Black Cat Weekly #95

By Robert Lopresti, Simon Wood, A. R. Morlan and 7 more

Our 95th issue has a lot of fun stuff—starting off with a pair of original mysteries by Robert Lopresti and Mindy Quigley (thanks to Acquiring Editors Michael Bracken an Barb Goffman). Also on the mystery side, we have a pair of classic novels by Hulbert Footner R. Austin Freeman, plus a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

On the fantastic side of things, A.R. Morlan has a modern tale of clones, Alfred Coppel has a scientific monster, Seabury Quinn has a weird horror, and Fritz Leiber has a comic mermaid tale. And there a classic science fiction novel by John Taine. Good stuff!

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Memorial,” by Robert Lopresti [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“The Case of the Petty Porch Pirate,” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

“Worth the Wait,” by Mindy Quigley [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Putting Crime Over, by Hulbert Footner [novel, Madame Storey series]

The D’Arblay Mystery, by R. Austin Freeman [novel, Dr. Thorndyke series]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Boog’/4 and the Endicaran Kluge,” by A. R. Morlan [short story]

“The Terror,” by Alfred Coppel [short story]

“Pipe Dream,” by Fritz Leiber [short story]

“Out of the Long Ago,” by Seabury Quinn [short story]

Seeds of Life, by John Taine [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Cat Weekly
• Release date: Jun 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667682365

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

MEMORIAL, by Robert Lopresti

THE CASE OF THE PETTY PORCH PIRATE, by Hal Charles

HAITIAN DIVORCE, by Simon Wood

PUTTING CRIME OVER, by Hulbert Footner

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

THE D’ARBLAY MYSTERY, by R. Austin Freeman

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

BOOG’/4 AND THE ENDICARAN KLUGE, by A. R. Morlan

THE TERROR, by Alfred Coppel

PIPE DREAM, by Fritz Leiber

OUT OF THE LONG AGO, by Seabury Quinn

SEEDS OF LIFE, by John Taine

Chapter One—THE BLACK WIDOW

Chapter Two—THE BOILING BOX

Chapter Three—REBORN

Chapter Four—THE WIDOW’S REVENGE

Chapter Five—HIS JOKE

Chapter Six—DISCHARGED

Chapter Seven—WARNED

Chapter Eight—TRAPPED

Chapter Nine—BERTHA’S BROOD

Chapter Ten—CAT AND MOUSE

Chapter Eleven—THE TOAD

Chapter Twelve—HIS SON

Chapter Thirteen—HIS LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Memorial is copyright © 2023 by Robert Lopresti and appears here for the first time.

The Case of the Petty Porch Pirate is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Haitian Divorce is copyright © 2023 by by Simon Wood. Originally published in Die Behind the Wheel: Crime Fiction Inspired by the Music of Steely Dan (2019). Reprinted by permission of the author.

Putting Crime Over, by Hulbert Footner, was originally published in Argosy All-Story Weekly, November 20, 1926.

The D’Arblay Mystery, by R. Austin Freeman, was originally published in 1926.

Boog’/4 and the Endicaran Kluge, by A. R. Morlan, is copyright © 2011 by A. R. Morlan. Originally published in Once Upon a Future: The Third Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories. Reprinted be permission of the author’s estate.

The Terror, by Alfred Coppel, was originally published in Future, November 1950.

Pipe Dream, by Fritz Leiber, was originally published in Worlds of If, February 1959.

Out of the Long Ago, by Seabury Quinn was originally published in Weird Tales, January 1925.

Seeds of Life, by John Taine, was originally published in Amazing Stories Quarterly, Oct. 1931. This text from the revised Fantasy Press edition (1951).

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 95th issue has a lot of fun stuff—starting off with an original mystery by Robert Lopresti (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken). Also on the mystery side, Haitian Divorce, by Simon Wood, courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman, as well as a pair of classic novels by Hulbert Footner and R. Austin Freeman...plus a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

On the fantastic side of things, A.R. Morlan has a modern tale of clones, Alfred Coppel has a scientific monster, Seabury Quinn has a weird horror, and Fritz Leiber has a comic mermaid tale. And there a classic science fiction novel by John Taine. Good stuff!

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Memorial, by Robert Lopresti [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Case of the Petty Porch Pirate, Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Haitian Divorce, by Simon Wood [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Putting Crime Over, by Hulbert Footner [novel, Madame Storey series]

The D’Arblay Mystery, by R. Austin Freeman [novel, Dr. Thorndyke series]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Boog’/4 and the Endicaran Kluge, by A. R. Morlan [short story]

The Terror, by Alfred Coppel [short story]

Pipe Dream, by Fritz Leiber [short story]

Out of the Long Ago, by Seabury Quinn [short story]

Seeds of Life, by John Taine [novel]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

MEMORIAL,

by Robert Lopresti

The Smokey showed up Saturday evening around six. Maxie spotted him as soon as she came out of the storeroom: tall man in his thirties, buzz-cut, not an ounce of fat, posture that would shame a yardstick. He wore a pressed, button-down shirt and khakis and looked pathetically uncomfortable. This was a man who felt naked out of uniform.

He had set himself up by the white wine display in the front of the store where he had a good view of the sales counter.

Maxie checked the customers Spike was ringing up. First in line was a middle-aged exec with a case of assorted wines for a dinner party. Next was a white-knuckler about to lose her latest battle with sobriety. Then came a handsy couple buying bourbon, no doubt on the way to a motel. And after them—

Bingo. Twenty-something blond boy with a three-day-growth of beard, the fashion that was weirdly popular these days. Only person she had seen all day with a jacket and tie. He carried a six-pack from the beer cooler.

Maxie opened the second register and beckoned the white-knuckler forward. The poor lady’s hands shook so much as she counted out her money that Spike was up to the blond with the beer before she finished.

Spike checked Blondie’s ID and started to hand it back.

Wait, said Maxie.

She picked up the driver’s license and gave it a hard look. It said the guy turned twenty-two last month. A beautiful job, as well it should be.

Check it again, she said to Spike. Compare it to the sample. A John Doe license was pasted in front of each cash register.

He frowned at her and tried again. This time his young eyes caught it. Oh!

