Black Cat Weekly #40 E-Book

John Lantigua

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

Seitenzahl: 510

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Once again we have an eclectic mix of stories new and old. Leading off the pack is an original tale by Andrew Welsh-Huggins, “Digging In,” as a couple goes to great lengths to save their marriage. It was acquired for BCW by editor Michael Bracken. Barb Goffman found a real crime-story treat by John Lantigua. And we have a novel by Stephen Marlowe, a solve-it-yourself short by Hal Charles, and a classic historical story (yes, another Western—but it’s also a mystery) by W.C. Tuttle.

On the science fiction and fantasy end of things, there are two “brain” stories—John W. Campbell’s planet-hopping space opera, “The Brain Pirates” and Malcolm Jameson’s “Brains for Bricks.” Nelson Bond’s Lancelot Biggs space-opera hero returns to save the day in “Where Are You, Mr. Biggs?” And one of the kings of space opera, Edmond Hamilton, is back with a change-of-pace fantasy from Weird Tales. Dorothy C. Quick, another WT alum, also contributes a fantasy. Great classic reading.

Here's the lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:
“Digging In,” by Andrew Welsh-Huggins [Michael Bracken Presents short story] “A Surprising Treat,” by Hal Charles [solve-it-yourself mystery]
“The Avenging Angel,” by John Lantigua [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Wisdom of the Ouija,” by W.C. Tuttle [short story]
Model for Murder, by Stephen Marlowe” [novel]
Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“Brains for Bricks,” by Malcolm Jameson [short story] “The Lost Gods,” by Dorothy C. Quick [short story]
“The Brain Pirates,” by John W. Campbell, Jr. [novella]
“Dreamer’s Worlds,” by Edmond Hamilton [short story]
“Where Are You, Mr. Biggs?” by Nelson S. Bond [short story]

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

DIGGING IN, by Andrew Welsh-Huggins

A SURPRISING TREAT, by Hal Charles

THE AVENGING ANGEL, by John Lantigua

THE WISDOM OF THE OUIJA, by W.C. Tuttle

MODEL FOR MURDER, by Stephen Marlowe

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BRAINS FOR BRICKS, by Malcolm Jameson

THE BRAIN PIRATES, by John W. Campbell, Jr

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

THE LOST GODS, by Dorothy Quick

DREAMER’S WORLDS, by Edmond Hamilton

WHERE ARE YOU, MR. BIGGS? by Nelson Bond

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

“Digging In” is copyright © 2022 by Andrew Welsh-Huggins and appears here for the first time.

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

“The Avenging Angel” is copyright © 2018 by John Lantigua. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, March/April 2018. Reprinted by permission of the author

“The Wisdom of the Ouija” by W.C. Tuttle was originally published in Adventure magazine, Sept. 9, 1920.

Model for Murder, by Stephen Marlowe, originally appeared in 1953.

“Brains for Bricks,” by Malcolm Jameson, originally appeared in Astounding Science Fiction, April 1945.

“The Lost Gods,” by Dorothy C. Quick, originally appeared in Weird Tales, September 1941.

“The Brain Pirates” is copyright © 1938, renewed 1966 by John W. Campbell, Jr. Originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, Oct. 1938. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“Dreamer’s Worlds” by Edmond Hamilton, originally appeared in Weird Tales, November-December 1941.

“Where Are You, Mr. Biggs?” by Nelson S. Bond, originally appeared in Weird Tales, September 1941.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #40.

Once again we have an eclectic mix of stories new and old. Leading off the pack is an original tale by Andrew Welsh-Huggins, “Digging In,” as a couple goes to great lengths to save their marriage. It was acquired for BCW by editor Michael Bracken. Barb Goffman found a real crime-story treat by John Lantigua. And we have a novel by Stephen Marlowe, a solve-it-yourself short by Hal Charles, and a classic historical story (yes, another Western—but it’s also a mystery) by W.C. Tuttle.

On the science fiction and fantasy end of things, there are two “brain” stories—John W. Campbell’s planet-hopping space opera, “The Brain Pirates” and Malcolm Jameson’s “Brains for Bricks.” Nelson Bond’s Lancelot Biggs space-opera hero returns to save the day in “Where Are You, Mr. Biggs?” And one of the kings of space opera, Edmond Hamilton, is back with a change-of-pace fantasy from Weird Tales. Dorothy C. Quick, another WT alum, also contributes a fantasy. Great classic reading.

Acquiring Editor Cynthia Ward had to skip this week, but she’ll be select a science fiction story next week.

Here’s the lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Digging In,” by Andrew Welsh-Huggins [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

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

“The Avenging Angel,” by John Lantigua [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

“The Wisdom of the Ouija,” by W.C. Tuttle [short story]

Model for Murder, by Stephen Marlowe” [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Brains for Bricks,” by Malcolm Jameson [short story]

“The Lost Gods,” by Dorothy C. Quick [short story]

“The Brain Pirates,” by John W. Campbell, Jr. [novella]

“Dreamer’s Worlds,” by Edmond Hamilton [short story]

“Where Are You, Mr. Biggs?” by Nelson S. Bond [short story]

—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

DIGGING IN,by Andrew Welsh-Huggins

Hope it’s not COVID, Cheryl said to herself—just joking!—as she fought off a coughing spell for the second time in as many minutes. She lowered the car window to let in air and reached for her water bottle. Which, as the light turned green, she remembered was on the kitchen island where she accidentally left it, pissed off that Charlie forgot to take the garbage out as he promised he would on his way into the office. On a Saturday, again, which pissed her off even more.

