointed to The Suit’s empty stool. “Have you seen my friend?”

Zee wiped the bar. “He skedaddled when you went to the bathroom.”

“He left?”

“I’m sorry,” Zee said. “But he also stuck you with the tab.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the guy she’d seen hanging around the jukebox slip out the door and tamped down her urge to vomit.

* * * *

A couple of hours later, Sugar came downstairs to help close up. Sugar was a six-foot blonde. Most of that was legs. She was of indeterminate age but had enough life experience to be a hundred and ten. Over the years, she’d worked the pole, turned tricks, and starred in some soft-core internet porn. She’d also made some shrewd investments. When she’d had enough of the life, she bought Jollies and ripped out the poles and the private booths. She kept the name, the liquor license, and Randy, and had hired Zee when no one else would.

Sugar was an astute businesswoman. She still dressed like a dancer, though, right down to her five-inch fuck-me-pumps. But it suited her. “Until tomorrow,” she said to Zee as she sauntered out the back door, hips swaying to a beat only she could hear.

Zee and Randy left through the front. Randy locked the door with his key. “You walking tonight, Zee?”

“Yeah. You?” Sometimes they walked the first few blocks together, and then Randy took the train the rest of the way home. Tonight, though, before he even answered her, a red Lamborghini turned the corner, engine purring. Sugar.

She rolled up next to Randy and lifted an eyebrow. He folded himself into the low-slung car and pulled the vertical door shut. Zee guessed he was still on the clock tonight. She put her hood up and started for home. She looked back twice, because her senses had been pinging ever since she’d seen whoever she’d seen in the bar, but she had the street to herself.

Or so she thought. Three blocks in, while she was walking past the burned-out shell that used to be a social security office, someone grabbed her from behind.

She bent at the waist and thrust her elbows back, but her attacker was ready for her. She stomped on his instep, but he dodged. He knew that was coming, too. His arm was tight around her head, pinning her chin to her chest. She chomped down on his flesh, and when all the bells and whistles in her head cleared, she heard his voice close to her ear. “Zee! Zee goddammit. It’s me.”

He eased his grip enough for her to turn and face him. “Chance.” She took a step back. No more anticipation. Her worst fears had come true. “It was you in the bar tonight.”

He didn’t deny it. “We gotta talk, Zee.”

She knew it. Her gut was never wrong.

“Come on, let’s go somewhere.”

She’d known this day was coming. She’d been dreading it for five years. Waiting for it since he got out three days ago. Now that it was here, she mostly felt numb. “I can’t have any contact with you, Chance. It’s part of my parole.”

“Part of your parole.” He snorted. “Who’s watching?”

“Chance, I can’t.”

“You even see your PO more than once since you’ve been out? Most of them are crooked. Pay him off and you can do whatever you want.”

Her parole officer was not crooked. “I can’t be seen with you.”

“Take me to your place then.”

“No.”

\“I’m not taking no for an answer. Come on. One drink.”

When she wouldn’t agree, he snorted. “Tell me you didn’t go straight. You find God on the inside, or what?”

“Fine.” She looked around. “One drink.”

He dragged her to a hole in the wall across the street named Charlie’s. It made Jollies look swanky. They served flat beer in dirty glasses, and if you complained, you’d find part of that glass embedded in your forehead.

“When’d you get out?” Zee asked.

“Monday.”

Zee nodded. She’d known that, of course, but she didn’t want him to think she cared or that she’d been keeping tabs.

“I served the full nickel, Zee. Every damn day of it. You didn’t even serve a year.”

“It was your third strike.”

“Think I don’t know that?” After he yelled, he motioned like he was going to backhand her. Nobody in the bar cared. He could have set fire to her, and no one would have cared. They all knew who he was, and who he ran with.

Zee knew who he was, too, and had been careful not to flinch when he raised his hand to her.

“I guess you’ve toughened up.” Chance looked at her with something that might have been respect. “Prison does that.”

It wasn’t prison that made her strong, but she kept her mouth shut.

“You look good, though.” He raked his gaze over her.

She felt nothing at all.

“How’d you end up working in a bar, anyway. Isn’t that a violation of your parole, too?”

“No. It isn’t. And if you must know, my PO helped me get the job.”

Chance drank the beer like it was good. “Ruthie sends her regards.” Ruthie was Chance’s sister. The ringleader of their family operation. “Even though she still figures you’re the reason we got busted.”