Maxie looked at the kid. You’re twenty-two, huh?

That’s right, he squeaked.

What’s the first song you remember hearing on the radio?

The kid stared at her.

Never mind. That ID looks fake to me. Do you want to leave it here or shall we call the cops in to referee?

Blondie turned to Smokey for guidance, but the trooper just looked disgusted and walked out. The kid followed.

Spike asked: What happened—

Customers. She moved to the back of the store where a senior citizen seemed baffled by the almost endless display of Scotches.

Fifteen minutes later Lorgan’s Liquors was empty, and Maxie turned back to her young clerk.

Didn’t you spot the State Trooper up front?

What? No. Was he in uniform?

She sighed and explained the clues to recognizing a Smokey. They come in at least twice a year, trying to catch us selling to underaged people. That blond shill was probably twenty years and ten months old and looked five years older.

I did check his ID, said Spike. It seemed legit.

Of course, it did. The Department of Licensing made it special for him. You had to notice they screwed up the order of the information on the DOB line.

Wow. Spike scratched his nose. What would have happened if I missed it?

I’d get a big fine. And your butt would be out the door.

His eyes widened. Just like that?

Exactly like that.

Well, shoot. Isn’t that what they call trapping?

Entrapment. Not according to the judges.

Spike shook his head. I’m glad you were here.

Me too. They’ll probably come more often now, ’cause you look so young.

I’m twenty-three.

Maxie laughed. Oh, I know. I checked ten ways from Sunday before I hired you.

He frowned. If it’s such a hassle, why don’t you can me and get somebody older?

It’s the principle of the thing. When have you known me to back down?

I haven’t known you long.

Hang around ten years until I retire. You still won’t see it happen.

The door opened. A smiling woman came in, wanting a bottle of champagne for a friend. She’s celebrating her divorce.

Let’s find something special.

* * * *

There was another lull around ten and that’s when they heard the crash.

Maxie ran for the door, yelling at Spike to call 911.

Lorgan’s Liquors was on the corner of Pace and Berryman Streets, with its door on Pace. Moxie saw that a pick-up truck had shot through the stop sign on Berryman and plowed into a hatchback. The sedan, what was left of it, had spun in a half circle, leaving the driver’s side only a foot from the curb.

She heard a door slam. The truck driver must be climbing out.

There was a streetlight in front of her store and from its halo Maxie saw that there was only one person in the hatchback. She was a young woman with auburn hair. Her face was covered with blood and her eyes were closed.

The driver’s door was bent from the crash, but Maxie pulled it open on her third try. Hon, can you hear me?

No answer.

There were shouts from the other side of the truck. Angry voices.

Someone was standing next to her now, a big man with a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt. He’s trying to get away, the bastard.

Who?

The truck driver. How is she?

Not good. I think—

A spark popped under the bent hood.

Crap. She smelled gasoline. Come on. We got to get her out of there.

Are you crazy? said Dallas. You don’t move an injured person!

You want her fricasseed? Maxie moved forward. I’ll take her legs. You get her shoulders.

Ambulance is on the way! Spike yelled.

Get the fire extinguisher. My office.

I don’t know if we should do this, said Dallas.

Don’t be a goddamn coward, said Maxie. Lift with your knees.

The big man grunted and reached forward. They pulled and tugged at the driver, limp as a rag doll. Keep her head up.

Oh, man. All that blood.

It was easier than Maxie expected. The compartment around the driver’s legs was mostly intact. Contact with the windshield had done most of the damage. The airbag had opened but didn’t seem to have done much good.

They laid the driver on the sidewalk. Spike arrived and, wonder of wonders, knew how to start the extinguisher.

Aim at the base, not the flames.

I know, he said, lowering the hose.

Dallas had left, running around the smashed vehicles. Soon she heard his voice in the crowd of men yelling on the other side. No doubt he was more comfortable wrestling with the truck driver than shifting a woman’s body.

Body or corpse?

Maxie was no doctor, but she saw no sign of life. Was she supposed to do CPR? She had no training for that.

Sirens announced it was out of her hands.

* * * *

Maxie told Spike to lock the shop door and prepare to close early. She wasn’t going to mess with the chaos of emergency personnel and looky-loos.

The EMTs quickly confirmed that the driver was dead, and the urgency drained from their actions. Police brought one of them to the other side to look at the truck driver. Drunk as a skunk, someone declared. His face was bloody too, but Maxie thought that the result of bystanders discouraging him from fleeing the scene.

By midnight there was no one left outside but crime scene photographers.

Do we open on time tomorrow? Spike asked.

Sure as sunrise.

* * * *

Over breakfast the next day Maxie read that the dead woman was Carol Walsh, 19, and the driver of the pick-up was Nathan James Schmetzer, 37. They always gave the middle name of people who were arrested. Why was that?

Nathan James’s blood level had been 0.19, well over double the legal limit for driving. He was in jail and would be there at least until Monday. Longer if he couldn’t make bail.

Carol had been a freshman at the university. She was driving home from a concert at Silver Lake Park when it happened.

Maxie looked across the kitchen table at the chair where her husband used to sit. Jerome would shake his head over stories like that and say: It’s the damned bars, honey. They call it overserving, like they’re being too generous. But they poison people.

* * * *

When Maxie arrived a few minutes before opening time, there was a tow truck in front.

She parked behind the store and walked back to see the driver giving the street a critical look.

All gone, she said.

It better be. The law says when we pull a car after an accident, we’re responsible for cleaning up what’s left. Not spilled fuel. That’s the firemen’s lookout.

Makes sense.

I figured it’s best to come out in daylight and make sure my guys didn’t miss anything. Don’t need any fines, thank you very much.

I’ll bet. Did you tow the truck or the car?

We scored both. The truck may roll again but the car is scrap.

Maxie turned back to the store. Someone had tied a bouquet of flowers to the light pole with a piece of string.

Well, that’s nice.

* * * *

Listen, she told Spike, a few hours later. Don’t bring it up.

He raised his eyebrows.

The accident. If customers ask, sure, say what you know. But there’s no point in telling the world.

Okay. He looked at the wine bottles he’d been fronting on the shelves. Why?

