Pulp Ink Part 12

Silence followed, but it was a pregnant silence, and the man in black was not fooled into believing their interaction was over. Which was fine by him. Since their presence had forced him to abandon the notion of a night spent watching movies, he'd settled on another form of entertainment for the evening one in which these two young men played a central role.

"So," said the pudgy one, made brave by the fact their last interaction had not come to blows, "is it true what Vincent Vega said? Can you get an honest-to-G.o.d gla.s.s of beer at the movies here?"

The man in black smiled, showing too many teeth it seemed. The smile never touched his eyes. "Mr. Travolta spoke the truth. In fact, perhaps I could buy the two of you a round. Consider it an apology for my prior lapse in manners."

"Dude, are you serious?"

"Deadly so," was his reply.

He was back in minutes, carrying three pilsner gla.s.ses full of Amstel on a tray. They accepted theirs with glee, and greedily gulped them down. He purchased them another round the same result. By the time the three of them stumbled out onto the street the stars nearly as bright as the city lights, the crisp, cool air rustling the leaves of the elms that lined the ca.n.a.l he'd learned quite a bit about his fair foreign friends. Most of it, of course, was useless to him, and would be soon forgotten names, states of origin, the college they attended and their respective areas of study (horticulture, the tall one told him, and his cohort claimed an interest in pharmacology; the two were nothing if not consistent). But one bit of information he'd been quite interested in: the hotel at which they were staying.

The Hotel Mon Signor.

It was a modestly expensive affair not three blocks from where they stood not quite the nicest the city had to offer, but far more respectable than he might have guessed from these two. Perhaps one or both of them come from money, and this hippie lifestyle they pretended at was no more than a rebellious phase. The man in black was shocked when they told him of their accommodations the trusting duo supplying their room number with scarcely any prompting though not entirely due to the dissonance between it and their mangy appearance. As it happened, he'd done a job at the Mon Signor that same night only having decided upon the sturm und drang of tonight's triple feature after cleaning up back at his flat and finding himself too energized by the day's work for sleep to come. Such was often the case for the man in black he was a man whose pa.s.sion for his chosen field was matched only by his apt.i.tude for it.

It was nearly three a.m. when he bid the boys adieu they stumbling west along Sint Jannstraat, he following the ca.n.a.l north. At the first cross street, he turned left, his drunken stumble giving way to a more compact, contained gait, almost military in its efficiency. He fetched a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his overcoat and set one afire, his fingers deft despite the lambskin gloves he wore gloves almost but not quite justified by the hint of autumn in the air.

Two left turns later, and he was back to where the three of them had parted. He'd made a stop a brief errand to a twenty-four-hour druggist and walked with no great hurry; by now, he thought, the boys should be ensconced in their hotel beds.

Just where he wanted them.

Before entering the hotel, he turned up the collar of his overcoat, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets as though hunched against the cold. He needn't have bothered. There was no one on duty at the front desk, and the camera coverage in the lobby was obvious and easily avoided.

As he'd done once that day already, the man in black bypa.s.sed the Mon Signor's sole elevator, instead opting for the stairs. He took them all the way to the fifth and top floor. There was only one room on the fifth floor: the penthouse suite. Its door sat opposite the elevator in the center of the hall; at the other end was a doorway to a second staircase. The corridor was as quiet and empty as the lobby'd been.

Quiet as death, he thought.

Though, as he has cause to know, not all deaths are quiet.

The man in black removed a device from his coat pocket that was half molded-plastic box and half swipe-card, the two connected by a thick braid of multicolored wires. Ignoring the "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging from the k.n.o.b, he inserted the swipe-card into the lock, and clicked a b.u.t.ton on the plastic box, unconcerned with being interrupted at this hour while his equipment did its work. After all, he was certain not a soul was stirring on this floor but him.

The lock disengaged with a buzz and a thunk that echoed through the quiet hall. The man in black smiled, pushing open the door. The chain had not been set. The door swung open, and rebounded off the wall behind, but the Americans did not stir in their sleep.

Why would they have? They were three floors down, blissfully unaware of what the future had in store for them.

Inside the suite, the blinds were drawn. The lights were out. And the dry hotel air p.r.i.c.ked with the heavy scent of iron the scent of blood, of viscera, of death.

