The New Black Mask (No 5)

Chet Williamson Some Jobs Are Simple

Chet Williamson's stories have appeared in Playboy, New Yorker, Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Twilight Zone, Games, and Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, where his “Season Pass,” an Edgar nominee, was published. Two novels, The Pines and Ash Wednesday, are forthcoming from Tor Books. A third, Only Business, is under revision, and he is currently writing his fourth book, a novel about a small-city detective, McKain’s Dilemma.

Though Williamson has written few mysteries to date, his long interest in Hammett, Chandler, and the Black Mask writers, as well as his delight in such contemporary authors as Elmore Leonard and Robert B. Parker, have led him to the genre.

Williamson, 37, is a full-time free-lancer and lives with his wife and son amid ever-growing piles of books. He has no idea whatever of where “Some Jobs Are Simple” came from, other than from his typewriter. “Sometimes they’re just there. I think people sneak in at night and leave them.”

“It took me a long time to find you,” she said, looking across the beer-wet table at him. She was a hassled-looking woman, he thought as he looked back and sipped his drink. Young, but not so young that she could hide those bags under her eyes with makeup.

“You sure I’m who you’re looking for?”

“If your name’s Joe, you are.”

He nodded. “Joe.”

“I need a… something done.”

“A job.”

“Yes. A job.”

“Who told you about me?”

“An acquaintance. He owns… owned a fur-storage place.”

“Uh-huh.” Abrams, he thought. He’d torched the building six months before.

“Not him really. His wife.”

“What’s the job?”

She looked around nervously. “Can we talk here?”

“See any cops?”

She started to answer before she realized he was joking.

“Don’t be so nervous,” he said with a thin smile. "You, uh…” He glanced down, then up. “You want me to do somebody for you?”

“No!” Her eyelids flew up. “Oh no, nothing like that.”

“What then?”

“A burglary.” She had trouble with the word. It seemed to stick in her throat. He gestured to the half pitcher of beer, but she shook her head. “I want you to burglarize my house. Steal some jewelry of mine.”

“Steal your own jewelry. That means insurance.”

“Yes. I need money.”

“And I give you back the jewels afterwards.”

“Well, yes.”

“And you pay me.”

“Yes.”

“You pay me a thousand dollars.”

“A… that’s more than I had thought.”

“I’m taking a risk. You see? Any less and it’s not worth it.”

“A thousand dollars.”

“I generally ask for more. Things are slow right now.”

“You’d want cash.”

He chuckled softly. “Yes indeed.”

“Oh!” She looked embarrassed. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Where do you live?”

“Marion Court. 1636 Marion Court.”

He licked the beer from his lip. Marion Court was an upper-class section on the city’s outskirts. The houses were widely spaced. “Who else lives there?”

“Just my husband.”

“He in on this?”

“He… no, he’s not. I don’t want him to know about it.”

“He’ll know when the jewels are gone.”

“I mean about my meeting you.”

“Why not?”

“I need the money for something I don’t want him to know about.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that’s all I want to say about it.”

He poured himself more beer and took a swallow. “Once I steal the jewels, how do you know I’ll give them back?”

“I would have to trust you.”

“I’m a thief.”

“If you kept them,” she frowned, “I could tell the police you took them.”

“Then I’d tell that you hired me to take them.”

“You couldn’t prove that.”

“Then how else would you know that I took them?” A cloud passed over her face, and she moved back, as if trying to decide whether or not to rise from the table. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll get them back. I didn’t get my reputation by double-crossing clients. I just want you to know that if you change your mind and get religion, I can take you with me, okay?”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“Good. When do you want this done?”

“Tomorrow night?”

“That's pretty soon.” She didn’t respond. “Okay. What time?”

“Two a.m.? You can come in through the kitchen door. I’ll have it unlocked. I’ll put the jewelry on the desk in the den. It’s just off the kitchen.”

“Won’t your husband think that’s odd?”

“He never goes into the den after dinner. When you leave, break the window in the kitchen door.”

“Why?”

She bearded as if she were proud of her idea. “That way it won’t look as though it was unlocked to begin with.”