’Cause we don’t want to be remembered as the scene of a crash.

But you were a hero! You pulled her out of the car.

Maxie shook her head. Heroes save lives, Spike. She was already dead. What’s going on out there?

A small crowd stood on the sidewalk. Teenagers, mostly girls, crying and hugging. One of them held balloons.

Is it somebody’s birthday?

No, said Spike. They must have been friends of the dead girl. It’s gonna be one of those monuments to people killed by drunk drivers. Haven’t you seen them?

Maxie figured she must have but had never paid much attention. There were signs on highways, come to think of it. IN MEMORY OF SO AND SO. DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE.

She didn’t remember seeing a handmade one on a city street before.

And a memorial it was. Someone had left a piece of pink poster board leaning against the light pole, facing the street. There were ribbons and balloons attached.

One of the mourners, if that was the word, knocked on the door of the shop. Definitely too young to be a customer, he was a redhaired kid in a Chicago Bulls T-shirt. He smiled. Excuse me. Do you have any scissors?

What for? asked Maxie.

We’re putting up some stuff for Carol. The girl who died?

Oh, sure. She pulled a pair out of a drawer. Bring ’em right back, okay?

Miracle of miracles, he did.

At closing time Maxie went out for a look. The poster board had a photo of Carol, a pretty, young woman. She was wearing a pink polo shirt that looked better than the black sweater she had on when she—

Never mind.

Red roses and yellow ribbons lay on the pavement. Pinwheels were fixed to the light pole. It was kind of sweet.

* * * *

Maxie didn’t usually work on Mondays, except for occasional pop-bys, just to make sure Rajit and Dina hadn’t decided to rob her blind or turn the place into a crack house. They had both been with her for close to a decade, but you never knew.

This week, however, she figured she’d better arrive before opening, and she was right.

What the devil is that about? asked Rajit as soon as he came in. R.I.P. Carol Walsh? Who is she and what does she have to do with us?

Nothing to do with us, Maxie said. She died in a car crash Saturday night. Right out in the street there.

No. He ran a hand through his graying hair as he turned back to the window. Were you here to see it?

Spike and I both. Some drunk in a pickup truck.

What a shame. A pretty, young girl, too.

After Dina arrived, Maxie had to go through the whole story again.

When she was done Dina nodded gravely. Should I clean that up?

Clean up what?

All that junk on the sidewalk.

Not our problem. Okay, I’m gone. Don’t forget the beer delivery.

* * * *

The next morning there was a framed photo of Carol Walsh wired to the light pole, facing the store, and a sign that said DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE! Heart-shaped helium balloons, all pink, had been added.

Around three Maxie saw close to a dozen people on the sidewalk. All college students, she thought, but dressed up. Must have come from the funeral. One of them had a guitar and they sang a song she didn’t recognize.

After that a girl came in.

You can’t be here, hon.

She blinked, eyes red from tears. I just want a soda.

I can’t sell you anything, said Maxie. You’re underage.

Not alcohol. Just a soda!

Sorry. I don’t make the law.

The girl was shaking. What about that truck driver? I’ll bet you’d sell to him!

Maxie took a breath. He wasn’t a customer.

He could have been. How many drunks have you sold to?

I’m sorry about your friend, hon, but you need to leave.

The girl marched out.

Maxie saw her talking to her friends, glaring back over her shoulder. Now they were all looking at the store, and they didn’t look happy.

Wasn’t even one of them old enough to come in and buy the poor kid a Coke?

* * * *

It became routine. Customers would ask about the memorial and Maxie would explain.

What a shame, they would say. Such a pretty girl.

What’s wrong with people these days?

Why does the drunk always walk off without a scratch?

She just nodded and slipped bottles into bags.

Late on Wednesday afternoon Maxie saw a tall man in a dark suit up front. She did a double take because he stood almost exactly where the Smokey had been and was watching the counter the same way.

When there were no customers he walked over, empty-handed.

How can I help you?

He opened his mouth, swallowed, and tried again. Are you Maxine Lorgan?

That’s right.

My name is Dennis Walsh. He waited, expecting her to recognize the name. Then she did.

Oh my gosh. Was that your daughter?

He nodded. The police tell me you, you tried to help her.

I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.

They say you risked your life to try to get her out before the car burned.

Maxie felt embarrassed. Anybody would’ve done that.

No. I don’t think so. Our family is grateful.

I’m really sorry for your loss.

Walsh nodded and then stopped, staring past her. Finally, he spoke: I don’t—She didn’t say anything?

Maxie shook her head. I think it was, you know, instantaneous. She didn’t suffer, for what’s that worth.

No. He nodded again, looking around the store. I don’t think I’ve ever been in here. Funny, I drive right past on my way to work.

Where’s that? she asked, for something to say.

The Carlyle Building on Court Street. I’m an architect.

Well, drop by anytime.

Walsh nodded. He looked around once more and left.

Poor lost soul.

* * * *

The next morning the memorial was bigger. There were two pink teddy bears wedged in the doorway of Lorgan’s Liquors, like bizarre homeless men. That thought made her laugh, even as she moved them out of the way. She propped them against the light pole.

Hey!

She turned.

A street-cleaning truck was passing. The driver leaned out the window. You gotta get that crap out of the street.

It’s not my crap.

You can still get a ticket for it.

Oh, for Pete’s sake. Maxie grabbed a potted plant, a heart-shaped pillow, and the teddy bears and pulled them onto the sidewalk. Satisfied?

Now you’re blocking the pavement. The driver grinned. Not my problem. Good luck with the cops, though.

Thanks a heap.

* * * *

It was five o’clock when she saw more kids outside, leaning against a Saab that was parked in front of the light pole. One of them split off from the pack and came to her door. He was tall, wide, and redheaded, and if he didn’t play football, he was breaking a coach’s heart.

You can’t come in here, she said.

Why did you move the memorial? His voice was hoarse.

"Read the sign on the pole. The metal sign, I mean. Thursday morning is street cleaning day. They have to be able to reach the curb."

Oh. He looked out the window. She was my sister.

I’m sorry. She walked toward the door, mostly to keep him out. I’m Maxie.

