Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories (12 page)

"That isn't the point."

"It is the point. It is," she said. "Please, let's leave now. I'd like to walk."

She got to her feet and stood waiting for him to do the same. It wasn't a long wait, only a few seconds. They went outside together, along the crowded sidewalks of upper Grant. Somewhere she could hear music playing, guitar music—flamenco guitar? She smiled. It was such a nice night.

Beside her, Don said, "Meg, I don't understand this. Why? Tell me why."

"You know why," she said. "I've known all along how you felt about me. And I've felt the same about you, from the very first."

"Then why did you wait three years? That's what I don't understand. Why tonight, all of a sudden?"

"It was time," she said. "Past time. I couldn't wait any longer."

He was silent, walking.

"Don? You do want to be with me tonight, don't you? Alone together, the whole night?"

"You know I do. I won't deny it."

"Then that's all that matters, darling. Us together, tonight."

She heard him sigh softly. And then she heard him say, "God help us both."

Yes
, she thought,
God help us both
.

She took his arm and moved close to him, as if they were already lovers. And for the first time, she thought about the bruises and wondered if the most recent ones still showed. Well, it didn't matter so much if they did. She would ask Don to turn the lights down low or shut them off altogether. That way, he would not notice tonight. Tomorrow . . . well, tomorrow was tomorrow. He would find out then, in any case, not so very long after he found out about Gene.

She thought about Gene, but only briefly. Only briefly did she picture him lying there in the bedroom they had shared, the bedroom where time and again he had beaten his poor little lamb, the bedroom where she had shot him to death at four o'clock this afternoon.

Yes, officer, I emptied the gun into him
.
He was coming at me, he was drunk and ready to beat me again, and I took the gun and I shot him and then I ran out and drove around and around—and then I called Don Murdock and arranged to have dinner with him and later spent the night with him for the first and last time. Do you think that's awful? Do you believe I'm some kind of monster?

No, she mustn't think that way. All of that was tomorrow. First, there was tonight. And no matter what anyone believed, tonight was very important—very, very important. Like the last night before the end of the world.

She hugged Don's arm and smiled up at him, thinking about tonight.

(With Jeffrey M. Wallmann)

W
hat I was doing, standing there in the shadow of a large oak at four o'clock on this clear moonlit morning, was considering the heist of a car. Not just any car, mind you, but a beautiful three-liter Lancelot Mark II, sitting in a secluded driveway less than a block away. The street—dark and deserted—was a tunnel of oaks, and the houses were nicely spaced apart. It was, as we say, a perfect setup.

But I was still only considering. Car thugging had been my trade for roughly half of my adult life; however, the other half has been spent in an assortment of state-maintained resorts run for the care and preservation of breeds such as myself. If I were to follow the mandates of my craft and once again be caught—well, the parting words of Warden Selkirk, when I was paroled from State Prison recently, were still heavy in my mind:

"Kenton, you're a loser, a perennial fixture here at the Camp. Much as I hate to say it, I'm afraid it won't be long before you're back with us again—for an even longer stay."

Nevertheless, I had been on the straight and narrow up until now. With the help of Feeney, my parole officer, I had gotten a worthwhile job as swing-shift dishwasher at the El Rancho Truck Stop and I had a room over the All-Nite Bowling Lanes; and saving bus fare the way I was, I would soon have a color television set. Maybe I shouldn't have scrimped on the fare, though, for walking to work brought me past the Lancelot every morning. And every morning I had been finding it harder and harder to continue walking and not driving.

You had to see that Lancelot to appreciate it. Sweet graceful lines, genuine leather throughout, crushed-velvet door panels, combination short wave and cassette mounted in the console, air conditioning, and power everything. The potential joy of wheeling it to Honest Jack's Auto Emporium, where it would receive a brand-new identity and eventually a brand-new home, made the palms of my hands itch.

Well, I was still trying to make up my mind—the Lancelot or another running of my personal gauntlet—when the kid appeared. He was on the sidewalk beyond the Mark II, moving with a kind of awkward stealth, looking furtively around him. When he reached the driveway he darted along it to where the Lancelot was parked. I could see him clearly in the moonlight—young, thin, scared, dressed in black—and I could see the bent wire he was clutching in one hand.

I recognized both the look of him and the wire. I had had both on my first heist those many years ago, the venture that had sent me down the broad path of crime. I saw the kid bend at the driver's door—and I knew I had to stop him. Before I could ponder the wisdom of this decision, I was hurrying silently away from the oak and down the sidewalk.

The kid was so intent on maneuvering the coat-hanger wire through the Lancelot's wing window that he didn't hear me at all. I eased up behind him and let my hand drop heavily onto his shoulder. "Son," I said in a low voice, "you're in trouble."

He turned, cringing. "Who—who are you?"

"Officer Stanislausky of the Special Citizen's Patrol," I said. "It's my job to watch this affluent neighborhood to make sure nobody heists iron belonging to the taxpayers."

"I—I wasn't going to steal this car."

"You were looking for a place to take a nap, maybe?"

"I just got a thing for Lancelots, that's all."

"That I can appreciate," I said. "But the fact remains, you're caught red-handed. I'm duty-bound to take you in."

"Give me a break, mister," the kid said. "I got a widowed mother to support, and if I'm arrested I'll lose my job."

"A widowed mother?"

"And a baby sister," he said.

"Well," I said, "that's a different story," even though I had used such a story myself on occasion. But he looked like a decent kid, just a little mixed up in his thinking.

"You mean, you'll let me go?" he said.

"Why not? I once supported a widowed mother, too."

"Thanks, mister—thanks!"

