Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017
- Автор: Фузилли Джим, Харрис Шарлин
- Год: 2017
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017». Краткое содержание книги:
“That was a long time ago.”
He studies my face for a second, grins. “What’s the worst thing you’ve done?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think you can say that until your life’s over.”
“That’s frigging cheerful,” he says. “If you ever think about volunteering for one of those suicide hotlines, don’t do it. Trust me. It’s a bad idea.”
I close my eyes for a second and fight the temptation to throw him out of my house and put an end to all of this forever. But I know I can’t do that, so I tell myself it will be over soon and then tell Wendell what he wants to hear.
“You’re right,” I say. “We ought to get out of here. Hell, I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to drink a few early-morning beers.”
He stares at me, a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. “Really? You’re actually going to call in sick, lose a day’s pay to get buzzed with your old buddy Wendell. Somebody better call Ripley’s because I’m not sure I believe this crap.”
I don’t say that I’m not scheduled for work until Monday morning or that three lousy days a week for minimum wage is all the Greenview IGA will give me for stocking shelves and carrying out groceries alongside a bunch of school kids. He wouldn’t hear me and probably wouldn’t care if he did.
“What about Dianne?” he asks.
“I’ll leave a note.”
He looks at me as if he’s trying to figure out whether or not I’m joking. “I was asking if you care if I talk to her a minute, say my goodbyes.”
I tell him that’s fine, and I mean it. He and Dianne had a life together years before I came along. Now I pour myself a cup of coffee, lean against the kitchen sink, and listen to the creaky hinges on my bedroom door. A minute later, I can hear the murmur of their voices, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. It doesn’t matter to me anyway.
Wind as sharp and unforgiving as barbed wire slashes my face and neck when I step out the back door. Wendell’s Jeep is parked behind my truck, and the sight of it is an annoyance. There’s a good chance he’ll want to drive. Typical Wendell, I think. The only real talent he’s ever had is for making things harder than they need to be.
I unlock my truck, open the glove box, and take out my .38 revolver from under a stack of receipts and registration slips and unopened bills. I’ve owned it since my truck-driving days, but it’s never been used for anything other than busting bottles and plinking cans. Still, the world is a dangerous place, and I’ve always felt better having it with me. Now I drop it in my coat pocket, stare out at snow blowing in swirling strings across a dead cornfield, and then go back inside.
They’re still talking, so I give in to temptation and smoke one of the Marlboros I’ve been trying to quit. I pick up the stuffed giraffe and run my hand over its felt and listen to the muffled sound of Wendell sobbing. It occurs to me that for Wendell, self-pity is as much of an addiction as booze or pills.
While I wait for them to finish, I stare at the shifting tendrils of smoke caught in the light sifting through the kitchen window and think how Wendell’s too dumb to realize he’s the one who has it easy. Dianne and I are down to ninety-three dollars in our checking account. I’ve given up on worrying about unpaid bills, but in less than a week we’ll be two months behind on our rent, and the retired electrician who owns the house is already talking eviction. We’re nearly out of options, and the ones that are left aren’t good. Dianne claims she can’t stay at her parents’ house, that none of the things that led her to marry Wendell two weeks after she met him have changed and that when she left home for Harps County she swore she’d never go back. But what does that leave us? Sleeping in a car or taking shelter in a deserted shed or barn? There’s a part of me that wants to slap Wendell and let him know that there are worse things to face than a hundred and twenty days of hot meals and a rent-free bed.
When I hear the sound of his footsteps, I turn and force a smile, say, “I’ve got most of a case of Old Milwaukee in the fridge.”
“Look at you,” he says. “And I was beginning to think you didn’t love me anymore.”
The word love makes me uneasy, so I blow it off as quickly as I can. “What are you doing, Wendell? Practicing your pillow talk for your first night back in jail?”
A twinge of anger or shame flashes in his expression, and I wish I’d made some other joke, but then he gives me a wide, toothy grin. “Hey, man, don’t knock it till you try it.” He blows me a kiss, then sighs. “We used to be friends, didn’t we? Good friends, I mean, almost like brothers when we were little kids?”
“Sure,” I say. “Sure we did.”
“And now?”
I think about lying just to get him out of the door, but I figure I owe him at least a little truth this morning. “And now it’s complicated,” I say.
An hour later, we’re parked on a small rise that looks down upon a black-water coal pit deep in the River Queen mines and surrounded on three sides by weed fields, slag heaps, and trash-strewn ravines. There are half a dozen empty beer cans on the Jeep’s floorboard, but only one of them is mine. My head throbs, and my stomach is aching and sour, but I listen to his half-true stories about things he did back in high school while I sweat inside my parka and gloves. I crack the window, take a deep breath, then watch a dark figure move through weeds on the far side of the water. I want to believe that it’s a large fox or even a wolf, but I know it’s really nothing more than a half-starved, unwanted dog that won’t make it through the winter.
“Jesus,” Wendell says. “You didn’t hear a frigging word I said, did you?”
“No,” I admit. “Sorry.”
“Look at me, Jerry.”
When I do I see he’s holding a gun. It’s a little .25 automatic, ivory handled and dainty, the kind of a gun you’d expect to find in an elderly lady’s purse. Still, it looks plenty lethal now that it’s pointed at my face. I’m an ex-truck driver and an unemployed coal miner, not a gunslinger. If he means to shoot me, the revolver in my coat pocket will be every bit as useful as a pack of gum, and I feel stupid for not believing it could go this way.
“Give me three reasons why I shouldn’t shoot you,” he says.
“Wendell,” I say. “What are you doing?”
“I’m giving you a chance. Surely you can come up with three frigging reasons why you should go on sucking air.”
His eyes are wide and threaded with red, the skin on his face sheened with sweat. He looks crazy, drugged out, serious. And for one horrible moment, I seize on the idea that this is what he and Dianne were talking about — that all of this was a ruse to get me out here. But I know that thought’s ridiculous. Wendell has never needed help coming up with stupid and dangerous ideas.
“Don’t do this, man,” I say. “This isn’t going to accomplish anything.”
“Sorry. That’s not a good enough reason.”
“Damn it, Wendell,” I say, blinking sweat from my eyes. “I know things look bleak right now. But it’s a hundred and twenty days, for Christ’s sake. You kill me, they’ll know who did it, and you’ll never get out again.”
“That’s not what I want to hear. I want to hear why you should go on living, Jerry. That’s what I’m frigging trying to get to here.”
“This is crazy,” I say.
He gives me a weary sigh. “You can’t do it, can you? Hey, that’s all right. I tried to think of a couple for you, and I couldn’t come up with a single one either.”
My breath hitches in the middle of my chest, and I feel dizzy and lightheaded. I don’t want to see the moment his finger tightens on the trigger, so I shut my eyes and wait for it to happen. An eternity later, Wendell shouts, “Bang!”