Casting about for relief, she spied Charlie’s jacket, crumpled in the rear seat where he tossed it the night before as they headed into the restaurant, insisting the night was too mild for it after all. His North Face jacket, sure to have cough drops in the pocket. Sorry, his other North Face jacket, because Charlie had to have two of everything. Always had—all the way back to his college dorm and one mini-fridge for beer and one for food. No different today, putting aside the irony that he spent his career tearing pairs of people apart. Two jackets. Two grills. Two convertibles, which explained their under-construction two-car garage addition. At least his Saturday appointments would help pay for it, he said, attempting to placate her on the way out the door that morning.

Carefully, eyes on the road, Cheryl reached around, pushed aside her tennis bag, secured the coat, and pulled it into her lap. She patted the pockets, found the one with something inside, and tapped the brakes as the Sunbury Road traffic slowed ahead of the next light. She relaxed a little, smelling Charlie’s woodsy cologne. She permitted herself a smile at the memory of his unexpected advances as they went to bed after dinner. She knew she shouldn’t be so impatient with him. He couldn’t help the fact that, post-pandemic, marriages were fracturing faster than Antarctic glaciers and his services were in high demand. And it’s not like this morning’s doubles match hadn’t been a last-minute thing on her part, either.

Cheryl coughed again and placed her hand inside the pocket for the sought-after lozenges. Instead, she encountered what felt like a folded over package of disposable hand wipes, which after a moment’s puzzlement made sense given last night’s barbecue plate. She stopped, two cars back, as the light turned red. Looking over at the reservoir, riffles brushing the surface under a bright, blue sky, Cheryl felt her mood lift. Charlie could be a pain in the ass sometimes—what husband couldn’t?—but he was also predictable as an atomic clock, which she appreciated. Two jackets, yeah, but you could count on him squirreling away cough drops—and hand wipes—for just when you needed.

Sure enough, groping around, she found a wrapped lozenge. Gratefully, she unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth with relief, breathing in the eucalyptus balm. Then a thought occurred to her. Her dinner, in fact, had not come with hand wipes. As many paper napkins as she requested, but no wipes; in the end she had to visit the ladies on the way out to wash her hands. Curious, she reached into the pocket and retrieved the wipes as well.

It was funny the way the brain worked. At first, Cheryl couldn’t process what was in her hand. Just for an instant, but still. She saw what she saw, but she didn’t see it, either. Square, foil, colors, printing. Each element recognizable by itself but put together they made as much sense as if she were staring at a Japanese subway ticket. Then the synapses pulled themselves together and did their thing, and Cheryl understood that her life had changed forever, irrevocably, in a single moment.

She was holding a pair of condom packages. Two condoms. In the jacket pocket of her husband decades past the vasectomy that both welcomed for the freedom it provided.

A pair of condoms. Because always with Charlie, two of everything.

* * * *

Sure, she tried the whole benefit-of-the-doubt thing. What wife wouldn’t, especially one caught so totally unaware as she. That’s what wives did, right? Seek explanations. Find flaws in their conclusions. Search for incentives to stay with the chump. Because otherwise, this is what she was looking at: A swift transition from the green light of a happy marriage—maybe with a few bumps here and there, okay, but she had three girlfriends in Westerville alone who had things far, far worse—to the red light of complete and total betrayal.

So. He loaned the jacket to someone. Their son, home from college a few weeks earlier, borrowed it on a night out. The dumbest: Charlie secured them for a friend.

The excuses faded away like morning mist under a hot sun as she left the reservoir behind and exited into their subdivision. Charlie, bless the snake, wasn’t a loaner. Their son wouldn’t be caught dead in his father’s coat. Men didn’t “secure” condoms for friends. Christ—they were as much a grocery store or pharmacy aisle staple as Doritos or cat food. Cheryl’s Hail Mary—that the packages were somehow leftover from a time in their own, lusty past—fell far short of the goal. They hadn’t used condoms in forever and a day. The pill covered them after they married and in-between her three pregnancies, and then the vasectomy relieved her of the pill. True, things had tapered off a bit between them recently thanks to menopause. But Charlie was still plenty interested in her, or so she thought, recalling again the way he reached hungrily for her as they slipped into bed last night.

What a crock of shit that was, Cheryl said to herself, pulling into their driveway and hitting the garage door opener before she remembered the excavation inside. Instead, she sat in her car, gave it up and wept, pounding the steering wheel.

Charlie. You bastard. Me last night and her today? Because always two of everything with you.

* * * *

At least he showed her the courtesy of not denying it. At least he gave her that much respect.

“I’m sorry,” he said late that afternoon, over and over. Recovering from the shock after arriving home of Cheryl handing him a glass filled not with the expected gin and tonic, but the offending items found in his jacket. The glass a last-minute substitute for the cast-iron skillet she fantasized about applying to his thick, cheating skull before placing it back on the stove with just a hint of regret.

“That’s it? You’re ‘sorry’? That’s all I get?”

“Cheryl. Let me explain…”

“Don’t,” she said, backing away from him, head spinning. She narrowly skirted the glass-topped coffee table—one of a matching pair, because: Mr.-Two-Of-Everything—and fell onto the couch a second or two before she felt certain she would have collapsed. Oh God. How could this be happening?

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Standing by his armchair, a few feet away, not looking at her. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean what? For me to find out? Isn’t that what you’re saying?”

“No. It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like, then? Oh, do tell, Charlie. I’m very interested.” Digging the palms of her hands into her eyes.

“Please, Cheryl.”

She dropped her hands into her lap. Might as well be done with it. “Who is she?” she demanded.

“Is that really important?”

She laughed aloud. “Yes, Goddammit. It’s really that important.”

A long pause while Charlie’s eyes searched the living room from top to bottom.

“Her name’s Rachel. Rachel Middleton.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“She’s no one you know.”

“Well, at least there’s that. How did you meet her?”

Face burning, Cheryl conjured up the image of a twenty-something blonde from Charlie’s gym, all saluting tits and form-fitting yoga pants.

His eyes traversed the room once more.

“She’s a client—an ex-client,” he corrected.