I’m Trevor. Trevor Walsh.

They shook hands.

You were there, he said. You stopped the fire.

She nodded.

Too bad you didn’t let that drunk bastard burn.

* * * *

The cops didn’t get around to complaining about the sidewalk, but customers did.

I understand the sentiment, said a woman in a Tom Ford suit who purchased top shelf gin and vodka every weekend, regular as clockwork. But who wants to be thinking about DUI accidents when they’re buying booze? You should ask them to move. It’s got to hurt your business.

She shrugged. I suppose it’ll die down on its own.

Other customers put it differently. Lot of trash outside to walk through. I couldn’t even park my car near the store.

Was she the one who was drunk, Maxie?

* * * *

It was Dina who cracked. Dina, who was usually the model of a no-drama middle-aged woman. She called Maxie at home on Monday afternoon, in a panic.

By the time Maxie arrived there were half a dozen people, mostly teens, on the sidewalk, yelling at Rajit who was blocking the doorway and yelling back.

Maxie came in through the rear. Dina was standing behind the counter, arms folded.

What happened?

There were tears in her eyes. It’s my fault. That junk was blocking the doorway. I tripped over it. So, I came out with a trash can and threw most of it away.

Hoo-boy. She took a breath. Trash in the back? Get some cartons and put anything in them that isn’t too filthy to save. Then bring them up. Oh, and have 911 ready, just in case.

She stepped outside and tapped Rajit on his skinny, seventy-year-old shoulder. He backed up with a look of gratitude.

Can I help you folks?

You stole Carol’s monument! said a girl with green braids, tears pouring down.

Look, said Maxie in the sweet-reason voice she used mostly on accounts receivable clerks. If you leave stuff on the street some of it’ll disappear. You know that.

I saw her take it! It was Trevor, the brother.

Who? asked Maxie.

Her. That one. He was pointing at Dina who stood in the doorway with a wine carton in her arms.

She was trying to keep stuff from being damaged. See? We saved it for you. Everybody, this is Dina. Say hello, Dina.

Dina gave a nervous nod. She put the box down of the sidewalk. Two girls dropped to their knees and started through it. Where’s the scrapbook? said the girl with the green braids.

Did you see one, Dina?

She shook her head.

Must have gone earlier, Maxie said. Listen, we have to keep this sidewalk clear, right? City ordinances. You could get fined.

"You could, said Trevor. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Money."

A couple of regular customers were coming up the sidewalk. They took one look at the crowd and crossed the street. No doubt heading to Berryman Wines on the next block.

See? said the first girl. All she cares about is that we might be chasing away some of her drunks.

Watch your mouth, hon. I don’t sell to the intoxicated. She waved a hand. We got your stuff back, okay? Now I’m going in and if you’re still blocking my shop in five minutes, I’m calling the cops.

She ignored their yells and went inside.

Rajit and Dina looked at her.

She sighed. That went well.

* * * *

Spike wasn’t due until two the next day, but he showed up at noon, a little wild-eyed. Have you seen it?

Seen what?

He pulled out his phone. Look!

The video started with that same picture from the poster. Then the subtitles appeared.

Carol Ann Walsh was 19 when she died.

Killed by a drunk driver.

There was footage of the kids gathered on Pace Street.

Carol’s friends protesting in front of the store that sold the drunk the booze.

Like hell, said Maxie.

The owner admitted to throwing away the memorial set up in Carol’s honor…

I did not.

Yeah, said Spike. But on the video, they can’t hear what you’re saying. And you brought the box out…

This will not stand.

* * * *

You ever hear of the Streisand Effect? asked Charmaine. She was Maxie’s lawyer, and they were talking on the phone.

Is that why we get so much snow in the spring?

That’s the lake effect, and I don’t think it applies around here. No, doll. The Streisand Effect is named for the Divine Barbra. She got mad when someone put a picture of her house up on the web and sued them for invasion of privacy. Guess what happened.

The photographer committed hari-kari?

Nope. The picture went viral. Something hardly anyone had noticed was seen by hundreds of thousands of people, all because Babs tried to censor it. You get my point?

You’re saying I can’t make them take that video down.

I’m saying you’ll just make it worse if you try.

So, what can I do?

Getting to that, doll. Have you met my nephew, Alphonse? He’s in film school. Taking courses about documentaries. He’s going to win Oscars with flicks about skateboarders.

And that helps me how?

You can be his next class project. He interviews you; puts in footage about how they lied about you. We put that up on the web and suddenly there is what the PR world calls a competing narrative. You’re the victim instead of the villain.

I hate like hell to be called either one.

Publicity, doll. Everybody plays the victim card these days.

How long would it take Alphonse to put this together?

Well, he’s a perfectionist but I think maybe he can throw something together in a couple weeks.

Maxie looked at the memorial. Someone had added a cross and two American flags.

I don’t think I have that long.

* * * *

She found posterboard in the storage room and took markers from her office desk. After half an hour she emerged and showed it to Spike. Whatcha think?

FRIENDS OF CAROL WALSH

WE ARE SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS

LORGAN’S LIQUORS CALLED 911 FOR HER

THE DRUNK DRIVER WAS NEVER OUR CUSTOMER

THAT IS A LIE!

Wow, said Spike.

You impressed?

I haven’t seen a sign like that since, I dunno, third grade. Gimme ten minutes on your computer and let me go to the print shop and I’ll bring you something that looks professional.

Why not? I’m made of money.

It’s just a few bucks. He paused to look at the poster again. Can we lose the shouting?

The what?

The all-caps.

And here I didn’t know I hired a graphics designer. Knock yourself out.

* * * *

As soon as the poster went up in the window customers started commenting on it. Of course, some of them had not seen the video or even noticed the memorial until they spotted Maxie’s sign. That was the Streisand Effect, come home to roost.

But they were mostly supportive.

Don’t let ’em push you around, Maxie.

These idiots want to bring back prohibition.

You oughta sue them.

The next day Trevor Walsh was back, red-faced and furious.

Get out of my shop, said Maxie. Or I’ll call the cops.

The big teen pointed to the poster in the window. You calling me a liar?

