Lawrence Block - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, No. 6. Whole No. 790, June 2007

We overhear part of his conversation with Lila and it sounds wrong to us. We notice the blood on his coat sleeve, the scraped knuckles, his prison pallor, the Odin’s cross — a prison tattoo and racist symbol — on his wrist, and the fact that he’s carrying a concealed weapon. So we follow him outside and brace him, he pulls the gun, and while we’re struggling, our deadbeat dad chooses that moment to show up. The smart thing for Maxwell to have done was to drive off, avoid trouble; instead he lets his curiosity and arrogance get the best of him, and comes over to watch, and then picks up Franklin’s gun and hands it to me nice as you please. And so we foil a kidnapping and put the arm on not one but two violent, abusive fathers in the space of about three minutes.

What are the odds? Astronomical. You could live three or four lifetimes and nothing like it would ever happen again.

It’s a little like hitting the Megabucks state lottery.

That night, Runyon and I were the ones holding the winning ticket.

© 2007 by David Dean

“ ‘Ibrahim’s Eyes’ was inspired by a largely forgotten, unhappy chapter in our military history,” David Dean told EQMM . “I was with the Army’s 82 Air-borne when the events described occurred, and remember the anguish we felt for our brothers in arms, the Marines. Those days were to have far-reaching repercussions. We should have paid more attention at the time.”

Sean Lafferty slouched be-hind the counter of the Quik and EZ Mart and watched his reflection stare back at him from the plate-glass doors that fronted the small store. If he stepped away from the counter his phantom self would vanish from the glass, sucked into oblivion by the remaining illumination. Occasionally, he would shift to one side or the other and his ghost would mimic him, wavering slightly, or disappearing altogether as a pair of headlights swept across the store from a car entering the parking lot. When the headlamps were switched off, his pale Doppelgänger, drained of blood by the softly buzzing fluorescents, would reappear to resume its study of its earthly counterpart. This could go on for long periods of time, and often would but for the interruption of customers, yet the sign, the thought, the emotion that Sean kept looking for remained steadfastly locked behind his own alien visage.

He knew that seen from outside, he would appear to be waiting for the Q&e’s nocturnal patrons — nervous teenagers in need of condoms; even more nervous young mothers who had woefully miscalculated the diaper count and were now forced out into the midnight world; or perhaps a sudden brash invasion of young men intent on menace and calculating the odds of taking the store’s earnings by force, or just sheer intimidation. The graveyard shift was a perilous, haphazard world and Sean’s apparent alertness was not altogether a front. Once another human being appeared from the darkness beyond his image, Sean’s attention was subtly refocused, and he bid farewell to his mute self.

The customer that stepped onto the lighted stage beneath the working outside lights raised a hand in salute, and Sean did the same. Moments later he emerged from the pool of darkness that shrouded the double doors into the store.

“Those lights, Sean.” The police sergeant pointed over his shoulder. “They’ve been that way for months. Not smart.”

“No, sir,” Sean agreed. “I keep tellin’ Mr. Corrado about ‘em.” Sean was older than the officer by at least seven or eight years, but he could not refrain from calling him “sir” — it was the three stripes on his sleeve. A long time before, Sean had been a marine, and it was the only time in his life that remained vivid in his mind. His present was hazy and insubstantial, and he just a ghost that haunted it. “He’s busy opening that new store on the other side of town,” he added by way of explanation. A long cardboard box of the tubes lay untouched in the storeroom, and whenever the manager thought to ask about them, Sean would lie and say simply that he had forgotten to install them. This explanation would suffice as the harried Mr. Corrado scurried from crisis to crisis in stores that lay scattered across the city.

The policeman, a somewhat portly but light-footed man, suddenly diverged from his course toward Sean and glided over to the coffee stand. Sean watched as the sergeant carefully chose a flavored coffee from the row of stagnant pots and proceeded to add a different flavored creamer and two packages of sugar substitute to his choice. After stirring all these ingredients to his satisfaction, he waltzed over to the counter and plopped the concoction down in front of Sean, his breathing slightly labored.

“No charge,” Sean assured him, as the officer dug into his wallet.

This was a ritual the two men went through on a regular basis.

“You sure?” Sergeant Fullerton asked, fulfilling his half of the litany.

Sean nodded and the policeman raised his paper cup in a toast and then brought it gingerly to his lips. As usual, Sean noticed, he had filled it too full. With a gasp, the sergeant snatched the brimming container away from his lips with a muttered exclamation. “Damn... that’s too hot!” Several spoonfuls of the steaming liquid sloshed over with his sudden movement and the policeman danced deftly away, avoiding getting any on his snug uniform. The stain the coffee made on the dirty linoleum was only noticeable for its gleaming liquidity.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sean murmured from his seat.

“No, hell, hand me some paper towels,” Sergeant Fullerton demanded. “It’s my fault... I’ll clean it up.”

Sean did as he was bid and reached under the counter where a roll was kept for just such emergencies. He tore off several and handed them across the counter. After carefully placing his cup on the countertop, the sergeant bent grunting to his task. Sean studied the bald spot that was developing at the crown of the officer’s skull. His own hair had remained full and thick through the years and only recently had streaks of gray begun to show themselves. People usually thought he was younger than he was.

Sergeant Fullerton’s voice came up to him a little strangled. “How come you’re always on midnight shift? Ain’t you got some seniority, or something? Been round here forever!” This last he said as he straightened up, his features flushed and congested-looking.

Sean caught a glimpse of his own face across the room, his head a pale balloon floating over the policeman’s shoulder. “Doesn’t bother me,” he said quietly.

“I can’t wait to get off night shifts,” the sergeant complained. “Damn things’ll kill ya!”

“It’s quiet,” Sean offered.

“Yeah, it’s quiet,” the policeman repeated as he surveyed the shabby, empty store. “Quiet until someone comes charging in here to rob you, and maybe kill your ass in the bargain. Couldn’t pay me to sit here like a fish in a bowl, waitin’ for some mangy cat to take notice!”

Sean’s gaze drifted downward and he whispered, “No, sir.”

The sergeant’s voice softened. “Hell, you don’t have to ‘sir’ me, Sean. How old are you, anyway?”

“Forty,” Sean answered, looking back at Sergeant Fullerton now.

“Forty,” the officer repeated dubiously. “You’re kiddin’ me, right? You don’t look no forty. Hell, I’m younger’n you! What’s your secret?”

Sean thought for a second, and then smiled. “I keep out of the sun,” he replied.

Sergeant Fullerton stared for a moment, then guffawed. “By God, you do that!” He chuckled a few moments more, then grew serious. “Listen, Sean, you been watchin’ the news?”