“Oh, my God.” This time she did collapse, falling halfway over on the couch.

“A client? Are you mad?”

“Ex-client, I swear. It wasn’t like that.”

“It wasn’t like what?”

“It started afterward. After things were…settled.”

“Oh, that’s a real comfort.” She righted herself, feeling anger surge inside her. “So what, then? Goo-goo eyes and footsies under the table while you dismantle her husband, then you take her to bed?”

“Nothing like that, I promise. It all happened afterward. Weeks later. She called about something, we had a drink, and—”

“You could be disbarred. You know that, right? If someone found out? When someone finds out?”

A hint of impatience briefly replaced the penitence in his eyes. “That’s not true. We had no contractual, binding relationship at that point.”

“For God’s sake, are you hearing yourself?” Palms back into her eyes. “Does her ex know? Because he’s the one who’s going to be filing the complaint.”

“No—I don’t know. I don’t think so. He’s a piece of work, anyway. She had every right in the world to leave him.”

“So, you’re now a counselor as well as a divorce lawyer?”

“I’m sorry, Cheryl. I’m so sorry. I was just—”

“Just what? Tired of the old cow? Needed some fresh milk? Is that it?”

“Please, you’re shouting.”

“Of course, I’m shouting.”

He folded his arms, as he always did when they argued. “She’s…she’s actually our age, if you have to know.”

“Oh, congratulations. Gold star for fucking someone age appropriate.”

“Cheryl…”

But she didn’t let him finish. She stood, walked over to her husband and slapped him on the cheek. Then, bursting into tears, she fled upstairs.

* * * *

She resisted all entreaties. The tentative door knocks coming at the end of her first hour lying face down on their bed. Later, pleas spoken through the door evolving from hesitant to worried to, God help her, irritated. Even a text message after he retreated downstairs the third time. Can we just talk?

No. We can’t just fucking talk.

She thought about phoning a girlfriend. Came close a couple times. But the humiliation was too sharp and too fresh, and that would only make things worse. She knew how things worked around here, the way women secretly treasured the misfortune of their peers. Plus, she was the one with the solid marriage. She was the one whose shoulder held the heads of the other wives, inconsolable after their own betrayals. She was the one with the wise words and sage advice about weighing consequences and exploring incentives for going on. How could she turn to them after all that?

At one point she fell asleep, exhausted and wrung out. Her last thoughts: how they would tell the kids, and what was supposed to come next? Counseling? Separation? And a sudden fear: what chance would she have going up against a successful divorce lawyer, husband or not? Would Charlie close his eyes and just screw her over? She supposed she could make it financially, with her own practice, but not in a house like this—the half-acre all-American McMansion dream with the two-soon-to-be-four car garage. No, life was going to change, and for the worse, and all because of an age-appropriate fling with an inappropriate ex-client, and her own feelings be damned…

Cheryl awoke with a start. Disoriented, she rolled onto her side. The room was dark; night had fallen. She crept to the window, opened the thick damask curtains and looked outside. Thanks to the velvety void of the reservoir, there was nothing to see but the distant lights of other houses in their subdivision on steroids. No streetlamps out here, of course. She was not a big fan of such darkness, even after two decades in the house. But people who paid mortgages this size wanted to see their stars at night, and that was that.

She froze. A loud voice downstairs. A man. But not Charlie. She realized after a second that’s what must have awakened her. She tiptoed across the carpet, released the push lock and pulled the door open just enough to let in a sliver of hallway light.

“…you backstabbing shyster…”

She caught her breath, listening to the angry rant below.

“You really need to leave.” Charlie.

“Leave? And what, pretend nothing happened?” The other man.

“What happened is none of your business. You’re no longer married.”

“Thanks to you, obviously. Was that your plan all along? Is that why she hired you?”

“You’ve got this all wrong.”

“Do I? Do I?”

“I can see that you’re angry. I’m sorry that’s how you feel. But I’m going to call the police if you don’t—”

Charlie didn’t have a chance to finish. Cheryl heard a smack, and a moment later Charlie grunting in pain.

“Jesus, get the hell out of here.”

“Not before you get what’s coming to you, you sonofabitch.”

Cheryl crossed the room and retrieved her phone from the bedstand where she left it after Charlie’s last text. Then she stepped slowly and quietly into the hall, paused at the top of the stairs, and gingerly descended a step at a time.

“Stop it,” she heard Charlie yell, followed by what sounded like he was choking. No, not choking. Gasping. Struggling for air.

At the bottom of the stairs, Cheryl pivoted to her left, away from the living room, and stepped softly into the kitchen. She glanced around and settled on the frying pan on the top of the stove. A wedding present from a favorite cousin, she thought bitterly. Dragged from the cupboard right before Charlie arrived home in a fit of pique before her senses took over. She grasped it with her right hand and quietly moved through the kitchen, across the dining room, and into the living room.

“Aaack.”

She gaped at the sight before her. Charlie, knees bent, struggling in vain as a giant of a man stood over him, hands around his throat. Ex-Mr. Rachel Middleton, she presumed. Cheryl watched, transfixed, as the cuckolded man delivered justice to her cheating husband. She thought about her phone and dialing 911. And then, just for a moment, she considered how all her problems might be over if she simply crept back upstairs and waited things out. But only for a moment. Because if anyone was going to throttle Charlie, it would be her.

She took three quick steps forward, grasped the pan’s handle in her best two-fisted forehand, and brought it down hard on the man’s head, her hands stinging at the impact.

“Wha—” he managed before, his own knees buckling, he released Charlie and fell, striking his head against the corner of Coffee Table No. 1 with a sound like a cantaloupe dropped from a height, and with the same results.

* * * *

They sat in opposite chairs, catching their breath. Eyes never leaving the body of the man lying before them.

Finally, Cheryl, looking up. “Are you all right?” Forcing out the words, her anger at him still raw.

