Black Cat Weekly #99

By Steve Liskow, donalee Moulton, Chuck Brownman and 5 more

Our 99th issue is another great one, with stellar contributions from some of the best in modern and classic mysteries, science fiction, and fantasy. 8 short stories and 2 novelets round on this issue--dig in!
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Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:“The Plan,” by Chuck Brownman [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Humbling Homecoming,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Hot Sugar Blues,” by Steve Liskow [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Swan Song,” by donalee Moulton [short story]
“Finish the Job,” by Frank Kane [short story, Johnny Liddell series]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:
“The Door Into Envy,” by Adrian Cole [short story]
“The Vampire Bat,” by Joseph Payne Brennan [short story]
“The Marrying Monster,” by Claus Stamm [short story]
“Survival of the Fittest,” by Gene L. Henderson [novelet]
“Wind Between the Worlds,” by Lester del Rey [novelet]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Jul 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667661087

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE PLAN, by Chuck Brownman

THE HUMBLING HOMECOMING, by Hal Charles

HOT SUGAR BLUES, by Steve Liskow

FINISH THE JOB, by Frank Kane

SWAN SONG, by donalee Moulton

THE DOOR INTO ENVY, by Adrian Cole

THE VAMPIRE BAT, by Joseph Payne Brennan

THE MARRYING MONSTER, by Claus Stamm

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST, by Gene L. Henderson

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

WIND BETWEEN THE WORLDS, by Lester del Rey

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

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The Plan is copyright © 2023 by Chuck Brownman and appears here for the first time.

The Humbling Homecoming is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Hot Sugar Blues is copyright © 2012 by Steve Liskow. Originally published in Mystery Writers of America Presents: Vengence. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Swan Song is copyright © 2022 by donalee Moulton. Originally published in Cold Canadian Crime. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Finish the Job, by Frank Kane, was originally published in Manhunt, January 1954.

The Door Into Envy is copyright © 2015 by Adrian Cole. Originally published in The 3rd Spectral Press Book of Horror Stories. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Vampire Bat, by Joseph Payne Brennan, was originally published in Scream at Midnight (1963).

The Marrying Monster, by Claus Stamm, was originally published in Fantastic Universe, March 1960.

Survival of the Fittest, by Gene L. Henderson, was originally published in Science Fiction Quarterly, November 1951.

Wind Between the Worlds, by Lester del Rey Originally published in Galaxy, March 1951.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #99!

It’s already feeling like this is a landmark issue—but just wait till next time, when you see all the special stuff we have lined up for you for our special 100th Issue Bash!

Our big news here is the launch of the Kickstarter campaign for my first novel in more than a decade. (I’ve been keeping my fingers and toes in the water writing short stories, though—the most recent being a Christmast crime story that just sold to Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine.) If you have an interest in science fiction or movie monsters, check out The Things from Another World on Kickstarter. It’s the official sequel to John W. Campbell’s Who Goes There? (filmed by John Carpenter as The Thing). This TinyURL will get you there directly: tinyurl.com/5xnv9erh. The campaign ends in a few weeks, so don’t wait too long!

In the meantime, there lots of good stuff in this issue. Thanks, as always, to our Acquiring Editors Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman for finding some great stories. Dig in!

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

The Plan, by Chuck Brownman [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Humbling Homecoming, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Hot Sugar Blues, by Steve Liskow [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Swan Song, by donalee Moulton [short story]

Finish the Job, by Frank Kane [short story, Johnny Liddell series]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Door Into Envy, by Adrian Cole [short story]

The Vampire Bat, by Joseph Payne Brennan [short story]

The Marrying Monster, by Claus Stamm [short story]

Survival of the Fittest, by Gene L. Henderson [novelet]

Wind Between the Worlds, by Lester del Rey [novelet]

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

THE PLAN,

by Chuck Brownman

Keep your eyes peeled, Jojo, I said as we cruised the mall’s parking lot in our nondescript pickup. We need a bunch of cat cons to catch up.