“Clever. Won’t your husband hear it?”

“He’s a sound sleeper, and our bedroom's upstairs on the other side of the house.”

“Does he have a gun?”

“A gun? Yes. Why?”

“There’s always a chance he’ll wake up. A chance he’ll hear me. Which means I’ve got to bring a gun.”

“No! You won’t need it — he’ll never hear you, and if he does I’ll keep him in the bedroom.”

“I’m sorry, but..

“Please, I promise you, you won’t need a gun. I’ll… I’ll unload his.”

“Bringing it doesn’t mean I have to use it.”

“I…”

“Insurance, that’s all. If you know I’ve got a gun, you’ll be doubly sure I won’t be bothered.”

She sat for a moment, looking worried. “All right. But please, no shooting.”

“No shooting. Any pets?”

“No. How can I reach you afterward?”

He scribbled a number on a corner of the paper place mat, tore it off, and handed it to her. “Call this number. If I’m not there, there’ll be someone who’ll tell you how to reach me. Memorize it and throw it away.”

She nodded and stuck the note in her purse. “1636 Marion Court. Two a.m. You won’t forget?”

“I won’t forget.”

The following night he parked his car, a dark blue midsized sedan, four blocks from 1636 Marion and walked to the house. He was relieved to see that it was a good fifty yards between houses and relieved to hear no bayings of dogs as he walked up the driveway and around to the kitchen door. He slipped on his gloves and tried the knob. It was unlocked, as she’d promised, and opened smoothly and quietly. He listened, but the house was still. Closing the door behind him, he took a penlight from his pocket and flashed it low around the room, quickly spotting the entrance to the den. The door was open, and on the desk was a brown leather box. He opened the lid and smiled as the jewelry danced in the light. It was always tempting, but he’d never yet succumbed. With this batch, though, it would be hard, very hard.

His head shot up as he heard the noise, a low squeak, as of a settling floorboard. But he knew the difference between a settling sound and one made by someone’s foot. He flicked off the penlight and reached for the .38 Special in his armpit.

“Hello?” The voice was a whisper, high and near. “Is that you… Joe?” She said the name as though she knew it was false.

He held the light out at his side and turned it on. She was standing empty-handed in the doorway, a cranberry-colored robe wrapped around her. She blinked as the light hit her eyes. “Jesus,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was nervous. I couldn’t stay in bed. I wanted to make sure you got in all right.”

“Of course I did. I thought you were going to stay with your husband.”

“Oh, he’s sleeping, don’t worry.” She pointed to the box. “Those are the jewels.”

“I figured.”

“And there was another piece I wore today that I forgot to put in the box…” Her hand went into the pocket of her robe and came out with a small pistol that fired twice, throwing bullets sharply into his chest so that he staggered back and hit the wall of bookcases, dropping his own pistol he’d been loosely, confidently holding. He slumped to the floor, books plopping on either side of him like giant raindrops. He didn’t have to see the blood to know he was dying.

With the same surprising speed with which she’d drawn the gun, she crossed to him from the doorway, knelt, and picked up his .38. He tried to make a grab for it, but only his fingers would move, and those too slowly. “Why?” he asked, tasting blood.

“You’ll see. You deserve that much.” She crossed to the doorway, turned on the room light, and shouted. “Tom!” There was silence. “Tom!” She wrapped a handkerchief around the hand that held the gun.

A muffled cry answered her from somewhere in the house.

“Come here!” I’m in the den!”

“What is it? For crissake, it’s after two…”

“Just come in here! Something’s not right…” She walked over to where he’d been standing when she’d shot him and looked at him. “Now you get it?”

A few seconds later Tom walked through the doorway, and she shot him in the forehead with the .38. Then she wiped the other pistol and put it in her husband’s dead hand. “You’ll get yours back in a minute,” she said to the man dying against the bookcase. “I’ve got a couple of things to do first.”

He listened to her call the police on the kitchen phone, thinking how frenzied and horrified she seemed. The last sound he heard was the sharp clatter of glass as she broke the window in the kitchen door. From the outside, of course.