AHMM, May 2010 Read online

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  Cover by Tony Vita/Images.com

  CONTENTS

  Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: HEARING VOICES by Linda Landrigan

  Department: THE LINEUP

  Fiction: ACTION by Chris F. Holm

  Fiction: DOMESTIC DRAMA by Lynn K. Kilpatrick

  Fiction: TRUE TEST by B. K. Stevens

  Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Fiction: DINGEL DANGLES AND THE “UNTITLED: NUMBER 3” CAPER by Richard F. McGonegal

  Department: THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  Fiction: DRIVE-THRU by David Dietrich

  Fiction: MONEY by Jas. R. Petrin

  Fiction: SOMEWHERE ELSIE by Neil Schofield

  Department: SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER

  Department: COMING IN JUNE 2010

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  Department: EDITOR'S NOTES: HEARING VOICES by Linda Landrigan

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  One of the things that I find most engaging in a short story is a strong voice, which does so much to convey character and establish tone. But as I was putting together this year's humor issue, it struck me that a strong voice seems especially essential in humorous crime stories, especially those that exhibit dark humor. I think it has to do with negotiating that tension between the serious, even deadly, subject matter and the humorous intent. In any case, it was certainly an originality of voice that attracted me to two of this month's stories, “Domestic Drama” by Lynn K. Kilpatrick and “Somewhere Elsie” by Neil Schofield. A familiar voice, meanwhile, narrates “True Test,” the latest in B. K. Stevens's epistolary series featuring Lieutenant Walter Johnson and his clever, but modest, right-hand man Sergeant Bolt; this is the eleventh story featuring the crime-solving pair, and the interplay between the two men is still fresh and endearing.

  Another element I've often noticed in humorous crime stories is the power of self-delusion, especially as it appears in criminals who have convinced themselves that they are smarter or more capable than the evidence suggests. Once again, a strong, sure narrative voice is needed to capture the slippage between reality and fantasy, as shown in various ways this month in stories by the authors here. Their characters may not have a firm grasp on reality, but you can trust the narrative voices of these master storytellers. LINDA LANDRIGAN, EDITOR

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  Department: THE LINEUP

  David Dietrich lives in Texas and works in real estate. “Drive-Thru” is his third story for AHMM.

  Robert C. Hahn reviews mysteries for Publishers Weekly and the New York Post.

  "Action” is Chris F. Holm's AHMM debut. He has completed two novels.

  Lynn K. Kilpatrick's first collection of short stories,In the House, was recently published by FC2. She teaches at Salt Lake Community College.

  Richard F. McGonegal is the opinion page editor at the Jefferson City News Tribune. His story “Takedown” appeared in our January/February 2007 issue.

  Jas. R. Petrin's AHMM story “Car Trouble” appeared in The Best American Mystery Stories of 2008. He lives in Nova Scotia and is at work on a novel.

  Neil Schofield's story “Murder: A User's Guibe” (AHMM, July/August 2007) was nominated for a 2008 Barry Award.

  B. K. Stevens is an English professor at Lynchburg College in Virginia. Her story “Adjuncts Anonymous” appeared in the June 2009 issue.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: ACTION by Chris F. Holm

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  Andrew R. Wright

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  "Give me the effing money and nobody gets hurt!” I paused. “I'm sorry, can I do that again?"

  "If you like."

  "Give me the effing money and nobody gets hurt! Better?"

  They blinked at me from across the table for what seemed like forever. Finally, one of them spoke.

  "Uh, Mr.—"

  "Marshall,” I replied. “Alan Marshall."

  "Mr. Marshall. You're aware that's not the line as written, yes?"

  "Right! Yes! I'm glad you brought that up. See, the way I read this is my character's a pro. All business. No emotion. I just don't think he's the kind of guy who'd bust in there and drop F-bombs all over the place."

  "He's not?"

  "No, he's not."

  "Robber Number Three isn't the type to drop F-bombs?"

