The Black Heart Crypt

Izzy Ickleby used to drive beer trucks for the mob in Chicago.

So piloting the pickup hauling the horse trailer down the highway was no big whoop.

He was only a mile or two away from the Haddam Hill Cemetery when he felt something he hadn’t felt in seventy years.

He was hungry. Starving!

It was nearly six o’clock and he hadn’t eaten anything all day. His headlights hit a sign: The Hi-Way 31 Eat and Run. He gave the hash house a quick up and down. The blinking sign in the window said they served hot apple pie.

Izzy slammed on the brakes, squealed wheels, and pulled his rig into the parking lot.

“Wait out here,” he said to the black stallion. “I’m gonna go inside and grab a quick slice of pie and a cup of joe.”

Izzy entered the diner. Savored the smell of greasy burgers and greasier potatoes. Fresh java was brewing. A waitress waltzed past carrying a slab of pie buried under a scoop of ice cream the size of a softball. The sweet scents of cinnamon, brown sugar, and pure vanilla swirled up to dance a rumba inside his schnozzle.

Crazy Izzy sighed.

Maybe he’d finally made it to heaven.

He sat at the counter and whistled for a waiter.

“What’ll you have?”

“Apple pie all the way. And keep it coming, Mac.”

Izzy finished his eleventh slice of apple pie à la mode.

Most of the ice cream had melted into a shallow white lake. So he raised the pie plate to his lips and sucked the sweet, sticky gunk down his gullet.

“You finished?” asked the counterman.

“Bring me another wedge of pie.”

“There’s none left. You ate it all. You want anything else?”

Norman stood from his stool.

Whipped out his pistol.

Aimed it at a chest-high grease spot on the counterman’s apron.

“Grab a little air, pal!”

“What?”

“Put your hands up. I’m skipping out on my tab, see?”

“You won’t get far. We’ve got cameras.”

“Cameras? You wanna make me a Hollywood movie star, huh? I’m gonna be in pictures?”

“No. You’re gonna be in jail.”

“The slammer? In that case, Mac, let’s make it worth my while. Pop open the cash box. Fork it over.”

The counterman lowered his hands and worked the register keys.

“All of it! That’s it. Nice and easy. Put it in a sack and toss in a couple of them cinnamon doughnuts there.”

The counterman did as he was told. Norman grabbed the bag and swung around to waggle his rod at the sad saps scurrying for the door or trying to hide under their tables.

“Any of you bunnies get the bright idea to drop a dime and call the coppers, I’ll come gunnin’ for you, see? Nobody rats out Crazy Izzy Ickleby!” he shouted as he ran out the front door. “Nobody!”