Whoever made that video is a liar and you know it. The man who killed your sister didn’t buy booze here.

"Maybe not. But you would have sold it to him. You’d do anything for money."

Those are nice sneakers, said Maxie.

The football player looked down at his feet. What?

"Cost a bundle, right? Somebody in your family thinks making money is important."

You bitch.

Spike, behind her, took a step forward. Without turning, Maxie waved him back. That does it, kid. Know what I’m going to do now?

Trevor sneered. Call the cops?

Call your daddy. Just what he needs right now, to hear how his son is screwing up.

He tried to slam the door on the way out, but it was built to close gently.

You really gonna call the father? asked Spike.

I hope not.

* * * *

The next afternoon a bunch of young people stood on the sidewalk and sang songs, accompanied by a ukulele this time. Maxie hadn’t seen one of those in years.

The good part was that they ignored the store and showed no interest in the customers coming and going.

Mr. Kotsky, putting a bottle of schnapps on the counter, said: If they’re gonna be a band maybe they should call themselves the Carolers. Get it?

You’re a riot, Mr. K.

Just before closing time, Maxie told Spike to fetch a case of red wine from the storeroom.

He carried it to the front and set it down with a sigh. I’m getting too old for this.

Oh, don’t make me weep. I have bras older than you.

He stretched. I’d rather not think about that if—

The crash made Maxie back up to the wall. Not as loud as the car accident, but closer. The front window had turned into a spiderweb.

Get down!

Spike had been facing away from the window. He started to turn, then hunched his shoulders and dropped.

The second brick burst through the fractured glass and sent shards flying.

Maxie waited for a breathless second to see if more would be coming. Then she ran to Spike. He was on his hands and knees. There were splinters of glass on his shirt and blood was leaking onto white cotton.

Don’t move. I’ll call 911.

Again, he croaked.

Yeah. We get the loyalty discount. Stay still!

* * * *

Maxie couldn’t open the store the next morning, but she was in early anyway, making calls. First to Jorge and Sirena, the best cleaners she knew. When a store has been sprayed with glass and blood, you didn’t take chances. Couldn’t have a customer reach for a bottle of cabernet and come back with a lawsuit.

Then the glass company. The night before, after the ambulance had left, Maxie had found the plywood sheets had Jerome purchased to cover the windows whenever a bad windstorm was predicted. They weren’t exactly in tornado country, so it hadn’t happened often, but Jerome, bless his heart, had seldom thrown anything away.

Two of the cops had been kind enough to drag the boards up and over the window. That would last until the glass guys installed a replacement.

Now somebody was knocking on the door. It was a cop in uniform, squinty-eyed, black hair in a bun.

Maxie let her in. Ms. Lorgan? I’m Officer Ravo. Is everything okay here?

As well as can be expected. They kept my clerk in the hospital overnight.

The cop shook her head. He’s lucky it wasn’t worse. I’d like to show you some photos. Tell me if you saw any of these people around your shop yesterday.

Sure. Maxie gestured to the counter.

Ravo opened a folder. Inside was a page with photos of six young white men.

Maxie picked it up. Her hand began to tremble, so she let the folder drop.

This is called a photo array. Take a look at all the pictures. Tell me if—

I know how it works, Officer. We get robbed every few years, you know. It’s part of the circle of life around here.

Oh. Sure.

Number four is Trevor Walsh. I’ve never seen the others.

Ravo nodded. And was he in the store yesterday?

No.

Maybe you saw him outside?

No. But he was here a few days ago.

Did he threaten you?

He and his friends said some stupid things. I probably did too. She shrugged. I don’t think they meant anything by it. Why do you bring him up?

He was stopped by police last night on Highway 7, driving well over the speed limit. We found brick dust on the floor of his car.

Brick dust. Amazing what scientists can figure out these days, isn’t it?

Officer Ravo looked at the camera on the side wall, the one pointed at a sheet of plywood where a window used to be. We’re going to need the footage from that security camera.

Maxie took a breath. Yeah, that’s a funny thing. It hasn’t been working lately. I haven’t had time to get it fixed.

Ravo scowled. Are you sure?

Absotively.

I don’t think your insurance company is going to be happy to hear that.

Maxie nodded. You have a bucket list, Officer?

She frowned. Excuse me?

A bucket list. Things you want to do before you die.

I know what it is. No, I don’t have one. Why do you ask?

Yeah, you’re too young. Well, I have one, and cheering up insurance companies ain’t on it.

Once the cop left Maxie went to her office and sat down at her computer. She had some video erasing to do.

* * * *

Jorge and Sirena, bless their hearts, came right after lunch. They shook their heads, offered sympathy, and got right to work on the bloodstains and busted window glass. It turned out no bottles had broken, which was a nice surprise.

They were almost finished when someone knocked on the locked door. Maxie let Dennis Walsh in. The girl’s father was breathing hard, like he’d climbed a long way to get there.

Step into my office.

He followed her. She sat behind her desk and gestured toward a chair. He didn’t sit.

I’ll take all that crap down. Is that the deal?

There’s no deal, said Maxie.

Walsh’s hands were clasping and releasing, like he was doing strange calisthenics. You told the police there was no film of—of what happened. If the memorial stays up, are you going to magically discover film of my boy and show it to them?

Maxie leaned back, folding her arms. You know you’re insulting me, right? In my little crowd people get cranky when they’re accused of blackmail.

Sorry. I— Walsh wiped a hand across his face. This is the worst month of my entire life. I don’t know what you want.

I want it to stop, that’s all. Things are getting crazy. She shook her head. I’m not blaming you. Hell, it’s at least as much my fault as anyone’s. But we have to end this now.

Maxie pointed toward the front of the store. If Spike had been facing the other way when your son threw those bricks he could have been blinded. Maybe killed.

I know.

Tell you what. When I total the repair bills, I’ll send you a copy. Contribute what you see fit.

He nodded. All right. And your assistant…

Worker’s Comp should take care of Spike. If there’s deductible or whatever I’ll send you that bill too. Okay?

Another nod. And, like I said, I’ll take the memorial down. You’ll never have to see it again.

Maxie straightened up. Look, your daughter, Carol… She was on her way home from Silver Lake, right? Been to a concert there.

