Black Cat Weekly #29 E-Book

Robert Lopresti

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 649

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #29—another fine issue. We have a historical interview with Poul Anderson (originally published in 1976). As Darrell says, his old interviews fall “somewhere between oral history and paleontology.” They are always fascinating. I’ve always said Darrell is one of the best interviewers in the field.

For this issue’s mysteries, we have an original tale by Robert Lopresti—Michael Bracken, between his writing and editing our quarterly mystery journal, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, always manages for find something interesting for BCW. Barb Goffman has selected a harder-edged crime story, “Pickup and Delivery,” by Eric Beckstrom. And we have a classic suspense novel from John P. Marquand, creator of Mr. Moto. And no issue is complete without a brain-tickling solve-it-yourself mystery from Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Sweet and Charlie Blythe).

Editor Cynthia Ward has selected a cyberpunk story by M. Christian, “Jigō Jitoku,” which is mind-bending fun. plus we have classics by Ray Cummings (Robots!), Malcolm Jameson (a deal-with-the-Devil!), Richard Wilson (classic SF!), and a personal favorite author, Clark Ashton Smith (historical fantasy!). Great reading.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Non-Fiction:

“Speaking with Poul Anderson,” conducted by Darrell Schweitzer [interview]

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Man in the Quarry, by Robert Lopresti [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“A Surprising Treat,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]
“Cop Killer,” by James Holding [short story]
“Pickup and Delivery,” by Eric Beckstrom [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
The Black Cargo, by John P. Marquand [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Jigō Jitoku,” by M. Christian [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]
“The Robot God,” by Ray Cummings [short story]
“The Enchantress of Sylaire,” by Clark Ashton Smith [short story]
“Blind Alley,” by Malcolm Jameson [short story]
“The Big Fix!” by Richard Wilson [short story]

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE MAN IN THE QUARRY, by Robert Lopresti

A SURPRISING TREAT, by Hal Charles

COP KILLER, by James Holding

PICKUP AND DELIVERY, by Eric Beckstrom

THE BLACK CARGO, by John P. Marquand

INTRODUCTION

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

SPEAKING WITH POUL ANDERSON, an Interview by Darrell Schweitzer

JIGŌ JITOKU, by M. Christian

THE ROBOT GOD, by Ray Cummings

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

THE ENCHANTRESS OF SYLAIRE, by Clark Ashton Smith

BLIND ALLEY, by Malcolm Jameson

THE BIG FIX! by Richard Wilson

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

“The Man in the Quarry” is copyright © 2022 by Robert Lopresti. It appears here for the first time.

“A Surprising Treat” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

“Cop Killer” is copyright © 1962 by James Holding. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, November 1962. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“Pickup and Delivery” is copyright © 2017 by Eric Beckstrom. Originally published in Passport to Murder. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Black Cargo, by John P. Marquand, originally appeared in 1925.

“Speaking with Poul Anderson” is copyright © 1974 by Darrell Schweitzer. Originally published in The Drummer Dec 17, 1974. Reprinted by permission.

“Jigō Jitoku” is copyright © 2004 by M. Christian. It was originally published as “Rich Man’s Ghost” in Space and Time, Spring 2004. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Blind Alley,” by Malcolm Jameson, originally appeared in Unknown Worlds, June 1943.

“The Enchantress of Sylaire,” by Clark Ashton Smith, was originally published in Weird Tales, July 1941.

“The Robot God” by Ray Cummings was originally published in Weird Tales, July 1941.

“The Big Fix” originally appeared in Infinity Science Fiction, August 1956. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #29.

It’s another fine issue, if I do say so myself. We have a historical interview with Poul Anderson (originally published in 1976). As Darrell says, his old interviews fall “somewhere between oral history and paleontology.” They are always fascinating. I’ve always said Darrell is one of the best interviewers in the field.

For this issue’s mysteries, we have an original tale by Robert Lopresti—Michael Bracken, between his writing and editing our quarterly mystery journal, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, always manages for find something interesting for BCW. Barb Goffman has selected a harder-edged crime story, “Pickup and Delivery,” by Eric Beckstrom. And we have a classic suspense novel from John P. Marquand, creator of Mr. Moto. And no issue is complete without a brain-tickling solve-it-yourself mystery from Hal Charles (the writing team of Hal Sweet and Charlie Blythe).

Editor Cynthia Ward has selected a cyberpunk story by M. Christian, “Jigō Jitoku,” which is mind-bending fun. plus we have classics by Ray Cummings (Robots!), Malcolm Jameson (a deal-with-the-Devil!), Richard Wilson (classic SF!), and a personal favorite author, Clark Ashton Smith (historical fantasy!). Great reading.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Non-Fiction

“Speaking with Poul Anderson,” conducted by Darrell Schweitzer [interview]

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure

“The Man in the Quarry, by Robert Lopresti [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“A Surprising Treat,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]

“Cop Killer,” by James Holding [short story]

“Pickup and Delivery,” by Eric Beckstrom [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Black Cargo, by John P. Marquand [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy

“Jigō Jitoku,” by M. Christian [Cynthia Ward Presents short story]

“The Robot God,” by Ray Cummings [short story]

“The Enchantress of Sylaire,” by Clark Ashton Smith [short story]

“Blind Alley,” by Malcolm Jameson [short story]

“The Big Fix!” by Richard Wilson [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

THE MAN IN THE QUARRY,by Robert Lopresti

“How do you feel about blackmail?”

I look at Joe Meek, wondering what kind of story this was leading to. “I can take it or leave it, I guess. Where are we going?”

“Just relax.” He veers into the fast lane to pass an old Chevy that is crawling along at the speed limit. “Only Pennsylvania. I swear, you get nervous every time we head south or east.”

There is some truth in that, so I shut up and watched the highway roll by.

Meek usually drives. It’s his car, and we’ve put thirty-three thousand miles on it since I joined up with him.

“Just Pennsylvania,” he repeats. His voice is raspy, a permanent sore throat. “Nowhere near Maryland, Richard, so relax.”

The first time I heard that voice was on the Fourth of July 1990. I was lying on the floor of a bar in Longbow, Montana, and three cowboys were using my rib cage for a soccer ball.

“Whatever he’s done,” the voice had said, “he’s paid for it by now. Let him be.”

“You mind your own cards,” said one of the cowboys, and dented my left shoulder with his right boot.