Zee was careful not to be baited. She was not the reason they got caught. Chance was. God knew what he’d told his sister about the night they got busted, but it probably wasn’t that he’d been confounded while trying to come up with exact change to get out of the parking garage. “I’m sorry she thinks that.”

Chance shrugged. “She said she’ll call it even if we get the band back together.”

Zee wanted nothing to do with Chance, or the operation, and even less to do with Ruthie. Ruthie was a psychopath. “I don’t do that anymore.”

Truth is, she hadn’t done much in the first place. Swiped a few sets of keys. Caused a few distractions. Chance had boosted the cars, and Ruthie ran the chop shop.

“She said you’d say that.” Chance’s eyes twinkled. They were a brilliant blue, and he used them to his advantage. They used to make her melt, but she was immune now.

“I gotta get going.”

Chance grabbed her wrist. “I’m not done with you yet.”

She could have broken his arm, but this was his crowd, not hers, and she couldn’t take them all on. Knowing when you were outgunned was just as much of a skill as being able to take someone down.

“Ruthie knows you’re working in that bar.” He leaned close enough for her to smell the funky beer on his breath. “She says all you gotta do is call out the marks. Detain them until you get the all-clear. You can do that, can’t you?”

“No, Chance. I can’t.”

He tightened his grip. “Why not?”

“It’s a small place. Most of the customers are regulars, and they don’t drive anything worth taking.”

“Ruthie said you’d say that, too.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Fine then.” He let go of her wrist and drained his beer, unconcerned with what was floating in it. “She really only wants the Lambo.”

Zee’s stomach turned. “That’s my boss’s car.” Sugar’s pride and joy.

“I know.”

“Come on, Chance. You boost that car, and she’ll know I had something to do with it. I need that job. You know how hard it is to get hired anywhere when you’ve been inside.”

“Oh, boo-hoo. Don’t you think you owe me?”

Now she was the one to raise her voice. “Owe you for what?”

He leaned closer and got right up in her face. “I know about the baby.”

Her insides liquified and turned ice cold. Bells clanged in her ears, and she stopped breathing. If she’d had a knife, she would have cut his tongue out for even mentioning the baby, no matter whose turf they were on. But she was unarmed.

Chance leaned back in his chair. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Never,” she said.

His blue eyes bored into hers. “Was it mine?”

She looked away. “I’m not sure.”

“Ruthie said it was.”

“How would she know?”

“She said you wouldn’t have cheated on me back then. She said you were like a lovesick puppy.”

Zee turned her glass around on the table in an effort to look bored, or amused, or anything other than terrified. “What else did she say?”

“She said the kid was born in prison.”

Zee nodded. “Yeah.”

“And that you gave it up for adoption.”

“I did.”

“We should find it.”

“It?” She pushed her glass away.

“Our kid. It would be like almost four years old now, right?”

She reminded herself to breathe. “Right.”

“You ever think about what our kids would be like?”

“No. It was a closed adoption, Chance. I don’t know who got the baby, and I don’t want to know.”

“Ruthie could find out.”

Her heart thumped. “What would be the point?”

“She’s already started looking.”

“She what? Why?”

“She says I could get the kid back no problem since you gave it away without telling me I was the father.”

“No.” Zee shook her head. “I told you I don’t know if it was yours.”

“Ruthie knows.”

Ruthie. The psychopath.

“Think about it,” Chance said. “We could get that one back and have a couple more. Raise them right, turn them loose on the street and be rolling in it. We’d be like, who is that guy in the movie?”

“You mean Fagin? From Oliver Twist?”

“Yeah, him.”

Interesting choice for movie night in the joint. “Your sister lost her kids for doing that,” she reminded him. Ruthie had three children she’d trained to be thieves until child protective services had removed them from her home.

“We’d be smarter than she was about it.”

Chance wasn’t smarter than anyone about anything. “I’m not having any more kids.”

“Fine. Be that way. We’re taking the Lambo, and you’re going to help. If you don’t, Ruthie is going to find some other way for you to pay your debt.”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I don’t have a debt, Chance.”

“Well, Ruthie says you have one, so you do. It’s going down Friday. That’s your busiest time, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“All you gotta do is keep the boss lady away from the car and the back door until we’re all clear.”

* * * *

On Friday, the bar was hopping. Sugar and Randy both had to step in to help Zee. When they were at their busiest, Chance walked in. He sat at the end of the bar and ordered a draft.