I’m looking, Amos. From the passenger seat, Jojo’s reply came obediently, as he swiveled his head, surveying the parked cars. Not many choices today.

September in Houston was a tough time to steal catalytic converters—with summer heat lingering, the before school sales finished, and holiday shopping still weeks away, malls were half full. This was the third one we’d tried today.

Some days were like that, nothing. Then quick scores. In and out, before the owners, security or the cops knew it.

But not this week. Not last week neither.

We were burning through the stash of money we’d been saving for The Plan. But I didn’t want Jojo catching my worried vibe.

Tell me again, I said, mainly to distract him. What’s on Boogie’s list?

Jojo ran his finger down this week’s list of the vehicles our buyer wanted converters from. Prius hybrids, F-150s, Silverados, Subarus. One we haven’t seen lately. Suburbans.

Okay. Like always…we’ll focus on the bigger vehicles.

Vehicles high off the ground were faster to get under, faster to cut the catalytic converter and be gone.

You think good, Amos. Hey, there’s one. Jojo pointed to the next row over. Silverado.

No dice. It’s been there both times we drove past. You know the rules. Me driving and being Black with Jojo alongside and white, that alone might’ve caused a second look. To avoid more unwanted attention, we limited ourselves to three circuits around a parking lot.

Another mall? Jojo asked, the quit apparent in his tone.

Let’s try once more.

Whatever you think, Amos.

We circled slowly, like a shark tracking its prey.

I was ready to give up when a black Suburban pulled into the lot. I watched it maneuver into a parking space.

To minimize our risk, we preferred vehicles where we saw the driver park and leave. We didn’t want to be like those dudes who tried to boost a cat con off a pickup and ended up shooting the owner—an off-duty deputy sheriff—who caught ’em in the act.

A dark-haired muscular man got out. Just another weekend weightlifter, I thought. Probably figured his all-black clothes and bulging biceps made him look tough. He looked around, as if making sure no one saw him, then headed into the mall.

Let’s go, I said, heading toward the Suburban.

I edged up behind it, minimizing the amount of space between the two vehicles to give Jojo maximum cover. Pulling on his heavy-duty work gloves and grabbing the pipe cutter, he hopped out and slipped beneath the Suburban.

As if I was down there next to him, I could visualize Jojo’s actions.

No time to loosen and remove the bolts. Instead, Jojo’d slice the header pipe near the exhaust manifold, keeping the unprocessed hydrogen sulfide from spilling and spreading that rotten egg odor. Then, ignoring the grease and oil, he’d stay low and scooch down, avoiding getting burned and making a parallel cut at the back end, bang on the cat con to loosen it and yank it out. Slide out from under the vehicle, toss the converter into the truck bed. Less than two minutes. And one step closer to The Plan.

Jojo reappeared. I felt the Suburban’s cat con thunk the pickup’s bed. Jojo’s door wasn’t fully closed before I popped our truck into gear, and we took off.

All good? I asked.

No problem.

If only we’d known.

* * * *

After boosting the Suburban’s cat con, we drove north twenty miles up I-45 to a strip center we’d had decent luck at. No dice, forty minutes wasted. We gave up and headed to Boogie’s to cash out.

Boogie Wilson’s car repair shop was packed with models in various stages of fixing. Located in the county’s sparsely-populated northeast corner, he also ran a profitable sideline buying boosted converters, then selling them out of state.

We pulled in, turning so our truck bed was closest to the repair bays. That was how he wanted it—always use your vehicle to block what was going on from any prying eyes.

He walked out, a hydrant-shaped guy with tufts of wispy gray hair, wiping his gnarled hands on a greasy red rag. Whadda ya say, boys? he said in his usual gravelly voice.

I motioned for Jojo to lift the cover of the truck bed. One piece. Off a Suburban. Each week, Boogie issued a new list of what vehicles’ converters he wanted most. He didn’t trust phones, so you had to come out here to copy the list. Or you could take potluck on what you found, hoping Boogie’d pay something for an off-list cat con. Rather than risk a skimpy payoff, we spent the time and gas to make the weekly trek.