My nose was broken and I couldn’t see much for the blood, but that raspy voice caught my fading attention.

“Three against one just isn’t bright. You’re gonna kill him, and then all of us here will have to go to court as witnesses.”

I heard murmurs from the other customers. They had seen my beating as free entertainment; now they realized it might inconvenience them. I began to hope I would get a chance to see this clever newcomer before I blacked out and died.

“Stuff it,” said one of the cowboys.

“I asked you nice,” said the raspy voice, sounding resigned.

I heard a grunt and the nearest cowboy dropped across my legs like a sack full of boots. The owner of the voice had rabbit-punched him.

My eyes finally focused on the newcomer just as a second cowboy swung at him. Joe Meek was a sandy-haired man of around forty, two inches shorter than the shortest of his three opponents.

He dodged the punch easily, grabbing the other man’s fist with both hands as it went by and giving it a twist that made the cowboy scream like a little girl and fall to his knees.

I remember noticing that Meek wore one leather driving glove, which struck me as strange. Then I thought how strange it was that I could notice such a thing just then.

Still holding the cowboy’s fist, Meek bent forward and scissor-kicked one leg out behind him. He expected the third man to be sneaking up and his guess was good. Meek’s heel missed the new attacker’s face by about six inches.

“Well, shee-it,” said the third cowboy, and stepped back to the wall, suddenly an innocent bystander.

Meek let go of the kneeling cowboy’s fist. He put a hand under my shoulder and lifted me from under the body of the first fighter. “If you can walk, son, now’s the time.”

I stumbled over to my duffel bag, which seemed to weigh a ton. Nobody tried to stop us.

“You got a car?” Meek asked me outside.

“No. God, my nose is bleeding like a fountain.”

“Here’s a handkerchief. Get in my car.”

“I’ll bleed on your interior.”

“It’s seen worse. Come on, you don’t want to be here when those jokers get their brains out of vapor lock.”

I climbed in.

“There’s a hospital an hour up the road,” Meek told me. “Can you hold out that long?”

“I don’t think I need a doctor. There’s no pain.”

He laughed, a high-pitched chuckle I have never gotten used to. “Ever broke your nose before?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re in shock. Don’t worry. There’ll be pain soon enough. What was the fight about, anyway?”

I shifted, trying to see him around the handkerchief. “The first cowboy you dropped? His girlfriend liked my face, so he decided to rearrange it.”

“He succeeded. You still bleeding?”

“Not much. Really, I’ll be fine.”

Then we hit a bump and I passed out.

* * * *

“You see that stretch of highway over there?” Joe Meek asks, as we head toward Pennsylvania.

I look; it’s a strange-looking road with stores and gas stations not only on both sides, but also in the middle, dividing the east and west lanes.

“Doesn’t look very safe, does it?” Meek asks.

It doesn’t. Cars leaving those stores pull straight into the fast lane.

“When this road was built the mayor was a guy named Dockery. His brother-in-law owned the land. They figured it was worth a lot more if they built stores on it then if they sold it to the highway commission. How they convinced the government to go along is a whole other story.”

Meek has a million stories. We’ve been cruising around the country for eight months and there is hardly a town that doesn’t draw a story out of him.

In Georgia: “That church over there... The son of the preacher who founded it is in an insane asylum, a beautiful old plantation house in Mississippi with kudzu vines all over it and alligators as guards. He killed his wife and two mistresses, all in one busy evening.”

In California: “The director of that hospital put a man in a wheelchair with a car accident. Now she’s the biggest advocate of handicapped rights in this part of the state. Too bad she doesn’t fight drunk driving.”

I don’t know how many of his stories are true. I haven’t caught him in a lie and he talks like he believes them.

I never ask him how he knows all these things. When you’re living on the road you learn not to ask your traveling companions questions about their lives. If they had a happy past, they wouldn’t be out here, would they?

Meek broke that rule, back in Montana, after I was stitched up and we became road partners. He had asked me if there was any place I cared to go, and I answered automatically, “Anywhere but Maryland.”

“Maryland? Something hanging over you back there?”

“Yeah,” I said, laughing. “A lifetime sentence, for baking.”

“Baking?”

“There’s a little family bakery in Baltimore. Two generations. I was supposed to be the third.”

“Ah. The smell of fresh bread doesn’t appeal to you.”

“Actually, baking is fine, although the three a.m. alarm clock every day is hell. But that bakery’s in a bad neighborhood and we—they—don’t have the money to move. They sent me to college to learn about business. What I learned was that I don’t want to spend my life being the captain of a sinking ship. So after graduation I took off.”

“When was that?”

“About three years ago. I’ve been traveling ever since.”

I looked at Meek. If he could break the rule, so could I. “So, what did you do before you hit the road?”

“Oh, this and that. See the cop up ahead? Crazy uniform, huh? The police chief here is color-blind, but nobody knew that until he picked the material... ”

So when we arrived in Pennsylvania eight months later I knew no more about his background than I did that first night in Montana.

* * * *

“You have any particular destination in mind?” I ask Joe Meek as we pull off Route 80. Now we are cruising through a small town. “Some Pennsylvanian paradise?”

“Not quite Eden, but we have a definite goal. First, I was hoping you would do some research for me. You being the college boy, and all.”

This surprises me. Occasionally Meek has gone into a library to check something out, but this is the first time he has asked me to help.

“Sure.”

“That’s the county library up ahead,” says Meek. “I want you to find out all you can about three local companies. I’ve got their names here. Just tell me how they’ve done in the past year, okay?”

“No problem.” But I can’t resist asking: “Want to tell me what this is about?”

Meek grins as he stops at the curb. “Running low on funds, sonny. Time to gather some coin.”

I think about that as I enter the library. Meek usually seems to have as much money as he needs, and he doesn’t mind sharing. We stop to work only on those rare—very rare—occasions when a job looked interesting.

Three months earlier Meek had announced we needed a money stop. That was in Indiana.

He had led me into a small town pizza parlor. The big woman behind the counter lit up like a Christmas tree when she saw him.

“Joe!”

“Hello, Alma. How’s it going?”

“Terrific, Joe. It’s going terrific. You sit down here. Tina! Make up a vegetarian jumbo. Joe’s here.”