  "That's right."

  She sighed and tossed her script onto the table. “Thank you, Mr. Marshall. I think we've seen enough. We'll be in touch."

  Yeah, I thought. I'll bet you will.

  * * * *

  "So how'd it go?"

  "Lousy,” I replied, snapping a fresh toner cartridge into place and slamming shut the drawer. “Those hacks wouldn't know a good note if it bit ‘em in the ass."

  Pollock slurped the last drops of Mountain Dew from the bottom of his Big Gulp and set it on the counter. “It was one line, right?"

  "Yeah, but there're no small parts, you know what I mean?"

  "Not really."

  Of course he didn't. For six years I've been the night manager of the Copy Shack on Sunset, and in that time, I've worked with my share of actors. You ask me, Josh Pollock is the worst of the bunch. He never, I don't know, invests anything in the part—he's all show up, read the line, cash the check. And what's he got to show for it? Just a list of commercial credits as long as my arm and, okay, a line or two in the last Eastwood flick. But me? At least I've still got my pride.

  "Doesn't matter,” I told him. “Once I find a buyer for my script, I won't need to put up with this crap anymore."

  "How's that going, by the way? I heard you'd lined up a meeting with the Weinsteins."

  "Fell through. The caterer found out I lied about my bartending experience and canned me before they showed."

  "Dude, that sucks."

  "Eh, it's no big deal. They probably woulda changed the ending anyway. Honestly, what I really need is to put a little cash together and make the thing myself. You know, really show the world what I've got. Once the jobs come rolling in, I can punch out of this yawn factory for good."

  "You got a part in there for me?"

  I looked him up and down a second, and then frowned. “Not sure,” I said. “Probably nothing speaking."

  I guess if I'm being honest about it, it was Shakespeare who told me to do it. Well, Rufus, really, but Shakespeare wrote it first.

  I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of Miss Claire's studio. The class stretched out on either side of me in a circle, and each of us had to stand and deliver a monologue in turn. I confess I dozed a little. I'd just pulled a double-shift at the Copy Shack, and the chemicals wafting up the stairs from Miss Claire's salon were downright dizzying. I jerked awake to find that I'd missed half the class. Across the circle, Rufus was clambering noisily to his feet—all three hundred eighty pounds of him. He shuffled to the center of the circle, his brow furrowing as he struggled to remember his lines, and then he plowed headlong into Jaques's monologue from As You Like It with all the grace and aplomb of a runaway dump truck.

  "All the world's a stage,” he shouted like a drill sergeant dressing down a batch of new recruits, “and the men and women merely players!"

>   My jaw fell open. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before. I leapt to my feet. Everybody turned and stared. Well, everybody except for Miss Claire, who sat filing her nails in the corner.

  "Rufus,” I said, “could I borrow you for a second?"

  "Dude, I'm kinda in the middle of something."

  "It's important."

  "Yeah, but are you sure we gotta do this now?"

  "It's about a part."

  I'll tell you, for a big man, the kid can move. We were down the stairs and out the door before anybody could say a word. Miss Claire gave chase, shouting something about tuition, but I ignored her and pushed on. After all, there'd be money enough to pay her later. There'd be money enough for a lot of things.

  * * * *

  "So let me get this straight,” Rufus said, pushing enchiladas around his plate. “You wanna rob a bank?"

  I frowned and glanced around the restaurant, but there was no one within earshot. “That's right."

  "And you want my help."

  "Yep."

  "I don't know, dude. I thought you said this was about a part."

  "It is about a part. We do it just like Money in the Bank."

  "But Money in the Bank is a movie. It's not even a movie—it's just a script. A script that so far, you haven't been able to sell."

  "That's just the beauty of it! I've already written the perfect heist; all we gotta do is play our roles. When it's all said and done, we've got all the dough we need to make our movie. Then we hit the festival circuit, line up a distributor, and this time next year, we're drinking Cristal in our hot tubs and waiting for the calls to come in."

