Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 37, No. 6, June 1992

Editor’s Notes by Cathleen Jordan

Summer is in sight, and we’re back with our get-ting-to-be-traditional June Double Issue, filled with no fewer than eighteen stories for your pleasure. As before, some are favorites from AHMM’s past.

This time, we could have put in a story from that past by Miel Tanburn, whom many of you will remember as an AHMM writer from 1966 (“Bright Alibi”) to 1980. To our surprise, however, we discovered in the mail one day a new story by Mr. Tanburn (a pseudonym), now writing under his real name, Ron Abell. The author of “Leo” says, “I haven’t written short stories for a decade or more, but recently felt the urge again. This story will be the fourteenth one of mine to appear in your magazine, and the first under my own name, and it feels like a homecoming. I think I’ll try some more.” We’re looking forward to that.

Three other writers for this issue are here with their first full-length mystery short stories.

D. J. Bart, author of “Who Is Jim Vogelbaugh?” is one of several writers in AHMM’s history to move from The Mysterious Photograph to the “regular” pages of the magazine, and we’re very pleased to welcome him anew. (See The Story That Won in the December 1991 issue.) When he’s not writing, he is being a business consultant in New Mexico after an earlier career as head of “three automobile dealerships and owner of a small real estate company.”

Douglas D. Armstrong, author of “The Slip,” is a journalist and movie critic from Milwaukee who travels “frequently as a film critic to festivals and premieres, as well as to visit movie sets.” Another story by Mr. Armstrong will be coming up in our July issue.

Although “Worthsayer” is Stanley Schmidt’s first mystery story, he is an accomplished writer of science fiction, having published some thirty short stories in a variety of magazines as well as four novels (the most recent is Tweedlioop, Tor, 1986) and a good bit of nonfiction. Stan is a former physics professor, editor of our sister magazine Analog, a musician who plays first trumpet with the Danbury Symphony Orchestra, a photographer whose work is on permanent exhibit in the Cleveland Museum of Natural History, a pilot, an inveterate traveler and backpacker, and a linguist whose dozen languages include Catalan, Polish, and Swahili. (Whew.)

Small Talk by Terry Courtney

Frankie Ice slid into the rear booth across from Bellinger. “Ready for a taste, lieutenant?”

Bellinger held up his glass to show Frankie that it was almost full. He would not have recognized Frankie on the street. The once lean, handsome Mediterranean face was jowly, the trim body running to bloat. His hair had turned a dirty gray.

Frankie called to the waitress. “Double V.O. water, honey.”

Bellinger said, “Why the meet, Frankie?”

“Nothing special, lieutenant. Just a couple of old players getting together for some small talk. You know, old times.”

Bellinger knew. It was Frankie’s meet, and men like Frankie had a near obsessive compulsion to indulge in some verbal broken field running before they could come to the point of a conversation. That’s the way it was, that’s the way it had always been. Bellinger would be patient. Sometimes it paid off, sometimes it did not, but he had to know.

The waitress slid Frankie’s drink onto the table and left. Bellinger said, “How’s it going, Frankie? Jewelry still your specialty? Climbing through windows that don’t belong to you?”

Frankie shrugged.

“I gave that up. I got a few things going for me. Nothing important, but I’m comfortable, thank you.”

Bellinger knew exactly what Frankie had going for him. “But they still call you Frankie Ice.”

“You know a name, lieutenant. It stays with a guy forever.”

“Like Tony Bags.”

“Sure, like that. Tony ain’t stuffed pieces of anybody in plastic in fifteen years, but he’s still Tony Bags.”

“Until the day he gets stuffed into something.”

Frankie waved away the thought. “Tony Bags is retired in Arizona. Nobody wants him for anything. He’ll die in bed.”

“One of the chosen few.”

“See, you understand the way it is, lieutenant. You and me, we’re oldtime players. We know what’s happening. I said that just the other day. I said that Lieutenant Bellinger goes way back and knows how the game is played, you know?”

“What game is that, Frankie?” Bellinger asked, his creased, well used face without expression. He looked exactly like what he was: a cop who had seen and heard too much during his twenty-seven years on the force. His hair was more salt than pepper these days. The job did that to a man.

“The game,” Frankie said. “Come on, you know what I mean. My people and your people. We do certain things to try to make some money. Your people don’t approve of some of the things we do to make money and try to catch us at it. If you don’t catch us, we make money. If you do catch us, you give us free vacations downstate at the granite hotel. It’s a simple game. And you know one thing that has always been true? How the game is played. When we make money, your people never take it personal and when we get vacations, we never take it personal. It’s a rule of the game. You get my drift?”