“No olives, Alma. Richard here doesn’t like ’em.” He gestured at me. “Richard Calhoun, Alma DiMena.”

“Pleased to meet you, Richard,” but her black eyes hardly left Joe. She had been saving up a lot to tell him.

Like the fact that she had filed for divorce. “That so-called husband of mine never comes around anymore. You put the fear of God into that drunk.”

And that her son, Peter, was starting at the university in the fall. “If you hadn’t talked him into staying in school, Joe, he’d be sweeping floors someplace.”

“That’s great, Alma. He’s a bright kid. Hey, while we’re waiting for the grub, can I see the box?”

“The box! Sure, I forgot it. Come in the back, talk to Tina while I go upstairs and get it.” She rushed up the back stairs, faster than I thought such a hefty woman could go.

We went into the kitchen behind the service window and chatted with the daughter. Tina was a beautiful, black-haired woman about my age, twenty-five. She rolled pizza with the ease of long practice

“You’re good at that,” I told her.

She smiled. “You know pizza?”

“Richard is a baker,” said Meek. “From a long line of Baltimore bakers.”

Tina’s black eyes took me in. “That so?”

“Not exactly.”

“Here. You make one.”

I started to press the dough, working it as she did. I had spent every morning of my high school years helping the old man make rolls. I never made them well enough to suit him, of course. I never did anything well enough for that.

“Not bad,” said Tina.

“Show me how to stretch it out,” I said.

She nodded gravely and her cool sticky fingers pressed on mine.

“Here we are!” said Alma, coming down the stairs. She carried a brown cardboard box against her chest. The label read NAPLES PEPPERONI.

“Terrific,” said Joe Meek. “Put it down here,” he patted a low table next to the one where Tina and I were working.

The pepperoni box was full of money. I had never seen so many dollars outside of a bank.

Tina and I stared at Joe while he emptied the box and began patiently counting.

* * * *

The small-town Pennsylvania library is old and crammed full, as if the addition of a single book would cause it to hemorrhage old genealogy texts onto Main Street. There are business directories in the reference room and I go digging for the companies on Meek’s list.

The companies are all eastern Pennsylvania firms. A printer, a land development company, and a pretzel company. I wonder if that last one is Meek’s little joke on me: a bakery.

It’s easy to find the basic information but harder to track their financial doings. They aren’t publicly owned.

After an hour I turn to the librarian, a red-haired woman of about thirty, and my question delights her. “We’ve indexed the local newspaper. It’s so rare anyone wants more than sports scores and wedding announcements. Let’s see what we can do.”

* * * *

It took Joe Meek a long time to count the money. Tina and I had tucked three pizzas into the big oven before he was done.

Done, but not satisfied. He shook his head, looking grim. “Alma, damn it, you know what our deal was.”

Now she looked upset. “What do you mean, Joe? It’s all there, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s all there. That’s the point. We agreed on a storage fee of a hundred dollars a month. Didn’t we?”

“Yeah, Joe, but—”

“But you haven’t taken out a penny. Now,that’s not fair to me, is it?”

She blinked. Tina was open-mouthed.

“Fair to you?”

Joe nodded. “What if someone stole the money, Alma? I’d still owe you the storage fee, wouldn’t I? And where would I get the money to pay you?”

“I’m sorry,” said Alma, practically in tears. “Here, I’ll take the money out now.” And she did.

Two customers—a middle-aged couple—were standing at the window now, staring at the pepperoni box full of money. Alma closed it up and glared at them.

“Tina honey, take care of these people.” She hurried upstairs with the box.

I looked at Meek. “Storage fee?”

He shrugged and spoke too softly for Tina to hear. “She wouldn’t take a cent unless she was doing me a favor. Her husband hasn’t helped in years.”

“What about the daughter? Is she married?”

Meek squinted at me. “You keep your hands off her, Richard.”

It was out of character, as much as you could say anything was in character with Meek.

“What’s the matter, Joe? I’m not good enough for her?

He nodded gravely. “That’s right. She deserves a settled man. Not someone who’s running away from something.”

“And you?” I countered. “What are you running away from?”

Then Alma returned and the conversation moved on.

* * * *

In three hours of library research I have dug up everything I can on the companies. The red-headed librarian is at the reference desk and she smiles when I pass by.

“How did it work out?”

“Great. Got everything I need.”

“You’re a fast worker.”

“That’s how it is with us millionaire investors,” I say. “Always on the go.”

“I thought you were a millionaire,” she says. “I can always tell. Wish I had money to invest, but it always seems like gambling to me.”

“The differences are subtle, I admit. Maybe we could have dinner and discuss it.”

The librarian shakes her head. “I think my fiancé might object.”

“He’d be right.”

* * * *

I sit on the front steps of the library, enjoying the spring small town sunshine—different from city sunshine by a long shot.

I amuse myself by wondering what I’ll do if Joe Meek never returns. Everything I own is in my old duffel bag in the trunk of his Ford; my clothes, my money belt. I have a few bucks in my pocket; mostly change Meek never asked for when I bought something with his money. If he never shows up, I suppose I could always call Baltimore, but that was a snare, not a safety net.

They would send money, but they’d expect me to use it to go back.

And they’d be ready to forgive me. Ready to take me in and expect me to work my butt off for the rest of my life to save the family business, the family home.

Where the hell is home anyway?

As if in answer, Meek’s green Ford pulls up in front of me.

“How did it go, Richard?”

“You be the judge, but I got lots of stuff.”

“Good. Separate the papers on the land development company and put the rest in the trash bag.”

I blink. “Then what did I dig it up for?”

“So the people in the library wouldn’t know what we were after. Camouflage.”

“And the reason you didn’t tell me?”

Meek grins. “Because you’re a lousy liar.”

“Thanks a heap. What did you want the info on the land company for?”

“Like I told you. Blackmail.”

I twist around in the car to look at him. The twist makes my shoulder ache where the cowboy kicked me all those months ago.

“Come again? You’re going to blackmail a construction company? I’ll grant you, that strip mall they’re planning sounds criminal, but I don’t think they’ll pay you to hush it up.”

“You weren’t looking for evidence of a crime,” Meek tells me. “I’ve got that. I Just need to know how much to ask for. How about some lunch?”

We find a luncheonette. I toy with a cheese steak while Meek wolfs down two bowls of vegetable soup. He doesn’t eat meat when other food is convenient.