Sugar’s band du jour was playing “Take it Easy,” and the regulars were shooting pool. Randy’s black shirt was stained with sweat. He was working hard. He filled a glass with water for himself, drank half, and set it on the back of the bar next to the cash register.

Chance tracked Zee’s every move. She considered telling him to go to hell, until Ruthie walked in and sat next to him. Her sly smile warned Zee she was being watched, and that she’d better not think about being uncooperative. A cold finger of fear traced Zee’s spine. Unlike her brother, Ruthie was smart and calculating. She ordered a bourbon, neat, and threw a twenty on the bar.

Picking it up made Zee feel like a failure. Like Ruthie was still calling the shots. In prison, Zee’s cellmate had warned her that falling back into the life was easier than anybody knew. And she was living proof—she’d been a guest of the state for the third time by then. The only way to break free, she’d told Zee, was to cut everybody from the past out of your life. And sometimes even that wouldn’t be enough.

Zee waited on the next few customers in a daze.

Sugar slid past her to pull a draft. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Zee lied. “Why?”

“Two of your customers are waiting on refills.”

“Sorry.” She’d meant Chance and Ruthie, and Zee had been trying her hardest to avoid them.

Sugar was watching, so Zee made her way down the bar and poured Ruthie another bourbon. When she offered Chance another beer, he got up and left.

Showtime.

Ruthie smiled around her bourbon glass. She was there to make sure Zee didn’t warn anyone about what was going to happen. To make sure Zee was complicit in another crime. One that would ruin her life and send her back to prison, if they got caught, or keep her in a stranglehold if they didn’t. And there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it.

While she was closing out a tab, she slid the vial of roofies she’d taken off The Suit the other night, and dosed Randy’s drink. Since Randy was such a big guy, she dumped in the whole vial. There was a lump in her throat the size of a brick, and she had to fight back tears. She hated what she had to do. Hated it. Less than a minute later, Randy gulped down every last drop.

Seconds after that, he got a strange look on his face, then crashed to the ground. She hadn’t expected it to work that quickly. Or that completely. Maybe she’d given him too much. Or maybe there was something other than roofies in the vial. “Can I get some help here?” Zee called. “Is there a doctor in the house?”

There was not.

“Call nine-one-one,” Zee told Sugar.

Sugar did.

Bateman, one of the regular pool players, was an off-duty police officer. He came over to offer his help. “What happened?”

“I saw her put something in his drink.” Zee pointed to Ruthie. “And he drank it before I could stop him.”

Ruthie’s face turned purple. “I did no such thing.”

Zee continued to point. “She put the vial back in her purse.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Ruthie stood and grabbed her purse off the bar.

She was so mad it took Zee’s breath away, but she couldn’t stop now. “I saw her. Check for yourself.”

“Ma’am.” Bateman showed Ruthie his badge. “Would you mind turning out your purse?”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“Fine,” Bateman said. “Then please sit down while I get a warrant.”

“Fine.” Ruthie glared at Zee. “Look for yourself.” She dumped the contents of her purse onto the bar. The clear vial rolled out, along with a handgun, wallets from two other patrons, and Sugar’s Lambo keys.

Ruthie was horrified.

Bateman was already on the phone calling the station. “Do you have a permit for that weapon, Ma’am?”

“That’s not mine. I didn’t put that there.”

“How’s he doing?” Bateman called to Sugar.

Sugar was on the floor with Randy. “He has a pulse and he’s breathing. He just won’t wake up.”

Bateman turned back to Ruthie. “Ma’am—”

“Lawyer.” Ruthie was smart enough not to say another word. She knew what Zee had done, but she didn’t accuse her of anything. Her cold hard stare promised retribution, though.

The paramedics arrived to help Randy. Two uniformed officers followed. They spoke to Bateman before they arrested Ruthie.

Outside, as they were putting her in the cruiser, the other regulars from the pool game—Bateman’s partner Sanders, and Marcus, Zee’s parole officer—led Chance around from the back of the building in cuffs.

“Ruthie,” he yelled when he saw his sister being put in the back seat. “She double-crossed us. That bitch double-crossed us.”

“Shut up, Chance.” Ruthie looked like the top of her head was about to blow off. “Don’t say a word.”

“Freakin’ Zee. I’m telling you she ratted us out.”

* * * *

On Sunday, Zee lit four candles on top of a unicorn-shaped birthday cake decorated with gold and silver glitter. Pink and purple streamers hung from the light above the table in her tiny kitchen.