He frowned. That’s right.

So how about this? You and me write to the Parks Department, and ask they let us put up a plaque there. Maybe we need a petition or something.

A plaque?

"Something pretty. Something permanent. Maxie waved toward the street. Something people can tie all the flowers and balloons they want to."

I don’t know…

Come on, Mr. Walsh. Her friends should remember her where she was happy, not here. She raised her eyebrows. I’ll even chip in on the cost. What do you say?

Walsh rolled his shoulders. I drive past this street on my way to work every day. You don’t know what that’s like. You can’t know.

Maxie felt a pulse throbbing in her throat. Don’t say that, pal. Don’t you dare say that.

She stood up. Follow me.

They walked forward into the sales space and stopped near the beer cooler. You see that corner? Six years ago, this April my husband died right there. Some junkie with a gun came to rob the place and Jerome, poor sweet Jerome, was in such a hurry to get to the cash register and give him our money that the guy panicked and shot him in the face.

Jesus.

Maxie cleared her throat. So don’t tell me I don’t know what it’s like, okay?

Walsh stared at the floor in front of the cooler as if he expected to still see blood stains. Then he looked up at her.

How do you do it? How do you live with that?

Good question.

Well. First, you try to make yourself numb. She waved at the shelves of liquor. Not with this stuff. That would kill you. But you make yourself do all the stupid little tasks you can do without thinking. Or feeling. And day by day, scar tissue starts to form.

Scar tissue, said Walsh.

Maxie made a face. Not the right way to put it. Makes it sound like it builds up steady, and there’s nothing steady about it. A birthday, an anniversary, and suddenly the pain is fresh as your first cup of coffee, and you have to start over.

She was blinking hard now. Could be a song. Or the way sunlight pours through the goddamn window. Then you have to ask yourself: what would…what would Carol want me to be doing? And you do it for her.

Walsh looked at her for a long moment. He cleared his throat. Thanks for not going after my boy.

He’s hurting enough.

Do you want to write the letter to the Parks Department?

You do it, said Maxie. You’re better with words than me. Besides, I need to visit a sick employee.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Robert Lopresti’s stories have appeared in most mystery magazines and reprinted in The Best American Mysteries. He blogs for SleuthSayers and Little Big Crimes.

THE CASE OF THE

PETTY PORCH PIRATE,

by Hal Charles

When Detective Amy Kirkland opened the door of the screened-in porch, she could tell something was wrong by the look on her Aunt Nora’s face.

Oh, Amy, the diminutive woman blurted out, I hated to call you, but I didn’t know what else to do.

What’s wrong, Aunt Nora, Amy said as she stepped through the doorway.

I had a very important package delivered this afternoon while I was downtown shopping, and when I got back home around 2:00, the package was gone.

Are you sure the package was delivered?

I checked the tracking online, said Nora, and the package was delivered at 1:45.

What was in the package?

Amy’s aunt sighed. You know about my writers club.

Amy nodded.

Well, said Nora, the five of us recently entered the University’s annual mystery story competition.

And?

Nora smiled sheepishly. My story won. The judges called to say they were sending me the prize, a collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s short stories. I so wanted to surprise the girl’s at our next meeting. She paused for a second. I hate to even think it, but the girls all knew the package was to be delivered this afternoon even though they didn’t know what was in it.

And since no passerby could see the package on the screened-in porch, said Amy, you think one of the club members must be the thief.

After her aunt reluctantly gave Amy the names and addresses of the women in the club, the off-duty detective set out to uncover the porch pirate.

Amy immediately eliminated her aunt’s down-the-street neighbor, Jena Rosenberg, since the engineer had been out of town all week for a conference and wasn’t scheduled to get back to town for several days.

Amy’s first interview was with Constance Bigalow, a retired realtor who was well known around town for her commitment to civic activities. After introducing herself, Amy said, Ms. Bigalow, may I ask about your afternoon?

Certainly, my dear, said the stylishly dressed woman. I’ve just returned from a protracted luncheon with the mayor. We were hammering out the details for this year’s spring festival.

Certain that Ms. Bigalow’s alibi would check out, Amy decided not to bring up the theft.

Clara Browning lived in an apartment near town square. An English teacher at the local high school, she had organized the writing club and, according to Nora, had encouraged the ladies to enter the contest.

Amy introduced herself then said, Ms. Browning, I need to know your whereabouts this afternoon.

I hate to admit that I’ve spent this entire beautiful afternoon grading papers at my kitchen table. The only break I’ve had was around 1:30 when my next-door neighbor stopped by for coffee.

Reasoning that Clara couldn’t have made it to Nora’s for the 1:45 delivery, Amy headed for her final interview, where she found Deborah Channing puttering with a bed of flowers in the front yard of her tidy bungalow. A longtime acquaintance of Amy’s aunt, the former librarian smiled as Amy approached. Amy, she said, what brings you to this side of town?

I’m afraid this is not a social visit, said Amy. I think you know about the prize Aunt Nora won for her short story.

Deborah nodded. We were all so proud of her.

Well, said Amy, someone grabbed it after it was delivered this afternoon.

Oh, no! said the former librarian. Nora must be beside herself to know that such a hard-earned prize was taken from her porch while she was away.

Amy suddenly knew the identity of the pirate who would have to walk the plank.

SOLUTION

When Deborah stated the package had been taken from the porch while Nora was away, Amy realized that her aunt’s longtime friend was the thief since Amy had said only that the package was stolen. Confronted, Deborah confessed that she had taken the prize since she thought her story was far better than Nora’s and should have won the contest. After Amy told her aunt what she had discovered, Nora forgave her friend and promised not to tell the other club members what had happened.

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

HAITIAN DIVORCE,

by Simon Wood

Barbara knew her marriage was over the second the FBI stormed her home. The Feds fired tear gas through the windows of her ranch. She watched black-clad figures flood into her home from behind binoculars on a ridgeline a mile from the raid. She’d miss the place, the horses, and the peace of living in the country, but Will had sold her out.

Clean Willie strikes again, she said to herself.