He flips through the pages I printed.

“You’re getting soup on the notes,” I tell him.

He picks up a napkin and smears the red stain away. His left hand wears a light leather driving glove, as always. He has a dozen of them, all the same.

The glove covers some deformity that, like most things about himself, Meek doesn’t discuss.

“What are we really here for, Joe?”

“Is that a philosophical question?”

I tap the page in front of him. “I mean, what are these papers for?”

“Look, Richard. Let me finish my paperwork and then I’ll answer your questions.”

“You want more coffee?” calls the waitress from the counter.

“None for me,” says Meek as he bends over the papers. “Too much caffeine makes me nervous.”

* * * *

It was in a luncheonette like this in northern Michigan a few months ago that I had met a waitress named Arlene. She had silken fingers, white-blond hair and a passion that was more like rage.

A few nights later I learned the reason for the rage. Her phone rang at three a.m. and I lay listening to one side of a conversation that became louder and louder, reaching a point of near-hysteria before she hung up.

“Arlene? What is it?”

“Goddamn it. They’ve arrested my father.”

Her father headed a union local. The small-town cops and the company had been in cahoots for years, making his job impossible. Safety violations were through the roof, and one worker had been hospitalized just a week before.

Arlene’s father had gone to company headquarters that afternoon, demanding access to safety records. It had taken her mother until now to discover that he had been put in jail for trespassing.

“What’s the best thing that could happen?” I asked her as we dressed.

“The best?” Arlene blinked. Her mind had been focused on the worst. “If somebody could prove the company was paying off the city government, or the cops. That would be the best.”

“Is the company doing that?”

“Of course they are! Everyone knows it.”

“Okay.”

“What do you mean, okay?”

“Tell me the names of the people involved. I’ll get the proof.”

She stared at me. “How can you do that?”

“I know somebody.”

The next night Joe Meek busted through the locks at the company’s main plant. I diddled the computer system—one useful skill from my college days—and Meek knew how to read company files as easily he did just about everything else.

We found a trail pointing to pay-offs, faked the parts we couldn’t prove, and mailed photocopies to every news source in the state.

Arlene and her silken touch had been very grateful.

* * * *

I suppose that from a judge’s point of view what we did was every bit as illegal as blackmail. The crooked officials no doubt agreed.

But we hadn’t done it for money.

I think about other laws I’ve broken during my four years on the road. Tax evasion, traffic violations, assault and battery—though that last had been self-defense.

But blackmail is different. Isn’t it?

“They had a good year,” says Joe Meek, putting down his soup spoon. “And that’s good for us.”

“Us?”

He’s on his feet, picking up his papers. “Come on, Richard. We’ve got things to do.”

I follow him to a copy store. Meek pays for an hour’s use of a computer and starts to compose. “How’s this sound? ‘Final bid: $80,000. Offer ends at 10 p.m. Signed, Quarry Consultants.’”

I have stopped trying to understand what he’s up to. I just watch as he goes to the desk and faxes the typed note to the land company.

“Won’t they think it’s a little strange?”

“That company does so many half-legal deals the office staff expects cryptic messages now and then. What are you looking at me like that for, Richard?”

I shrug. “Trying to see you as a blackmailer. This is a new side to you.”

“Yeah?” He grins. “I’m glad I can still surprise you. Let’s go for a ride. I’ll tell you a story.”

We traveled through the bright April hills for twenty minutes before he starts to talk. “Once upon a time there was a construction company, right here in the suburbs of Central PA. Two partners owned it; a creep named Gorland and a crumb named Bitner.”

Meek’s eyes flicked left and right as we hit an intersection. He barely slowed down.

“The worst thing I can say about these two guys is that they deserved each other. And believe me, Richard, that’s an insult to both of them.

“These jokers worked in the low end of the development market. Bad tract homes, cheesy strip malls. They cut every corner, twisted all the environmental laws and zoning regs. But they still didn’t pile up as much money as they thought their fine work deserved.

“So, finally they got an idea for a big, big moneymaker. They already owned a lovely little hickory grove with a brook running through it. They bought a half-flooded old limestone quarry next door. The plan was to drain the brook into the quarry and cut down the grove to make a timeshare vacation site.”

“Another one of those,” I say.

“Exactly. Hang on. The trip gets bumpy here.” We turn onto a dirt road, surrounded by trees. “A lot of people objected to the plan. Some for aesthetic reasons. Some because they didn’t want a lot of strangers moving in. And the farmers thought it would screw up the water levels. Probably would have, too.”

“Would have? You mean it didn’t happen?” I ask.

“The plan got stalled.” As if to illustrate the point, Meek turns off the engine and I realize we have arrived at our destination, whatever that is.

We get out of the car. It’s heading toward evening and the trees that surround us are stealing the light.

“These partners had hobbies,” Meek says. He opens the trunk and pulls out a red suitcase I have never seen. He must have bought it while I was at the library.

“Bitner was a student of chemistry. Liked to see what various chemicals would do to his body. Booze, speed, heroin.”

“Hard on the system,” I say. We are walking up a hill now.

“Can be,” he agrees. “Gorland, on the other hand, studied biology. The human kind. Putting it another way, he would chase anything in high heels.”

“That can be dangerous too, nowadays.”

“Very true. Now that I think of it, that may have been what convinced him to settle down. Gorland fell in love with a beautiful woman and decided to marry her.”

“So what’s the catch?”

“She was Bitner’s wife. “

“Not healthy for the partnership.”

Meek laughs. “Nope. Now, if Gorland had just asked, Bitner might have agreed to divorce the lady. He wasn’t paying much attention to her by then. Not paying much attention to anything that didn’t come in a plastic baggie or a pill container.

“But Gorland didn’t ask. His partner had become a liability, so he decided to solve all his troubles at the same time. We need to go south a little. Left, that is—Yes.”

We are walking uphill towards the sunset. “So where was I?”

“Bitner was a liability.”

“How right you are. So when he fell asleep at his desk one night Gorland woke him up and took him out to look at a piece of property they owned. This one, in fact. The quarry.”

Meek has a true storyteller’s sense of the dramatic. As he finishes this sentence we reach the peak of the hill and I see the valley of pale rock stretching down toward a muddy pond that seems to sink forever.

