Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006
- Автор: Бетанкур Джон Грегори, Jr. William J. Carroll,
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines/Crosstown Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2006». Краткое содержание книги:
“Gimme a cup of coffee,” she said as she climbed tiredly onto a stool, her feet throbbing in her heels.
The skinny waitress set a cup down and poured.
Marilyn sipped at the dark brew. From now on, coffee, black coffee was the strongest drink she would take.
It was all her own doing. She should never have got mixed up with Ray, or the Purples, or the hooch. She should have stayed in Lansing where she belonged and married a decent, law-abiding boy who met with her parents’ approval. Tears of regret and terror burned her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She swatted at them angrily and sniffed.
“Better fix your face, doll,” the waitress suggested in a kind voice, and hitched a thumb at the counter-length mirror on the wall behind her.
In the mirror, Marilyn saw that her eyeliner and mascara had run, leaving corpselike black smudges under her eyes.
The waitress set a stack of paper napkins on the counter next to her.
“Thanks,” Marilyn said, smiling at her own self-pity, and wiped the makeup off.
Maybe she could disappear. If she took a train tonight to some small town out West and took a new name and found a job, maybe she could escape Ray’s unrelenting vengeance. She eyed the waitress in her pink uniform. If she had to, she could sling hash as well as the next girl.
The door opened and in the mirror she saw a fresh-faced young gangster, trim and well polished, enter.
She huddled over her coffee cup and pulled her hat down over her face, hoping to make herself inconspicuous.
The click of his footsteps stopped next to her, his polished shoes and the bulge of a gun in his pocket visible under the crook of his arm.
She cringed, waiting to be dragged off the stool into a waiting car outside.
“Excuse me, miss, might you be Marilyn Massie?” he asked, his voice melodic with an Irish brogue.
“Yes,” she said into her coffee in a subdued, humble voice. If she pushed him aside and ran, how far would she get? He looked fit. Would he shoot her down in the back if she fled? The place was empty. He’d kill her first, then the waitress and the young couple, the only witnesses.
“You’re a hard lass to pin down. I’ve been looking for you all over town. You dropped this,” he laid her purse on the counter, “when you got into a cab outside of the Book Cadillac Hotel.”
Without looking at him, she reached for the purse, expecting the dough to be gone.
“Everything there?” he asked. “A kid was about to make off with it when I stopped him.”
She loosened the drawstrings and peeked inside. Everything was there — the wad of bills, the derringer, the flask. She blinked in confusion. “Yes, it’s all here,” she said in a small voice, still not daring to look at him.
He unbuttoned his jacket to reach for a gun and her breath stalled. Instead, he retrieved a wallet and flipped it open to a badge. “I’m Undercover Detective O’Neill.”
A gasp of relief burst from her. She risked a glance at him, encountering mild, blue eyes and a helpful, white smile through a sappy mist that formed over her eyes. “Could I buy you a cup of coffee, Officer, for your trouble?”
“You can do more than that, miss. You’re going to help me put a few dozen rumrunners behind bars.”
A Christmas Pit
by John Gregory Betancourt
When my doorbell rang, the sound jolted through me like an electric shock. I accidentally sloshed Jack Daniel’s across my lap and began cursing all unexpected visitors.
Carefully, so I wouldn’t spill another drop, I set the bottle on my night table, grabbed my walking stick, and swung my ruined legs over the side of the bed. Standing usually hurt, but I’d already drunk enough to feel a comfortable numbness instead.
The doorbell rang a second time, an annoying brzzz that set my teeth on edge.
“Stop that racket! I’m coming!” I yelled. I shrugged a robe over my underwear, knotting the belt halfheartedly, and limped out into my rather spartan family room.
By the time I turned the deadbolt and yanked open the front door, I half expected to find the hallway deserted. The brats upstairs enjoyed playing jokes like that — “bait the cripple,” I called it.
Tonight, however, I found a soggy young man in an Atlanta Braves baseball cap and a cheap brown coat. Water pooled around him and the duffel bag he’d set down. Rain — that explained why my legs had been aching worse than usual.
“What do you want?” I demanded. “Don’t you know what time it is?”
Involuntarily, he covered his mouth and nose and took a half step back. I had to reek like a distillery.
“Uh... six o’clock?” he said. His voice had a slight Southern twang.
“Oh.” Only six o’clock? My sense of time was shot; I would have sworn it was past midnight. “I thought it was later than that. It gets dark early now.”
“Are you... Peter Geller?” he asked hesitantly.
“Yes. You’re here to see me?”
“Sir... David Hunt sent me.”
I had gone to college with Davy. We had been in the same fraternity — Alpha Kappa Alpha. Since Davy came from old money, he got in because his family had always belonged to Alpha Kappa. I got in because I was smart: all the jocks and rich kids needed help to keep up their GPAs. Sometimes I had resented it, being used, but it got me into all the parties, and I still graduated at the top of our class.
My life had been a downward spiral after college. I had landed a plum job at an investment bank, but overwork and my always-racing mind led to a nervous breakdown. Six months later, an accident left me permanently crippled. I lost touch with everyone I’d ever known and began trying to drink myself to death, until Davy called me out of the blue to help him out when he was being blackmailed. That had been five months ago. We’d had dinner and drinks a dozen times since then, rekindling our old friendship. In fact, earlier this afternoon I had been wondering what to give Davy for Christmas. He already had everything money could buy.
“Are you some sort of social worker?” I asked warily.
“No, sir! I’m Bob Charles.” At my puzzled look, he added, “Cree’s brother.”
“Got any ID?”
“Uh... sure.” He dug around his coat’s inside pocket. “Driver’s license? Passport?”
“Either.”
He handed me a military passport. Marine Corps issue, and the name under his picture read “PFC Robert E. Charles.”
I nodded, my mental wheels starting to turn. Cree was the actress-slash-model Davy had been talking about marrying. Like Cher and Madonna, she only used one name.
“I guess you better come in,” I said.
“Thanks.” He scooped up his duffel bag and entered my apartment, looking around curiously. I didn’t own much these days: a worn yellow sofa, a pair of white-and-yellow wingback chairs, a battered coffee table, and thanks to the miracle of Ikea, two tall wooden bookcases mostly devoted to bric-a-brac. No clocks, no calendar, no TV — nothing to remind me of the outside world. Nothing to stimulate my mind and set it racing again.
“How is Davy?” I asked.
“Good. He and Cree just left for Cancun.”
“Oh? I thought he had business in New York tomorrow.” At least, that’s what he’d told me over the weekend.
Bob shrugged. “Cree’s doing a photo shoot for Sports Illustrated — filling in at the last minute — so they decided to turn it into a vacation. They’re flying out tonight. Probably already in the air.”
He pulled off his coat, revealing an off-the-bargain-rack suit. I waved vaguely at the sofa.
“Sit down. Let me clean up. I wasn’t expecting visitors. If you want a drink, help yourself — there’s beer in the fridge.”