Doug Allyn - The Best American Mystery Stories 2000

“I don’t know. But I’ve spent as much time on this dump as I care to. Let’s go.”

“No. You go ahead. I think I’ll sit here awhile. I don’t come here often. Maybe I should. I’ve got a cell phone, I can call a friend for a ride. Go on.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Funny, Bobby used to say someday he’d be so famous they’d put him on Mount Rushmore. This is as close as he got.”

“Half a dream’s not bad. Most of us never get that much.”

I left him sitting on the crest of his trash mountain, his arms folded across his knees, staring into the last rays of the sunset. And far beyond it, I suppose.

The walk down the hill was easier than the climb, maybe because I figured to be alive at the bottom. But the drive back to the airport was troublesome.

What I’d told Marino was absolutely true. I had no idea what to do about this. In the end, it came down to the fact that I’d given Krys my word. That covered the situation as far as I was concerned. Somebody else would have to sort it out.

I set up a meeting with Krystal and Evan Grace in his basement office that night. The studio was abuzz when I arrived, twenty minutes to airtime. No problem. However things worked out, this wouldn’t take long.

Evan was in shirtsleeves, sitting behind his desk making last-second corrections on a script. His pompadour was broadcast perfect and a makeup bib was draped over his collar to shield it from smears. Jerry Klein ushered me in, then waited by the door, his eyes locked on me like radar.

Krystal was pacing in front of the desk, elegant in a peasant blouse and slacks. She looked like she hadn’t slept at all, and one more missed meal would bump her from stylishly slender to anorexic.

Judging by her cautious steps, the drink in her hand wasn’t her first. Or her second. Evan ignored me, totally focused on his work. And making a point about our positions. I waited.

“So, Mr. Axton,” he said, glancing up at last. “You asked for this meeting. I assume you have something for us?”

I said yes. Or started to. Instead, I heard myself saying, “I’m afraid there was nothing to find, Reverend Grace. The baby was taken to a law firm that arranges adoptions. Their records are confidential and they have the legal muscle to keep them that way. There’s nothing more I can do. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Evan said, trying to conceal his satisfaction. “We knew it was a faint hope at best. We’ll just have to find the strength to move on. I’m sorry to seem abrupt, but I’m due on the set. Send me your bill, Mr. Axton. I’ll see to it.” He swept out of the room with Klein at his heels.

“You’re going to burn in hell, Axton,” Krystal said quietly.

“Probably,” I said, turning to face her.

“Definitely. Evan’s a minister of the Gospel, and you just looked him straight in the eye and lied your butt off. Didn’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. She knew. I don’t know how, but she did.

“Look, I’m not angry but I want the truth, Ax. And don’t waste any more smoke. You’re not a very good liar.”

“I’ll try to do better. Evan didn’t seem to notice, though.”

“Because you told him what he wanted to hear. What really happened? Did you find Bobby?”

“No. And no one ever will. He’s gone, Krystal.”

“I thought he might be. He was pretty strung out when I saw him last. I expected him to hit me up for money again. When he didn’t...” She shrugged. “It’s too bad. He was a beautiful man once. What happened to him?”

I hesitated. “An overdose.”

“God. What a waste. What a godawful waste. And the baby?”

“She’s fine. She’s happy and healthy and with good people.”

“But you weren’t going to tell me that, were you? You bastard!”

I had no answer for that. She was right.

She took a long pull at her drink, emptying the glass. Then turned to face me. “It’s all right, Ax. I was in so much pain when Joshua died that I needed... something. A miracle, maybe. A reason to live. I thought Cher could give it to me. But thinking about it the past few days, I realized it was all about me, not her. She’s nearly eight, but I didn’t try to find her until I was in trouble. Some people are natural mothers. I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be a friend. Does it?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then I want to ask a favor. I know I’m a mess. I have been for a while. But I’m going to get some help to dry out and get myself together. If I do, will you fix it so I can meet her?”

“I can’t promise that, Krys.”

“I can’t promise I’ll get straight either. But if I do...?” And for just a moment the alcoholic clotheshorse was gone and I glimpsed the girl I once knew. “How about it, Ax? Deal?”

“Yeah. Deal. We’ll work it out somehow.”

“Good. I’ve got to go; Evan has a fit if I’m not in the audience. So he can keep an eye on me. Thanks, Ax. For being a friend.”

“No charge. Hey, Krys? A minute ago you said you needed a miracle. But in a way you used to be a miracle. When you sang, you touched people. It wasn’t just your voice, it was... hell. I don’t know. But it was a gift. Maybe you shouldn’t waste it.”

“Some gift. Singing was never special to me, Ax. It was just a way to pay the rent.”

“Then it’s an even better miracle. Because it meant a lot to the people who heard you. Especially me. Anyway, think about it, okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ve gotta go. Take care, Ax.”

I stopped on the lawn for a minute. Didn’t know why. Then I realized I was listening. Like a complete idiot. What did I expect? To hear Krystal cooking up a chorus of “Amazing Grace”?

But there I was. Standing in front of a neon sign: Miracles! Happen! Waiting for one. Stupid, right?

Or maybe not. Granted, most dreams never come through. The hope they offer is all we get. It’s still better than nothing. And now and again, things actually do work out for the best.

A miracle? Dumb luck? Who cares?

Maybe the sign was hokey. That didn’t make it wrong.

From Mystery in the Sunshine State

It was just before sunset in Biscayne Estates, and the Armstrongs were safe at home. Darryl paced around his study, sipped scotch, and listened on his cordless telephone as a client screamed threats at him in broken English. Finally, he said, “Narciso, old buddy, stay calm. This is a temporary setback.” He kept his voice reasonable but firm. “You’ve been going on about killing me all week. What good would that do you?”

Darryl cleared his throat. He said, “And believe me, I understand your anger. Nobody likes to lose money. But you wanted to play with the big boys, remember? Then the market went limit down three days in a row.” He paused, not certain of what he’d just heard. “What? Simultaneous buy and sell orders? Who told you that? That’s a lie. I don’t care who told you. I’ve never dumped a bad trade in your account. That one? You gave me a direct order. Well, no, I can’t play it back for you because your order came over my untaped line.” He winced and said, “Hey, c’mon, you’re calling me at home .”

He took a greedy swallow of scotch and said, “Stop it. That’s enough. I need a vacation from hearing about how I’m going to die. I’ll hang up now, okay? But call me if you get any more crazy ideas. Don’t sit there obsessing. We’re going to work this out. You have my word on that, okay? Bye, bye.” He lowered the telephone into its cradle.

While Darryl talked in his study, his wife, Caroline, drifted among the racks of clothes and shoes in her walk-in closet, searching for a simple blouse to wear. She wondered at the forces in herself that had driven her to buy so many bright, costly things. Who was the woman who’d chosen them? Where was the exhilaration and hope they’d represented? She couldn’t visualize herself in them now. The sight of them embarrassed her. When she looked around the closet, she imagined an aviary of tropical birds.