“Gorland coaxed his partner up here to discuss the plans for draining the brook into that pond. He had already made a pile of rocks—not hard to find in an abandoned quarry. So it was easy to come up behind Bitner and hit him on the back of the head with one.”

Meek demonstrates by swinging a fist, slow motion, to the back of his own skull. “Pow. Gorland stuffed the rest of the rocks into Bitner’s pants and coat for weight. Then, right around here, he dropped the body over the cliff, into the pond. When he heard the splash he went home.”

Meek turns left and leads me through the trees on the crest of the hill. “We need to get away from the pond. He’ll be coming up from the south road, way down there.”

“So what happened to Gorland?” I ask.

“Next day at work he got a panicked call from Margaret Bitner. Hubby was missing. They discovered most of the money was gone from the business accounts and the family accounts too.

“This is the spot. Wait here.”

Meek turns and paces down into the quarry. Halfway down the hill he opens the red suitcase and leaves it in the dirt. “I’m not leaving footprints, am I?”

“Not much,” I said. “How had Gorland stolen the money from the personal accounts?”

Meek climbs up beside me again, dusting off his hands.

“It’s not hard to steal from a drunk.” His voice suddenly changes, gets deeper. “If you’re too tired to take that to the bank, Fred, I’ll do it for you. Just sign here. And while you’re at it, sign this and this and this... ”

Meek shrugs. “They’re almost glad to see the money go.”

“And Gorland got away with it?”

“So he thought, anyway. The excitement died down. Everyone was very sympathetic as he struggled to save his business. And after all the help he’d been to her it was natural that Bitner’s wife fell in love with him.”

Meek sits behind a boulder, under the cover of a hickory tree. He gestures to the ground beside him. I take a seat.

“Problem was, Gorland was too greedy. He’d siphoned so much money away that it looked like the business was tapped out. He couldn’t get credit for any big projects, had to start practically from scratch.”

“No big timeshare communities,” I say.

“Yeah. Poor guy.” Meek looks at the darkening sky through the hickory leaves. “Then, just before a year passed Gorland’s life took another change. A letter arrived, telling him Bitner’s body had been found and put away for safekeeping. He was told to donate half of his annual profits for its upkeep, or the cops would find out what really happened.”

“How did he know this letter wasn’t phony?”

Meek scratches at his brush cut, looking away from me. “A little piece of the corpse was included as a souvenir.”

“God.” I shudder. “And you’ve been bleeding Gorland ever since.”

“Oh, just a minor transfusion,” he says, cheerfully. “I only take half the profits he tells the world about, which probably amounts to a fifth of the true figure.”

“So he’s not starving.”

“Not hardly. He’s not trading in his Caddy as often as he’d like. His wife—Bitner’s widow—isn’t vacationing in France as often as she hoped. On the other hand, he doesn’t cheat on her as often as he would if he had currency burning a hole in his pocket. But best of all—”

Meek waves a hand at the park-like area beyond us. “My little tax has kept his business cash-poor. This quarry hasn’t been flooded, and those woods haven’t been turned into a timesharing leisure concept.”

“That’s a blessing,” I admit.

“It’s almost ten o’clock,” says Meek. “We’d better lay low.”

I lean back against the rock, thinking about blackmail. Some people say it’s the worst crime of all. A dirty, cowardly act. Not characteristics I associate with Meek.

Sure, he writes his own rules, but I have never seen him hurt someone on purpose; not unless that person started the hurting.

Gorland started this, I guess. And God knows what he had done was dirty and cowardly.

That was assuming Meek is telling the truth, of course.

I turn to look at him. He’s lying on his back with his hands behind his head, a smile on his face. A blackmailer without a care in the world.

If Meek’s story is true, does the murder justify the blackmail?

Well, it’s cheaper for the taxpayers than sending Gorland to jail. And if it keeps him from tearing down these woods to put up a new suburban plywood forest, then I would have to say that it achieves a definite good.

Besides, Meek is the blackmailer. I’m just an innocent bystander.

Next thing I know I am dreaming for the thousandth time of the sweet stink of raw dough. I see my father’s strong arms, shifting bread trays in and out of ovens. He has been doing that six days a week, fifty-one weeks a year, for more than thirty years.

I reach out to taste the dough, just as Joe Meek shakes me. “He’s coming.”

I sit up, and my back cracks so loudly you would think Gorland would hear it, but he is still far down the hillside.

I see him trudging slowly up through the moonlight. He is not what I expected. I would not have labeled him as a killer, or even a lady-killer.

He is in his late forties, with thin gray hair and the look of a man who has lost a lot of weight recently. His expensive suit seems too big for him.

He carries a heavy attaché case.

Now he spots the red suitcase and trudges slowly up the hill.

“Stay low,” whispers Meek. We are crouched behind the boulder, sheltered by the hickory tree. I feel ridiculous, a grown-up playing hide-and-seek.

Gorland drops his attaché beside the suitcase. He looks around, up the hill, straight past us.

“Listen, goddamn it.” His deep voice is shaking. “I am just about at the end of my rope. Do you understand? This is the last time, the last time. If you come back next year, I’m gonna turn myself in to the cops. I mean it. I’ll go to jail, but so will you. You hear me?”

He waits and we wait too. Meek chuckles under his breath.

Gorland drops to his knees, like he’s collapsing. He seizes the attaché case, yanks it open and frantically begins to pull out money, banded bricks of green. He stuffs them savagely into the suitcase.

Before he finishes he is weeping openly, and his pale delicate hands shake so much that heaps of cash tumble to the ground like litter.

“I can’t stand it anymore. Do you hear me? You are destroying my life!” He struggles to his feet. “Why don’t you just kill me? It would be kinder!”

I’m not breathing.

Gorland looks straight at me as if he can see through branches and stone. “Damn it,” he screams. “Who are you?”

We all listen to the silence for a long moment before Gorland turns, still sobbing softly, and walks down the moonlit hill.

I turn to Meek. He puts a gloved finger to his lips. We stay crouched until we hear a car drive away.

“Now,” says Meek. He runs down the hill, scooping up the suitcase.

I chase after him, through the dust of the quarry, stopping to grab the spilled money, and then following him into the woods on the other side of the clearing.

We are deep in the trees and I’m stumbling in shadows. “Wait up, damn it.”

I almost trip over him. He’s crouched over the suitcase. “Got your flashlight, Richard? Good man. Point it here.”