Zee’s parole officer Marcus and his two pool buddies, Bateman and Sanders, leaned against the sink. Randy, Sugar, and Zee’s mother sat at the table around Zee’s daughter, Angel.

Finding out she was three months pregnant less than a month after she got to prison had sparked Zee to get in touch with her birth mother, who agreed to adopt Zee’s baby, especially since she regretted not raising her own. They found a lawyer who would record it as a closed adoption, so that if anyone tried to search for Zee’s child, they wouldn’t have much luck.

That hadn’t stopped Ruthie. Zee’s mother told them Ruthie had been to the house on Friday morning, claiming to be collecting donations for the church. Zee’s mother had shut the door on her, but not before Ruthie got a look at Angel.

They sang happy birthday, and Angel blew out the candles. “Can I open my presents, Mommy?” Angel looked up at Zee with brilliant blue eyes.

They celebrated not on the day Angel was born, but on the day Zee came home and they were able to be together. Someday, Zee would explain it to Angel.

“Open mine first, Honey.” Sugar handed her an elaborately wrapped package. Angel tore through it and came up with a crystal-studded denim jacket that she loved. “I invested some money for her too, of course.”

She always did.

“Mine next.” Randy gave her a gift bag filled with books. Angel was already reading on her own, and since Zee wasn’t home for her bedtime, she read to her every morning. It was precious mother daughter time.

“The books are great.” Zee pulled Randy aside. “But you already gave her the biggest gift she’ll ever get.”

Randy shrugged one massive shoulder. “I’m glad I could help.”

Marcus, Zee’s parole officer and champion, clapped him on the back. “I’m sorry there wasn’t an easier way, but for the charges to stick, the drug had to be in your bloodstream.”

“I’d do anything for the little princess,” Randy said. “For Zee, too.”

Zee had made the decision to go to Marcus immediately after Chance tried to suck her back into the life. It might have made her a narc, but it gave her today.

Zee’s mother helped Angel open the next gift. Zee leaned back against the sink with Sanders and Bateman. “Did it work?”

“Chance is looking at twenty years,” Bateman said.

“Ruthie’s got herself a good lawyer,” Sanders added. “But she’ll do five years for drugging Randy no matter what.”

Five years. Zee watched Angel open her last gift. They’d be safe for five years. After that, they’d be coming for her and her little Angel again. And she’d be ready.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Since winning the Bethlehem Writers Roundtable Short Story Award in 2014, Tracy Falenwolfe’s stories have appeared in more than two dozen publications including Spinetingler Magazine, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Flash Bang Mysteries, Crimson Streets, All Due Respect, and several Chicken Soup for the Soul volumes. Find her at tracyfalenwolfe.com.

THE CASE OF THECARRIED-OFF COINS,by Hal Charles

When State Police Detective Kelly Stone arrived for her nephew’s birthday on Saturday afternoon, she used her key to unlock the front door and found her sister in the kitchen crying.

“Save me, Sis,” squealed Krissy Taylor, trying to wipe up a spilled pint of melted chocolate ice cream with a paper towel. “I shouldn’t have left it out two hours ago. I think I’m going crazy.”

“Holding a birthday party for your son and inviting six tweens over is either the bravest thing I’ve ever heard of…or the stupidest,” said Kelly, depositing a wrapped present on the bar.

Krissy threw the paper towel in the trash can. “I plead guilty to insanity, and now I can’t even find Scott’s coin collection he stopped me from cleaning for him. Vinegar actually dulls their value.” She pointed at a few pages of empty plastic coin pocket pages, and, as she did, she knocked over the bottle of white vinegar.

Grabbing the paper towel roll, Kelly quickly absorbed the liquid. Then she held her sobbing sister. “Where’s Scott now?”

“Downstairs, enjoying the ’tweeniacs.’ He bought one of those retro video game consoles, and last I heard everyone was trying to beat his high score.”

“Let’s focus. The main problem seems to be Scott’s coin collection is missing. Is it valuable?”

“Are you kidding? He had to sell only one coin to pay for that console.”

They sat down on the bar stools around the central island. “We served the cake and ice cream and opened presents,” said Krissy, “but Scott couldn’t wait to show the kids his brand new console, and I couldn’t wait to get to my Saturday chores. That was two hours ago.”

“Were you here with the coins the whole time?”

“No. I got the pocket pages out as soon as they all went downstairs and started soaking the coins in vinegar. While waiting on the coins, I began doing various chores, like picking up the second-floor mess and washing the dirty clothes.”