He flipped a switch. The lights came on. And there, just where he'd left them, were the ruined sc.r.a.ps of meat that had until this afternoon been a prominent London hedge-fund manager one whose attempted takeover of his next-largest compet.i.tor was apparently deemed just a tad too hostile to let stand.

The man in black stood gazing at the disa.s.sembled man a while, lost in contemplation of his work. Then, suddenly, he was shaken from his reverie with the memory of why he'd come back.

The beauty of a large overcoat is it hides all manner of objects from sight. Objects like a shotgun, or a machete. Objects like a pair of pilsner gla.s.ses.

He removed the idiot Americans' gla.s.ses from his pocket, and unwrapped them from the paper towels he'd taken from the Royale's public toilet to keep them safe in transit. Then he fetched from another pocket the Scotch tape he'd purchased at the druggist, and with the greatest care pulled a couple choice prints off of each, transplanting them onto the hacksaw and the butcher's knife he'd abandoned when he'd first left the room.

Twenty minutes after he'd arrived, the job was done. As he left, he removed the "Do Not Disturb" sign from the door, descending the stairs to the lobby with a spring in his step and a song in his heart.

An hour later, he was relaxing at his flat. He would have been home sooner, but he'd hiked two miles out of his way across the city to make a phone call.

"I met two men tonight," he'd said in Dutch into the burner phone, so quietly the policeman on the other end of the line had to strain to hear. "Americans. One tall, one short their hair in dreadlocks. They bragged they'd killed a man at our hotel."

"Who is this? What hotel?"

"The Hotel Mon Signor," he replied. "Please hurry I think they may kill again!"

When he'd finished with his call, he'd thrown the mobile into the ca.n.a.l and gone home.

Had he been too harsh, he wondered as he finally drifted off to sleep, framing those idiots for murder?

Of course not, he decided.

They should have known better than to talk during a movie.

Chris F. Holm was born in Syracuse, New York, the grandson of a cop who pa.s.sed along his pa.s.sion for crime fiction. He wrote his first story at the age of six. It got him sent to the princ.i.p.al's office. Since then, his work has fared better, appearing in such publications as Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Needle, and BEAT to a PULP. His short story "The Hitter" was selected to appear in The Best American Mystery Stories 2011. His debut novel, Dead Harvest, will be released in March 2012 by Angry Robot Books.

Clouds in a Bunker.

By David Cranmer.

"Hold on a moment. The teakettle is whistling." The line went silent for a beat and then, "I'll be right back."

On the other side of the six-inch thick door, Chief Willis sat close, listening in, while the beady-eyed police negotiator Meeker tilted the phone for both officers to hear.

"d.a.m.n, the old man is gone again. I thought we had him this time," Meeker said.

"He's determined to go through with it," Willis added. He drummed thin, calloused fingers on the b.u.t.t of his holstered .38 and grimaced.

"Shouldn't I talk to him?" Both officers turned to face Anna Olmstead, the old man's daughter who hovered outside the narrow entrance to the underground fallout shelter. Her plump face and wide-set eyes were red and puffy.

Willis placed a hand on her shoulder. "I wouldn't recommend it. The only reason your father is talking to us is that he's waiting for you to show up. Once he has pa.s.sed his message on, we suspect he'll end his life and your mother's. You do understand?"

"Yes." Anna wiped a tear from her eye, another forming right after it.

"So, we're stalling him by saying that you left work before we could reach you and we have a squad car waiting at your house to pick you up."

Anna nodded.

Willis shifted his attention to the only other occupant in the cramped s.p.a.ce. "Doctor Meyers, will you come with me, please."

A well-dressed man with a bushy mustache and steady eye followed the chief away from the shelter. Outside, a sea of uniformed cops and firemen swirled with a sense of purpose while curious neighbors gaped from the sidewalk behind yellow tape and a local news crew readied the camera for the daily exclusive.

Willis and Meyers walked to the corner of the two-story New England home. "You're his personal physician, right?" Willis crossed his arms. "Tell me about his condition and that of the Mrs."

"Mr. Spaulding is entering the final stages of dementia. Basically, his mind is deteriorating and functions like memory, attention, language, and problem solving have become difficult for him."

"So, he's senile?"

"Well, it's a little more complicated than that. A senile person might forget where he placed his car key but he'll eventually find it and be on his way. Whereas an individual with Mr. Spaulding's condition will not only forget where he left the key, but when he finds it, he may not remember what it's called or what it does."