She hated the nickname that had attached itself to her husband. It was an ugly reminder of what he was capable of when push came to shove. He always got away clean... even when it was at the expense of his own crew. This time the son of a bitch was burning her to save his own ass. The brilliance of his ruthlessness had blinded her, but over the years, as he sold out crew members, then friends and now her, she saw it for what it was—the instincts of someone who didn’t give a shit about anyone other than himself. She’d seen this day coming and she’d prepped for it. She turned her back on her beloved home and got behind the wheel of her car.

No tears. No remorse, she said to herself. That was the way she had to think. The way Will thought.

Speeding down the hillside, she cursed Will for his impulsive nature. If he’d listened to her, they wouldn’t be in this shit, but he had to go for the next shiny object no matter how far out on a limb it was. She’d been happy with the art scams, the bogus property deals, and the investment boiler rooms that had earned them millions, but that wasn’t good enough for Will. He had to go for the big one, the one where the downside outweighed the upside, the one that got people killed. Will’s Holy Grail was the US Treasury. You didn’t take on the federal government and not expect them to come back at you. She could cut her own deal with the Feds, but it would mean jail time. The public and the politicians would demand it. Besides, considering the FBI was kicking in her door, Will had already cut a deal. He wouldn’t abide by it. He was just using her to slip out the back door.

She grabbed the cell phone from the car’s center console and hit speed dial.

After three rings, a voice said, Yes.

Give me Papa.

There’s no Papa here, lady.

Tell him it’s Babs, Clean Willie’s woman.

If Will’s moniker didn’t get her in, nothing would. Will had screwed Papa over for years, and it had cost him five years of his life. Helping her would square accounts.

What you want, Babs? Papa’s voice was thick from decades of smoking cigars.

I told you I’d be calling.

A slow, dirty laugh filled the line. Barbara pictured Papa’s teeth, big enough to challenge any Osmond family member. He’d make her squirm, but as long as she got what she wanted, she’d squirm.

So things have come to a head with Clean Willie?

Yeah.

She wondered what bill of goods he’d sold the FBI and what story he’d concocted about her. Knowing her husband, it would be a colorful one and there’d be a paper trail to back it up. It was sad to think her life up until this moment was over. She’d get over it. She’d live. Even if the legendary Clean Willie didn’t.

Irreconcilably. I want it done.

Want what?

This was Papa making her squirm.

If you can’t say it, you can’t have it.

If she hadn’t needed Papa, she would’ve kicked the son of a bitch in the balls. That would kill that smile. I want a Haitian Divorce.

Good. Good. You’re on your way to being a free woman. You’ll need to see the Haitian yourself. He’ll want to be paid in person.

She could have bitched about having to travel to Haiti, but being out of the country for a while sounded good.

You got money? A clean passport? You can travel, right?

I can travel. I have his money.

Get yourself to Port-au-Prince, then call me.

Will do.

Just don’t forget, Papa needs his co-pay before you leave.

You’ll get your money, she said and hung up.

Barbara drove the forty miles to her unit in a crappy, public-storage facility in Colorado Springs. Will didn’t know about the unit. It was under a fake identity after all. She’d only kept it as a last resort.

Inside she kept all the things she’d ever need—cash, a clean identity, clothes, a gun (that she sadly couldn’t take with her) and a boring-as-can-be Honda. Inside the safe there was close to two hundred and fifty grand. She took fifty. It was all she needed for now. Ten for Papa. Twenty-five for the Haitian. The remainder was for expenses. She put the money in a roller bag with enough clothes to last her a week. She’d buy more if she needed them.

She ditched her ID, credit cards, jewelry, and anything that identified her as Barbara. She was now Linda Miller. A wave of sadness draped itself over her shoulders. She liked being Barbara, but even once she had her Haitian Divorce, she could never be Barbara again. That saddened her more than she expected. She hoped she’d get to like Linda just as much.

Barbara stared at her wedding ring sitting in her palm. Will had given it to her after their first big score. It hadn’t been off her finger since. She’d considered it unlucky to take the ring off. Her luck had run out regardless. Screw superstition, she thought, but she couldn’t bring herself to sling the ring in with the rest of her jewelry in the safe. She slipped the ornate band back on. She’d give it back to Will at the divorce. That thought put a smile on her face. Not a joyous one. But a fuck-you one.

Swapping her Audi for the Honda, she left her old identity there in that storage unit to gather dust. Once on US 24, she settled in for a long drive. Denver airport was right on her doorstep, but she wasn’t taking any chances on her name being flagged, even with her rock-solid Linda Miller identity. No, she’d drive to Miami and catch a flight to Haiti from there.

There was no way she’d reach Miami in one shot, so she checked into a motel in St. Louis and into another in Atlanta the following night. In Atlanta, she dyed her blond hair auburn to match Linda’s red hair on the driver’s license and passport, put Papa’s ten grand in a FedEx envelope, and booked her flight to Haiti.

Hitting the road the next morning, a single thought distracted her—she wasn’t headline news. At the very least, she expected some FBI alert saying there was a manhunt in progress and asking people to call some tip line. But there was nothing on the national or local news. She didn’t know what to make of that. Either the Feds knew exactly where to find her or she wasn’t important to their case. Either way, they wouldn’t be waiting for her in South Florida.

She spent the night in a hotel in Coral Gables, not twenty minutes from Miami International. The following morning, she checked into her flight with thirty grand stashed in her clothes, which was all the cash she was taking to Haiti. She’d stowed the remaining cash under the Honda’s spare wheel.

Security wasn’t a problem. Her flight was around two-thirds full. She was pleased to see plenty of White faces on the plane. The last thing she needed was to stick out more like a sore thumb than necessary.

* * * *

Port-au-Prince’s cloying heat hit her like a fist. The humidity enveloped her the moment she left the air-conditioned cool of the aircraft. She shuffled along with her fellow passengers into the airport as they chattered away. French and English flew over her head. She didn’t talk to anyone. It was the way she wanted it—or had wanted it. She’d kept to herself on the flight, shooting down anyone’s attempts to chat. Now she regretted that. A lone tourist stuck out. She needed decoys and fast.

