Robert j randisi ed, p.1
Robert J. Randisi (ed), page 1
Praise for the Private Eye Writers
of America Anthologies
Mystery Street
Edgar Award Winner for “Double-Crossing Delancey” by S. J. Rozan
“Intriguing. . . terrific. . . amazing.” —Chicago Tribune
“One of the best ways we know of to find a new writer is to peruse a top-notch collection of short stories, those gems from the writers with many books on their list. A perfect example is Mystery Street. . . . This collection of fourteen original stories sets the action on some of the most notorious streets in the world.” —Mystery Lovers Bookshop News
“Another PWA anthology of fourteen original stories. . . excellent as always.” —Thrilling Detective
The Shamus Game
Nominated for Three Shamus Awards
“A P.I. lover’s dream come true.” —Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine
“This engaging anthology includes some of the more popular sleuths of the last decade. . . Every one of the stories is well written. . . . Bound to be considered one of the best short story collections of the year.” —Midwest Book Review.
“Anyone who enjoys mysteries featuring private eyes will like this one, with stories by some of the best in the business.” —The Brazosport Facts (Clute, TX)
“Some of the best mystery writers lend their talents for a stellar collection of short stories. Each short story in The Shamus Game is a standout on its own merits.” —South Florida Sun-Sentinel
Other Anthologies Edited by Robert J. Randisi
The Shamus Game:
14 New Stories of Defective Fiction
Mystery Street:
14 All-New Famous Detectives Stories of Detective Fiction
First Cases, Volume 4:
The Early Years of Famous Detectives
The
PRIVATE EYE WRITERS OF AMERICA
presents
MOST WANTED
A Lineup of Favorite Crime Stories
Edited by
Robert J. Randisi
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,
London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,
Victoria, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
First Printing, September 2002
10 9876543 2 1
Copyright © Robert J. Randisi, 2002
"Wrong Place, Wrong Time" copyright © Bill Pronzini, 2002; 'The Merciful Angel of Death" copyright © Lawrence Block, 1993; "Eighty Million Dead" copyright © Michael Collins, 1984; "Deadly Beloved" copyright © Flying Eagle Publication, 1956; "Second Story Sunlight" copyright ©John Lutz, 2002; "A Poison That Leaves No Trace" copyright © Sue Grafton, 1990; "Aftermath" copyright © Jeremiah Healy, 2002; "The Pig Man" copyright © Les Roberts, 1994; "Faking It" copyright © Parnell Hall, 2002; "Laying Down to Die" copyright © Robert J. Randisi, 1994; "The Maltese Cat" copyright © Sara Paretsky, 1990; "Natural Death, Inc." copyright © Max Allan Collins, 1999.
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
These are a works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
CONTENTS
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
WRONG PLACE, WRONG TIME - A Nameless Detective story by Bill Pronzini
THE MERCIFUL ANGEL OF DEATH - A Matthew Scudder story by Lawrence Block
EIGHTY MILLION DEAD - A Dan Fortune story by Michael Collins
DEADLY BELOVED - A Joe Puma story by William Campbell Gault
SECOND STORY SUNLIGHT - An Alo Nudger story by John Lutz
A POISON THAT LEAVES NO TRACE - A Kinsey Millhone story by Sue Grafton
AFTERMATH - A Rory Calhoun story by Jeremiah Healy
THE PIG MAN - A Saxon story by Les Roberts
FAKING IT - A Stanley Hastings story by Parnell Hall
LAYING DOWN TO DIE - A Nick Delvecchio story by Robert J. Randisi
THE MALTESE CAT - A V.I. Warshawski story by Sara Paretsky
NATURAL DEATH, INC - A Nathan Heller story by Max Allan Collins
INTRODUCTION
As I write this I still don’t know what the title of this book will be. I painted myself into a corner. It is essentially a “President’s Choice” anthology. All of the past presidents—and the current one—of PWA have chosen a story they would like to see printed here. In four cases the stories are original. We had hoped for more original stories, but these are busy people. I am grateful they took the time they did to participate in the organization of this book. I’ve tried to be informative, sometimes anecdotal, in my head notes to each story, so I won’t spend the time doing that here. So I’ll discuss the title. . .
. . . the name. . . well, having the word “president” in the name would have made the book sound too political We’ve bounced ideas back and forth, but as of right now nothing has stuck. However, whatever the book is called I’m here to tell you this is a book worth reading. That was my job, actually, to put together a book that would be worth your time. Well, this book—uh, whatever the title—is it. So go out and tell your friends to buy, uh, whatever the name of this book is, and enjoy it.