“Hmm,” said Kelly. “With the house locked, we have nine suspects. We can eliminate you and Scott.”

“And Bobby. He wouldn’t leave the console while waiting for his next chance at topping Scott’s points.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to stop the downstairs tournament of champions to question each guest—all boys, I presume.”

“No,” said Krissy. Heather England is what you once were, a tomboy, so she’s down there with them.”

Kelly stopped the game, leaving only Scott to top his own record and brought one person at a time to the kitchen.

“No, I haven’t come upstairs,” said Heather. “I’m too wrapped up in Pac-Man. Scott…Mr. Taylor won’t let us even use our cells to look up winning strategies for the game.”

The twins, Josh and Jeff Floren, came upstairs together. “We never go anywhere without each other,” said Josh.

“And I can state Josh was with me the whole time,” said Jeff.

The next tween to appear was a glasses-wearing David Bell. “No, ma’am. I have been beside the console for the whole time studying Mr. Taylor’s strategy. I think he’s logged a lot of time playing the game.”

“Too much,” interjected Krissy.

Kelly interviewed the fifth tween, Mike Burski, downstairs in Scott’s workshop. He was wearing a cast on his right leg that went over his knee. Watching him hobble in, Kelly immediately eliminated him as a suspect.

The sixth tween, Paul Larson finally came upstairs. “Sorry, I was washing my hands,” he said. “I got too much chocolate on my hands.”

“So you came upstairs after the cake and ice cream?” said Kelly.

“Twenty minutes ago. I dug the last three scoops of ice cream out of the container. What’s this interrogation about anyway?”

“I think you know quite well what I’m doing,” said Kelly. “I do have one more question, Paul. Where did you hide the coins you stole?”

SOLUTION

Kelly knew Paul couldn’t have taken the last three scoops twenty minutes ago as Krissy had left the pint out two hours ago, and the ice cream would have been melted by the time Paul found it.

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.

LOLA,by Jonathan Santlofer

I met Lola on the PATH, the train that goes under the Hudson River, a thought I tried to deny twice a day when I rode it back and forth to Hoboken, the idea of the tunnel suddenly sprouting a leak, water shattering subway windows, pouring in, drowning me, always on the edge of my mind, which is why I focused on everything else.

Lola was sitting across from me, head buried in a paperback, one of those romance novels with a girl in the arms of a brawny he-man. Her black-red nails tap-tap-tapping the back cover had me hypnotized. Then she looked up, blue eyes lined with kohl, dark arching brows as if she were about to ask a question, though she wasn’t looking at me, just reacting to the sound of the subway doors opening and closing, but it was enough, a moment, a connection. She went back to her book, and I noticed the gold band on her finger, which was disappointing, not like I was thinking we’d get married or anything, but I’d have preferred she was single, which makes things easier.

She was a little younger than me, maybe thirty, though I’m no good at ages, no good at numbers of any kind, which is why they never let me do the measuring at the place where I build made-to-order stretchers for successful artists, which I don’t mind. I like making them—I’ve always been good with my hands—and it’s quiet work, just me and two other guys, and I take pride in it, sanding the edges and making sure the corners are perfectly square because there’s nothing worse than a lopsided painting—though sometimes I get a little resentful that I spend my days building stretchers for other artists. But that’s life, right?

That first night, Lola was wearing gold sandals, toenails painted the same black-red, and she had really nice feet, nice legs too, bare, because it was a hot day, though the PATH was frigid. Every once in a while she rubbed her hand up and down her legs like she was trying to warm them, which was even more hypnotizing than her book tapping.

She had a good figure too, her top loose but made of some slinky fabric that outlined her breasts, and her skirt was short enough to see her thighs, which were thin but muscular. I thought about asking her to model for me, a line I’d once used that had worked—women are so easily flattered—but I didn’t think she’d go for it, being married and all, and I couldn’t come up with anything else. I hadn’t prepared, and I’m not really good with girls, even though some say I’m very good looking.

When the train stopped at Hoboken, I knew she’d get off—I didn’t see her as the kind who’d live in Jersey City, and no way Newark. I waited for her to go past me, we were only a few inches apart, and I could smell her perfume, something flowery but not too sweet, and I breathed it in, trying to hold onto it, and then someone in front of her stopped short and she backed into me, her perfume in my nose and her hair tickling my cheek for just a second, and she said, “Oh, sorry,” and I saw it in slow motion, her red lips yawning the words, OOOHHHHHSSSSOOOORRRRYYYY, and I never wanted the moment to end. So I followed her.

