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  ALFRED HITCHCOCK MYSTERY MAGAZINE

  May 2007

  Vol. 52, No. 5

  Dell Magazines

  New York

  Cover by Kino Brod / Im

  CONTENTS

  FICTION

  A PIECE OF WORK by Jas. R. Petrin

  THE LAST OF THE MAGIC by Dan Crawford

  THE BONDSTONE by R.T. Lawton

  SOPHISTICATION by Eve Fisher

  THE YAM POTS THE ART WORLD WANTED by Martha B.G. Lufkin

  GOOD-BYE, MR. CLIPS by Neil Schofield

  BRIMSTONE P.I. by Beverle Graves Myers

  CATHEDRALS R US by Edmund X. DeJesus

  MYSTERY CLASSIC

  THE RIDDLE OF THE JACK OF DIAMONDS by Stuart Palmer

  DEPARTMENTS

  EDITOR'S NOTES

  REEL CRIME by Steve Hockensmith

  SOLUTION to the April Dying Words

  UNSOLVED by Robert V. Kesling

  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

  Visit us online at www.TheMysteryPlace.com!

  Click a Link for Easy Navigation

  CONTENTS

  EDITOR'S NOTES: A POCKETFUL OF WRY by Linda Landrigan

  A PIECE OF WORK by JAS. R. PETRIN

  THE LAST OF THE MAGIC by DAN CRAWFORD

  REEL CRIME by STEVE HOCKENSMITH

  THE BONDSTONE by R. T. LAWTON

  SOPHISTICATION by EVE FISHER

  SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER

  THE YAM POTS THE ART WORLD WANTED by MARTHA B.G. LUFKIN

  UNSOLVED: LOGIC PUZZLE by ROBERT V. KESLING

  GOOD-BYE, MR. CLIPS by NEIL SCHOFIELD

  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by WILLIE ROSE

  BOOKED AND PRINTED by ROBERT C. HAHN

  BRIMSTONE P.I. by BEVERLE GRAVES MYERS

  CATHEDRALS R US by EDMUND X. DEJESUS

  MYSTERY CLASSIC: THE RIDDLE OF THE JACK OF DIAMONDS by STUART PALMER

  COMING IN JUNE 2007

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  EDITOR'S NOTES: A POCKETFUL OF WRY by Linda Landrigan

  May once again brings our annual humor issue, this year featuring eight original stories that each offer an instructive look at human foibles.

  In Jas. R. Petrin's caper “A Piece of Work,” Halifax bartender Beemer senses something a little off about a job involving a truck full of wine—but it's not just a funny smell that we like about this story, it's Beemer's sharp senses and his inimitable way of working out his problems. Cletis Johnston is a similarly engaging, if unfortunately evil, character, and we are delighted to spend more time in his crafty company in R.T. Lawton's “The Bondstone."

  Dorothy Shipley's quiet desperation comes through loud and clear in the diary entries that comprise Neil Schofield's tale “Good-bye, Mr. Clips"; you may think as you read it, “there but for the grace of God go I"—except your cat probably doesn't talk. We also loved the voice of George P. Tilbury, the earnest lawyer arguing a case before the Supreme Court in Martha B.G. Lufkin's legal mystery “The Yam Pots the Art World Wanted."

  Edmund X. DeJesus shows us what a strange place a shopping mall can be in his whimsical “Cathedrals R Us.” The inhabitants of Lasker, North Dakota, are starstruck—at first—when three Tinsletown has-beens move to the area, bringing a glamorous, if somewhat amoral, sensibility in Eve Fisher's “Sophistication."

  Beverle Graves Myers and Dan Crawford offer stories with more unorthodox settings. In Crawford's tender tale “The Last of the Magic,” the wandering minstrel Polijn encounters a village of panicked peasants who now regret never having properly appreciated their benefactor, the old wizard. Myers, meanwhile, manages to humanize the devil himself in “Brimstone P.I.,” in which Satan finds he needs a little help from a private detective.