He flips the case over, spilling all the cash out onto the ground.

“What are you doing?”

‘Just one last checks for bombs, razor blades, bugs, that sort of thing.”

“God. You live dangerously.”

“We blackmailers do.”

“You blackmailers.” I realize that I’ve made a decision. “I don’t want any part of this.”

“No?” Meek squints up into the flashlight’s beam. “Half of this is yours, you know.”

I stare at him. “The hell it is.”

“We’re partners. You earned it.”

“No, I didn’t. And neither did you. Damn it, Joe. You saw what you’re doing to that poor clown.”

Meek drops the last few bundles of money in and shuts the suitcase. “That poor clown is a murderer. What really breaks his heart is giving up all this green.”

He stands up. “Come on.”

I follow him to the car. I think maybe I have been following him too damn long.

Joe Meek throws the case into the trunk and starts the engine.

“Man, I’m starving. Where shall we go to celebrate?”

“Philadelphia,” I tell him.

“Sure. Why?”

“You can drop me off at the train station there. I’m getting out.”

“Yeah?” He is silent as we pull onto the road. I’ve startled him. “What brought this on, Richard?”

“I’m not a blackmailer, that’s all. If I stay with you and live off that money, then I may as well be.”

“Is that your final—hell.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Cop coming up. Don’t look.”

A state police car passes, paying us little attention. Joe is always careful about cops, but tonight it feels to me like a guilty conscience catching up with him.

When the prowl car is gone he lets out a breath. “Let’s stop for food. I want to rearrange the money in the back, just in case we get pulled over. Maybe you’ll feel better on a full stomach.”

“I’m not changing my mind.”

“Yeah.” He sounded tired. “So be it. I’ll drive you to Philly. Stupid way to end our partnership.”

We drive in silence until we find an open sandwich shop. I go in and buy a couple of sodas and submarines. Out here they call them hoagies.

The old woman making sandwiches is the only person in the place. Somehow she reminds me of Alma, the pizza lady back in Indiana, who doesn’t know she is storing money for a blackmailer.

I wonder if she’d care if she knew; if it would change the way she feels about Meek.

He’s closing the trunk when I come out. “It’s under the spare tire. Should pass a casual inspection, anyway.”

“Here’s your sub,” I say. “All cheese. You want me to drive?”

“Good idea.”

Meek’s damaged left hand makes it hard for him to juggle food while he drives. I pull back onto the highway and we ride east in silence until the food is gone.

Meek tucks all the wrappers carefully into his trash bag. “There we go. All shipshape. I understand if you want a change, Richard, but I wish you’d take your half of the money.”

“Why? Make you feel less guilty?” It’s a cruel thing to say, but I’m getting tired of turning down all that cash.

“Don’t get snotty. There are lots of things I feel guilty about. Draining that jerk doesn’t make the list.” He sighs. “I was just thinking about what you could do with the money.”

I hadn’t thought about that, hadn’t let myself think about It. I could buy a new car, or even a camper. I could—

“Think what it could do for that bakery in Maryland,” said Meek.

Hell. He would suggest that.

“You could buy new ovens or fix up the store. Whatever they need—”

“I’m not going back to Baltimore,” I say.

“You don’t have to.” Meek’s tone is urgent. “Hell, you could mail them the money.”

I’m losing my temper; a bad idea when you’re driving. “Why do you care so much about a Baltimore bakery? What’s it to you?”

“I care because you care, Richard. We’re partners.”

“No, we aren’t. Not from tonight. And I’m not taking the money.”

Silence. We pass a highway sign: Philadelphia 20 miles.

Joe Meek sighs again. “I guess I have to tell you another story.”

“No, thanks. I’ve heard enough.”

“But you need to hear this one, Richard. It’s about the man in the quarry.”

I turn to look at him. A passing car’s lights his face seem impossibly old and weathered. “You already told me about him. Or was that story a lie?”

High-pitched laughter. “It was true. It just wasn’t the whole truth, as they say in court.”

Well, it was better than listening to him talking about the money. “So tell.”

Meek stretches, gets comfortable. “When Gorland dropped his partner’s body into the pond they weren’t the only people around. Two boys from a local farm were playing in the quarry. They heard the splash. They found Bitner floating in the water.”

“What about the rocks that were supposed to weigh him down?”

“Most of them fell out of his coat on the way down. The ones in his pants just held his legs down, anchoring him in the shallow spot where he fell. When the boys found Bitner he was floating on his back, face out of the water. Unconscious, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Now, these two boys had been told a hundred times never to go near the old quarry at night. Dangerous. They knew they’d get a whipping for it.

“But they were good boys. They dragged Bitner’s body out and the faster one ran home while the slower one stayed with the body. The boys’ family came back with a horse-drawn wagon.”

“Horse-drawn?” I repeat. “Amish, huh?”

“Amish, Mennonites, Anabaptists,” says Meek. “There’s a bunch of people around here who have an uneasy truce with the twentieth century. Over the hills north of here there’s a Buddhist ashram full of old hippies, and they live the same way.”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter how the shingle read on the house those people prayed in. All you need to know is that they believe you handle your own problems, and don’t ask the government to do it for you.

“They picked up Bitner and took him back to their farmhouse.”

“He was still alive?”

“Barely. I’m no doctor, but I think the cold water slowed down his metabolism and kept him from bleeding much.” Meek laughs. “Who knows? Maybe all the booze and drugs cushioned his system. Sedation.

“The oldest woman in the house was a healer. Mostly midwifing and rashes and so on, but she took on Bitner as a challenge. Patched up his bleeding head. Sliced off two of his fingers which were smashed in the fall.”

I catch myself staring at Meek’s gloved left hand. “Joe—”

“It was well over a month before Bitner was what you might call rational. Keep in mind, this was the first time in twenty years he had no dope or booze in his system. He felt like a new man, so to speak.”

“Did... did Bitner know what had happened?”

“Oh, he remembered his old buddy whacking him on the head. He asked the good people taking care of him to start buying the local newspaper. Then he could follow the chase as the cops hunted for Bitner, the missing embezzler. He was looking forward to returning and seeing the look on Gorland’s face.”

“But he didn’t do that,” I say.

“No, he didn’t.” Meek’s voice is soft now. “A few months went by and Bitner felt pretty good. One day he mentioned his plans to his hosts. They were horrified. Most of them burst into tears.”

