“Shawn, it has to stop. You’re connected enough to cop a manslaughter plea,” I said for the tape recorder. “Turn yourself in.”
He howled again and stood up, the revolver in his quivering hand. “It stops when you disappear, no sword, no body.”
“It will be messy in here, Shawn, blood and noise.”
“Let me worry about that,” he said and stepped away from the desk. “Where are the tapes?”
“On my boat. You gonna go get them?” I watched his gun hand tremble.
“Unless you want to take me there,” he laughed cruelly, his eyes wide.
I backed up; I wanted distance between us. “You were wrong to worry about the book, Shawn, and wrong about me, too.”
“Wrong about you, how?” He moved back toward a file cabinet, but held the gun aimed at me.
“I can kill, Shawn,” I said calmly. “I can’t run a sword through an innocent man, like you did, but I can kill to protect myself.”
“Yeah? But I have the gun.”
“Wrong again, Shawn.” I kept calm and smiled. “I have a gun in my pocket and it’s aimed at you.”
“Show it to me,” he challenged me angrily. “I don’t believe you.”
“Put the gun down, Shawn, and we’ll both be alive when the police arrive.”
“I still don’t believe you,” and he fired one shot that went past my left shoulder, his hand trembled so. “Damn you!” He fired again and missed.
The two shots echoed and the room smelled of burnt cordite.
I fired the Glock and hit him square in the chest. The cocaine rush kept him standing, but he looked down at the growing bloodstain on his flowery shirt and then back at me. He raised his arm up, ready to fire again. I had the gun out of my pocket and pointed at him. I shook my head.
“No, Shawn, drop it.” He didn’t, and I shot him again, and my ears rang from the noise.
He fell against the file cabinet and slid to the floor. The door behind me crashed against the office wall as Chief Dowley rushed in, gun in hand. He looked at me and then at Shawn, who died with a cocaine smile.
“Damn, Mick, I hope you’re right,” he said softly. “You just killed an important guy.”
I pulled the tape recorder out of my pocket and handed it to him. I heard sirens from outside. “Yeah, in self-defense and I solved two murders for you.”
He took my Glock, put it on a chair, and then rewound the tape. Two uniformed officers came in, guns drawn.
“Call the paramedics,” he told them and led me into the outer office. “He confesses on this?”
“And fired first, it’s all there.”
He placed the recorder next to his ear and played the tape. He smiled. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“I hoped I was wrong.”
“So why call me to meet you here?”
“If I was wrong I was gonna buy you a beer.”
He put the recorder in his pocket and talked to the uniformed officer at the door. Then he waved me over and led me outside.
“Let me buy you a drink. After all, this is Key West, not Miami, and you ain’t goin’ anywhere. Hell, Mick, it’s been one long day—” He put his arm around my shoulder — “and I can use a beer. Then we have to go see Luis for your statement.”
“The guy hates me, Chief.” I allowed him to tug me toward the street.
“Yeah, but I still love you.”
“What about my gun?”
“It’s in an evidence bag,” he said and we walked away in the rain.
Wheeze
by Michael Z. Lewin
Copyright © 2007 by Michael Z. Lewin
Probably best known in the U.S. for his P.I. Albert Samson books, of which the most recent was Eye Opener (Five Star/’04), Michael Z. Lewin has pursued many other writing projects over the years. He’s a regular contributor of dramas to BBC radio, an author of children’s books, and someone who has toured throughout the U.S. with presentations on writing.
What happens when three very different authors are inspired by the same idea for a short story? Take “Wheeze” and the two stories that follow it in this issue, “Say That Again” and “The Old Story”; they’re proof that from a common seed distinctive fictional creations will grow. The article that set all three of these stories’ authors going appeared in the newspaper The Week (Hagen, Germany): “Pensioner gang on triaclass="underline" Three geriatric criminals have gone on trial accused of carrying out a string of armed robberies across western Germany. Rudi Richter, 74, Wilfried Ackerman, 73, and Lotha Ackerman, 64, have admitted taking part in 14 robberies that earned them a total of 1.3m euros. They began robbing banks in 1988, but were forced to stop the next year when Wilfried was arrested and sent to prison for ten years. In 2000, they reformed, and reached their peak 3 years later, scooping a quarter of a million euros in five heists. Age, however, eventually caught up with them. ‘Rudi couldn’t really get up the stairs anymore and we constantly had to stop so he could go to the toilet,’ said Wilfried. At first, police assumed they were looking for younger men; they realized their mistake when a witness reported hearing the thieves wheezing.”
Georgina Bladen was up-stairs ironing. Usually she ironed downstairs when she had the house to herself, in front of the big television. But today there was a chance — just a chance — that Barry would stop home after lunch before he headed for Fraserton. His meeting with Jim Pinney was important, and Barry liked to look right when a meeting was important.
Mind you, it really depended on how long he spent lunching at Maxie’s. As well as looking right, Barry liked to feel good about himself before a meeting, and Maxie’s flattery would do that trick. Georgina had long since given up worrying about whether Barry was having a thing with Maxie. In a town the size of Roseville surely someone would have seen them and shared the observation. And, knowing the way Barry thought and operated, Georgina would only begin to worry if he stopped lunching at Maxie’s little cafe, dirty as the place was.
Georgina sighed.
With Barry’s shirts done, she thought about taking a break before going on to his undershirts and boxers. Maybe a cup of the chamomile tea that Floella brought back from her last trip out of state would be calming. Not that Georgina felt she needed calming, but it was good to experience new things. She could make the tea and then call Flo to report how she’d liked it. Yes, that would work. Downstairs making tea, she could easily hear Barry’s car if it did pull in. She could be upstairs again before he got into the house. Not as fast as he used to be, Barry.
Not that he minded her having a break or being downstairs. It was having her ironing equipment clutter up the living room in front of his High Definition that bothered him. It made no sense to Georgina but it wasn’t worth rowing about again. She switched the bedroom TV off and turned to the door.
And she heard something.
Her first, shocked, reaction was that it was Barry. But it couldn’t be, not yet. Could it? She looked at the alarm clock. No, no. So maybe it was one of those creepy creaky house sounds.
But then she heard the sound again and it was human. A wheeze.
Barry might not be as young as he liked to think he was, but he didn’t wheeze. Especially not since he’d lost weight and started going to the gym.
Still, Georgina doubted herself. How could she be hearing a wheeze? If Barry were here, in the bedroom with her, and she asked him to go downstairs, he’d tell her not to be stupid.
Was she being stupid?