Norman Partridge - Slippin' into Darkness

The quiet order of the camera shop calmed Shutterbug. Familiar tasks distanced him from the events of the last ten hours. Totaling the receipts from the previous day, getting the money ready for the register, alphabetizing the prints that had arrived from the developer-these small tasks convinced him that he was nothing more than the owner of a successful retail business, shadowed by no other concerns than those shared by a dozen other businessmen whose stores were located in the same thriving mini-mall.

Then the phone rang. Not the number that was listed in the phone book-that line was connected to an answering machine which informed customers that the store would open promptly at eleven. The private line was ringing. Shutterbug lifted the handset. “Yes?”

“Hanks? That you?”

Shutterbug sidestepped the question. “Who’s calling, please?”

“One of your buddies from San Francisco. I’m in the photography business, too. We’ve worked together, but it’s been a while.”

Okay, this was strictly business. Shutterbug breathed a sigh of relief. “Don’t worry. This line is clean. You don’t need to-”

“Don’t be so sure, Hanks.”

“What do you mean?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Hanks. Just shut up for a minute. People are asking questions about you. People are going to be asking you questions.”

“What? Who are you talking about?”

“Two words for you. Hanks: shut up. Whatever they hit you with, don’t say a word. That’s what we’re doing, that’s what you should do.”

The line went dead.

A gentle rapping sounded on the glass door.

Shutterbug whirled, nearly dropping the phone. The man stood on the wide sidewalk, peering into the store from the other side of the smoked glass wall that protected Shutterbug’s wares from the harsh afternoon sunlight. But it wasn’t afternoon-it was morning, and the large panes seemed darker than they should have, and the man on the other side of the glass wall was only a silhouette.

Again, the man’s knuckles struck the glass, ever so gently. Shutterbug’s mouth opened but no words came out. The man pointed at his wrist and tapped again, but he was only pretending to tap now, and instead of the tapping sound Shutterbug heard the little clock ticking steadily on the wall above the cash register.

An electronic chime sounded the hour.

Eleven o’clock. Opening time.

Shutterbug unlocked the smoked glass door. The silhouette didn’t move, didn’t step forward, even when the door was opened.

The policeman grinned, his eyes lost behind mirrored sunglasses.

The sunglasses came off. Steve Austin stood rooted to the sidewalk by a pair of heavy black boots. His uniform was a study in dark creases and his eyes were narrow slits.

“Steve!” Shutterbug said, as if pleasantly surprised. “I haven’t seen you in…well, since forever.”

Steve said nothing.

Shutterbug recognized what might have been a cop’s trick-don’t commit to anything, get the nervous suspect to talk his way into trouble. He wasn’t going to fall for it, even if his hesitation spoke of paranoia.

Paranoia, hell. Shutterbug hadn’t recognized the cop at the drive-in. That cop might have been Steve Austin. And there was the phone call, too. The warning. If this had something to do with Shutterbug’s real business…that would be different.

But the call had come from San Francisco, more than thirty miles away. The two incidents couldn’t be connected. It was impossible.

Austin’s grin was patient, implacable.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Shutterbug said. “C’mon in. What can I do for you?” He stepped behind the counter, separating himself from the big policeman. A little distance made him feel safer. “When was the last time we had a chance to talk? A couple years back? Fifteenth reunion?”

Austin’s grin was welded in place. “I never go to reunions.”

The cop was as forthcoming as a brick wall. Shutterbug prattled on with a fresh line of questions that were answered with a series of nods and shrugs. The cop’s silence didn’t matter, because the voice from the phone was still fresh in Shutterbug’s memory. “You ask a lot of questions. Hanks. Just shut up for a minute. People are asking questions about you. People at going to be asking you questions.”

“Y’know,” Steve said finally, “your dad was my training officer. I don’t like too many people, but I liked your dad. We got along. I always felt like I owed him something, and I never got a chance to square things up with him before that junkie knifed him.”

Marvis wondered if Austin had a point. He certainly couldn’t believe that the cop had come here to reminisce.

“Before today, I never really thought about how awful it must have been to lose your dad like that.” Austin pursed his lips as if he had made a stunning revelation which moved him deeply. “So I feel like I missed my opportunity with your old man. But maybe I can square things up with you, Marvis. If you’ll let me.”

“Sure.” Marvis nodded and found that in his eagerness he couldn’t stop nodding. “Sure.” His head bobbed some more. “And call me Shutterbug. Everyone does…still.” He laughed. “Do they still call you Ozzy? I remember that’s what everyone called you in grammar school. Then in high school they started calling you The Six Million Dollar-”

“You just stick to Steve. I’ll stick to Marvis. I think I’ll like it a little better that way. We’ll know just who we are.”

Austin reached into the left-hand pocket of his uniform shirt, produced a reel of 16mm film, and placed it on the counter. “I would have brought the projector, too, but it was all busted up. Good thing you had your name stenciled on it, though. I guess that was your daddy’s training. Lord how that man hated handling B amp;E’s. Hated fences, too. Anyway, the stenciling made my job real easy. God knows I’ve never made detective, and I’ve been working this job for quite a while.”

Jesus. Austin was playing with him. An uneasy grin tugged at the corners of Shutterbug’s lips. He wanted to grab the reel of film, burn it in the metal garbage can under the counter. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. His legs were fence posts, because Steve Austin was standing there with a smile on his face and his thick fingers were tapping, rapping on a cool leather holster that contained a. 38 police special.

Shutterbug recognized the weapon. It was the same model his father had carried, the same model that rested on the shelf under the cash register, just inches away.

No. Reaching for the gun would be a big mistake.

“I never knew there was film of this.” Austin’s grin evaporated as he spoke the words. “April never told me. I guess what happened to her was bad enough. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I realize that…but this film might have made a big difference, a long time ago.”

“It was crazy.” The words tumbled from Shutterbug’s mouth. “They made me do it. The A-Squad. They beat me up. And then, last night, they came to my house. The only reason they left me alone all these years was because I kept the film as security. I’m sure of that. They would have killed me if I’d given it up, because I was the only one who really knew what happened. But then April died, and they got drunk, and they came to my house last night-”

“And you gave it to them.”

“It wasn’t like that. They came to the house and they made me go with them to the drive-in-”

Steve Austin’s hand came up fast, waving off Shutterbug’s words. “Calm down. You’re getting too excited. I told you that I owed your dad, and I meant it. Nothing bad is going to happen here.”

Shutterbug reached for the film, but Austin’s hand slammed over it.