Charlie rubbed his neck and swallowed. “I think so.”

“How the hell did he find you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Have you asked her?”

He shook his head.

“Did she text you? Warn you?”

A pause. “Sort of.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“She said he pounded on her door after I left because he recognized my car. He must have been watching her house. Accused her of divorcing him for me—which absolutely isn’t true. He finally left, but it wouldn’t have been hard to find our address.”

“Did you respond? To her text?”

“I was going to,” he said, rising. “But then he was at the door. Jesus.”

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for my phone. We need to call the police.”

“Don’t.”

He stared at her. “What?”

Cheryl composed herself, rolling around in her mind the implications of her response.

“Don’t call the police. Not yet.”

“What are you talking about? He’s dead. We have to—”

“They’ll arrest me. And you’ll be ruined.”

“It was self-defense, Cheryl. We’ll be fine.”

“Fine? A lawyer sleeping with a client whose ex-husband ends up dead in your living room?”

“Former client. I told you, it all happened afterward.”

“You really think the bar association is going to believe that? Or care?”

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

And then Charlie sat back down.

“What are we supposed to do, then?” he said. “He’ll be reported missing. The police will talk to Rachel. She’ll have to come clean about us. They’ll come here—”

“We’ll tell the truth,” Cheryl said.

“The truth?”

“Most of it, anyway. He came here, angry. He confronted you. You argued. Eventually, he left. After that, we have no idea what happened.”

“His car is literally sitting in our driveway.”

“And there’s literally a 3,200-acre reservoir three quarters of a mile from our house.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Try me.”

Charlie rubbed his neck again. Even across the room, the red marks from his attacker’s hands mottled his skin as visibly as war paint. She would have to work carefully on the bruises that would follow. Fortunately, her makeup drawer was full and well-stocked.

“He is—was—a very erratic individual,” Charlie said at last. “No telling what he might have done in his condition.”

“Exactly.”

Charlie stared at the carpet. “But what about the blood?”

She thought for a moment. “Salt and baking soda and vinegar. I think. It shouldn’t be a problem. Can’t be worse than the time the dog had the trots.”

“And what about him?” Charlie directed the comment not at the corpse but at the fireplace mantel.

“When are the contractors pouring the concrete?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“First thing Monday. You’re not—”

“In that case, we better get busy.”

“Cheryl. We can’t.”

“Can’t we?”

* * * *

That time of year, post-Indian Summer and pre-Thanksgiving weekend, very few anglers visited Hoover Reservoir for night fishing. It took them less than forty-five minutes to drive in tandem to the boat ramp, watch the dead man’s Honda Pilot roll down the ramp and sink slowly into the depths, then return in Charlie’s convertible. One of two.

“We should have put him in there.”

“I told you that was too risky,” Cheryl said. “Carrying him outside and all that. Plus, bodies float.”

“From inside a car?”

“It’s better this way.”

Neither spoke. Cheryl knew Charlie knew what she was thinking. It was good to have an incentive to stay together. And despite the lack of streetlamps, she did love this neighborhood. And their house. And, truth be told, her husband.

They wrapped the body in a painter’s tarp leftover from a basement project. Working in tandem, they pulled it slowly from the living room, across the dining room, through the kitchen and into the attached garage. The hardest part was working their way around the construction tools to the dirt floor on the addition side.

“What now?” Charlie said, wiping the sweat from his eyes.

“We dig in,” Cheryl said.

“I know that. I meant—”

“We dig in on our marriage. Dig hard. Plus, the bar association may still have questions. None of it’s going to be easy, thanks to you.”

He sighed deeply. “I know.”

“But I’m willing to try. If you are.”

“I am. I swear it.”

Both dropped their eyes to the bundle between them.

“Then let’s get to work.”

Charlie surveyed the floor. “It’s going to be a long night. That’s a lot of dirt.”

Cheryl turned to the pegboard wall where they stored their tools.

“Good thing we have two shovels.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Andrew Welsh-Huggins is the author of the Andy Hayes private eye series, featuring a former Ohio State and Cleveland Browns quarterback turned investigator, and the editor of Columbus Noir. His short stories have appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Mystery Magazine, Mystery Tribune, the anthology Mickey Finn 21st Century Noir: Vol 1, and other magazines and anthologies.

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 need 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.

THE AVENGING ANGEL,by John Lantigua

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcasesthe best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimedshort stories authors and editors in the mysteryfield, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

Willie Cuesta sat in a Cuban restaurant in Little Havana speaking with his old colleague Bernardo Cruz. Bernie was pushing seventy now and had retired several years back from the Miami-Dade Police Department. Willie, almost thirty years younger, had also left the force to open his own private-investigations firm. In the old days, he and Bernie had worked together in the Intelligence Unit, tracking down a variety of foreign criminals who had set up shop in Miami. Some were representatives of outlawed political organizations, from Latin America and elsewhere, who liked Miami as a warm place to hide out and launder money. Others were common criminals who saw Florida as a place to open branches of their usual illegal businesses—drug dealing, arms vending, human trafficking, et cetera.

At the moment Willie and Bernie were recalling the operations they had run to roust elements of the Russian Mafia, who had shown up in Miami after the fall of the Soviet Union. They had both spent a lot of time undercover in Russian bathhouses and high-end Russian restaurants, which wasn’t a hard way to make a living.

“I never seen so many pinky rings in one place,” Bernie was recalling.

“Only on the ones who still had pinkies,” Willie said, scissoring the fingers of his right hand as if lopping off a digit. “Those guys could get rough.”

They were still sipping their coffees and discussing the quality of the herring in the different Russian eateries when Willie’s cell phone sounded. He glanced at the screen, saw a local number he didn’t recognize, and answered.

“Cuesta Investigations.”

“Is this Mr. Cuesta I’m speaking to?” a young man asked in Spanish.

“Yes, it is,” Willie said, switching languages.