It was still light out, a mist coming off the Hudson River like a veil in front of the Manhattan skyline. She headed away from the water toward the main drag, Washington Street, which had become gentrified over the past years. Hoboken was sort of a dump—famous as the birthplace of Frank Sinatra and not much else—when I first moved there after graduate school because I couldn’t afford Manhattan rents. Not if I wanted a studio, which I did, and I have a pretty good one, my own building in fact, a small brick one next door to Pablo’s Towing Station on the furthest-back street in town, still not developed, a dark lonely stretch, which suits me, and practically no one knows I live in the building, because I’ve done nothing to distinguish it, left the rusted steel door the way it was the day I moved in, and I’ve yet to clean the broken glass or ever-accumulating beer cans from the two-by-four plot of ground out front, so the place looks deserted unless you happen to see the lights go on and off, but there’s really no one around to see that either.

She went into a liquor store, the yuppie one, not the wino one, and I watched her through the glass choosing two bottles of red wine, and quickly turned away when she came out, then followed her again, leaving just enough distance between us.

She lived in a renovated brownstone on a quiet side street, a really nice one, so I figured she had money.

After she went inside, I waited a few minutes, then checked the mailbox. There was a letter addressed to Mr. & Mrs. Moretti, and a postcard, which is how I learned her name, Lola.

Lola. Lola. Lola. Lola. Lola.

I folded it into my pocket, went across the street and stood under the awning of a beauty salon that was closed, and waited until it got dark and a light went on in an upstairs window, and watched Lola slowly peel her top off, and even after the light went out her image burned in my mind, and I stayed up the whole night making one drawing after another of her, naked, framed by the window, smudging the charcoal with my fingers to capture the soft swell of her breasts.

The next day I stayed home from work and made paintings based on the drawings. I stopped just before six p.m., changed out of my paint clothes, put on a clean shirt, walked over to the PATH, and sure enough, there she was.

This time she went into a little gourmet shop and I followed, brushed past her in the condiment aisle, keeping my head down, inhaling her perfume, and on the way out I accidentally on purpose banged into her, and she dropped her bag and I said I was sorry and helped her pick everything up and offered to carry her bag home but she just smiled and said, “No biggie,” and this time I didn’t have to follow her because I knew exactly where she was going, so I waited, then went and stood under the awning, and when it got dark she did the same thing—undressed in front of the window, a little slower this time—and I thought I’d go crazy and was even thankful when the light went out so I could go home and make more drawings.

The next day I followed her from the PATH. And the day after I just waited under the awning until she came home. I didn’t want to rush it, didn’t want it over too soon. I brought my camera with the telephoto lens and took some pictures of her in her window, half naked, and used them for more paintings, which were starting to fill my studio.

It was later in the week that I finally saw the husband, pin-striped suit, gold-tassel loafers, a lot older than I expected, a lot older than Lola too, at least fifty, maybe more, balding, overweight, a surprise and no question in my mind that she’d married him for money—disappointing as I’d grown to think more highly of her, but still, I forgave her.

Over the next few weeks, I got their routine down. Lola almost always came home by six; the husband not until eight, and some nights not at all, so maybe he traveled or stayed in the city if he worked late, my guess Wall Street, which was very convenient to Hoboken. One evening, I went over to where the ferries come in from Wall Street, and there he was with a scowl on his face like he was pissed off about something, like he didn’t have a gorgeous wife and tons of money, which annoyed me because some people don’t know how lucky they are.

A few times I followed Lola into the city. I was curious to see what she did all day. It turned out she just took long walks along Fifth Avenue or in Central Park or went shopping in fancy stores like Saks or went to art galleries or museums, which made me like her even more; but I got to thinking she was lonely and how happy we’d be together and how she could be my full-time muse and I’d put her on a pedestal and she’d never be lonely again.

One night, a truck delivered a painting, a big one covered in bubble wrap, and when it got dark, I went right up to her windows and peeked in and could see it leaning against the living room wall, an abstract, which I don’t like, but figured I’d win Lola over to portraiture once she saw all the ones I’d made of her.

I knew it was getting to be time because I could hardly sleep or eat, and no matter how many times I jerked off thinking about Lola’s lips or her black-red nails on my flesh or her muscular legs wrapped around me, it just wasn’t enough. I kept thinking, Do it now,but restrained myself because it seemed different this time, it seemed like love, and I never wanted it to end.

