A Cast of Killers

A Cast of Killers

By Katy Munger

(writing as Gallagher Gray)

A Hubbert & Lil
Mystery

Copyright © 2011 by Katy
Munger

Smashwords Edition Published
by Thalia Press

This novel is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of
either the author or publisher.

Smashwords Edition, License
Notes

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the hard work of this author.

Naturally, the phone rang just as Tyrone
enveloped Camilla in his massive arms and drew her closer to him.
T.S. sighed. He had been waiting for this kiss for two weeks now,
enduring illegitimate children, plastic surgery, a murder
conspiracy, the talking dead and other silly subplots along the
way. All for this one single fulfilling moment—a moment now about
to be spoiled by a shrill electronic intrusion.

Well, he'd just let the answering machine
pick up. He was retired now. He didn't have to answer the phone
unless he damn well felt like it.

Unless it was Auntie Lil, of course. Mere
machines could not stop her.

It was Auntie Lil. "Theodore!" Her foghorn of
a voice, amplified considerably by the answering machine, boomed
through his apartment and caused Brenda and Eddie to stir in dreamy
feline discomfort.

He ignored her. On screen, Tyrone quivered
above Camilla. Their faces wavered closer and closer together, as
if controlled by bursts of magnetic force. T.S. had never
experienced a kiss like that, but it was just as well. Their necks
were weaving from side to side like cobras and he'd no doubt pull a
muscle if he tried the same.

"Theodore, I know you're home. And I know
you're watching those silly soap operas. You're rotting your brain.
Pick up the phone at once or I'm coming over in person. By
cab."

T.S. sighed. Auntie Lil would do it, too.
She'd be there in twenty minutes and run a white-gloved hand over
the television set for signs of heat. Then she'd never let him
forget that she'd been right. He picked up the phone reluctantly.
Best to stave her off.

"I am not watching soap
operas," he replied indignantly. "I am trying to read
The New Yorker
without
interruption, for a change." He nudged the television's volume down
a few notches with his free hand. Auntie Lil was a bit hard of
hearing. Chances were good she'd never know for sure.

"Nonsense. I've been
calling you every day for two weeks now between noon and
1:00 p.m
. and you never
pick up the phone. I know quite well that "Life's Interludes" is on
right now. I know what you're up to, Theodore, and frankly I'm a
little disappointed in you. Retirement is not a death sentence.
There's no reason for you to turn your brain into Jello.
Thirty-five years of work does not entitle you to fifty more of
pure laziness."

He sighed again. There was no arguing with
Auntie Lil. His own fifty-five years of humble existence could not
begin to match her eighty-four years of self-proclaimed
authority.

"What was it you wanted, Aunt Lil?" he asked
absently, his attention drawn back to the television. The couple on
screen were kissing at last. And last and last and last. T.S.
stared. Good Lord, when were they coming up for air? He liked
romance as much as the next person, but this really was getting
silly. Their lips were being mashed about like silly putty. Surely
the show's writers didn't believe that people really enjoyed such
fleshy gymnastics.

Or did they?

T.S. was no authority on romance; he'd
devoted his entire adult life to his business career instead. His
few brief forays into romance had been, without exception,
disastrous and deeply distressing to his personal dignity. As a
highly eligible bachelor, he had been subjected to extremely
innovative pressure techniques from several otherwise sane
middle-aged women. He'd found these experiences humiliating for all
concerned.

Auntie Lil's brisk voice cut through his
thoughts. "Good. Then it's all settled," she said with great
satisfaction. "You'll be glad that you did."

"Glad I did what?" The television set
flickered, as if the celluloid couple's heat was too much for its
cables. And still they kissed on.

Auntie Lil sighed with the patience of a
weary martyr. "You're not paying the least bit of attention to what
I say, are you?"

"Of course I am..." My God—Camilla had pulled
away from Tyrone and slapped him across the face. It was a most
unexpected plot development. What had Tyrone done to deserve such
treatment? T.S. must have missed it. Or was there something going
on down there in the waist area, outside of camera range? T.S.
leaned forward and scrutinized the screen more carefully, searching
for a clue.

"I'm going to march over there right now and
rip that television cord out of the wall," Auntie Lil said firmly.
"I will not have my favorite nephew turning into some kind of a
mesmerized zombie who hums jingles and knows the names of sitcom
stars."

The show cut to a commercial, freeing T.S. to
respond. "I heard every single word you said," he lied. "And you're
right. You're absolutely right." They were Auntie Lil's favorite
words to hear and ought to mollify her.

"Good. Then you'll be here in an hour."

Uh, oh. He'd been tricked. He was suddenly
quite sure that Auntie Lil had deliberately called him at this
time, knowing he'd be preoccupied, and had planned exactly what had
just happened. What in the world had he agreed to do now? Well, he
would not give her the satisfaction of knowing how well her little
scheme had worked. He'd play along and find out the details in his
own subtle way.

"What's the address?" he asked casually.

"I knew you weren't paying attention. It's
right off the corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-Eighth Street. St.
Barnabas Church. Large stone building. The soup kitchen is in the
basement. You'll see a long line of people waiting to get in.
Hurry. And bring rubber gloves."

Rubber gloves? A soup kitchen? He was in hot
water now.