“You are the one who works as a bodyguard?”

Willie shrugged. “Well, that’s one service I offer. How can I help you?”

“I need your protection right away. A man who has arrived here in Miami wants to murder me.”

That made Willie wince. The kid sounded overexcited and Willie wondered if he might be exaggerating just a bit.

“Who is this man and why does he want to harm you?”

Across the table, Bernie frowned at what he was hearing.

“I will tell you that when we meet,” said the young man.

“Where do you want to do that?”

“It will have to be here where I live. I can’t risk going out on the street.”

Again the young man sounded over the top. It made Willie hesitate and the fellow on the other end picked that up.

“You’ll understand better after we talk.”

“Where is it you live?”

The kid gave him an address in East Little Havana, maybe twenty blocks from where he and Bernie were sharing a bite. Willie then told him his day rate.

“And I require two days up front, in cash.”

He expected his prospective client to bail at that point, but it didn’t happen.

“That’s fine. I can pay you when you get here.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in a half hour. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Carlos. Carlos Miranda.”

* * * *

Willie finished his coffee with Bernie and headed for the address. East Little Havana had been for many decades a neighborhood where refugee groups had established their homes. Starting in the 1930s it had been settled by Jews fleeing the Nazis and their allies in Europe. By the 1960s, most of the Jews had moved on to better neighborhoods, just in time for Cubans fleeing the Castro government to fill the ramshackle homes. The Cubans also prospered and dispersed around South Florida. These days it was home to many Central Americans who had fled to Florida in the 1970s and 80s escaping the guerrilla wars in their countries. The neighborhood was made up largely of old boardinghouses and small, weathered apartment complexes, because that’s where newly arrived refugees could afford to live, often with more than one nuclear family crowded into single-family accommodations. The walls of those living quarters were suffused with aromas of the various cuisines that had been cooked there over the decades—and also with some of the fears that all those fleeing families had brought with them.

Lately, however, development in nearby downtown Miami had spread into the fringes of the neighborhood, resulting in some of those older buildings being torn down and replaced by taller, more modern structures. Willie found Carlos Miranda’s address, a five-story building with lots of windows and wide verandas, right on the edge of that new development. It was a nice enough place, although it was surrounded by old, worn, sun-blistered, water-stained East Little Havana housing, so that the views from those new verandas weren’t exactly Venice.

Willie took the elevator to the fourth floor, knocked on the door of number 407, and heard locks being unbolted. It was not Carlos Miranda who came to the door. A young woman stood there—in her midtwenties approximately, small and thin, with extremely white skin, which was set off by her long, straight black hair and deep-set coffee-colored eyes. She wore tight white jeans and a cream-colored blouse. If she hadn’t looked so wary, she would have been extremely nice to look at.

“I’m here to meet with Carlos Miranda,” Willie said in Spanish. “Am I at the right apartment?”

The young woman nodded but said nothing. She let Willie in, locked the door behind him, gestured toward a stuffed chair, and then called toward the bedroom.

“Carlos, he’s here.”

Willie glanced around the apartment. It was functionally decorated, with some supermarket art on the walls and, as far as he could see, no family photographs or other personal touches. In fact, it looked like it had come furnished.

“He’s just getting out of the shower,” she said. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

Willie said he was fine and she sat down on the sofa across from him to wait for Carlos. The young lady was quiet but not shy. She studied Willie up and down without expression as if she were measuring him for a new outfit. Or maybe she was trying to see where he carried his gun. Lots of people did that the first time they met a private investigator.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Willie said.

“My name is Nina.”

“Can you give me an idea what this is about?”

She thought that over for a few moments and then answered as if she were a bit embarrassed.

“Carlos and I, we grew up in the same neighborhood in El Salvador and have loved each other since we were children. Several years back he joined a gang and over time he became a local leader. But every day gang members around him were being killed in the wars with other gangs, more and more all the time. He knew that eventually it would be him. He decided to come here and I followed him.”

“I understand.”

Willie had read about the savage gang violence in El Salvador in recent years and could easily comprehend her fears. Whole cities in Central America had fallen under the control of criminal street gangs that had become major vendors of drugs and guns in their countries. In many cases, young men could only be admitted to a gang if they committed a murder. In some instances they were required to kill a complete stranger selected at random on the street. The region was running with blood and entire families were trying to escape north.

“But now you are here,” Willie said. “What is there to be afraid of?”

“The top gang leaders do not simply let you leave the organization. The only way to quit one of those gangs is to be killed. They tell you that when you join. ‘The only former members are those who no longer draw breath.’ Because he broke that rule, they have sent someone to kill Carlos. Through a friend we have learned who that killer is and the fact that he’s already here.”

Willie was about to ask who that was when Carlos Miranda stepped into the room. That stopped him cold.

Fresh from the shower, he wore only narrow black gym shorts and no shirt. He was in his twenties, midsized, swarthy, with the muscular body of a boy who had spent time lifting weights. And almost every square inch of that fine body, including his face, was embroidered with tattoos.

Carlos Miranda was apparently accustomed to being stared at, studied by people who were seeing him for the first time. He stood still for a few moments and allowed Willie to take in the gaudy gallery of designs all over his body. Across his forehead, in dark blue, flowing cursive, was the name of his gang—M-18. Like anyone who had worked in law enforcement, Willie was acquainted with M-18, which had become in recent years one of the largest, most brutal criminal organizations in the world. On each of Carlos’s cheeks were tattooed about a dozen tiny crosses, a miniature cemetery just below his muddy brown eyes. Willie had to wonder if those crosses represented fallen comrades, enemies he had himself murdered, or a combination of both.