"How far gone would you say he is?"

Meyers removed his gla.s.ses and began cleaning the lenses with a red-and-white checkered handkerchief. "Mr. Spaulding is easily confused and should be living in a retirement home. He's at the stage where dark clouds pa.s.s frequently over his mind and moments of clarity are becoming fewer and far between. He has begun referring to objects he can't remember with made-up names. For instance, at his last appointment he referred to his hearing aids as earwigs. A flashlight was a shining torch. And so forth."

"And his wife?"

"Mrs. Spaulding requires twenty-four-seven care. The clouds in her case have regrettably settled for good." Meyers hooked his wire-frame spectacles over his ears and tucked the handkerchief in his front right pocket.

"Hmm..." Willis said. "What a shame for them to end their lives on this note. And for us stuck here while Hank Aaron is about to break Babe Ruth's home run record."

"Sorry my family's problems are conflicting with your television viewing, Chief." Anna brushed around them, clambered up the porch steps, and slumped on the two-seated swinging chair. She stared at her shoes as she gently rocked back and forth.

Willis shook his head in embarra.s.sment and then returned to the bunker.

"Mr. Spaulding?"

"Yes, I'm still here."

"Mr. Spaulding "

"You can call me Ian."

"Okay. Ian," Meeker continued, "how is your wife?"

"She's fine. Why wouldn't she be? Who exactly are you again?"

"Police negotiator, sir," Meeker said. "May we check on her?"

"She's my wife and I can take care of her just as good as anybody." Ian Spaulding's voice hardened. "Listen, I asked to speak to my daughter."

"We are still trying to locate her, Ian. But until then, it would help us if you would allow us to talk to Mrs. Spaulding."

"What don't you folks understand about I can take care of her myself."

"Ian, we appreciate your situation and will leave you alone after we check "

"Look now, I was in the process of calling my daughter when that d.a.m.n headshrinker showed up. I want her here ah, dang blast it, the teakettle."

Meeker put the phone up against his barrel chest. "Again? Why would he need to keep checking on the teakettle? Any chance of getting in another way, Chief?"

"Hardly," Willis said looking about the enclosed s.p.a.ce. "We'd have to drill through the ground, which he's bound to hear and then he might end things sooner."

Meeker gestured to Willis when Ian Spaulding came back on the phone.

"What did you say, Ian?"

"I was a uniform man myself once, during the war."

"Oh, really? World War II?" Meeker asked.

"No, afraid a little older than that the first one. I forget what it's called but I was in charge of bomb disposals."

"That sounds dangerous, Ian."

"I didn't see a lot of action. Broke my arm shortly after I joined and ended up spending what turned out to be the last year of the war in a hospital bed. That's where I met my wife " his voice trembled.

"Yes, Ian. Please continue."

Silence. Then some shuffling. Finally, Ian mumbled, "I love my daughter. Please tell her the time had come. Let her know I left some trees on my desk that will explain everything."

Meeker cupped the phone while Willis barked out the order, "Get her in here, now!"

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Coconut."

"You remember my nickname."

"How could I forget?"

Tears streaked down Anna's cheek and over her fingers clutching the phone. "Why are you doing this?"

"I always promised to take care of your mother and now they want to take that away from me. Put us both in a home."

"I know, Daddy. Remember, I talked to Dr. Meyers about placing you in Graceful Acres." Static popped and hissed on the line, making the conversation seem like a thousand miles away instead of two feet. "Daddy ... Daddy?"

"Why did you do that?"

"We talked about this. Remember? Because you have been diagnosed with dementia and in your condition you could be dangerous to yourself and Mom living by yourselves."

"That's rubbish. What danger?"

"Do you remember taking Mom for a drive, getting lost, and Uncle Carl had to pick you up at the police station? Or almost burning down the house after forgetting you were making dinner? Daddy, you know I'd never lie to you. Going to a home is best for you and Mom. I wish to G.o.d I could take you both in but the amount of care needed makes it impossible..."

"Sweetheart, if what you're saying is... if that's true, then I don't want to go on. Not like your mom. Rotted away with no chance of reaching out. The idea of both of us... it's unbearable. Please read the trees on my desk about final arrangements and there is some cash for you."

"What do you mean, trees?"