David Morrell: Black Evening

"Then you'll sympathize with my position. When I went to see your partner – "

"Oh, my God, you told him!"

"Bob, I couldn't simply kill him and not let him have a chance to make a bid. That wouldn't be American."

MacKenzie started trembling. "Bid? What kind of bid?"

"Don't get excited, Bob. We figured he could pay me not to kill him. But you'd just send someone else. So what we finally decided was that he'd pay me to come back and kill you . He offered double, ten grand now and ten when you were shoveled under."

"He can't do that!"

"But he did, Bob. Don't go simple on me now. You should have seen his face. I mean to tell you he was angry."

"You accepted what I offered! You agreed to take my contract!"

"But a verbal contract isn't binding. Anyhow, you're in a seller's market. What I'm selling is worth more now."

"You're a crook!"

The young man's face looked pained. "I'm sorry you feel that way."

"No, wait. Don't leave. I didn't mean it."

"Bob, you hurt my feelings."

"I apologize. I don't know what I'm saying. Every time I think about that guy – "

"I understand, Bob. You're forgiven."

"Pat, you'll never guess what Bob did."

At the railing, Dolan shuddered. He was watching as the horses thundered toward the finish line. He turned. The young man stood beside him, chewing on a hot dog.

"You don't mean you told him."

"Pat, I had to. Fair is fair. He offered double our agreement. Twenty grand now, twenty later."

"And you've come to me to raise the price?"

" They're at the stretch !" the track announcer shouted.

"It's inflation, Pat. It's killing us." The young man wiped mustard from his lips.

"You think I'm stupid?" Dolan asked.

The young man frowned.

"That I'm a moron?" Dolan asked.

"Excuse me, Pat?"

"If I pay more, you'll go to him, and he'll pay more. Then you'll come back to me, and I'll pay more. Then… That's my limit! I'm not paying!"

"Fine with me, Pat. Nice to see you."

"Wait a minute!"

"Why? Is something wrong?"

"Of course, there's something wrong! You're going to kill me!"

"Well, the choice is up to you."

" The winner is – !" the track announcer shouted.

Horses rumbled by, their jockeys standing up to slow them. Dust drifted over the crowd.

"Dammit, yes, I'll pay you," Dolan muttered. "Do it this time. I can't sleep. I'm losing weight. I've got an ulcer."

"Pat, the race is over. Did you have a bet?"

"On number six to win."

"A nag, Pat. She came last. If you'd asked me, I'd have told you number three."

"You'll never guess what Pat did, Bob."

"You'll never guess what Bob did, Pat."

Dolan stopped beside MacKenzie, looked around and sighed, then sat on the park bench.

"So you figured you'd have him kill me," Dolan said.

MacKenzie's face was gaunt. "You weren't above the same temptation."

Dolan spread his hands. "Self-defense."

"But I should sit back while you sic the IRS against me?"

"That was just a joke."

"Some joke. It's costing me a fortune."

"Hey, it's costing me as well."

"We've got a problem."

They nodded, feeding bread crumbs to the pigeons.

"I've been thinking," Dolan said. "The only answer I can see – "

" – is both of us will have to kill him."

"Only way."

"He'll bleed us dry."

"If we pay someone else to kill him, the new guy might try something cute as well."

"We'll do it both together. That way, you can't point the blame at me."

"Vice versa."

"What's the matter? Don't you trust me?"

They glared at each other.

"Hi there, Bob. How's tricks, Pat?" The young man smiled from behind MacKenzie's desk. He munched a taco, going through their records.

"What the hell is this now?"

"But he claimed that you expected him," the secretary said.

"Never mind. We'll deal with this."

"Just shut the door."

They stared at him.

"Hey, fellas, I've been going through your records. They're really a mess. This skimping on the concrete. And that sub-spec insulation. I don't know, guys. We've got lots of work ahead of us."

A drop of taco sauce fell on the records.

"Us?"

"Well, sure, we're partners now."

"We are ?"

"I took the money you gave me. I invested it."

"In what?"

"Insurance. You remember how I said I was a business major? I've decided this sideline doesn't suit me. So I went to a specialist. The things a graduate's forced to do to get a job these days."

"A specialist?"

"A hit man. If the two of you decide to have me killed, you'll be killed as well."

MacKenzie's chest felt stabbed. Dolan's ulcer burned.

"So we're partners. Here, I even had some cards made up."

He handed one across, a greasy taco stain along one edge. MACKENZIE-DOLAN-SMITH. And at the bottom: CONTRACTORS.

I don't often use humor in my fiction. The story you just read is one of the exceptions. You'll come across a few other examples later. In contrast, this next story, "Black Evening," has no trace of humor whatsoever. Dark and disturbing, it is more in the tone of "The Dripping." Part of a series of stories about houses, it first appeared in a 1981 anthology called Horrors , edited by Charles L. Grant, and marks the beginning of a long association with Charlie. A skillful fiction writer, he also edited some of the most influential dark suspense anthologies of the seventies and eighties, including the much-praised Shadows series. Part of the reason I didn't write any short fiction from 1971 to 1981 is that I couldn't find a market for the type of stories I wanted to write. When I learned about Charlie's anthologies, I discovered I had a soul mate. Many of the stories in this collection appeared in publications that Charlie edited. Along with numerous other writers of dark suspense, I'm indebted to him.

So we all went out there. I can see you're apprehensive, as we all were, and so I'll tell you at the outset that you're right. The house was in the poorest section. It had been among the best homes in the twenties, I'd been told, but now its shutters had long ago fallen; its porch was listing; its paint was chipped and peeling, gray at dusk, although I could guess that it had once been brilliant white. Three stories: gables, chimneys, dormer windows, balconies. Nobody could afford to build so large a home these days, and no doubt it had required someone rich to build it then. A mansion in its dotage. Sad, I imagined the pride of those who had first owned it and their disappointment should they see what had happened to it. But they would all be dead now, so it didn't matter. All that mattered was the stench.

I say we all went out. I mean my deputy, the doctor, and myself. We stood beside the police car, staring at the dark, silent, decrepit mansion. We saw the neighbors on the porches of the other ill-kept, once-great houses, silhouetted by the dying sunset. Then we held our breath and started toward the picket gate, which fell off in my hand. We moved up toward the front steps. The sidewalk was weed-cracked, the yard overgrown. We felt the cool air, almost misty, as the sun dipped below the horizon; and in the dark, our flashlights glaring, we climbed the cracked, creaking steps that led to the porch. We had to work around some broken boards on the porch. We stared down at a pile of newspapers. Then we squinted through the stained glass window, dusty and opaque, the darkness in there absolute. At last, I twisted the grip that rang the bell. The tone was flat, without enthusiasm. No echo or reverberation followed.