Allyn Allyn - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 1. Whole No. 821, January 2010

“You can ask.”

“Leave Flo out of this. She’s standup, she won’t rat you out.”

Again, his silence was an answer.

“Then at least make it a clean hit, damn it! Not like that deadbeat upstairs.”

He nodded. “I can do that. Look, I’m... sorry—”

“Screw yourself, Brad, or whatever your name is. I’ll save you a seat in hell. Do what you gotta do.”

Turning to face the wall, she closed her eyes. Emptying her mind, trying not to tremble. She heard a soft click as he cocked the hammer, then felt a sudden rush of air. As the room exhaled.

When she opened her eyes, she was alone.

The Jury’s Inn on a Friday night. Bustling with the usual upscale crush of cruising singles and couples. Sheryl Crow crooning on the jukebox, barely audible in the cheerful din.

Opening her purse, Marcy made sure the .25 automatic was within easy reach, then briskly crossed the room to Brad Sullivan’s table.

“Waiting for somebody?” Marcy asked.

“Not anymore.” He rose to hold a chair for her, like the gentleman he definitely wasn’t. She sat with her purse in her lap. Open.

“What are you doing here, Sullivan?”

“Hoping to run into you. I tried the shop, your number’s disconnected.”

“We relocated.”

“There was no need to do that. Nobody knows about you.”

“Except you, you bastard. I’ve been jumping out of my skin every time a car backfires the past month, waiting for you to finish the job. And surprise, surprise, here you are.”

“I’m not here to make trouble. I’m sorry if you worried. I was a bit worried myself. Expecting a visit from the Ohio law.”

“I told you, we don’t rat. Besides, we couldn’t burn you without burning ourselves.”

“I was long gone anyway. There was some heat over the Toledo thing. I had to get out of the country. It cost me a chunk of change to straighten it out, but it’s settled now.”

“Good for you. But I’m tired of looking over my shoulder, Br — what is your damn name, anyway? It’s sure as hell not Brad.”

“It’s... just stick with Brad. I’ve been Brad awhile.”

“Fine, Brad. So straight up, Brad, are we on your hit list or not?” Beneath the table, her hand slid inside her purse.

“Chill, Marcy. You’re off the hook, I swear. If I wanted you gone, you’d still be in that stairwell.”

“Gee, that’s a comfort. Then why are you here? Meeting your next digital date?”

“No, I’m done with that. It didn’t work out too well.”

“You weren’t exactly Prince Charming yourself. So?”

“So... I came here to clear something up. But I don’t want to tick you off or hurt your feelings—”

“Hurt my feelings?” she echoed in disbelief. “Look, you two-bit thug, meeting you was the worst freaking thing that ever happened to me, so say your piece then get the hell out of my life!”

“Hell, why did I even bother?” he growled, looking away.

“I don’t know, but since you’re here, spit it out!”

“Fine! In the stairwell, with all that makeup on? You looked like crap.”

“I was supposed to look like crap! What’s your point?”

“It didn’t matter. The way you looked, I mean.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Sullivan?”

“I knew you’d lied to me, and you were made up to look like a freakin’ bag lady, and none of that made any difference. On our digital date? You put on those glasses, and said they made you look dorky?”

“I noticed you didn’t argue the point. So?”

“I’m no talker, Marcy. Can’t be, my line of work. But that time... I couldn’t say anything. You looked so fine I could hardly breathe.”

She blinked. Then leaned in, enraged, even more furious than before. “That’s a total crock! You know what I am, what I’ve done. I’m not what you came here looking for. You said so yourself.”

“I know. But laying low in Toronto, waiting for things to cool down? I did some serious thinking.”

“Hope you didn’t strain a muscle.”

“Jesus, cut me some slack, okay? What I thought was, suppose you really were Suzy Homemaker? Every minute we spent together would be a lie.”

“Every minute we spent was a lie, you moron! We lied to each other about everything.”

“But we don’t have to. Not anymore. I can ask how your day went and you can tell me the flat-ass truth. And I can do the same. Do you know how rare that is, for people like us?”

“What are you saying? What do you want from me?”

“The same thing I wanted that first night. To meet a special woman. A perfect match. Selected from umpty million others by a very expensive computer.”

“But I’m not that woman! I lied to the dating service. So did you.”

“That’s right,” he said, leaning forward, their faces only inches apart. “But if we’d both told that damn computer the absolute, swear-to-God truth about everything, it would have matched us up exactly the same way.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Thinking faster than any machine. Getting it.

“Sweet Jesus,” she said softly. “You’re right. Either way, it would have put us together.”

She shook her head like a fighter shaking off a punch. And snapped her purse shut.

But before she could back away, he cupped her cheek with his hand and kissed her on the mouth. Thoroughly.

When they finally separated for air, she was smiling in spite of herself, and so was he. Grinning widely as wolves, at their own private joke.

Their long kiss drew curious glances from the other diners, who couldn’t help smiling too.

It’s such a rare thing, nowadays, to see a perfectly happy couple.

Having a perfectly wonderful time.

Copyright © 2010 Doug Allyn

The following tale by Norway’s Reidar Thomassen, writing as Richard Macker, was originally published in Norwegian in the crime-fiction anthology I sakens anledning (Aschehoug 1997). “The story takes place,” Mr. Macker’s son told EQMM, “at a cabin much like the one my father owned in the north of Norway. Norway is a country of cabin owners; there are cabins by the sea, by lakes, and in the mountains.”

Translated from the Norwegian by Runar Fergus

The cabin had a turf roof and walls of grey stone and dark timber. It was positioned on a wooded plateau next to the inlet to a small oval lake that was caressed by the gentle June breeze. Two rowboats were drawn up on the stony beach. The birch wood was close by, leaves not yet sprung. Higher up was the mountain plateau, the glacier, and the snow-capped peaks.

Robert Odden sat against the cabin’s southern wall. He was a dark-haired, stocky man, aged forty-five. He meticulously fastened a wet fly to a thin nylon line. He put down the rod, lit his pipe, and leaned back in his chair.

His wife Linda appeared carrying a tray, which she placed on a solid wooden table in the shadow of the birch tree in the yard. She was a few years younger than her husband, with a well-maintained figure and an attractive face colored by the sun and discreet makeup.

“Do you need a hand?” he inquired.

“No, I’ll let you know when I do. Do you know what? In the kitchen I put four cups and plates on the tray without even thinking. Then I realized. But I’ll never get used to Father being gone. I often feel that he’ll reappear. That everything will be the same as this time last year.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It’s a natural reaction. Birger will be a part of us for as long as we live. There’s Marta, by the way.”

A tall woman in green-speckled sportswear approached them from a copse. She was sixty-seven, but bore her age well. A melancholy shadow lay over the thin brown face.