"You'll never try to heist another car?"

"Never!"

"Then you're now released on probation," I said, and let go of his shoulder. He gave me a weak grin, backed off two steps, then turned and ran down the driveway and out of sight along the oak-walled sidewalk.

I looked at the house to see if anyone had been aroused, but it was still dark and quiet. Then I looked at the Lancelot. The palms of my hands began to itch again, and I felt a weakness in the pit of my stomach. I began to shake. The Lancelot was so sleek, so beautiful—

And all at once I realized that I hadn't stopped the kid only for humanitarian reasons, that I had intervened partly because he was about to heist the Lancelot, my Lancelot. I knew then that I had to have it. I couldn't control myself any longer, the urge was too strong. Some men are born to write books and some to shape the destinies of the world; I was born to heist cars. There is no denying the inevitable.

The kid had left his bent coat hanger in the wing window. I touched it, almost nostalgically, and began to maneuver it. The old magic was still in my fingers. The door opened soundlessly under my hand and I slipped in behind the wheel. I ran my palms over the soft leather upholstery. Honest Jack was going to love this baby. Honest Jack had an eye for fine quality. He did not give new identities to anything but the best from both sides of the Atlantic.

I leaned down under the dash and began to cross the ignition wires. I didn't need a light—a craftsman works mainly by touch alone. As soon as I had her hot-wired, I would get out and roll the Lancelot into the street. Then—

The door was suddenly jerked open and the brilliant white light of a flash beam filled the Lancelot's interior. I sat up, blinking, and heard a sharp authoritative voice say, "Hold it right there. Put your hands where I can see them."

I put my hands where he could see them. The flashlight lowered slightly, and beyond the hazy glare was a big guy in a pair of pajamas. In his other hand he held an automatic. It was very steady. He said, "So you were trying to steal my car, eh?"

I sighed resignedly. Under the circumstances there was no point in trying to bluff it out; the proverbial egg was all over my face. "I couldn't control the urge," I said. "I have never been able to control the urge."

"In other words you're a professional car thief?"

"Reformed professional car thief—until just now."

"I thought so," the guy said. "I saw the way you got rid of that kid and the quick, smooth way you opened the car."

In spite of the situation I felt a touch of pride. "How did you know something was going on out here?" I asked him.

"I was raiding the refrigerator," he answered, "and I happened to look through the kitchen window when the kid started up the drive. I got my gun and went out through the back door and by that time you were here talking to him. I knew you weren't what you claimed to be, so I just hid in the shrubbery to see what you were up to."

I sighed again. Would the local police and my parole board understand about birthrights and uncontrollable urges? Somehow I didn't think so; they had been unimpressed in the past. Well, maybe Warden Selkirk could arrange for me to have my old cell back. It had a nice view of the exercise yard.

A
ll that took place three months ago, and I can hardly believe what has happened to me since. I have moved into a posh residential apartment building called the Nabob Arms, and have acquired the color television set and a car of my own—not a Lancelot, but quality merchandise nonetheless. And Dolores, this very buxom blonde I met in the park a while back, has consented to become Mrs. Harold Kenton when her divorce is final.

Everything is coming up roses for the first time in my life, particularly and primarily because I am now able to pursue my calling on an average of six times a week—the heisting of iron, the finest of iron from both sides of the Atlantic. Bliss, sheer bliss. Oh, I don't get as much per as I did from Honest Jack, but I have to look at it from the volume and organizational aspects, not to mention the safety standpoint.

I know what you're thinking: the owner of the Lancelot happened to be the ringleader of a large-scale hot-car outfit, and he liked my style enough to take me into the fold.

But you're wrong. And that is the beauty part. What I'm doing, you see, is perfectly legitimate. The owner of the Lancelot is one of this community's most respected citizens, a shrewd business type who recognizes talent when he sees it. His name is Potter, Lawrence D. Potter, of Potter's Repossessions, Inc., and we work for only the best banks and new-car dealers when their paper turns sour, when their car loans are in default.

Like my parole officer, Feeney, says, "It's a modern Horatio Alger success story, if ever there was one."

I
n the opulent lobby lounge of the St. Francis Hotel, where he and Tom Olivet had gone for a drink after the A.C.T. dramatic production was over, Walter Carpenter sipped his second Scotch-and-water and thought that he was a pretty lucky man. Good job, happy marriage, kids of whom he could be proud, and a best friend who had a similar temperament, similar attitudes, aspirations, likes and dislikes. Most people went through life claiming lots of casual friends and a few close ones, but seldom did a perfectly compatible relationship develop as it had between Tom and him. He knew brothers who were not nearly as close. Walter smiled. That's just what the two of us are like, he thought. Brothers.

Across the table Tom said, "Why the sudden smile?"

"Oh, just thinking that we're a hell of a team," Walter said.

"Sure," Tom said. "Carpenter and Olivet, the Gold Dust Twins."

Walter laughed. "No, I mean it. Did you ever stop to think how few friends get along as well as we do? I mean, we like to do the same things, go to the same places. The play tonight, for example. I couldn't get Cynthia to go, but as soon as I mentioned it to you, you were all set for it."

"Well, we've known each other for twenty years," Tom said. "Two people spend as much time together as we have, they get to thinking alike and acting alike. I guess we're one head on just about everything all right."

"A couple of carbon copies," Walter said. "Here's to friendship."

They raised their glasses and drank, and when Walter put his down on the table he noticed the hands on his wristwatch. "Hey," he said. "It's almost eleven-thirty. We'd better hustle if we're going to catch the train. Last one for Daly City leaves at midnight."