Bellinger nodded. Frankie was getting there.

Frankie sipped his bourbon. “Because if people, mine or yours, was to take it personal, then the game would get nasty, sloppy, and my people would not like that to happen. I don’t think your people would like it, either.”

“You mean Carmine Anzalone wouldn’t like it,” Bellinger said.

“You know names ain’t cool, lieutenant.”

Bellinger ignored the reproach. “Somebody taking something personal, Frankie?”

Frankie made a face. “Once in a while you get a guy with a bad case of dumb. It happens.”

Bellinger waited while Frankie signaled the waitress for a refill. Frankie was silent until he had his fresh drink and they were alone again.

He sipped and Bellinger waited.

Finally Frankie sighed loudly, his glass thunking on the table. “You remember a player named Salvatore Minella, lieutenant?”

Bellinger mentally sorted through the felon file in his memory, and the name dropped into place. “Three or four years ago. Extortion of a building contractor.”

“It was five years ago. Sal got caught by a wire, and that bought him a nickel downstate.”

“I remember. He made a rookie mistake.”

“Nobody’s perfect. Sal got the vacation, and word comes back that he is doing hard time. Very hard time. And that worried my people.”

“I’ll bet it did.”

“Right, because when a guy is doing hard time, your people are always visiting him, offering him Christmas candy if he will tell them stories. You know?”

Bellinger’s eyebrows rose and fell. “It’s part of the game,” he said with the hint of a smile.

“So my people send people to see Sal all the time, just to make sure he understands that he shouldn’t be telling no stories to nobody. And these people come back saying how bad Sal is doing down there.”

“I never heard of Minella dealing.” Bellinger realized that Frankie was not quite there yet.

“That’s the point. He didn’t deal. No stories, no candy. He stayed together, which makes what happened so unreal. He didn’t do the whole nickel. Four years and change. He got out two weeks ago and came home for his benefits.”

“What benefits?” This was new to Bellinger.

“Maybe you don’t know about that. It ain’t a thing we talk about. See, when a player goes away there are two benefits. First, his family is taken care of, in Sal’s case a wife and kid.”

“I know about the family thing. Did it happen?”

“For about two years. Then Sal’s wife divorced him and married some upright dude who works for the phone company. They moved to a far suburb, and she said she didn’t want anything anymore, to leave her alone. Sal told somebody it was all right, he was glad to get rid of her.”

“And the other benefit?”

“A guy who goes on vacation and is cool has ten grand a year waiting for him when he gets out.”

“For not telling stories.”

“That and a stake. So Sal comes home, and even though he didn’t do the full five, they gave him fifty large.”

Bellinger snorted. “I was him I’d be in the Bahamas.”

Frankie’s grin had no mirth in it. “He just might be at that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lieutenant, we got a problem with Sal right now. When Sal got his money, my people told him to take a month off. Get an apartment, a car, clothes, visit some ladies, get back in the life. Come back in a month, he can go back to work. So he got all those things, except I wouldn’t know about the ladies. And he went around seeing all his old friends, one of which is Louie Guarino, who is a player I know you definitely know.”

“Once upon a time I arranged a vacation for him.”

“I know about that. So, Sal and Louie are tight. Partners. And Sal tells Louie that the time in the joint is so bad it is a thing he can’t forget and won’t forgive. And he is going to do something about it, a solo number. He is going to off the man who did it to him.” Frankie’s voice went quiet. “That would be Kerwin.”

Bellinger did not fully grasp the meaning of what Frankie had said for a moment, then his eyes blinked rapidly. “Adam Kerwin? Detective Sergeant Adam Kerwin?”

“The same.”

“Sweet Jesus! Is Minella insane? Doesn’t he realize what he could start?”

“Maybe, maybe not, but he don’t seem to care. But my people know, and they care very much. Louie Guarino told somebody who told somebody else who told another party, and it got back. You know what small talk can be. So word is sent to Sal that he will not do anything that stupid and that is an order. And Sal sends word back which is in fact two words and they are not Happy Easter.”

“That must have shocked the bile out of Carmine... your people.”

“Definitely. So a couple of guys were called in.”

“Hitters?” Bellinger asked.

“A couple of guys to convince Sal of the error of his thinking.”

“Hitters,” Bellinger declared.

“Only Sal got word maybe, or maybe just figured, and he disappeared. And that’s where we are now, lieutenant. My people have looked everywhere they could think of; family, friends, every hidey hole we know of. He’s gone, vanished. But he’s out there carrying a very large hate for one of your people.”