  "That does sound nice,” he said, “but I don't wanna hurt nobody."

  "We'll use prop guns. Nobody's gonna get hurt."

  "Yeah?” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  "Yeah,” I replied. “Now here's what we're gonna do."

  * * * *

  The casting call hit Craigslist on Tuesday. By Thursday we had three dozen responses. Half I nixed when I saw their headshots. The rest we called in for auditions. We had a couple prima donnas who wouldn't show on account of we were holding the auditions in the break room of the Copy Shack, but that was fine by me. I mean if you're the kind of jerk who's gonna lock yourself in your trailer ‘cause craft services won't stock the mini crab cakes you like, then good riddance. This is art we're talking about, not some focus-grouped studio crap. Real art's about risk, about commitment. And those guys probably would've sucked anyway.

  "So shall I just take it from the top, then?"

  "Yes you shall,” I said, stifling a laugh by putting a hand to my mouth and making like I had to cough. I couldn't help it—Nigel here sounded like the freakin’ Queen of England. I guess he was fresh off the boat or whatever ‘cause he kept going on about his last gig with the Royal Shakespeare something-or-other, like anyone in L.A. gave a crap. The guy even led off the audition by telling me how chuffed he was I'd called him in. I mean, seriously, who talks like that?

  He closed his eyes and cleared his throat and shook his hands at his sides like he was in a men's room that was fresh out of paper towels. Sorry, men's loo. When he opened his eyes, his face had changed. No more was he the poncey dude who looked like he'd just stepped out of Masterpiece Theatre. Now his eyes were cold and dead, and the angles of his face had somehow sharpened. Truth be told, it kinda creeped me out. At least until he spoke, that is.

  "Listen, lady,” he said, in a flat faux-American accent that sounded like John Wayne on quaaludes, “put the money in the bag or I'll gut you like a fish.” He frowned and shook his head. “I'm sorry,” he said, his native accent returning, “but in the scene in question, it's a gun I'm brandishing, is it not?"

  "That's right. Why, there something wrong?"

  "No, no, of course not. It's just . . . well, I can't very well gut someone with a gun, now can I?"

  "Yeah, but you're not really going to gut her; you're just telling her that so she'll do what you say."

  "Right. Right. Only she's still got to believe that I could gut her, doesn't she?"

  Crap—the guy had a point. On the other hand, this was my movie, not his, and besides, it didn't really matter what he said if he was gonna say it with that train wreck of an accent. I sighed and shook my head. “You know what? Maybe Rafe just doesn't talk."

  He thought about it a moment, and then nodded. “Ah, of course, the silent brooding type! Very frightening, if done properly, and I'd like to think I'm up to the challenge. Does this mean I've got the part?"

  I let him sweat it for a second before I replied. “Yeah,” I said, “you've got the part."

  "Excellent! When do we begin filming?"

  "About that . . .” I said, a smile breaking across my face. And then I let Nigel in on our little plan.

  * * * *

  "Don't think I don't know what you're doing,” Pollock said.

  I gave him my best perplexed face. Miss Claire says I've got a knack for it. “Honestly, Josh, I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "You don't."

  "No, I don't."

  "Then you haven't spent the past two weeks casting Money in the Bank out of the break room?"

  "Of course not!” I gave him my surprised face, with just a touch of righteous indignation.

  "Drop the act,” he said. “I'm not blind, you know. I swear, I oughta report you to Chelsea for this. The break room is for employees only."

  "Aw, c'mon, man! You don't really wanna get the boss involved, do you?"

  "Depends,” he said.

  "Depends on what?"

  "On if you got a part for me."

  I pretended to think about it. Truth was, besides Nigel, our auditions were a bust. I mean, we saw a couple guys who read the lines okay, but when I told them what we had in mind, they sorta wigged. Turns out the actors in this town are a bunch of sissies when it comes to hard core street theater. “I don't know,” I said. “We've filled pretty much everything already."