  Eight tales of wry—better than a poke in the eye.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  A PIECE OF WORK by JAS. R. PETRIN

  Beemer reached under the bar and pulled out a baseball bat. It had curious, dark blotchy stains on the fat end.

  "All I want,” Little Donny Johnson said, “is a piece of work. I get out of the slam, I'm happy about that, but I got to put some money in the bank for my old age."

  It was one of those bright Halifax spring days, the first day of the year warm enough to sit out front of the Rob Roy on plastic chairs and drink beer; Seaside FM came to them through the open door from the bar inside, Patsy Cline falling to pieces. Benny sat with his back to the wall so that he could see up and down Agricola Street; Little D. J. sat facing Benny, skinny elbows planted wide on the table, an earnest gleam in his old eyes.

  "Eight years I was in this time. And before that, I don't know how many, if you take and add them up. All my life, in and out of the can. And you don't earn no benefits in there, know what I mean?"

  "Maybe,” Benny said, “there's a soapbox inside. I could carry it down to the common for you, and you could climb up on it and let them have it, all those bigshot politicians that love to hear what useless bums they are."

  "Very funny,” Little D. J. said. “Only it's not so funny from my side of the fence. You need money to stay alive in this world."

  "You're what, now,” Benny said, “sixty-eight or something?"

  "I'm seventy-two."

  "You should get some kinda pension, or the Social Security by now."

  "You got to put in to a pension to get something out of it. The line of work I was in, you don't do that. And the Social Security, that's a joke. Don't get me going on the Social Security. There's one of those bigshot politicians you mentioned, bragging about it on the TV last night. The safety net, he called it. Pardon me while I laugh. An inch across and an inch deep. I'd like to throw him into that net from the top of the Peace Tower, let him see how safe it is."

  "So you want work."

  "He spends more on lunch, that skug, than a monthly check from the Social Security."

  "So you want work. At your age."

  "What do you mean ‘at my age'? Age has got nothing to do with it. Your health is what matters. Your ability. And besides...” He let an expectant silence hang between them before adding, “I got a job practically all planned out."

  "Great,” Benny said. “You're in business, then."

  Little Donny Johnson rearranged himself in the chair and gripped his skinny biceps. He had crude little self-inflicted tats on the backs of his hands. One of them said PRUNO. Another one said JUMP. He gazed along the street for a moment, then turned back again.

  "Well, here's the thing. I don't mind finding the job, I don't mind helping with it, working out the details. But I don't want to run the show. That was never my style. Someone else can do that. I just want a part in it."

  "I see, and what part is that?"

  "Driving the semi."

  "Now you got my attention,” Benny said.

  * * * *

  The Rob Roy emptied out at around one forty-five A.M. The holdout, a guy in wind-pants and white sneakers not taking the hint until Beemer went to the front door and held it open for him; then the guy jumped up and trotted out like a spaniel going for a leak. Beemer said, after locking the door and stepping back behind the bar, “Guys like that,
you got to wonder. It's like they want a marching band or something to help them on their way.” He switched the front lights out. “I should've showed him my bat."

  "What bat is that?” D. J. asked, his eyes quick and nervous.

  Beemer reached under the bar, pulled out a baseball bat, and banged it down. It looked like it had slammed a few homers in its time and had curious dark, blotchy stains on the fat end.

  "This,” Beemer said, “is the bat Al Capone used on his business associates. I seen it on eBay there, I just had to have it."

  "Holy cow,” D. J. breathed reverently, reaching out a thin hand to touch it, “this is the exact same one?"

  Beemer slammed it back under the bar. “For fifty bucks? Probably not. But I let all my customers know I got it, and it has a wonderfully persuasive effect on them.” He looked at Benny. “Now, what have we got?"

  "You know Little D. J. here,” Benny said.

  Beemer nodded.

  "Little D. J.'s got a proposition."

  "Fine. I haven't been propositioned yet today."

  "A three-man job,” Little D. J. explained, “and Benny says you're the third man."