She scanned the crowd and locked onto a chatty pair of American couples a dozen people behind her. She let other people drift ahead of her until they caught up to her, then stepped on one of their toes by accident to kick off a conversation. She sold them a line about traveling alone on account of a friend canceling her trip at the last moment. Taking pity on her, they welcomed her into their fold. Now they were a group of five. After blowing through customs and immigration with her disposable friends, she passed through and out of the terminal, ghosting them.

Cab drivers descended upon her. French hailed down upon her from all directions. She didn’t understand a word, but she understood the subtext—you’re White, which means you have money and we want it. She hated hustlers, hypocritical under the circumstances, but it was more to do with small-time hustlers. Their desperation disgusted her. Black or White, she respected hustlers with cool. Hustlers like herself and Clean Willie. Hustlers like the broad-shouldered guy staring directly at her, leaning against an aged Toyota sedan with his arms crossed against his chest. This guy knew tourists spooked easily and that playing it cool won the day. She pointed at Mr. Cool.

He shoved his competition aside and grabbed her roller bag. The second the competition knew they’d lost out, they pounced on the next set of tourists.

Her driver opened a rear door for her to get in and put her roller in the trunk. The car sank a couple of inches when the driver dropped into his seat.

Where to?

She handed him a scrap of paper with an address she’d gotten from Papa.

The cabbie frowned. What is your name?

Barbara’s neck muscles tightened. Linda.

You do not want to go here, Linda.

She didn’t buckle under the weight of the man’s concern. I do.

I know this place. People go there for one purpose. It’s not for you. It’s not for anyone. Whatever your problems are, they can be solved another way.

She leaned forward in her seat. What’s your name?

Maurice.

Maurice, if I had any other way of resolving this issue, I would do it, but I don’t, so please take me to this address.

Maurice sighed and turned away from her.

Port-au-Prince changed as they left the modern feel of the airport for the city streets. Bad roads were packed to capacity with vehicles. Mopeds cut in and out of traffic and seemed to be the smartest form of transportation if you wanted to get somewhere fast. Buildings and homes were packed tight and not well. This was a city of hard living. She’d known tough times, but dollars to donuts, these people knew harder.

Maurice didn’t talk to her during the ride. She’d disappointed him. That or he pitied her. She’d wait for another time to be embarrassed. She just wanted to get this done and move on with her life.

Their journey ended on a narrow dirt road. Stucco-sided homes without a single architectural feature rose up on both sides to exaggerate the claustrophobic street.

Maurice pointed at a run-down bar on a street corner. That’s the place you want. Don’t go in the front. You want that door on the side.

Barbara reached for her wallet.

I will wait here.

Won’t be necessary, she said pulling out a twenty.

It will. You will want a friend when you come out.

And you’re my friend?

In Haiti, I am.

She smiled. She guessed she was flattered by how Maurice perceived her. He saw her as some desperate American rich bitch looking for a way to get out from under—not a ruthless con artist. She should be flattered by that. She held out the twenty.

That’s a gift for my friend. See you in a while.

Maurice offered no smile in return but took the money.

The door Maurice had pointed out wasn’t locked, so she let herself in. An unlit stairwell greeted her. Before she reached the top, a wiry guy tall enough to be in the NBA emerged from the darkness holding a .45.

You’re in the wrong place, bitch. Fuck off. His accent turned the word bitch into beech.

Unfazed by either the gun or the slur, she said, I’m here to see the Haitian.

He laughed. We are all Haitian here, beech.

You listen to too much hip-hop. "Yeah, but you aren’t the Haitian."

A voice from the shadows said, Let her up. She’s Papa’s girl.

One thing she wasn’t was Papa’s girl, but she let it slide. Mr. NBA held back a curtain that stood in for a proper door.

The room on the upper floor stank. It was a heady cocktail of booze, weed, sweat, decay, and men who didn’t give a shit. Just her type. The Haitian rose from a leather club chair against the far wall with a mini-fridge humming loudly on one side and a gaming console on the other. A TV sitting on a coffee table covered in empty beer bottles was in front.

Children in men’s clothing. Again, just her type.

The Haitian was a cute, baby-faced guy in his thirties, although he carried too much weight around his waist. That weight would catch up with those good looks one of these days. He offered a hand to her and they shook.

You are Barbara, yes?

He spoke with a faint French accent that made her wonder if he’d spent time in the States.

Yes, she replied.

"Enchanté. Do you ’ave everything I need?"

She removed an envelope with pictures and information on Clean Willie. The Haitian took the envelope and walked it over to a desk by a shuttered window. He sat on the corner of the desk and gave the contents scant examination before tossing it to Mr. NBA.

The money? he asked with far more interest.

She pulled twenty-five grand from her purse. The Haitian’s face lit up as she dropped the neatly packed bundles on the desk. He tossed one to Mr. NBA, who sniffed it like it was a Michelin-star meal. There was no hiding what was of interest to these guys.

Putting the money aside, the Haitian said, So what is it you want?

Fun and games, really? She’d been hoping for a smooth transaction. You know what I want.

I do, but you ’ave to say it.

What for?

The contract. There’s no paper, so you ’ave say it.

She’d jumped through bigger hoops. I want a Haitian Divorce.

Again.

She sighed. I want a Haitian Divorce.

Again.

I want a Haitian Divorce.

The Haitian grinned. Now we ’ave a contract.

She wasn’t sure if this guy was screwing with her, but she remembered some factoids about having to say, I divorce you three times before getting your divorce decree. She guessed the Haitian was a stickler for tradition.

When can I expect it done?

The Haitian and Mr. NBA looked at each other and laughed.

You really do not know ’ow this works, do you? the Haitian said.

She couldn’t believe she’d screwed up. Papa had fucked her over. She knew she couldn’t trust that slimy son of a bitch. Well, fuck these guys. She was out of here. She reached for her money and didn’t even get close.

Mr. NBA shot out one of his stick-thin arms and latched it around her throat before pressing the .45 against her temple. She grabbed his wrist to pull it away, but there was real strength in his wiry frame. He spat French at her as he marched her backward across the room until she connected with the sofa and he tumbled on top of her. Maurice’s warning to her echoed loud in her mind. She should’ve listened to her cabbie.

The Haitian opened a desk drawer