From Carlos’s chin, the head of a rattlesnake stared out at Willie. His neck had been turned into the diamond-patterned body of the snake and the rest of it was coiled on his chest. Tattoo artists had turned his legs into braided vines, like those found in the most tropical jungles of Central America. His arms were covered with women’s faces, dollar signs, more crosses, a small Virgin Mary, and, on the back of his right forearm, a swastika. Willie wondered if this kid had any real idea what a swastika represented in modern history. If he didn’t, that was bad; if he did, it was even worse.

He shuffled into the room, shook Willie’s hand limply, and sat on the sofa next to Nina. At first glance, he looked like a world-class young thug. But his gaze was anything but aggressive or fierce. It was tense, somber, much the same as his girlfriend’s. In the boy’s case, given his gang background, Willie wondered if he had seen so much violence and death that he had aged prematurely. The eyes looked like they had been transplanted from a much older individual.

“Your girlfriend has told me about your past and how you left the gang,” Willie said.

Miranda shrugged. “I was going to end up dead—and not of old age.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About twenty days. Nina came a week ago.”

“I understand you are afraid that your fellow gang members may have sent someone here to harm you.”

Carlos shook his head. “It isn’t maybe. I’ve received a warning from an old friend in the gang. I know for sure that the killer is here. That’s why I don’t go out, especially during the day, and why I asked you to come here.” He raised his tattooed hands to his tattooed cheeks. Carlos Miranda wasn’t someone who would blend easily into a crowd. That was for sure.

“I want to get rid of these tattoos but I can’t even risk looking for someone to do it,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll be monitoring all the tattoo artists who can do such a job. In fact, he probably has them paid off to keep an eye out for me.”

Again, he sounded paranoid, but when you were dealing with an organization like M-18, there was no such thing as paranoia.

“Who is he, this killer?” Willie asked.

“My source told me the passport he used to come here is under the name Rafael Suarez.”

“So that’s not his real name?”

Miranda shook his head. “The assassins who track down individuals like me, they use many names. And there is something else you should know about them.”

Willie cocked his head and waited to be enlightened.

Carlos again tapped his tattooed face. “You can’t expect him to look like me. No, amigo, the assassins sent to hunt down guys who leave the gang don’t look like the rest of us. Years back, the founders of the gangs figured out that not everyone in the organization could look like a goblin. There had to be members who could move about without attracting attention—special operatives who would have no tattoos, who could blend into the business world, who could be used to move large amounts of money across borders and also hunt down the ones they considered traitors to the tribe. This guy you’ll be looking for, he is one who specializes in killing people like me and he was chosen and trained when he was very young. You will see no tattoos and he will look nothing like a gangster. Because of that and what his job is, in the gang he is known as an avenging angel.”

Willie’s eyes narrowed and he studied those words. He had never heard of that special breed of assassin, but he had never spoken before with a former leader of a gang as large and lethal as M-18. He figured few “civilians” ever had.

“What else can you tell me about this avenging angel?”

Carlos shook his head.

“Nothing. The angels never have attributes that can be easily described.”

Willie thought of angels he had seen portrayed in religious paintings. They were always on the young side, handsome, but sexless. They all looked alike. He looked down at his notebook where he had written the name Rafael Suarez. One of the famous angels of the Bible had been named Rafael, or Raphael in English. Maybe this guy was an assassin who had read the scriptures. Who knew, but at least Willie had that as a lead.

“About payment for my services,” he said.

The young woman got up, retrieved a purse, and counted out two days’ pay into the palm of his hand. Willie wrote out a receipt on notebook paper and stood up.

“Keep those tattoos indoors until I tell you it’s safe,” he told Carlos.

He bid them goodbye—the goblin and his gorgeous girlfriend—Beauty and the Beast—and headed back home.

* * * *

Willie’s apartment, in a duplex just off Calle Ocho—8th Street—in Little Havana, also served as his office. He arrived home, looked up a number on his laptop, and called.

Art Yeager was head of security for the Miami Visitors and Convention Bureau. He was a former county detective and Willie had known him since they were both on the force.

“Hey, Willie. How’s the boy?”

He sounded happy, but why wouldn’t he be? He had landed a cushy job in Miami’s largest industry—tourism.

“I need a bit of help with a case I’m on, Art.”

“What can I do to help you, Willie?”

“I’m searching for a visitor to our fair county who is going by the name Rafael Suarez. Can you tell me if anyone is registered at a local hotel under that name?”

Willie knew a guy in Yeager’s position had the police powers to request the names of registered guests at the county’s hotels and motels on any given day, although he needed good reason.

“I can’t do this if it’s just a missing-person case, Willie. Sometimes people don’t want to be found and it’s no crime.”

“I’m with you, Art. But this is the case of a foreign citizen who I’m told may be here to seriously injure a client of mine. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t serious and I would never divulge where I got the tip.”

“Gotcha. I’ll send out an urgent email to all our members. I’ll get back to you.”

Willie nibbled on the remains of a Cuban sandwich he found in the refrigerator from the previous day. A half hour later his cell phone sounded and Art was on the line.

“A Mr. Rafael Suarez is registered at a small motel on the edge of Brickell neighborhood, called the Stardust. He’s in Room Two-twelve.”

Willie jotted it down. The Brickell area lay on the edge of Biscayne Bay, not far from East Little Havana, where many Salvadorans lived—including Carlos Miranda. If you were hunting for one of those Salvadorans—with plans to kill him—that was a strategic place to stay.

Willie thanked Art for his assistance.

“Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Willie.”

Willie said he wouldn’t, although he wasn’t sure that was true. Fifteen minutes later he was parked diagonally across the street from the Stardust Motel, with a clear view of a unit on the second floor—Room 212. It was a white Art Deco structure with doors, window sashes, and outdoor stairs painted bright orange, which made it appear like an imitation Howard Johnson’s. It had probably been built in the 1950s or so.

