“Of course you are,” purred Bullock. Armstrong was now out of the car, too. Bullock caught his eye and led it to the man’s cleated horseshoe belt buckle. (The Scandihoofs seemed to be into accessories.) “What brings you to these parts, Mr. Larson?”
Larson had a well-prepared answer. “Ever heard of the Bat People?” he asked. “We’re very big back home. Some say the bat is Scandinavia’s bluebird of happiness. Anyway, wherever we are on the night of the October full moon our members visit local ruins, abandoned quarries, or belfries and do a bat count.”
“I’m listening,” said Bullock.
“So I was up in the old quarry here counting when suddenly below me came this man wearing a cowboy hat with a lighted candle on its broken brim followed by three men in bellboy hats. All I could think of was Saint Lucia’s Day in my country, where we mark the start of the Christmas season with a procession of children led by a young girl who wears a crown of lighted candles. A bit early for starting the Christmas season, I thought. Then I remembered that at my previous posting in Washington the Americans told me that Canadians, for some reason they could not for the life of them understand, celebrated Thanksgiving in October instead of November like everyone else. That left me unsure when you people celebrate Christmas.
“Anyway, when the first man stopped, the others stepped forward and he gave them each a candle which they lit from his. They dribbled melted wax on the tops of their hats and stuck the ends of their candles in it. Then all four formed a wide circle facing inward and raised these long tubes they were carrying to their shoulders. Just then some bats flew from a crevice behind me. As I turned in surprise, several explosions threw me hard against the quarry wall. When I recovered consciousness there was nothing but blood and body parts below me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Larson. We’ll investigate this matter,” promised Bullock, who suspected the man had witnessed a circular firing squad. Constable “Gimpy” Flanagan rides again. Except you can’t blow a toe off with a heat-seeking missile. “Meanwhile can we give you a ride into town?”
The man shook his head. “Thank you, but I’m parked just up the road.” As he started toward his car, the opening notes of the Swedish national anthem sounded delicately. Larson answered his cell phone, grunted a couple of times, and put it away. He gave Bullock and Armstrong a thoughtful look. “Let us say you are who you say you are. You might be interested to know I’ve just been informed that your Operation Trip Wire alert was a false alarm.”
Looking a bit shamefaced, Larson gave an apologetic shrug, winked at Bullock as one policeman might to another, and made a circle of his thumb and forefinger, which he laid on his chest. Then he nodded down at it and walked away.
As they watched Larson head back to his car, Armstrong said, “McAdoo was sure full of surprises. When he told me this was a do or die situation all I thought he meant was it was a really serious business. I didn’t know he was planning a Gimpy Flanagan.” As the two of them got back into Armstrong’s car he added, “Sorry about Operation Trip Wire.”
“Oh, there’ll be other times for facing certain death,” said Bullock, confidently. But right now, if he read Larson’s wink and a nod correctly, what he needed was a tactful way to tell Commissioner Ralston that the Scandihoofs had bugged his Star of Saint Olaf, Second Class.
Copyright © 2011 by James Powell
One-Hit Wonder
by John Morgan Wilson
Edgar Allan Poe Award winner John Morgan Wilson has been called, by Booklist, “[Graham] Greene’s heir apparent and the savior of the mystery as morality play.” His latest novel in the award-winning Benjamin Justice series, Spider Season, was published in late 2008 and acclaimed by Mystery Scene magazine as an “exquisite novel... the finest in a powerful series.” He returns to EQMM with his shortest story for us to date, but one that lingers in the mind.
Frankie Daytona sits in a bar across the street from his appointment, drinking some courage, when somebody slips a quarter in and “The Letter” starts playing.
Gimme a ticket for an aeroplane,
Ain’t got time to take a fast train...
Frankie looks up from his empty shot glass, shaken. Thinking, why this song, at this moment? Like whoever selected it knows something about him and is trying to mock him. Like they want to crush his confidence just when he needs it most.
Lonely days are gone, I’m a-goin’ home,
’Cause my baby just a-wrote me a letter.
Frankie knows “The Letter” backward and forward, inside and out. 1967, four weeks at number one on Billboard’s Hot 100. Penned by a Nashville tunesmith, Wayne Carson Thompson. Performed by the Box Tops, blue-eyed soul group out of Memphis. Catchy, commercial, but with real feeling to it, thanks to Alex Chilton’s lead vocal. Still around on some jukeboxes, especially in retro joints like this one, at the end of a SoHo side street the artsy New York crowd forgot to revive. Frankie was only a kid back when “The Letter” rode the airwaves, but he knows his pop musicology. His old man was a song plugger, always jawing about the music business, how great it can be, and how cruel. That’s how Frankie first heard about the Box Tops, one of those legendary groups that had one smash single, and that was it. One-hit wonders, that’s the term you hear, which makes Frankie’s skin crawl.
Jolted from his groove, Frankie orders another bourbon. He’s never been able to get those lyrics and that driving rhythm out of his head. Not just for the obvious reason, that he digs the song. But even more because of what happened to the Box Tops. It isn’t fair, Frankie thinks, the one-hit wonder label they got stuck with. Fact is, they had a few more. Maybe not chart toppers, but damn close, solid Top Forty. “Cry Like a Baby,” “Neon Rainbow.” And don’t forget “Soul Deep” — that one puts a lump in Frankie’s throat every time he hears it. Which isn’t so often anymore, not after he smashed the Box Tops’ Super Hits album late one night when he was up alone with a bottle, thinking about what might have been. Broke plenty of his old LPs that night, platters by so-called one-hit wonders he’d inherited from the old man. Splintered vinyl everywhere, just like all those shattered dreams. Frankie understands. He had big plans, too — plans that went nowhere, faster than you can say Vanilla Ice. At least he’s managed to stay close to the music biz, running errands for the big shots, waiting for one more break. A comeback, just around the corner — that’s what’s kept him going all these years. Until recently, anyway, when he hit his late forties like a brick wall and realized time was running out on his dreams.
I don’t care how much money I gotta spend,
Got to get back to my baby again...
The truth is, Frankie himself is a one-hit wonder. It’s what people call him behind his back, what they whisper when he walks into a bar in the old neighborhood, causing laughter to ripple through the place like a tremolo from a golden oldies doo-wop group. It’s the reason “The Letter” rattles him every time he hears it, like an unwelcome blast from the past, reminding him what a loser he is. If the Box Tops couldn’t shake the one-hit wonder tag, he thinks, what chance do I have?
One hit, nearly thirty years ago, and then the nosedive. Only now he’s been given another shot at making it, if his five p.m. appointment across the street works out. Abe Leventhal, veteran record producer. Not the most successful guy in the business, but he’s got a small label and knows how to work the download market, or so he says. He’s in the game, and that’s all that matters to Frankie. I got prospects again, Frankie thinks, nearly thirty years after I flamed out. Age forty-nine, second chance, who would have thought? It was never about his ambition, or even his talent, those weren’t the issues. It was always about the pressure, stage fright when the big moment arrived. Frankie swears he won’t choke this time, now that fate has smiled again. What’s that old saying about luck and success? Luck is when preparation meets opportunity. Well, this time I’m prepared, he tells himself. I’ve had years to get ready for this. He glances at his fake Rolex, trembles a little, orders another shot.