  "That would depend,” Beemer said, “if there's enough body armor to go around. Benny likes to get people shot."

  "One time,” Benny explained, “we're doing this little job, some guy lets go a round in the general direction of China, and Beemer's never gonna let me forget it."

  "Because I was standing between that guy and China,” Beemer said. “He doesn't mention that fact."

  "You'll like this job, then,” Benny said. “China's got nothing to do with it. Tell him, D. J."

  They sat at the table behind the dogleg of the bar, where they couldn't be seen from the street. Little D. J. looked at Beemer and cleared his throat.

  "What do you know about wine?"

  "I know I can sell it."

  "Can you sell, do you think, about three hundred cases of it?"

  Beemer looked from D. J. to Benny. “What are you telling me?"

  "What it is,” Little D. J. said, “this guy I was inside with, he gives me a call last week. He knows this other guy, this Dutch guy, a real gentleman. He says the Dutch guy might have this container of wine coming in down there at the wharf, South African stuff—Nederburg, Brendel, Eikendal—some others."

  "I'm listening,” Beemer said.

  "He wants to know, does somebody want to buy the three hundred cases off him at twenty dollars a case."

  "At how much?"

  "At twenty dollars a case."

  "Well. Go on,” Beemer said, more focused now.

  Little D. J. said, “I figure, sure, why not. I can sell them, I think, for double that. They gotta go two, two-fifty a case at the off sale. So forty on the pad, no problem, right?"

  "I'd give you forty. Go on."

  D. J. gave a little laugh, a shrug. “Only, there is a problem. I don't have the scratch."

  Beemer was nodding. “I thought it might be something like that. And you want us—Benny and me—to front you for it. The six thousand. That right?"

  "Well, yes and no,” D. J. said. “Not exactly. I wouldn't expect you to trust me for the six. I mean, you know I'm not good for it, right? Say something goes wrong?"

  "So what, then?"

  "What I'm proposing is a little arrangement. A partnership. We go in together on it. Three-way split. We'd have to arrange and go pick up the shipment ourselves, is all. And get rid of the container after."

  Beemer leaned back from the table, arms folded, not quite so keen about it now. “Pick it up, huh? You mean jack it, don't you? I think I'm beginning to understand. A container, even a small one, holds more than three hundred cases. More like twelve hundred would be my guess. So we take all the risk, hand over nine hundred cases, settle for three. Am I getting close?"

  "I wouldn't put it like that,” Little D. J. said.

  "Then how would you put it? And why me?"

  Little D. J. shrugged. “One reason is, you got the excise license, which means you can sign the shipment out from customs, down there at the docks, you don't have to pay the tax on it. You get a deferment or something."

  Beemer gave D. J. a suspicious look, then glanced at Benny, tipping his head at the old man. “He's done his homework. Or somebody's done it for him.” He turned to D. J. “But you got the wrong guy. I'm not gonna screw with that. I sign a paper, they can trace it back to me. You might like being in jail, all your family and friends are there. But not me."

  "They're not gonna trace it back to you because there won't be nothing to trace. The wine is a legitimate shipment. The guy here at the receiving end won't report it missing, won't even make a complaint."

  "Because why? Somebody popped him? You think I want to get involved in that?"

  "Nobody got popped. Nobody's going to get popped. The wine belongs to—well—this guy I'm telling you about."

  "Really."

  "Yeah, really."

  "And what did he pay for it?"

  "The going rate."

  "So why is he offering it so cheap?"

  "I don't know. I don't care."

  "There's something wrong about it, that's all I'm saying.” Beemer hesitated. Glanced at Benny. “How much do you figure for the take?"

  "I didn't figure it,” Benny said, taking over, “but we can work it out. Put up two grand apiece, which is six, for the three hundred cases. Sell them for ... what? Twelve? D. J. says forty a case, but I don't see letting them go that cheap. Ask sixty a case and take eighteen. That's a twelve grand profit cut three ways. D. J. pays us each a grand, which is the two we staked him, we're all square."