Sometimes, on the nights her husband didn’t come home, if the weather was nice, Lola would eat outside at one of the restaurants near the waterfront, and I’d find a spot where I could watch her and take pictures, which I used for a series of paintings called Lola Eating.

I guess the thing that finally did it was the night I saw them together.

I was in my safe spot under the awning, Lola undressing in the window, and then I saw the husband tugging her toward him and he was about to switch off the lamp but she stopped him, and it was like watching a play, a horrible play, the window open—I could hear their voices, though not what they said—the two of them naked, him kissing her, groping her, and if the damn light hadn’t finally gone off I’d have burst in and killed him and made Lola my own.

I must have walked through all of Hoboken that night, along the waterfront, where the air was hot and damp, that fishy smell coming off the river, the view of Manhattan like the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz, so close you could almost touch it, but unreal. Then up to the college on the hill, where a bunch of coeds were walking and laughing and I had such murderous thoughts it must have been on my face, because they stopped laughing when they saw me. Then along Washington Street, all the restaurants and bars open, people chatting and smiling and having a good time as if everything in the world was okay, when nothing was okay. I wove up and down the side streets, sweating, that fishy smell following me, mixing with the garbage stewing in the hot night air, and when I finally got home there was a rat rooting around in the small plot of dirt in front of my place and I got a brick and smashed it, over and over and over, then dragged my rat-bloodied hands across half the Lola drawings, smudging the charcoal until it turned to brown mush, because I was finished with her; it was over between us.

After that, I was happy to go to my job every day, building stretchers, and stayed late so I wouldn’t run into her. I was getting over her, the loss and all, and there was this new girl, a blonde, who rode the PATH and lived in Hoboken, alone—I know because I followed her—and she might have become the one—I was getting ready—but then, I saw Lola again.

“Don’t I know you?” she asked. She was standing over me wearing skinny black jeans, the crotch right at my face, blocking my view of the blonde.

“I don’t think so,” I said, holding my breath, my heart beating fast.

“Sure,” she said. “It was at Caterina’s, you know, the gourmet place? You knocked a bag right out of my hand.”

“Oh—right—sorry about that.”

“No biggie,” she said and started chatting, asking if I lived in Hoboken, and I told her I did. I was starting to feel lightheaded because I’d been holding my breath, and after a minute, when I didn’t say anything more, she went and sat down opposite and put in her iPod earphones and crossed her legs, top one bouncing to the beat of the song in her head, her lips moving too, and when we got to Hoboken she gave me a little wave, then got off, and I purposely lagged behind—I really wanted to be finished with her—but when I came out of the station, there she was, and she smiled, and that was it, like we’d never broken up.

I started making new drawings and paintings of her and stayed home from work for a week, and when I finally felt ready to show them, I showered and changed and combed my hair and went and waited by the PATH train until I saw her.

“Hi,” I said.

Lola looked up sort of confused like she didn’t recognize me, then smiled and said, “Oh, hi,” and I just sort of fell in line with her as she walked. I’d prepared some small talk this time, stuff I’d Googled about Hoboken to impress her.

“Did you know they held the first baseball game here?”

“Really?” Her dark eyebrows arched up.

“And it’s where Lipton Tea and Maxwell House Coffee were made.”

“I didn’t know about the tea. But the big Maxwell House sign is still there.”

“Right,” I said, a little annoyed with myself that I’d forgotten about the sign.

“You’re like a regular Hoboken tour guide,” she said, and that’s when I told her I was an artist, a painter, and she asked, “What do you paint?” a question I really hate, but said, “Portraits,” and she said, “Really? Of who?” and I wanted to say, Of you,but said, “All sorts,” and she asked, “Where do you show?” which is my other least-favorite question, but I said, “I’m between galleries,” and she said, “Oh, that’s too bad,” and I said, “It’s okay,” and quickly added, “I’m having a show in Europe,” and she said, “Where?” and I said, “Japan,” because it was far away and I didn’t think she’d be going there anytime soon, and she said, “I thought you said Europe,” and I laughed and said, “Oh—it’s all the same to me,” and she laughed too and said, “My husband goes to Japan all the time, to Tokyo,” and I said, “Why?” and she said, “For business,” and I asked, “What kind of business?” and she said, “Finance,” and I said, “My paintings aren’t leaving for Japan for a few weeks if you’d like to see them,” and she stopped and looked at me, dark eyebrows arching up again, and I said really quickly, “I don’t mean to be forward, I just thought you might like art,” and she said, “I do, but—” and I said, “That’s great,” and added my warmest smile, the one I practice in the mirror, and she said, “Well…maybe,” and I said, “How about tonight?” and she gave me that look again, then started laughing and said, “You are forward,” and I laughed too, so she’d think I was a good sport, though I was no longer sure why we were laughing, but she said, “I can’t tonight,” and I said, “Of course, I understand,” which is what people on television say all the time, and that was that. I was disappointed but not defeated, because one thing I have is patience.

