Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

The pickup ran like an old swiss watch. Ben swung it around and headed back east. He drove with his left hand, the tanned right hand lying loosely on a jar of honey. A loaf of bread lay next to it on the cracked seat cushions.

“Want some bread’n honey? Good for ya.”

“No thanks, Ben. I’m too excited to eat now,” Reed answered. I’ve got to cook up a good story before we get to this Thompson guy’s place, he thought. He’ll know right away I’m not Tom Miller, but maybe I can sell him a line about me evading taxes or something. Once I get these damn handcuffs off, or away from this old fool Thompson sent...

The truck swung right, onto a dirt road. Reed looked through the back window, but all he could see was the brown dust boiling behind. It was a rough road. Reed jounced around inside the cab, his “hardware” keeping him from getting a good grip on anything. They stopped in about ten minutes, in a clearing amidst scrub pine trees and dried-out grass.

“Where are we?” Reed asked, looking around him. An old abandoned building leaned against a tree to the right. To the left, a pile of dirt. Straight ahead, the road disappeared around a hill.

“Well, here we are,” Ben said. He stopped the engine and got out, flicking the settling dust with his hat.

“I asked where we are,” Reed repeated angrily. “Is this where we meet Thompson?”

“Sure is,” Ben answered as he opened the passenger door. Reed swiveled in the seat and jumped to the ground. “Take it easy, son. We got twenty minutes ‘til he gets here.”

Reed wandered around the clearing while Ben rummaged in the junk in the back of the truck. Rough country, he thought; be tough to walk out of here with the handcuffs still on.

“Meet Mister Thompson,” a voice said firmly behind Reed. He turned. Ben was standing ten feet away, a shovel leaning against one hip, the jar of honey tucked under one arm. The other arm held a submachinegun which was pointed directly at Reed. “This, Mister Cummings,” Ben continued, “is what is known as a war souvenir. Highly illegal of course, but Mr. Thompson has his uses at times.”

“But Miller...” Reed sputtered, backing up and edging around the hole next to the dirt pile.

“There is no Miller,” Ben grated. “Just you and me. You see, I consider twenty years incarceration insufficient for what you did, especially for a repeater sex offender. Cindy was my granddaughter.” He gestured with the submachinegun, toward the hole. “Let’s not waste any more time, Mr. Cummings. The ants are waiting.”