  "Except I'm not gonna screw with the license."

  "We can talk about that. Listen.” Benny took a deep breath, leaned in closer. “Go back to the first idea, you buy the three hundred cases. Or actually, you buy the two hundred, seeing you already own a hundred, your one-third split. Then you sell it by the glass through your establishment here, mark it up four or five times, whatever you usually do, your outrageous prices, and you're freakin’ rich. But that's what you were already thinking, am I right?"

  There was a tap at the front door.

  Beemer frowned. “Who the hell's that?"

  "That'll be Fred,” Little D. J. informed them, jumping up, “the Dutch guy. I asked him to stop by here and answer any questions we might have."

  "You what?"

  But D. J. was already hurrying away.

  "That,” Beemer said sharply to Benny, gesturing at D. J. as he fumbled with the door in the half light, “is what's wrong with this guy. He invites some character to my place, gives him ideas about me, I don't even know who the hell he is!” D. J. locked up again and brought Fred back to the table. Fred was fair haired, a little plump, with a slightly ruddy complexion. He wore a brown silk shirt, golf slacks, and what might have been Gucci schooners, a rich oxblood shade, on his feet. He was smiling broadly.

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said, reaching across the table to pump their hands, “I am Frederick de Voors.” He had an impossibly deep, round voice. “I am delighted to meet you fellows. I am delighted that we shall do business together.” He glanced around with less enthusiasm. “I am delighted to be here."

  "Mr. Beemer has got the bat Al Capone used to whack his partners with,” D. J. said.

  "Excuse me?” Fred blinked.

  "You want a beer?” Beemer said, giving D. J. a dark look.

  Fred glanced from D. J. to Beemer once, twice, then found his place again. “Oh, no, no. I have much to do. I can only stay for a few moments now.” He inspected the chair with misgivings, then sat down on it. “Donald says you have some questions. I am delighted to answer them."

  "Busier than a nailer, huh?” Beemer said. “And in the middle of the night too."

  "Opportunity waits for no man.” Huge smile.

  "Right. Well, this opportunity might have to. I got some problems with it."

  D. J. cut in. “See, there may be a snag with t
he pickup, Fred. Mr. Beemer here don't want to risk the license. Which is understandable. It's sort of his meal ticket."

  "I see.” Frederick's smile threatened to break for a moment, then came back again full force. “Never mind. It would have been easier that way, but no matter. We can make, of course, another arrangement. It will cost a little more, that is all."

  "There you go, then, see?” D. J. said to Beemer, looking relieved. “I told you Fred was a gentleman."

  "Another problem I got,” Beemer said, “is this shipment. The three hundred cases. Where's the other nine?"

  Frederick said, still smiling, “Ah yes. I see. You are referring to the capacity of the container. I do not think, with all respect, that you need to concern yourself about that. Regardless of all other questions, twenty dollars for a case of remarkable—I will even say exceptional—wine is a bargain. That is what we are talking about."

  "He's got a point,” Little D. J. said.

  "I don't ask you anything about the three hundred cases,” Frederick said. “What you do with them, that is your business. By the same line of reasoning, my business must remain my own."

  "That's right,” Little D. J. said.

  Frederick gave each of them a direct, ingenuous stare, lots of watery blue eye contact.

  "Anything else?"

  They looked at each other, shrugged.

  "No?” Frederick stood up. “Then if you are interested in what I have to offer, you will provide me with the required six-thousand dollars by twelve noon tomorrow. Cash money, of course. Donald knows how to get in touch with me. Upon full and complete receipt of the funds, I will provide him with the necessary instructions concerning delivery."

  "Hold on,” Beemer said.

  He shot Benny a glance, then looked at Fred.

  "A grand now, five on delivery,” Beemer said.

  "No, I am afraid not."

  "Three now and three on delivery."

  "No. I don't think that will suit the situation at all,” the plump man said. “There are, you see, considerable expenses to take into account. I do not wish to be out of pocket on your behalf. Noon tomorrow, then? I am delighted."