  "I got a cousin who runs a small effects house in Burbank. He could probably snag us all the props we need."

  I had to admit, those props would come in handy. But the dude had threatened to fink on me to the boss, so I decided to let him squirm. “Still, I'd have to let somebody go..."

  "I'll work for free,” he said.

  "All right, you're in."

  "Really? You mean it?"

  "Of course I mean it."

  "So what kind of budget are we talking about for this thing?"

  "Well, Josh,” I said, “it's funny you should ask..."

  * * * *

  The table read was set for Wednesday. I wanted to go earlier, but Pollock had a prior commitment playing Constipated Trucker Number Two for some laxative commercial. I swear, that hack will say yes to anything.

  Man, did that table read crackle. Every line was perfect. Rufus rocked as Drake, the soft-hearted muscle of the outfit. Nigel's take on Rafe, the taciturn former contract killer, gave me chills—once I trimmed out all his lines except for the occasional grunt, that is. Even Pollock was perfectly serviceable as Slade, the munitions expert whose allegiance was always in doubt. And I, of course, was born to play Lance, the rakish master thief, the ringleader, the man with the plan.

  Speaking of which, the plan was this. We'd hit one of the small, independent banks close to downtown at the stroke of noon on Friday, and we'd go in hard and fast on foot. The bank in question was Grofield Savings, on the corner of Beverly and Westlake. That close to downtown, the lunchtime traffic is a bitch, and the way I figured it, the gridlock would delay the cops long enough for us to bag the dough and make our escape.

  Now, that time of day, the bank was certain to be packed, but I had that covered too. I mean, obviously, we'd be wearing masks, but masks just hide your face. That'll keep you from getting picked out of a lineup, but I wanna make sure we don't get nabbed before we get around the block. How? Simple: we disguise our clothing too. See, we each go in decked out
in some kind of eye-catching getup, the kind of outfit a room full of witnesses can't help but remember. But underneath, we're wearing normal street clothes. Once the job is done, we head around back and ditch our tacky threads, bringing them with us in a duffel bag so they won't be found. Then, while the cops are wasting their time looking for a bunch of dopes in silly outfits, we just catch a bus and disappear.

  Genius, right? I mean who wouldn't plunk down good money to see that on the silver screen? Nobody, that's who. But try and tell that to the morons running the studios. These days, all they wanna see is superheroes and talking dogs, which means all the really great scripts go unnoticed. And I admit, I've tried my hand a time or two at cranking out the sort of commercial junk they're looking for, but every time, I couldn't bring myself to do it. You ask me, writing crap like that just to make a buck is freakin’ criminal.

  On Thursday morning, me and the guys took a bus downtown to case the joint. We went in under the guise of applying for a small business loan to get our independent production company off the ground. They practically laughed us out of the bank, but I didn't mind. The whole time I was blocking the scene in my head, and imagining these losers wetting themselves when we came in the next day, guns blazing. Besides, I knew going in they were gonna reject us on account of they'd already turned me down the month before.

  Afterward, the four of us gathered in the alley to finalize our plans.

  "Let's run it down one more time,” I said, “just so everybody's clear. Josh, you're getting the prop guns from your cousin. Rufus, you're on masks. I'll make sure we're all set to disable the security cameras. And Nigel, we need you to get the duffel bags."

  But Nigel wasn't home. All I saw looking back at me was the blank stare of a hardened killer. He didn't nod, he didn't speak, he didn't blink—in fact, there was no indication he'd heard me at all.

  "Or maybe someone else can pick them up,” I added.

  "I'll do it,” Pollock replied.

  "Okay, Josh gets the guns and the bags. Just think, by this time tomorrow, we'll all be rich! I mean, not Josh I guess, on account of he's doing this for free, but the rest of us for sure. And of course, once we get our movie made, the exposure alone'll be enough to set us up for life. So whaddya say, boys—you ready for the big time?"