From what I’d heard, Boogie got his list from out-of-state buyers. He’d spread the word, then cutters like me and Jojo would find them. If too many came in before us, Boogie would pay less. Simple supply and demand. Speed counted.

Just one? Boogie grimaced. You guys’ve been colder than my ex’s heart.

Cut us some slack, man.

Three twenty-five. Less this week’s payment for the tool, that’s three-oh-five.

Some guys used battery-powered saws to cut the converters from the vehicles. It was a trade-off…those tools were faster, but noisier, attracting more attention. Jojo and me chose to use pipe cutters. But the kind we needed were industrial-sized, pricey to buy. So we rented ’em from Boogie for twenty a week, deducted from what he paid us. This week’s payment was due.

Jojo flicked his cellphone. Platinum and palladium prices are up, and rhodium’s holding steady. We should get more.

I’d shown Jojo how to track metals prices for the stuff extracted from the converters. It was a routine task he could handle.

Buyers set the amounts, kid.

Three fifty, I said.

Boogie shook his head.

I tried again. Three and a quarter.

I like you boys, you know that. Three-oh-five’s best I can do. Take it or leave it.

You’re killin’ us, man. But as Boogie started to speak, I raised my hands, palms out. We’ll take it.

Jojo carried the Suburban’s cat con into a dark corner of the garage. We might’ve been able to squeeze a few more bucks from another buyer. But Boogie’s operation was bigger—long term, we needed to stay on his good side.

Boogie grinned as he handed me the crumpled bills. Don’t be strangers, boys.

* * * *

Pissed off, I drove to the dump we called home. Two cramped rooms in the back of a dingy two-story building that had never seen better days. But living cheap came natural to both Jojo and me, we’d each grown up with nothing. So, the way we viewed it, cutting back now let us save money and execute The Plan faster.

The building was east of downtown Houston’s gleaming towers, in a misnamed Black neighborhood known as Pleasantville. Originally developed for World War II vets’ housing, heavy industry had turned the district into one pollution cancer cluster after another. Activists publicized the problem, corrupt politicians promised action. Pleasantville would never be fixed.

Mr. Hampton owned the building. A fix-it guy who ran his own shop in the Second Ward since the Sixties, he’d bought it thirty, forty years ago, thinking it would be his family’s home. But his wife died at fifty-five, and the kids had moved away. Now Mr. Hampton spent his days in his ground floor apartment, barely able to walk, playing oldies on his radio, and reliving Good Old Days that didn’t sound that good. Like they say, men plan and Life laughs.

Jojo and me helped him out best we could, long as it didn’t interfere with The Plan. For an old guy, Mr. Hampton wasn’t too bad. He was how I imagined my father or grandad might’ve been, if my grandad had lived long enough to meet me, and if my father hadn’t been an SOB who’d hightailed it out of parenthood the first chance he got.

I parked in front of the building. Still pissed about the measly payment we’d gotten from Boogie, I sat there fuming.

Jojo got out and stood beside the truck, waiting. Mindful of not worrying him, I gathered myself, taking a couple of deep breaths.

Amos, Jojo said. Despite my efforts, he sounded scared.

I’m coming, I replied, my tone harsher than I intended.

No. The front door.

I looked where he pointed. Pushed and pulled by the breeze, the door into the building was swinging free, banging back and forth against the wall. Weird. One of Mr. Hampton’s big rules was that the door stayed closed.

I hoped the old guy was okay.

We knocked on the door to Mr. Hampton’s apartment. No answer. I twisted the knob and the door opened. Unsure what we’d find, we peeked inside.

Empty.

Jojo looked fearful. What do you think, Amos?

No idea. He couldn’t walk far, maybe a friend picked him up.

Who?

The fuck you asking me for, Jojo? I don’t keep his social calendar.

Jojo cowered like a whipped dog. He was okay, just slower than some. And in the extra time he needed to figure shit out, fear and anxiety often filled the gap. Swallowing my doubts and my guilt, I assured Jojo that Mr. Hampton was okay.

We walked up the stairs to our apartment.