Willie sat watching and listening to talk shows on the radio for more than three hours. He was learning a lot about the world, but very little about the man he was searching for. Finally, a few minutes before seven P.M., the door to Room 212 opened and a young man emerged. Like Carlos, he looked to be in his midtwenties. He was café au lait in color, with short black hair and glasses with thick black rims. He wore an off-white, long-sleeved guayabera shirt, matching slacks, and light-brown shoes. Dressed in white like an angel, an avenging angel, Willie thought to himself.

Suarez closed the door, headed down the orange stairs, looked both ways down the street, and then walked in the direction of the bay. Willie waited a few moments, climbed out of his car, and trailed him, but on the opposite side of the street. Pedestrian traffic was light, with most local workers having gotten off a couple of hours before and already home. But as Mr. Suarez neared the Brickell business district the byways grew busier with after-work diners and drinkers.

About three blocks from the motel, Suarez made a right, crossing in front of Willie, headed down a street lined with restaurants and bars, and stopped outside a well-known watering hole named Huey’s. Willie stopped as well, maybe a hundred feet behind him and across the street. He watched as Suarez looked around, spotted a small, wrought-iron table on the sidewalk right next to the street, and sat down. If you were hunting someone you wanted to kill, that vantage point would give you a clear view of the passing parade.

Willie lingered where he was, watched the man order from the waiter, and considered just how he might approach a professional assassin. You had to expect that a pro in the killing game would always carry the tool of his trade—most likely a gun—so you had to be careful about trying to get close to him. Then again, about a half block beyond Huey’s Willie saw a Miami PD patrol car parked and two uniformed men leaning against it shooting the breeze. They provided a measure of deterrence against anyone thinking of causing trouble, including an assassin. And after all, Willie wasn’t being paid just to watch this guy from down the block.

Of the half-dozen tables on the sidewalk, one was empty. Willie waited a few minutes until two people sat at the table, then he crossed the street, made a show of looking for a place to sit, and approached the man in question.

“Do you mind if I share your table?” he asked in Spanish.

Suarez glanced up at him, but Willie didn’t give him a real opportunity to say no. He pulled out a chair and settled into it. The other man frowned.

“Be my guest,” he muttered, barely audible.

Willie waved down a waiter and ordered a glass of red wine.

“Can I offer you a drink in exchange for your hospitality?” he said to his tablemate.

Suarez, who had a half-full glass of beer before him, shook his head.

“No, thank you. I have all I need.”

Willie figured if you were searching for the person you’d been sent to kill, you probably wanted to be careful you didn’t consume too much alcohol. It wouldn’t be beneficial for your aim.

Willie made a show of gazing around, all the time sneaking glances at Suarez, trying to spot the hint of a gun under his shoulder or at his waistband. He didn’t see what he was looking for, but the hood could have been carrying a holster against the small of his back. That was where Willie had tucked his Browning.

Willie’s wine arrived, he lifted it, smiled as a group of young ladies passed, and toasted.

“Here’s to Miami and its beautiful women,” Willie said.

The other man raised his glass perfunctorily and sipped.

“Are you new here?” Willie asked.

Suarez nodded. “That’s right.”

“From where?”

He thought that over a moment.

“Central America.”

Willie brightened. “Where in Central America?”

That made the other man fidget with his beer glass.

“I’ve lived in different countries.”

Willie sipped his wine.

“What were you doing there?”

The man across from him was losing whatever good humor he’d had. Willie could see it in his eyes.

“I did many different things. What is it that you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Willie glanced down the block at the two patrolmen, who were still there, not a hundred feet away. He decided that the crowd, and especially those two cops, offered him enough protection that he could risk provoking his prey. He leaned forward and whispered.

“I’m a private investigator and I am being paid to determine who you are.”

Willie’s own right hand had moved toward his back holster just in case. He expected the man next to him might also reach for a weapon, but he didn’t. Instead he put his hands on the armrests of his chair and started to rise as if he would run. Willie reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Don’t do that,” Willie said sternly, but not raising his voice. “If you try to run I’ll call those men right down there.”

With his free hand he gestured toward the two cops. The other man glanced at them, then back at Willie. His eyes were full of fear.

“What do you want with me?” he whispered. “Why are you doing this?”

Willie fixed on him. He figured Suarez had arrived at the conclusion Willie hoped he would—that doing anything to provoke the two policemen down the block was a bad idea. And maybe he figured he could bluff his way through. Willie wasn’t going to let him do that. He leaned in close, tightening his grip.

“I know who you are, Rafael. I know what you are doing here. I know you are an avenging angel.”

The other man put on a show of being baffled. “What are you talking about? What about an avenging angel? I have no idea what you mean?”

A woman at the next table had suddenly taken an interest in them—one guy grasping the wrist of another guy who looked distressed, scared. Willie let go, feigned interest in the street traffic, and the woman turned away. Then Willie leaned over as if he’d dropped something and as quickly and discreetly as possible reached around Suarez’s back and felt for a weapon. Nothing.

“What are you doing?” the other man demanded in a whisper.

“I’m going to pay the bill and you’re coming with me. If you try to run, I call those cops. I don’t think you want to talk to those cops, do you?”

Suarez gazed down the street, back at Willie, and shook his head nervously.

Willie reached to the small of his own back, clutched his Browning, and held it beneath the table so Suarez could see it. The other man glanced at it and froze.

“You will do what I tell you,” Willie whispered. “If you are genuinely not who I think you are, you will go free.”

The other man had the look of a trapped animal. He didn’t argue. Minutes later Willie had paid and they headed back the way they had come. Willie kept Suarez just in front of him, with his right hand on his gun in his pocket. When they reached the car, Willie used the remote to unlock it.

“Get in.”

Suarez did as told and Willie climbed in the driver’s side. He had pulled out his Browning, held it in his lap with his left hand, pointed at Suarez, and started the car with his right.

“Don’t do anything to make me nervous,” he said.