“Why?”

“Well, they figured they would be dragged into court as witnesses. Testifying in court is against their religion, you see. And that was the best thing that was likely to happen.”

“And the worst?”

“Their healer might go to jail for practicing medicine without a license.”

“Would the cops do that? To an old woman?”

“They could. And this family had been feuding with the law. The government felt they were standing in the way of progress. See, they owned land next to the quarry.”

“They’d been fighting Gorland and Bitner’s project,” I say.

“Right. If Bitner went back to confront his old partner he’d be betraying the people who saved him. And Bitner did the right thing for once. He thanked the good folks for their kindness and disappeared.”

“And changed his name to Joe Meek,” I say.

Silence. Meek’s voice, when it comes, is tired, reluctant. “Maybe so. He dropped out of sight until just before the anniversary of his supposed death.

“Gorland got the first blackmail note, complete with one of those lopped-off fingers. And the money drain has kept Gorland from moving forward with his quarry project, so the farmers’ land is safe.”

I see signs for the railroad station up ahead. “That’s a hell of a story, Joe.”

“One of my favorites.” He shakes himself, as if coming out of a dream. “So you can take the money, Richard.”

“How do you figure?”

“It isn’t blackmail. Hell, I’m entitled to half the profits. I owned half the company.”

I shook my head. “It’s still blood money, and I don’t want it.”

Meek heaves an exasperated sigh. “You know what your problem is, Richard? You have a conscience.”

“Damned right I do. Blackmail is just—”

“I’m not talking about blackmail. You know that if you got your hands on that money your conscience would force you to go back to Baltimore and do right by your family. That’s why you won’t take it.”

We are in the parking lot of the train station now. I steer into a space and slam on the brakes. “Well, damn it, if you’re so eager to get families back together, why don’t you return to Mrs. Bitner?”

“She’s Mrs. Gorland now. Happier than she ever was with me. Besides, if I went back there I’d turn into Fred Bitner again, don’t you see? And he was a lousy person to be.”

We get out and open the trunk. I pull out my duffel bag, grateful that Meek doesn’t lift the spare tire and try to talk me into taking the money again.

We look at each other.

“Eight months,” I say.

“A good eight months,” Joe Meek says. “You’ve been a fine road buddy, Richard. I wish you luck, whatever comes next.”

“Back at you,” I say. We shake hands.

I think about Gorland, the partner who betrayed him. I think about the time Joe Meek saved my life In Montana.

I pick up the duffel bag and head inside.

His car starts as I pass through the door. Neither one of us cares for long goodbyes.

The schedule overhead shows that a train will be leaving for New York in a few hours. I know people in Manhattan who will let me hang around while I decide my next move.

The man at the window is bored, graying, fiftyish.

“Where to, sir?”

Do I have enough cash for a ticket to New York? It’s been months since I’ve had to worry about money. I squat down, open up my duffel bag and look for my money belt.

I find green.

Banded bricks of money. I don’t have to count to know it’s half of the blackmail money. I stare at it, blood thumping in my temples.

Meek put the money in my bag while I was buying sandwiches. I hadn’t given him a final decision yet, but he wasn’t taking any chances, the bastard.

“Sir? Where to?”

I close the bag and stand up. A train whistle shrieks somewhere. It sounds like high-pitched laughter, or maybe a three a.m. alarm clock

“A ticket to Baltimore,” I say. “One way, damn it.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Robert Lopresti is a retired librarian, the president of the Short Mystery Fiction Society, and the award-winning author of more than eighty short stories and two novels.

A SURPRISING TREAT,by Hal Charles

Kelly Strong smiled as she entered the church basement and surveyed the festive decorations. For the last few years health and safety concerns had curtailed traditional house-to-house “trick or treating” as parents opted for Halloween parties and “trunk or treat” activities. So many allergies, so much unwrapped candy.

She could almost taste her favorite treat, a peanut butter cup, when a voice came from across the room. “Kelly, thank goodness you’re here.”

Looking up, Kelly recognized Faye Jennings, the organizer and driving force behind the church’s “Ghost Gathering.” What made the event special was that each year the church selected a different group of kids to host for a dinner followed by games and, of course, lots of treats. This year the church had invited the kids from the Sunny Grove Orphanage.

“Sorry I’m a little late,” said Kelly, sensing that her usually unflappable friend was near panic. “Is something wrong?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but somebody took the candy,” said Faye, wringing her hands. “Well, not all the candy, but most of it.”

“Now just settle down and tell me exactly what happened,” said Kelly, spotting a group of kids entering the room from the adjacent dining area.

“As always, I got here this afternoon and worked with my committee to be sure everything was just right. We decorated the room and filled the bowls on the table over there with all sorts of candy.”

“And?”

“Well, the kids arrived, so we closed the room and went to the dining area to greet them. We had diner along with the usual welcome and introductions.” Faye grimaced. “When I came back to the room, someone had taken most of the candy from the bowls.”

“Do you think we’ll have enough for the kids?” said Kelly, watching as a tall boy in a striped polo shirt used a magic marker to draw what looked like a bat on one of the large white boards sprinkled around the room.

“Probably,” said Faye, dodging a pair of girls engaged in an impromptu game of tag. “As if these kids needed more energy.”

Amidst the flurry of activity, Kelly spotted a girl near the white board. She had what looked like a magic marker in her sweater pocket, but instead of drawing, she led a small boy to one of the bowls and handed him a wrapped piece of candy. “Could someone have entered the room while you were having dinner?”

“That door you came through was locked till just before you arrived,” said Faye. “The only way into the room was from the dining area, and other than a little girl who had to go to the bathroom to wash her hands after she accidentally knocked a platter of PB&J sandwiches off the table, nobody left during dinner.”

“What about your committee?” said Kelly, not really wanting to think that one of the hardworking committee members could be responsible for the missing candy.

“Laura and Sam have been on the committee since we started the Ghost Gathering,” said Faye, shaking her head. “I just can’t believe that either would do anything to hurt the event.”

“What about April?” said Kelly. “Isn’t this her first year on the committee?”

Faye looked toward the dining area as she ushered Kelly toward the treats table. “April’s still in the kitchen cleaning up. She’s a terrific cook and hasn’t left her post all evening.”

As they reached the table, Kelly said, “It’s really strange that only part of the candy was taken.”