—Robert J. Randisi
St. Louis, Missouri
January 2002
Back to Table of Contents
WRONG PLACE, WRONG TIME - A Nameless Detective story by Bill Pronzini
Bill Pronzini’s credits are even more undeniable now than they were twenty years ago, when I asked him to be PWA’s first president (1982-83). His Nameless P.I. series is one of the longest running in history. Not only was he our first president, but he also won the first Shamus Award for Best Novel for Hoodwink—the first of three. (At the time he accepted the award with the words, “Well, the fix was in!”) Bill was also involved in getting the PWA/St. Martin’s Press Contest up and running, a significant presidential contribution to this day. Add to that the fact that he was the youngest recipient of our Life Achievement Award, and we should probably be asking him to serve as president again, soon.
Sadly, 2002 will see the publication of the last Nameless novel, Bleeders (Carroll & Graf), but perhaps Bill will go on writing original Nameless stories, like this one.
Sometimes it happens like this. No warning, no way to guard against it. And through no fault of your own. You’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Eleven p.m., drizzly, low ceiling and poor visibility. On my way back from four long days on a case in Fresno and eager to get home to San Francisco. Highway 152, the quickest route from 99 west through hills and valleys to 101. Roadside service station and convenience store, a lighted sign that said OPEN UNTIL MIDNIGHT. Older model car parked in the shadows alongside the rest rooms, newish Buick drawn in at the gas pumps. People visible inside the store, indistinct images behind damp-streaked and sign-plastered glass.
I didn’t need gas, but I did need some hot coffee to keep me awake. And something to fill the hollow under my breastbone: I hadn’t taken the time to eat anything before leaving Fresno. So I swung off into the lot, parked next to the older car. Yawned and stretched and walked past the Buick to the store. Walked right into it.
Even before I saw the little guy with the gun, I knew something was wrong. It was in the air, a heaviness, a crackling quality, like the atmosphere before a big storm. The hair crawled on the back of my scalp. But I was two paces inside by then and it was too late to back out.
He was standing next to a rack of potato chips, holding the weapon in close to his body with both hands. The other two men stood ten feet away at the counter, one in front and one behind. The gun, a long-barreled target pistol, was centered on the man in front; it stayed that way even though the little guy’s head was half turned in my direction. I stopped and stayed still with my arms down tight against my sides.
Time freeze. The four of us staring, nobody moving. Light rain on the roof, some kind of machine making thin wheezing noises—no other sound.
The one with the gun coughed suddenly, a dry, consumptive hacking that broke the silence but added to the tensio n. He was thin and runty, mid-thirties, going bald on top, his face drawn to a drum tautness. Close-set brown eyes burned with outrage and hatred. The clerk behind the counter, twenty-something, long hair tied in a ponytail, kept licking his lips and swallowing hard; his eyes flicked here and there, settled, flicked, settled like a pair of nervous flies. Scared, but in control of himself. The handsome, fortyish man in front was a different story. He couldn’t take his eyes off the pistol, as if it had a hypnotic effect on him. Sweat slicked his bloodless face, rolled down off his chin in little drops. His fear was a tangible thing, sick and rank and consuming; you could see it moving under the sweat, under the skin, the way maggots move inside a slab of bad meat.
“Harry,” he said in a voice that crawled and cringed. “Harry, for God’s sake. . .”
“Shut up. Don’t call me Harry.”
“Listen. . . it wasn’t me, it was Noreen. . .”
“Shut up shut up shut up.” High-pitched, with a brittle, cracking edge. “You,” he said to me. “Come over here where I can see you better.”
I went closer to the counter, doing it slow. This wasn’t what I’d first taken it to be. Not a holdup — something personal between the little guy and the handsome one, something that had come to a crisis point in here only a short time ago. Wrong place, wrong time for the young clerk, too.
I said, “What’s this all about?”
“I’m going to kill this son of a bitch,” the little guy said, “that’s what it’s all about.”
“Why do you want to do that?”
“My wife and my savings, every cent I had in the world. He took them both away from me and now he’s going to pay for it.”
“Harry, please, you’ve got to—”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up? Didn’t I tell you not to call me Harry?”
Handsome shook his head, a meaningless flopping like a broken bulb on a white stalk.
“Where is she, Barlow?” the little guy demanded.
“Noreen?”
“My bitch wife Noreen. Where is she?”
“I don’t know. . .”
“She’s not at your place. The house was dark when you left. Noreen wouldn’t sit in a dark house alone. She doesn’t like the dark.”
“You. . . saw me at the house?”
“That’s right. I saw you and I followed you twenty miles to this place. Did you think I just materialized out of thin air?”
“Spying on me? Looking through windows? Jesus.”