As I entered, a hard fist caught me flush from the right, just above my kidneys. I doubled over and grunted, fighting for breath. A second punch, this one to my eye. Yellow and pink stars exploded, like fireworks. I couldn’t see Jojo, but I heard his howls of pain.

A blow landed on my neck. I went down.

The rough rubber tread of a shoe squashed my head down against the smelly carpet. A deep voice, whispered, You ain’t gonna make trouble, right?

With the guy’s foot pushing down, I couldn’t move my head to answer his question. With my breaths coming in short, ragged bursts, I was lucky to get out a quick no.

Fingers snapped. The pressure from the shoe eased, replaced immediately by strong hands gripping my arms, tying them behind me. I was hauled up effortlessly. Even with the fireworks still exploding before me, I could see Jojo was in the same condition.

Let’s go, said the voice.

Vise-like hands grabbed me and pulled. As I left the apartment, I caught a glimpse of something on the floor.

Mr. Hampton’s body.

* * * *

They drove west on I-10, past downtown, me in one Suburban, Jojo in another.

I sat in the back, passenger side. A big guy with a scraggly beard and a gold earring in his right ear sat beside me, beefy hands grasping a big-ass gun. I’d seen enough cops-and-robbers shows to know that my move was to grab his hands, shoot the driver while struggling for the gun, then knock the guy out and get control of the car.

But I wasn’t no action hero. The guy outsized me by six inches, fifty pounds, and a bunch of muscles. The blood would be real. And mine.

They exited into an industrial area dotted with small buildings and pulled into a brick warehouse. Even before the engines died, the doors rolled down behind us with a screech.

Under the two guys’ watchful expressions, I slowly exited the car. Jojo joined me, and his two captors joined mine. The four men escorted us past rusted equipment, chains hanging from the ceiling, and black ominous stains on the floor. Place looked like a dungeon, gave me goosebumps.

We entered an empty lighted room. Coming from the gloom of the warehouse, I squinted in the bright lights bouncing off mucus-green walls. Dark splotches stained the faded yellow carpet. I shuddered thinking what they might be.

Two wooden chairs materialized and Jojo and I were forced into them. The guards shoved our bound hands awkwardly behind the stiff wooden backs, immobilizing us. While three of the hoods stood behind us, the last one walked to the far end and knocked on a closed door.

The door opened and in walked a swarthy dark-haired man. Wearing a tailored white shirt and dark pants, he moved confidently, almost swaggering. Something about him triggered a memory I couldn’t quite reach.

He stopped in front of us. Arms crossed, he stood with his feet shoulder-length apart, clearly in charge. He studied us, and I felt like a zoo animal.

The man spoke to Jojo. You know who I am? His voice contained the barest hint of a foreign accent.

Jojo turned to me. Amos, what do I say?

We— I tried to make some spit so my mouth wouldn’t be so dry. We don’t, I said, forcing my voice to sound braver than I felt.

With one last glance at Jojo, the head guy turned to me. The so-called ‘brains’ of the operation. Even in the twenty-first century, very egalitarian for Houston.

I didn’t know what that eagle word meant, but I figured we’d been dissed. I didn’t take crap from no one. Just tell me what you want.

The man swiveled his shoulders, as if turning to talk to the hood on his left, then suddenly pivoted, swinging the back of his right hand across my right cheek. The force of the blow knocked me and my chair over. My cheek throbbed like hell. My head bounced against the floor, the thin carpet doing nothing to cushion the blow. Stars danced before my eyes.

His men yanked me and the chair off the floor, and again placed me before him.

"You will speak to me respectfully. Understand?"

Unsure I could form words, I nodded.

Excellent. He rubbed his right hand, as if my face was at fault. I am Mateos Kelvina.

Despite the September heat, my blood turned frigid. Big Matty Kelvina, boss of the local Armenian crime organization, was well known. People who crossed him vanished or were found permanently broken.

Not wanting to provoke him, I nodded.

Good. Then you know I mean what I say. Big Matty began pacing, and that feeling of familiarity returned. Where had I