“I thought so too,” said Faye. “I shopped all week for those individually wrapped mini candy bars to go with the hard candy. We had Snickers, PayDay, Baby Ruth. Whoever raided the bowls ignored the hard candy and licorice and took only the mini bars.”

Kelly’s eyes scanned the room till they rested on the little girl and boy who sat together in a corner away from the other kids. “I think I know who took the treats.”

Solution

When Kelly asked the director of the orphanage about the girl and boy, she discovered that they had arrived at Sunny Grove only a few days earlier and that Jenny was highly protective of her little brother, Kevin. Thinking about the PBJ sandwiches, Kelly rightly guessed that the “magic marker” in Jenny’s pocket was an epi-pen to be used if Kevin, who wasn’t old enough to understand the dangers of his peanut allergy, had a reaction. To protect her brother, Jenny had left the dining area, not to go to wash up but to sort through the candy and remove any pieces with peanuts. She had hidden the bag of mini bars in a cabinet at the back of the room.

COP KILLER,by James Holding

Kangaroo Kelly was a happy man.

And why not? He had youth. He had a pretty wife named Nora. He had a neat little duplex on Seventh Street half paid for. He had a job he liked. And he even had more than his share of black Irish good looks.

Except, of course, for his unfortunate tendency toward steatopygia.

This malformation had earned him, as you can easily imagine, a wide variety of nicknames during his lifetime, of which ‘Kangaroo’ was by all odds the least offensive.

Yet Kangaroo Kelly had learned to ignore with lordly indifference all his colleagues’ labored attempts at humor on this subject and was therefore, as stated, a truly happy man.

His job contributed as much to his happiness as any of the other nice things he had going for him. For Kelly was lucky enough to have secured the job he’d always wanted, ever since he was a grade school shaver hanging around Young’s Dairy Store with his pals on Friday afternoons after school, sucking on an ice cream cone, or a coke, and watching with something approaching awe the majestic passage of Clancy, the neighborhood patrolman, as he walked his beat.

To Kangaroo, Clancy had been an impressive symbol of law and order, a completely admirable man with an enviable way of life. And Kelly had frequently confided to his companions then that when he got big enough, what he’d like to be was a cop like Clancy. If he got big enough. For in those days, aside from his behind, he was kind of puny.

He got big enough, all right. And not just his rear section, either. He got big all over. He went two-twenty now on the gym scales, most of it muscle. And for four years, he had been Patrolman Kangaroo Kelly of the Juniata Police Department, happily walking a solo night beat on Juniata’s South Side, and enthusiastically trying to keep assaults, muggings and purse-snatchings somewhere within reasonable bounds in his own tiny quadrant of the toughest section in the city.

He gave the job his best efforts, too, because he was deeply conscious of his responsibilities and exceptionally proud of the law enforcement traditions he was expected to uphold. He didn’t laugh at danger; on the other hand, he didn’t believe in fearing it, either. For he not only had great faith in his own ability to take care of himself while discharging his job; he also believed implicitly in the infallibility of the police force when it came to avenging one of its own in the event of injury or death inflicted by a criminal.

Pacing the streets of the South Side in the dark, dangerous, dragging hours before dawn, Kelly would often feed himself cheerfully this little morale booster: “Any of these mugs rub me out, even by accident, they’re dead, too. And they know it. For there’s six hundred cops in this town who’ll get them for it if it takes a hundred years. I’m a cop. And you don’t kill cops. Unless you want a fast ticket to hell yourself.”

Occasionally, swinging his nightstick jauntily and walking with his tireless pigeon-toed stride down the streets of his beat, Kangaroo Kelly would run into Binksy Caputo. Binksy had been in high school with Kelly, a member of his class. They hadn’t been friends, exactly. But they hadn’t been enemies, either. A kind of rough laissez-faire had existed between them and still did. Binksy, it was true, had always laughed at Kangaroo’s ambition to join the police force.

“What are ya, a sucker?” he used to say. “A big dumb sucker? The dough is on the other side, Big Tail. Why be a cop and starve when you can be a crook and get rich?” And he’d sneered good-naturedly at Kelly’s earnest attempts to explain how he felt about the police.

After he left school, Binksy followed his own advice. Only he didn’t get rich. Far from it. He was a petty thief, a mugger, a pickpocket, who had been sent to the County Workhouse twice for short terms, once as a result of Kangaroo Kelly’s testimony. Binksy lived from hand to mouth when he was home in a tenement on Flora Street.

Meeting Kangaroo by accident at the mouth of an alley, or on Express Street behind the brewery, or in the doorway of one of the South Side’s two hundred dingy bars, Binksy would greet him in his taunting voice, “Hi, sucker! Still keeping us bad guys in line?”

And Kelly might reply, “Yep, Binks. Not doing too bad, either. Tripped up Spokane Jones the other night and you won’t be seeing him again for one-to-three.”

And Binksy would laugh: “Won’t you ever learn, Big Tail? One guy! Out of this jungle! You send one guy to the sneezer and you’re the greatest thing in crime prevention the world ever saw.”

“Nuts,” Kelly would say. “Keep your nose clean, Binks, or I’ll show you the inside again, old Buddy.”

“Face it, Big Tail,” Caputo would grin, “You can’t win. There’s too many of us and not enough of you.”

Kelly would pace slowly and solemnly away, very dignified. “Any cop is worth twenty of your kind, Binks,” he’d throw over his shoulder. “So there’s enough of us. Don’t worry.”

But there weren’t. Because the muggings and the purse-snatchings and the assaults in Kangaroo Kelly’s territory gradually increased to the point where a single patrolman, no matter how dedicated, simply couldn’t control it.

That’s when they assigned Kangaroo Kelly a partner. He wasn’t too pleased about it at first, since he’d always been a solo operator and liked the feeling of personal, individual responsibility that carried with it. But he knew very well that he needed help. So he agreed with every evidence of pleasure when Pete was assigned to him.

Pete’s full name was a long German mouthful ending in Augsburg or something of the sort, but right from the beginning, Kangaroo Kelly and all the other patrolmen at South Side Station started to call him plain Pete, and he seemed to like that all right. The day they told Kangaroo about his new partner, the Sergeant took him aside and explained to him that Pete was new on the force, he was young and green, but he’d passed the training with flying colors.