“What do you want from me, Frankie? Specifically.”

“Look, you got the whole police force and that national computer and that all points thing and all. Maybe you could find Sal where we can’t. All we want you to do is try. You get him picked up for something and make sure he’s held wherever it is until our couple of guys can get there, then let him go. You make a phone call, tell us where he is, we tell you how long to hold him, and that’s all. We take it from there and you don’t know how it happened. Nobody wants him to ruin the game. This is just as important to us as it is to you.”

“I see where you’re coming from, but I’m not sure we can do that. It will have to work through the captain. I’ll do my best.”

“Do better than that, lieutenant. We’re talking one of your friends got a target on his back.”

“Minella must have the I.Q. of a turnip.”

“The joint does different things to different guys. And you should maybe talk Kerwin into taking a vacation until we find Sal. It could save his life.”

“I know Adam Kerwin. He runs from no man.”

Frankie made a noise with his mouth and slowly shook his head. “That attitude ain’t always smart. You know how Sal got connected in the first place: a judge put him in the army for two years. In there they discovered he was a natural with a rifle. Two years and all he did was shoot on some kind of army rifle team. Contests or whatever. He said if he had stayed in the army he could have been in the Olympics. But he came out and was doing odd jobs for my people. Strictly errand boy stuff. Then a matter came up that needed a guy good with a rifle. A long-range thing. Somebody remembered Sal, and they gave him the work. He did a nice, clean job, and that got him a little action of his own. There were two more rifle jobs after that. Each time Sal did good work and got a little more of the pie. Then he went away.”

“An expert rifleman. I didn’t know. Lordy.”

“You see what I’m getting at? Sal could hit Kerwin from half a block away, and Kerwin would be dead before the sound got to him. Listen, with the guns they make now, Sal could do it from two blocks away with one of those scope things. And remember, Sal’s got all the cash he needs to buy any kind of rifle he wants.”

Bellinger slid out of the booth. “Thanks, Frankie. I owe you one. We’ll keep in touch.”

Frankie Ice did not reply. Instead he handed Bellinger a folded piece of paper with a telephone number printed on it.

Captain Wexler’s round, ruddy face constantly changed expression as he listened to Bellinger. When the lieutenant finished his recital, Wexler said, “We must locate Kerwin right away, and that could be a big problem.”

“I’ve got that working, captain. I called dispatch on the way in. Adam is out on an investigation. I impressed upon them the urgency of the situation, and they will try to contact him every ten minutes and tell him to check in with you or me. The question is, can we go all out to find Minella?”

“We have no choice. He is urgently wanted for questioning in a homicide case. Please hold and notify.”

“I’ll get it out, local and national.” Bellinger started to stand up.

“Stay a minute, lieutenant. I think I had better fill you in on the entire situation, like why locating Kerwin quickly could be a problem. Also, the real reason Carmine A. did us this favor.”

Bellinger’s expression reflected his puzzlement.

“What I say doesn’t leave this room.” The captain picked up a pencil and rolled it between his palms. “For the past three-plus months Adam Kerwin has been on Carmine A.’s payroll.”

Bellinger jerked forward. “Adam Kerwin on the pad? I don’t believe it. There isn’t a more honest man alive than Adam.”

“It took us almost a year to set it up, but it worked to perfection.” The captain’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Until now.”

“You mean it’s a sting?”

“Exactly. We picked Kerwin because he’s single, so no family would be hurt. In addition, his partner had applied for a transfer to Homicide over a year ago, so we sent him over there and he believed it was routine. We didn’t give Kerwin another partner. He went through a typical scenario. Gambling heavier and heavier, got in debt to the bookies, went to a loan shark and then couldn’t make the payments. It was inevitable that Carmine A. would make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“What was Adam doing to earn his keep?”

“For the first two or three weeks it was simple things. Tip them off in advance of raids. We had to set up raids we normally would never have conducted just so Kerwin could pass the word. Then it got more complicated. They had Kerwin arrange that none of our cars were in a certain area on a particular night at specified times. Keep the coast clear so they could pull off high dollar burglaries. Exclusive jewelry stores, appliance warehouses, like that. And when that went well, they got greedy and had him clearing out areas for big-volume drug deliveries. Truckloads.”

“You know my next question. What do we get in return?”

“Videotapes. We set up hidden surveillance units on loan from the FBI, equipped with camcorders. They get the drug busts. We’ve got tapes of every job they did. That scum will go into shock when they find out how many of them are movie stars.”

