“But I’m right about the Gundersons,” she said. “I know I am. They’re not ordinary people who just want to be left alone, they’re criminals. Thieves planning a robbery, or fugitives hiding out from the law.” Then, ominously, “Or something even worse.”
“And what would that be?”
“Spies. Terrorists. One of those strange men I told you about looked Middle Eastern.”
I made an effort to hang onto my patience. “You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing,” I said. “Those men could be friends or relatives who were invited to see the Gundersons’ new house. They also could be salesmen like me.”
Lorraine made an exasperated noise. “The trouble with you, Harry, is that you look at the world through rose-colored glasses. You think everyone is basically good and honest and it’s just not so. There are a lot of bad people out there.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Well, then? Can’t you conceive of the fact that your new neighbors, living right next door, could be two of the bad ones?”
“Yes, dear.”
“You don’t mean it, I can hear it in your voice. You’re so mild-mannered about everything, it drives me crazy sometimes. I wish you had more gumption.”
“Yes, dear. So do I.”
She subsided, which meant she felt that she’d made her point. I sipped brandy and resumed my enjoyment of the cool breeze, the stationary light show, the quiet. But not for long.
“Harry.”
“Mmm?”
“Do you have to go away on Monday?”
“Unfortunately, yes. It’s that time again.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Depends on how long the sales meetings last. No more than a week.”
“A week,” she said. Then, “I really wish you didn’t have to travel so much.”
“But I don’t travel much,” I said. “Just one week, two at the most, a couple of times a year.”
“Couldn’t you get another salesman to cover for you this time? Or call and tell the company you’re ill?”
“You know I can’t do that. I might lose my job. Why would you even ask?”
“I hate the idea of being here alone. Especially now, with the Gundersons in the neighborhood.”
The Gundersons again. “If you’re so nervous, why don’t you ask Marguerite to come and stay with you? Or stay with her and Neal in their guest room?”
“I don’t want to impose on them. Besides...”
Lorraine let the rest trail off, but from past experience I knew what she’d been about to say. She may not have liked the idea of being here alone, but she was determined to keep a close watch on the Gundersons.
I didn’t try to argue with her; it wouldn’t have done any good. All I said was, “Do what you think is best. And try not to worry so much.”
On Monday morning I flew down to L.A. as scheduled. I was gone six days, and too busy to call home more than twice. Lorraine hadn’t seen any more “strange men” coming and going at the Gunderson house, or conjured up any more fantasies about the new neighbors, but this didn’t mean that her latest teapot tempest was ready to go away like all the others.
When I got home, she met me at the door all red-faced and breathless, and the first thing she said was, “Harry, the police were at the Gundersons last night. Two officers, just before midnight.”
“The police? Why? What happened?”
“Fran Gunderson claimed they had a prowler, but that’s ridiculous. A prowler, in this neighborhood!”
“How do you know about the prowler?”
“I went over there this morning and spoke to her. Tried to speak to her, I should say. She was very short with me. Covering up.”
“Covering up what?”
“The real reason the police were there so late.”
“Which was?”
“To question them about their illegal activities, whatever they are. You mark my words — they’ll be arrested before long and then it will all come out.”
I went into the kitchen, made myself a drink, and took it out onto the back deck. Lorraine followed me, talking the entire time, but I was no longer listening. I was thinking, defensively, about the assignment in L.A.
It had gone smoothly, as always. A dark street, a casual approach, the usual single shot behind the right ear. No witnesses, nothing overlooked or unaccounted for. How many did that make now? An even dozen? Three or four more, and I’d have enough saved to retire from the Company and live out the rest of my life in relative peace and quiet. If Lorraine would let me. And if Zagetti would keep his promise in the first place. “I’d hate to lose you, Harry,” he’d said to me once. “You’re the best shooter we got on account of you look and act just like what you are most of the time, a timid little salesman...”
Lorraine’s voice, raised querulously, penetrated again. “Harry? What’s the matter with you? You’re not paying attention!”
“Sorry. I was thinking about business.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake listen to what I’m trying to get through to you about the Gundersons. I told you all along they’re not normal people like us. Now will you believe me?”
“Yes, dear,” I said. “Not like us at all.”
Death Match
by Chris Muessig and Steve Seder
Chris Muessig debuted with the story “Bias,” which appeared in EQMM’s Department of First Stories in 2009 and was chosen for that year’s Best American Mystery Stories. In 2010, be sold a story to AHMM that received a nomination for the Derringer Award. His return this month is a collaboration with his friend Steve Seder, a lifelong fan of pro wrestling who came up with the idea for the story. Mr. Seder, an automotive consultant who once flirted with becoming a pro wrestler, provided the authenticity of someone who knows “the manly art” first-hand.
Thursday — 10 A.M.
Al Brewer looked up from the burglary report clogging his typewriter. A man with the I brown, leathery skin of an outdoor laborer stood in the squad-room door. He looked familiar. He spotted Brewer and moved toward him, and the deliberate, sliding stride closed the connection.
“Holy crap!” Brewer said, standing up. Though they’d kept in sporadic touch by mail, he hadn’t seen Bud Mitchell in the flesh since they’d mustered out in ’46. Even after fifteen years, the guy still reminded him of the Duke in Back to Bataan.
Brewer grinned as he shook the vise grip of a hand, but Mitchell did not smile back.
“You got a minute, Al?” The deep baritone was burred from smoke and whiskey and a heft that told Brewer this was no social call.
“All the time you need. What’s up?” Brewer pointed to a chair. Bud sat, looking for an ashtray. An unfiltered cigarette burned between tobacco-stained fingers. Brewer fished a coffee container from the trash and handed it to him.
“How’s the family, Bud?”
Mitchell’s eyelids drooped like tired cloth. “Adele moved out on me since I last wrote you. Then she got the cancer. Least it was fast. And Chuck... well, that’s why I’m here.”