Charles Ardai - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 102, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 618 & 619, October 1993

“Black, please.”

He filled two cups, put them on the table, and sat down again. He fiddled with the sugar spoon, took a sip of coffee that appeared to bum his mouth, ran his fingers through his hair.

“Look, Pete,” he said. “You seem a bit overwrought, and it’s easy to understand in the circumstances. If you’re strapped for cash... for the operation, I mean... you can count on me for a loan.”

“Operation?”

For a moment, he looked almost embarrassed. “To terminate the pregnancy,” he said gruffly.

“Oh, that.” I put sugar in my coffee and stirred it. “That wasn’t what I had in mind at all. Anyway, it’s already been taken care of.” I shut my eyes for a moment. It had been messy and I didn’t want to think about it. “I want your help with the book.”

“But I’m not a crime writer, Pete.”

“I know that.” I took a sip of coffee and felt better. “Boy, that’s good,” I said.

“Costa Rican,” he said absently, and waited.

“Do you remember,” I said, “when we were at college, we once had to write an essay about ‘The anatomy of fear’?”

He frowned. “Vaguely. Weird sort of topic... but as I remember, we had a weird old tutor. What was his name, now?”

“O’Halloran. Very excitable. Always banging on about how writers handle emotion.”

“That’s the feller.” Vince half smiled, then the puzzled look returned. “What’s this got to do with...?”

“I’m coming to that. Before tackling that essay, I wanted to know exactly what it felt like to be shit-scared, so I talked you into holding my head under water as if you were trying to drown me.”

Recollection dawned in his eyes and he gave a shout of laughter. “I remember!” he exclaimed. “I thought you were out of your mind, but somehow you talked me into it. And then, after dunking you in the bath, I got a bit carried away.” He slammed the table with the flat of his hand as laughter threatened to overwhelm him. “I... ho ho!... picked you up by your collar... and the seat of your pants... and made as if I was going to throw you out of the window.” He flung himself back in his chair, nearly helpless with mirth. “You were yelling blue murder and clinging to the sill... as if you really believed I was going to let go.”

I thought he’d never stop laughing. It was a kind of hysteria. I pretended to join in, although it hadn’t seemed at all funny at the time — and it seemed even less funny now.

“My God,” he gasped when he’d got his wind back, “the bizarre things we got up to when we were students! We must have been stoned out of our minds.”

“It did the trick, didn’t it?” I said, a little smugly, while Vince mopped his eyes. “I was scared half to death, but I got alpha plus for that essay.” I leaned back in my chair. The adrenaline had started to pump like crazy. “So now,” I went on, “I’m going to do a similar experiment... and that, my old friend, is where you come in.”

“I don’t follow you,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

“You don’t have to do anything,” I said softly. “You’ve done enough already.”

“What are you driving at?” He wasn’t smiling anymore and his voice had developed a tremor.

“I told you,” I said, and my own voice was none too steady. “My new novel is to be written from the killer’s viewpoint, so I have to know what a killer feels like, what goes through his mind as he comes face to face with his victim.”

Now I really had him worried and the realisation gave me a great surge of pleasure. I felt exhilarated, all-powerful. I was lighter than air, I could fly out of the window if I wanted to, soar over the rooftops, climb to the stars. I was about to destroy the man who had blown my life apart. I leapt to my feet and went for the jugular.

The cunning bastard had read my mind. Or maybe, while he was making the coffee, he’d noticed that the knife was missing. His reactions always were quick, but this time they must have broken the light barrier. Next thing I knew, I was on my back with the heavy table on top of me and my arm numb from the karate chop that sent my weapon spinning from my hand.

I’m writing this from the hospital wing. They say I’ve got two broken ribs and severe internal bruising. I keep telling the policemen who come to ask me boring questions that I intend to bring charges against Vince of assault and causing me actual bodily harm, but they just laugh. It seems unfair when you take into account that I didn’t give him so much as a scratch, and yet they’re going to throw the book at me. Vince always did come off best, damn him.

Still, Evelyn got her comeuppance, didn’t she? It’s a pity I wasn’t able to bring off the double, but you can’t have everything. As I mentioned, I always try to look on the bright side, and the good news is that I’ll have plenty of time — several years, my lawyer has given me to understand — to get on with my novel without having to worry about money or what to have for the next meal. It’s going to be the best thing I’ve ever written.

© 1993 by James A. Ritchie

Best-known as an author of western novels, including the recently published The Payback, James A. Ritchie makes a venture into the crime field here with a story that first came to him as the plot for a modern western novel. In this short version, the tale is a most entertaining crime story...

I’ve been a professional writer for ten years, but I still haven’t learned to enjoy book tours. Perhaps I’d feel differently were my name Stephen King, and if the talk shows my agent booked me on included The Tonight Show, or Good Morning, America. I am not, however, Stephen King, and the shows I am graced to appear on usually air at three in the morning and have an audience of several dozen. I guess that’s what comes from writing westerns instead of horror novels.

Still, I do enjoy the book signings. Not that I like writing my name over and over. It’s the fans who buy the books that I like. I think I’ve made more lasting friends from lines at the bookstores than anywhere else.

On this tour, though, a few of the fans were a bit on the strange side.

One fan who was... different... was a sweet little old lady who asked if I really knew Wild Bill Hickok or Billy the Kid. “No, ma’am,” I said. “I’m afraid they were a little before my time.”

“That’s silly,” she answered. “They visit me almost every night. You should come over and meet them sometime.”

Her face and the tone of her voice left no doubt that she was serious. Not knowing exactly how to reply, I signed the novel she handed me and mumbled that I might do that if I ever had a free night. She went away smiling, so I guess my answer was the right one.

Two or three times in the next few hours an oddball on the order of the little old lady came into the store and bought one of my books. The truth is, it didn’t bother me. To the contrary, I found these people somewhat entertaining. And anything capable of entertaining me while on tour is something I welcome.

But not long before closing another fan came in, and at first I took him for just another oddball of the same sort. That impression didn’t last long.

He was a man of medium height, built for speed rather than power, and his young, pimply face was adorned by a long, handlebar moustache. He was also dressed like a cowboy.

No, that isn’t quite right. I was dressed like a cowboy. He was dressed like a Hollywood gunfighter.

The difference is obvious to anyone who knows the real Old West from the Hollywood fantasy. I wore plain brown cowboy boots, scuffed around the toe and a bit down at heel from walking. My pants were faded Levi’s, my shirt flannel, and my hat a low-crowned Stetson.