“I got there just as you were leaving,” the little guy said. “Perfect timing. You didn’t think I’d find out your name or where you lived, did you? You thought you were safe, didn’t you? Stupid old Harry Chalfont, the cuckold, the sucker—no threat at all.”
Another head flop. This one made beads of sweat fly off.
“But I did find out,” the little guy said. “Took me two months, but I found you and now I’m going to kill you.”
“Stop saying that! You won’t, you can’t. . .”
“Go ahead, beg. Beg me not to do it”.
Barlow moaned and leaned back hard against the counter. Mortal terror unmans some people; he was as crippled by it as anybody I’d ever seen. Before long he would beg, down on his knees.
“Where’s Noreen?”
“I swear I don’t know, Harry. . . Mr. Chalfont. She. . . walked out on me. . . a few days ago. Took all the money with her.”
“You mean there’s still some of the ten thousand left? I figured it’d all be gone by now. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t care about the money anymore. All I care about is paying you back. You and then Noreen. Both of you getting just what you deserve.”
Chalfont ached to pay them back, all right, yearned to see them dead. But wishing something and making it happen are two different things. He had the pistol cocked and ready and he’d worked himself into an overheated emotional state, but he wasn’t really a killer. You can look into a man’s eyes in a situation like this, as I had too many times, and tell whether or not he’s capable of cold-blooded murder. There’s a fire, a kind of deathlight, unmistakable and immutable, in the eyes of those who can, and it wasn’t there in Harry Chalfont’s eyes.
Not that its absence made him any less dangerous. He was wired to the max and filled with hate, and his finger was close to white on the pistol’s trigger. Reflex could jerk off a round, even two, at any time. And if that happened, the slugs could go anywhere—into Barlow, into the young clerk, into me.
“She was all I ever had,” he said. “My job, my savings, my life. . . none of it meant anything until I met her. Little, ugly, lonely. . . that’s all I was. But she loved me once, at least enough to marry me. And then you came along and destroyed it all.”
“I didn’t, I tell you, it was all her idea. . .”
“Shut up. It was you, Barlow, you turned her head, you corrupted her. Goddamn traveling salesman, goddamn cliché, you must’ve had other women. Why couldn’t you leave her alone?”
Working himself up even more. Nerving himself to pull that trigger. I thought about jumping him, but that wasn’t much of an option. Too much distance between us, too much risk of the pistol going off. One other option. And I’d damn well better make it work.
I said quietly, evenly, “Give me the gun, Mr. Chalfont.”
The words didn’t register until I repeated them. Then he blinked, shifted his gaze to me without moving his head. “What did you say?”
“Give me the gun. Put an end to this before it’s too late.”
“No. Shut up.”
“You don’t want to kill anybody. You know it and I know it.”
“He’s going to pay. They’re both going to pay.”
“Fine, make them pay. Press theft charges against them. Send them to prison.”
“That’s not enough punishment for what they did.”
“If you don’t think so, then you’ve never seen the inside of a prison.”
“What do you know about it? Who are you?”
A half truth was more forceful than the whole truth. I said, “I’m a police officer.”
Barlow and the clerk both jerked looks at me. The kid’s had hope in it, but not Handsome’s; his fear remained unchecked, undiluted.
“You’re lying,” Chalfont said.
“Why would I lie?”
He coughed again, hawked deep in his throat. “It doesn’t make any difference. You can’t stop me.”
“That’s right, I can’t stop you from shooting Barlow. But I can stop you from shooting your wife. I’m off duty but I’m still armed.” Calculated lie. “If you kill him, then I’ll have to kill you. The instant your gun goes off, out comes mine and you’re also a dead man. You don’t want that.”
“I don’t care.”
“You care, all right. I can see it in your face. You don’t want to die tonight, Mr. Chalfont.”
That was right: he didn’t The deathlight wasn’t there for himself, either.
“I have to make them pay,” he said.
“You’re already made Barlow pay. Just look at him—he’s paying right now. Why put him out of his misery?”
For a little time Chalfont stood rigid, the pistol drawn in tight under his breastbone. Then his tongue poked out between his lips and stayed there, the way a cat’s will. It made him look cross-eyed, and for the first time, uncertain.
“You don’t want to die,” I said again. “Admit it. You don’t want to die.”
“I don’t want to die,” he said.
“And you don’t want the clerk or me to die, right? That could happen if shooting starts. Innocent blood on your hands.”
“No,” he said. “No, I don’t want that.”
I’d already taken two slow, careful steps toward him; I tried another, longer one. The pistol’s muzzle stayed centered on Barlow’s chest I watched Chalfont’s index finger. It seemed to have relaxed on the trigger. His two-handed grip on the weapon appeared looser, too.
“Let me have the gun, Mr. Chalfont.”