"Theodore," Auntie Lil's voice softened to a
suspiciously self-satisfied purr. "Thank you so much for helping
out. Two volunteers failed to show. I don't know what we would have
done without you."

"Done what?" he finally asked, starting to
panic. "What am I doing?"

"You're serving the food. What did you think
you'd be doing? I wasn't inviting you over for lunch, you
know."

"Serving food at a soup kitchen?" he asked.
The show was starting again but Tyrone and Camilla were nowhere to
be seen. A silly subplot had taken over the screen.

"Yes," Auntie Lil said firmly. "It's only for
today, if it's such an imposition." She stopped, letting her
reproachful silence berate him with its own eloquence.

"I thought God helped those who help
themselves," T.S. said faintly, knowing that it was a feeble
rebuttal.

"How very convenient for those of us who are
selfish." There was no sarcasm in Auntie Lil's voice. Sarcasm
required subtlety, which was not her strong suit.

"What kind of people eat at this soup
kitchen?" he asked. He envisioned an army of dusty, homeless
muggers lockstepping toward him with arms outstretched.

"What kind of people do you think?" she
snapped. "All kinds of people. Hungry people. Old people. Homeless
people. Discouraged people. Mentally ill people. The main thing,
Theodore, is that they are people. In case you've missed my
point."

Miss one of Auntie Lil's points? That was
like overlooking a spear sticking in your back. But she had shamed
him sufficiently and T.S. knew when he was licked. What was a mere
soap opera in the face of starving humanity?

"All right," he agreed grudgingly. "I'll see
you in an hour."

"Good. Try to contain your enthusiasm," she
ordered, hanging up abruptly.

Maybe she could be sarcastic, after all.

T.S. reluctantly turned off the television
and marched back to his meticulously organized closet, swapping his
bedroom slippers (thank God she'd not ferreted out that little
detail) for a suitably humble pair of shoes from the day-wear rack.
Image was important to him. The proper attire said a lot about a
man. But in this case, he decided, there was no need to change
clothes. He'd be there and back by late afternoon.

He asked his cab driver to detour past the
Newsday Building at One Times Square so he could set his watch by
the time on their giant electronic clock. T.S. was a precise man
and liked to know exactly what time it was. That way he was never,
ever late. Except for that one day in 1956 when the subway train
he'd been riding on had derailed and made him fifteen minutes late
for a dental appointment. The thought still rankled.

They skirted the square traffic and headed
across Forty-Second Street toward the West Side. His taxi slowed as
it started up Eighth Avenue, passing the brightly lit marquees of
fast food outlets and even faster sex shops. There were a few
hustlers of every breed and brand of business scattered over the
dirty sidewalks, but it was relatively deserted in
mid-afternoon.

Soon, the business district surrounding the
Port Authority gave way to ethnically diverse residential streets,
divided by avenue blocks of smaller restaurants, delicatessens and
retail shops. It had been several years since T.S. had ventured
into the neighborhood that the rest of Manhattan called Hell's
Kitchen. A few residents had tried to replace the century-old
nickname with the more upscale "Clinton." But—like most of their
efforts at gentrification—the change had not stuck. The area was
still Hell's Kitchen and most of its inhabitants were still
stubbornly proud of that fact.

Few skyscrapers had invaded the area west of
Eighth Avenue. Side street after side street was lined with four-
to six-story brownstones in various stages of disrepair and
renovation. T.S. peered curiously out the window. Cheerfulness
thrived only in very small pockets, but at least it had not given
up entirely: streets gleaming with new brick and freshly planted
trees were always bordered on either side by streets filled with
the gray-stained concrete and crumbling front stoops of
poverty.

Hell's Kitchen still had not decided what it
wanted to be when it grew up. It was neither a bad neighborhood nor
a particularly good one, its varied residents coexisting in a
schizophrenic truce that defied description. Hard-working
immigrants from every country of the globe peered out of the
windows of their small restaurants and shops. Well-dressed
businessmen scurried eastward, eager to make their after-lunch
appointments. Hordes of preschool-age children swarmed everywhere,
held in tow by overweight mothers of all races who shared a single,
weary expression. They, in turn, were elbowed aside by
fantastically fit actors and actresses, who picked their way
through the crowds mumbling lines to themselves and trying on
different faces. Attracted by cheap rents and the nearby theater
district, they shared apartments in the neighborhood and added to
its astounding (even for New York) diversity. T.S. felt that their
fresh and hopeful faces only made the reality of the neighborhood
that much more depressing.

No matter how hard it tried, he reflected,
Hell's Kitchen was still lower middle class with an occasional
sprinkling of hopeful yuppies seeking zooming property values. In
fact, he passed several of these well-groomed residents as his cab
roared uptown. They were tightly gripping their purses and
briefcases, as they grimly steered clear of grimy, frantic groups
that gathered on certain corners, chattering and pointing with
self-importance to nearby windows.

T.S. sighed. That, too, had not changed.
Waves of drug dealers and users still washed over the
neighborhood's blocks in regular intervals, only to recede a few
weeks later, when the cops finally chased them a couple of blocks
down the avenue. But never far enough away to matter.

T.S. sighed again. Though the details had
changed, the amount of progress was the same. Hell's Kitchen was
always getting better, but never, ever quite got there.