“How long were you going to play it?”

“We were day to day. When we felt it had run its course, we planned a cattle call. Wholesale arrests, with the tapes to guarantee the cases would hold up in court. We already have enough to burn twenty-five or thirty of those dirtbags.”

“I see what you mean about the favor.”

“Of course. They certainly don’t want Minella to kill Kerwin, but not primarily because of the trouble it would start, although that is a consideration. No, their main concern is Minella’s cutting off their pipeline to the department. Their protection.”

“Even so, we still have to find Kerwin and get him out of sight until somebody finds Minella, and finding him is our first priority.”

The captain got up and walked around to perch on the corner of his desk. “I agree, Minella is our prime target. But as I said, locating Kerwin could be difficult. He only checks in every three or four days. Right now he’s supposed to be investigating that warehouse burglary on Reeve Avenue. That’s a cover for the department. He knows who did that job. We have it on tape. So off he goes for days, supposedly investigating, only I don’t know where he actually goes. The track, the movies, to see his girl, to see Carmine A. I know that one time he went to the country for a few days. But there is one positive aspect to that. If we don’t know where he is, then neither does Minella.” The captain stood and steered Bellinger out the door. “Get the word out on Minella. Each and every source and agency, especially the FBI. And keep after dispatch.”

As Bellinger turned to leave, a sergeant approached, his face a twisted, frozen mask. “Captain.”

“Yes?”

“Captain.”

“What is it, Bill? Speak up.”

The sergeant passed a hand across his forehead. “It’s Sergeant Kerwin. A... a sniper... dear God. The sergeant was shot through the head as he came out of an apartment building on Fifty-second Street. He’s dead.”

The captain seemed to grow smaller, shrivel up inside himself. “That’s where his mother lives.” He wheeled around and rushed inside his office, slamming the door.

Bellinger realized he had stopped breathing and slowly exhaled. He shook himself, patted the sergeant on the arm, and headed for the communication section. His mourning and rage would have to wait.

Frankie Ice took a long drink of the best bourbon dishonest money could buy, made a contented sound, and grinned. “I’m telling you, I should get one of them Oscars. I was great.”

Across from Frankie, seated behind an ornate, handcarved teak-wood desk, Carmine A. nodded his leonine head. He was sixty-nine years old and looked fifty, his facial skin as tight as the plastic surgeon could pull it without turning his head inside out.

Frankie said, “Bellinger bit like a starving carp. About now there is one huge manhunt out for Sal. But they believe he acted on his own, and they won’t lay it at your doorstep. They think we want him as bad as they do.”

Carmine A. had a laugh like dry sticks breaking. “You think they’re ever going to find Sal?” He laughed again.

Frankie laughed with him. “They might. All they got to do is dig up a hunk of the new freeway.”

“Every time I ride over that part, I’m going to say a prayer for good old Sal.”

“This is the best thing he ever done for us.”

“The Kerwin hit went well?”

“Smooth as a pool table.”

Carmine A. scowled. “That Kerwin was a rat bastard. He fooled me, and that’s what hurts the most. I’m not supposed to be easy to fool. You got any idea how many good people have to leave town because of him and his videotapes? Who would have figured? Movies of every job. All those people with their faces on film. Rat bastard.”

“So now he’s a dead rat bastard, and that’s something. Also, it could have been worse. It could have gone on a lot longer. The important thing is nobody is going to blame you.”

Carmine A. stood up, dismissing Ice. “Stop and see Gino on the way out. He’s got something for you.”

Bellinger looked around the restaurant and spotted Tony Guarino sitting at a rear table. Tony the Blimp was doing what he did best: eating with both hands. The lieutenant snaked his way among the tables and sat down.

Tony looked up and said, “Please, lieutenant, not while I’m eating.”

Bellinger stared at him.

Through a mouthful of linguini with clam sauce Tony said, “What do you want? Can’t I eat in peace?”

“Don’t sweat, if that’s possible. I’m not looking for you. You hear about Sergeant Kerwin?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“I’m looking for your brother.”

“What do you want Louie for?”

“Actually, I’m not looking for him, either.”

“You got a funny way of not looking for people.”

“Louie’s not in trouble, so tell me where he is. I just want to talk to him. It’s Minella I’m after.”

“Louie don’t know where Sal is. I can tell you that.”

“I would rather he told me himself.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, lieutenant. I ain’t seen my brother in days. As long as you’re not looking for him, why don’t you try his house?”