Suarez glanced at the gun, eyes full of dread, and said nothing. Willie pulled out, drove about ten blocks west, turned off onto a quiet side street, and parked. He shifted the handgun to his right hand and kept it against his thigh, pointed at the other man. He turned on the interior light so that Suarez would be sure to see it.

“Let’s go back to what brings you to Miami. You are an M-eighteen assassin. You’re here to hunt down and kill a member who left the gang.”

The other man’s mouth fell open and he scowled.

“You’re crazy and you have everything backward. I was once in M-eighteen and quit the gang. I am not hunting anyone. I am running for my life.”

Willie squinted at him hard. Suarez’s sleeves were buttoned tight around his wrists. On the back of his right hand the skin was discolored. Suarez realized what Willie was studying, reached to his wrists, unbuttoned the cuffs of both sleeves, and rolled them up all the way past his elbows.

Tattoos—garish tattoos—stared at Willie from both forearms. On the left a naked woman stared at him with the roman numerals XVIII—eighteen—across her breasts. On the right was the depiction of a brooding devil with 666 across his cape. Again, the numerals totaled eighteen. Suarez unbuttoned his shirt from his neck to his navel. Across his chest M-18 was stenciled and beneath it a face of Jesus Christ with tattooed tears falling from his eyes.

Suarez reached up with both hands and touched his face just below his eyes. “I used to have tears like those tattooed here but had them removed. Look closely.”

In the interior light Willie could see the discolorations. Suarez held out his fists, upside down.

“I had tattoos on the backs of my hands too and had them erased.” Again Willie could see scars, probably left by acid. More sophisticated practitioners used lasers to remove tattoos, but Suarez had apparently resorted to whatever he could.

Willie stared at the evidence before his eyes. He was not looking at an avenging angel, not by the definition he had heard from Carlos.

“There is another former gang member here who believes you were sent to execute him.”

Suarez glowered back. “If someone has come here to execute him, then the assassin has probably been sent to kill me as well.”

Willie was fixed on him, as if truth became visible if you stared hard enough. He had questioned a lot of people over the years, as a police detective and now in private practice. If he had to guess—and he did—he would bet the guy before him was telling the truth.

Willie kept his gun in his right hand, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed Carlos Miranda, who answered after a pair of rings.

“It’s Cuesta. I have Rafael Suarez sitting in front of me. He’s not the right man. He’s not the assassin, not the avenging angel.”

At first there was only stunned silence on the other end.

“What do you mean it’s not him?”

“He’s unarmed and covered in tattoos—M-eighteen tattoos. Does that sound like the angel you are afraid of?”

“Where are you? I want to see him. I want to talk to him.”

Willie told Miranda to wait, put his hand over the phone, told Suarez who Carlos Miranda was and what he was requesting. The other man froze.

“Is his name known to you?” Willie asked. “Do you know Miranda?”

Suarez shook his head. “There are thousands of members in M-eighteen. We don’t know each other.”

But he was terrified of him anyway. If he was telling the truth, Suarez had run thousands of miles to get away from M-18. Now he was being asked to meet with another veteran of the mayhem, someone who, like himself, had probably committed countless violent crimes, including murder. Willie could smell the fear emanating from his skin.

They sat in silence for several moments. Willie had completed his assignment. He had located and debriefed the suspected killer, and done it quickly. He had earned his money and wanted only to prove that to his client.

“I will make sure my client is not armed when you meet,” Willie said to Suarez. “It will be as brief as possible and I will ensure that he doesn’t know where you live. If you do what I ask I will protect you and then never bother you again.”

Of course, the implication was that if Suarez didn’t do as he was being asked Willie would bother him again. An illegal immigrant—which Suarez was—would certainly see it that way. After a few moments, he nodded.

“Okay, I’ll go. But it has to be someplace safe.”

Willie worked that over in his mind. During his days in the Miami PD patrol unit he had driven just about every street in the city, including those in East Little Havana. The perfect place popped into his head and he spoke into the phone.

“Carlos?”

“Yes?”

“About five blocks from where you live, down the same street, there is a small park, right on the Miami River. Do you know the place I mean?”

“Yes, I know it.”

“Meet me there in a half hour. The man I’m bringing is unarmed and you must be unarmed as well. I will ensure your safety. Is that understood?”

* * * *

Ten minutes later Willie and Suarez pulled up to the park in question. It was a small space, maybe fifty yards wide, well lighted, with several park benches facing the narrow river. About a hundred feet downstream some boats were docked—a small tug and a few fishing craft. No one appeared to be aboard any of those vessels. Across the water, darkened warehouses lined the far bank, also abandoned, and nobody sat on any of the park benches. The spot would provide the privacy Willie wanted to conduct the meeting.

They got out of the car. Willie scouted bushes on either side of the open space, led Suarez to a spot right next to the riverbank, and told him to stay still. He could not be seen there and he could also not escape from that spot unless he jumped into the dark river. Once he had Suarez tucked away, Willie leaned against a street lamp and waited.

Ten minutes later a car approached. It rolled slowly along the last half block leading to the park, pulled in next to Willie’s car, and the lights were doused. Carlos emerged and crossed the grass toward Willie. The two of them stood isolated in the pool of light.

Carlos wore long pants, a long-sleeved dark shirt, and a brimmed baseball cap, in an attempt to cover his tattoos. Willie quickly frisked him. He found nothing and called for Suarez to come out of hiding. The other man emerged from behind the bushes and crossed slowly, cautiously, toward them. When he reached the pool of light, he stopped.

“Show him,” Willie said.

Suarez rolled up his sleeves, exposing the tattoos on his arms. He then unbuttoned his shirt and showed Carlos that artwork as well. He tapped below his right eye.

“I used to have teardrops here,” he said. “You can see the scars. I am no avenging angel.”

Carlos stared at him, the irrefutable evidence before his eyes. He nodded slowly.

“Yes, I see.”