Fletcher Flora: The First Golden Age of Mystery & Crime MEGAPACK™: 26 Stories by Fletcher Flora

“You’ll remember in a minute,” she said “Minter. Pepper Minter. I came here once with Trixy Vincent.”

“You seem to have something on your mind. I’ve no idea what it is.”

She followed him to the desk, standing close enough to watch his hands.

“It’s no use, butcher. You don’t have to be smart to figure this one. A year ago Trixy Vincent took a powder with half a million dollars worth of ice. For that much he was willing to do it right. Knife work and everything. But it didn’t work. Last night he was murdered. Either Hank Torgen or I would have loved the job, but someone beat us to it. You, butcher. Trixy finally peddled the ice, and you killed him for what it brought.”

“You must he insane.”

She took the .38 out of her purse and pointed it at him.

“It had to be someone who knew Trixy with his new face. You’re the one. You knew because you gave it to him. There was even a chance that no one would recognize the corpse. Tough luck for you that a smart dick was on the case, he spotted the stiff for Trixy right away. Tell me, how much did Trixy get for the ice?”

He laughed again and lifted his shoulders. He’d already decided that it wouldn’t do to let her go away alive.

“You know how it is with a fence. You’re lucky to get half.”

“It’ll be plenty for a mink coat. Get it.” Placing his thin hands flat on the desk, he started to rise slowly.

“I think not. And you can put away the gun now. I don’t like it. Even with a beautiful girl behind it, I don’t like it.”

She shot him in the right shoulder. The force of the slug slammed him back into the chair.

“You’ve made mistakes, butcher. You’re making your biggest one right now. Or would you enjoy being shot to death by inches?”

He lay back in the chair, holding his smashed shoulder and looking up at her with a sick pallor in his thin face. When he nodded wordlessly at the top right drawer of the desk, she went around quickly and jerked it open. It was there. Just lying there like so much paper. Four thick packets. One by one she dropped them into her purse. Then she lifted the .38 again.

“I said fifty percent. I meant of the value. Sorry, butcher.”

This time she shot him in the head. Without waiting until he had slipped out of the chair onto the floor, she dropped the .38 into the purse with the money and moved swiftly toward the door.

Putting the gun away was a mistake. She didn’t have time to get it out again when Malory stepped in and waved his own at her. He stopped just inside the door and looked at her bitterly.

“I wish you hadn’t done that. Killed him. I mean. I don’t like sending pretty women to the chair. It makes me feel bad.” Pretty, he said. As far as anyone could see, she was. But not inside. Inside, she was suddenly old and incredibly ugly. Like death. He kept on looking at her, shaking his head a little and sighing.

“I had a doctor in mind from the start. But I didn’t know which one. I thought maybe Hank Torgen would get the same idea and show me the way. I should have known better. Hank’s too dumb. Not you, honey. You’re smart. As soon as you got in the game, I had it won.”

She found her voice then. It fitted her inside better than her outside. Hoarse and ugly. Killed with a desperate fear.

“Look, copper. There’s plenty in this bag. Cops don’t make much money. Half of this would be a lot of money for a cop. Just for letting me get out of here. No one would know you didn’t come too late.”

He shook his head again. Regretfully. “Sure. No one but Lonigan out there in the hall. It’s tough that Lonigan has to be along. Sorry, honey. Thanks just the same.”

Originally published in Manhunt , February 1953.

I rolled over in the hot sand and sat up. Down the artificial beach about fifty yards, the old man was coming toward us with a bright towel trailing from one hand. He was wearing swimming trunks, and with every step he took, his big belly bounced like a balloon tied up short on the end of a stick. Dropping the towel on the sand, he turned and waded into the water.

“The old man’s taking a swim,” I said.

Beside me on the beach, Cousin Cindy grunted. She was stretched out flat on her belly with her head cradled on her arms and her long golden legs spread in a narrow V. Her white lastex trunks curved up high over the swell of her body, and the ends of her brassiere lay unattached on the sand. When she shifted position, raising herself a little on her elbows, my reaction was not cousinly. Not cousinly at all. “Hook me in back,” she said.

I readied over and brought the loose ends of her brassiere together below her shoulder blades, letting my fingers wander oft lightly down the buttons of her spine. She sat up, folding the golden legs Indian style and shaking sand from the ends of her golden hair. She was gold all over in the various shades that gold can take. Even her brown eyes, behind dark glass in white harlequin frames, were flecked with gold.

Out in the lake, Grandfather was swimming toward the raft that was a small brown square on the blue surface of the water. He was swimming breast stroke, as many old men swim, and the water bulged out ahead of him in smooth, sweeping undulations.

“The old man’s strong as a bull,” I said.

Cindy didn’t answer. She just handed me a bottle with a white label and a white cap and some brown lotion inside. I unscrewed the cap and poured some of the lotion on her shoulders and back, rubbing it in gently with my fingers until it had disappeared and her skin was like golden satin to my touch.

Looking over her shoulder, past the soft sheen of her hair and out across the glittering blue lake, I saw that Grandfather had reached the raft. He was sitting on the far side, his back to us, legs dangling in the water. He’d made it out there in good time. For an old man, damn good time. He was strong, in spite of his fat belly. It didn’t look like he was ever going to die.

“It’s hot,” Cindy said, her voice slow and sleepy like the purring of a kitten, “but it’s not as hot as it gets in Acapulco. You ever been in Acapulco, Tony? It’s beautiful there. The harbor is almost land-locked, with mountains all around, and the ships come right up against the shore.”

I didn’t say anything. My hands moved across her shoulders and down along the soft swells of-flat muscle that padded the blades. The perfumes of her hair and the lotion were a strange, exotic blend in my nostrils. Out on the raft, Grandfather still sat with his legs in the water.

“I was there for two weeks once,” Cindy said. “In Acapulco, I mean. I went with a man from Los Angeles who wanted me to wear red flowers in my hair. He was very romantic, but he was also very fat, and the palms of his hands were always damp. It would be better in Acapulco with you, Tony. Much better.”

My hands reversed direction, moving up again into her hair, cupping it between palms as water is cupped. The raft, out on the lake, rose and dipped on a slight swell. Grandfather rode it easily, still resting.

“He just sits,” I said bitterly. “He’ll be sitting forever.”

Her head fell back slowly until it was resting on my shoulder, and her golden hair was hanging down my back, and I could look down along the slim arch of her throat into the small valley of shadow under the white band she wore. Behind dark glass, her lids lowered, and she looked dreamily through slits into the brash blue of the sky.

“Acapulco, Tony. You and me and Acapulco. It’s hot and beautiful there by the harbor in a ring of mountains, but it wouldn’t be good unless you and I were hot and beautiful, too. It wouldn’t be good if we were too old, Tony.”