“I did. He hasn’t been home in five days. His wife doesn’t know where he is, and she’s worried. He’s just gone.”

“Him and a lot of other guys. Why do you think Louie knows where Sal is?”

“Louie was the last person I know of who saw Minella. Minella told him he was going to kill Kerwin. Maybe he also told Louie where he was going to run.”

Tony slowly and deliberately propped his fork and spoon on either side of his plate, laced his fat fingers on his round stomach, and looked Bellinger in the eyes. “None of what you just said is true, lieutenant. Louie never saw Sal after he came home. Sal never told him anything about no killing, so don’t lay that on Louie.”

“Minella and your brother got together a few days after Minella was released from prison. Minella told him things.”

“That never happened. It was supposed to, but it didn’t. Louie told me Sal called him up and wanted a get-together. They were supposed to meet right here. Louie showed up, but Sal never did. Louie said he waited almost three hours. And he ain’t seen or heard from Sal since.”

“Maybe Louie lied to you.”

Tony’s eyelids drooped for a moment. “Listen to yourself, lieutenant. Why would Louie lie? He knows I don’t care one way or the other if he meets or don’t meet Sal. Why would he lie to me?”

He wouldn’t, Bellinger thought. But Frankie Ice had definitely said it was Louie Guarino who had started the word about Minella’s intention to kill Kerwin. A sudden thought caused Bellinger to catch his breath. He nurtured it, coaxed it, probed it. Could it be? Yes, it was possible. And if that was the way of it, who designed it for you, Carmine A.? You’re as subtle as a dog with gas. The longer Bellinger explored the possibility, the more outraged he became. Why me? Why think you could use me? They must have some fine opinion of my intelligence. And they were almost right.

He turned to Tony the Blimp. “What did you mean, Louie and a lot of other people are missing?”

“Just guys who are around all the time suddenly aren’t. All of a sudden I don’t see them around, and people are looking for them.”

“Like who?”

“Like Davey Cohn and that lunatic he runs with.”

“Izzy the Rabbi?”

“That’s him. They’re always around together, almost every night, and I ain’t seen them in as long as I ain’t seen my brother. And the Santoni brothers. Stan and Ollie. Their sister has been calling all over for them. Their father is real sick, and she can’t find them.”

And your brother, Bellinger thought, and he was certain. He saw it in all its flawed symmetry. And he was supposed to be a key player. He fought back his anger. “Stay put, Tony. I need the phone. I’ll be back.”

“My linguini got cold,” Tony complained, showcasing his priorities.

“Order more on me.” Bellinger went to the telephone and called headquarters. Several transfers reached the captain. “Captain, do you know exactly who you have on those tapes? Which players got filmed in the act?”

“I think I can remember most of them. Why?”

“It’s important. Were two of them Davey Cohn and Izzy the Rabbi?”

“Three times.”

“And the Santoni brothers? They’re called Stan and Ollie.”

“That was the jewelry store on Pinson Boulevard. The big job.”

“What about Louie Guarino?”

“Yes.”

Bellinger laid his arm across the top of the telephone box and rested his forehead on it. He was tired. So very tired. Of so many things. “Minella is dead, captain. He’s been dead almost since the time he got out of prison. I can’t prove it yet, but I know it. Somehow they got wise to Kerwin and wanted him dead. Minella was smoke so we wouldn’t come back on Carmine A. when Kerwin got hit. They even used a sniper with a rifle, Minella’s specialty. We’re supposed to spend eternity looking for Minella, and we won’t even find his body. The people I just named have probably left town. Make your arrests now, tonight. They know about the tapes and what jobs Kerwin cushioned. The men who pulled those jobs have been warned. Trust me on this. And captain, you could have a leak in the department. Or maybe in the fed film crews.”

“Those rotten... what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to see a man about two murders. Ice said something about taking things personal. They tried to use me and almost made it work. I take that very personally. I’m going to fire on Fort Sumter.”

“You’re what?”

“I’m about to declare war.” Bellinger hung up before the captain could reply, walked back to Tony Guarino, and stood staring down at him.

Tony said, “What?”

“You know what you are, Tony? You and your brother.”

“Yes, lieutenant,” Tony said, quietly and perhaps sadly. “We know exactly what we are, and that gives us a leg up on a lot of people.”

“I’ll tell you what you are. You’re loose ends that somebody forgot all about. And loose ends always unravel.”

“I don’t understand.”

“But you will, probably the hardest way. So long. And Tony, thanks for the small talk.”