I waited a couple of days so it wouldn’t feel forced, then timed it so I’d bump into her on the PATH again.

“Hi,” I said. “Oh, hi,” she said. And right way I started telling her about my job, which she said sounded interesting, and I dropped some names of famous artists I built stretchers for, and she’d heard of a few, but I didn’t push it. I didn’t want to ruin it.

Over the next week, I made sure we happened to meet, but I never asked her to come see my paintings, though I’d drop a reference to them like, “I painted half the night” or “I think I finished the last painting for the Japan show,” and finally she asked me if she could come see my work, and I said, “How’s tomorrow night?” but real casual, the whole time my brain going, Lola Lola Lola Lola,and she said, “Where do you live?” and I told her and she said, “Really? I didn’t know anyone lived way back there,” and I said, “Oh, it’s nice, and my studio’s really big,” and she said, “I don’t know…” and I said, “It’s right next door to Pablo’s Towing Station, and Pablo’s got guard dogs, so it’s perfectly safe, nothing to worry about,” and used my practiced smile again, and she said, “Oh, it’s not that…” and seemed to be thinking it through and finally said, “Okay, but you’ll have to come get me because I’m not walking all the way back there alone at night,” and I said, “Of course not, I wouldn’t want you to,” and she asked if we could do it on the later side because she liked to have dinner with her husband, and I tried to keep my smile in place when I said that was fine, though I was afraid she’d say she wanted to bring him along, which would ruin everything, but all she said was, “How’s nine?” and I said, “Perfect,” and started walking away, my mind seeing Lola in all sorts of naked poses, but she called after me, “Hey, don’t you want my address?” And I turned and said, “What?” And she repeated the question. And I said, “Oh, right,” and laughed maybe a little too hard.

I stayed up all night arranging and rearranging all the portraits I’d made of her till everything was perfect, then cleaned the studio and scrubbed the little storage area behind it, which has stone walls and is dank and dark and must have been used for some kind of cold storage at one time and served my purposes really well. I even sprayed it with Febreze because I wanted it to smell fresh for Lola, and I put a clean sheet on the cot and made sure the cuffs were not rusted from the dampness. Then I showered and washed my hair and shaved and used Old Spice and put on a new white shirt I bought at the Gap just for the occasion.

The air was heavy with that fishy smell, and I worried it might rain and I hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella and had forgotten my gloves, so I pulled my jacket over my finger when I pressed Lola’s doorbell.

A minute later she appeared, smiling, but her eyes looked red as if she’d been crying.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Fine,” she said, but the minute she closed the door behind her she got upset because she’d left her keys inside.

“Isn’t your husband home?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “He’s working late,” and I thought, My good luck!

Lola said she had a key hidden under a mat at the back door, and I followed her. The whole time she was waving a hand in front of her nose, “Oh, that Hoboken smell, it’s always bad when it’s going to rain,” and said she’d better get an umbrella and unlocked the back door, and I said I’d wait, but she insisted I come in.

When she flipped on the lights we were standing in her kitchen, which looked right out of a magazine with Mexican tiles on the floor and fancy appliances and pots and pans hanging over an island in the middle of the room, and when I said it was really nice she said she never cooked so it was a waste, then said there were lots of umbrellas in the front hall closet, so I followed her, careful not to touch anything, past a dining room with a long table and stiff-backed upholstered chairs and the living room with that abstract painting I could just make out in the dark, and when we got to the front hallway she stopped and turned and kissed me, her tongue in my mouth, and I could hardly breathe I was so excited, but then she pulled away.

“Oh God,” she said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

I told her it was okay, but she started crying and said she was a terrible person, that she was unhappy and didn’t love her husband but couldn’t leave him because he was rich and how was she going to make it on her own, and leaned against me sobbing, and I patted her hair and tried to breathe normally, thinking I couldn’t do it here