Том Годвин: Ed McBaines 87th Precinct Mystery Magazine. Volume 1, No. 4. April, 1975

“—likes loving your—”

With something resembling the speed of light, my one stage performance flashed through my mind. I was told later that when the baseball bat smacked me on top of the head, my mask flipped up, my eyes crossed, my tongue popped out about four inches, and I fell on my face with a noise that sounded like, “Gahhhh!”

Everyone had seemed to think it was hilariously funny...

“—dead bo—”

As she was finishing the fatal words I frantically crossed my eyes, popped my tongue out at her, and fell across the table with a strangled, “Gahhhh!”

The table and I went to the floor together and I fish-flopped in the general direction of the big table while Joan stared in wide-eyed amazement and Dave bellowed:

“You fool! What do you mean.”

“The idiot!” Sophia shrieked. “That scene would have been perfect for us!”

I reached the big table and hauled myself up, holding to the edge of it.

“Coffee!” I gasped. “Too many drinks — make me some black coffee and I’ll be all right.”

Right then I was willing to drink almost anything, just so long as it took them a little while to fix it and I would have time to try to figure out how to keep from getting shot.

Dave had his hand in his coat pocket and I could feel his glare of hatred, even through the dark glasses. Jack was scowling blackly, his hand in his coat pocket. Sophia’s lips were thin, hard line, and her hand was in her purse.

It didn’t look like they were going to make me any coffee...

Sophia looked at Dave and said thoughtfully, in a tone that was low and very deadly:

“Where he is now is good enough.”

“Yeah,” Dave said in the same tone. “Yeah...”

Joan had come over to the table, still holding the gun pointed at me and not even aware of it as she tried to understand what was happening.

“Pop those blanks at him where he is, Joan,” Dave commanded. “Jack — action! Joan — hurry it up — shoot!” His tone was intense with urgency. “We’re almost out of film — if you want that role, shoot!”

Her finger tightened on the trigger. I didn’t stop to say “Gahhhh!” I dived under the table and the .38 roared a split second behind my dive.

A glass knick-knack stand across the room exploded as the bullet tore through it. Joan made a sound like a startled squeak and Dave yelled in a tone more urgent than ever:

“Beautiful! Now shoot at him again — under the table!”

I saw her hand drop with indecision, the .38 still in it.

I popped halfway out from under the table like a greased gopher, jerked the gun out of her hand, and popped back under again as Dave fired.

The bullet plowed into the heavy table top, then Dave said swiftly:

“He’s wise to its — we’ll have to knock them both off —”

Joan screamed, and I reared up under the table with all my strength. It seemed to weigh a ton but Joan and I were the same as already down the drain unless I did something fast.

The table rammed against Dave and Sophia, knocking them down. I brought it all the way over as Jack shot at me, and missed. Dave and Sophia disappeared under it with a baritone Oooomph! and a soprano Eeeeek!

Jack shot again and I felt the right half of my mustache suddenly vanish. Joan, mystified but determined to help me, heaved a quart of Scotch at Jack. I ducked barely in time to keep from getting brained by it.

Then the front door practically left its hinges as two men crashed into the room with drawn guns.

It was the Matched Pair; Smith and Jones, both of them big and muscular and rocky-jawed and looking about as friendly and gentle as a pair of mad grizzlies. Their jaws dropped at what they saw but their guns didn’t.

I thoughtfully dropped my gun, however, and Jack followed suit. Dave and Sophia, halfway out from under the table with their guns in their hands, took a look and decided to go along with the crowd.

All three were handcuffed a few seconds later. I was grateful that Smith and Jones ran out of handcuffs before they got to me.

Smith looked around at the wreckage in the room then turned to Joan and said, “Now, Miss Brookson, tell us what this is all about.”

“I–I really don’t know,” she said, looking even more puzzled than they did. “These people got mad at us all at once and tried to kill us. It was because Don can’t act very well and fell on his face... I think.”

“What?”

“If you two don’t mind,” I said, “I can tell you exactly what happened.”

They hesitated, then Jones said curtly, “All right — go ahead.”

I told them what had happened, then said:

“When I saw they had put live cartridges in the .38 I knew it could be but one thing — they were framing Joan for about half a million dollars worth of blackmail. If she didn’t come across they could have notified the police where she — presumably — had buried my body. They would have the .38 with her finger prints on it and the film, which they would have cut and edited to suit their purpose.”

Joan, wide-eyed, her hand to her mouth, said, “Good heavens!”

Jones and Smith said nothing, mentally digesting the information in their slow, thorough way.

“And now, gentlemen,” I said, resisting the desire to bow sardonically, “allow me to present you with your elusive quarry — Cicero Sam. Just remove the dark glasses and beard.”

For once they didn’t argue. Jones went over to Dave and I crossed my fingers as the disguise was jerked off. Then I breathed again.

There, beady-eyed, thin-lipped, bald-headed and glaring, was Cicero Sam.

Smith and Jones looked thoughtfully at each other, then turned to stare at me.

“Yes, Mr. Dunkengerfer,” Smith said in an icy tone. “This is our elusive quarry. But do you recall why we didn’t have him in jail two weeks ago?”

“I assume,” Jones said in the same tone, “that when you write your story about this, you intend to omit mention of your amateurish bungling?”

Well, as a matter of fact, I had...

“You’ve got him now, haven’t you?” I said. “I think I deserve recognition for what I did today.”

“Yes, indeed,” Smith said, in a tone I didn’t like. “Let us enumerate your achievements for the day...”

He produced a pad of forms and intoned as he wrote:

“Driving through a red light — failing to yield the right of way — destruction of Sheriff’s Office property — leaving the scene of an accident — hit and run driving—”

“Wait!” I protested. “You can’t do this to me!”

“Reckless driving,” Smith went on. “Exceeding the speed limit—”

“Negligent driving,” Jones added helpfully. “Exhibitionist driving — attempting to elude capture—”

“I didn’t even know I hit you!”

“I see,” Smith said, nodding happily. “Driving while intoxicated — disturbing the peace—”

He paused, chewing on his pen.

“And disorderly conduct,” Jones said. “I think that pretty well covers everything he did today.”

“It ought to!” I wailed. “Not even Al Capone had that many charges against him!”

Joan stepped forward and said in her sweetest tone:

“Sirs, I can never thank you enough for what you did here today. As for Don — I’ll assume full responsibility for him and pay all his fines Monday. Don’t take him to jail — please!”

She made her eyes soft and pleading and her lower lip trembled a little. They wilted, as though each had been hit in the stomach with a cannon ball. They didn’t even bother to look at each other before they answered.

“As you wish, Miss Brookson,” Smith said, with a slight bow.