Plan B: Volume 1

By Darusha Wehm

This collection showcases a wide variety of plans gone sideways — private eyes getting stuck on cases they really don’t want to take, petty criminals getting in over their heads, law enforcement professionals on the wrong side of the bars, and upstanding citizens finding themselves to be not so law-abiding after all.

These stories are as varied as they are excellent — there are light-hearted tales to make you smile, literary pieces that challenge the definition of crime writing, and realistic portraits of difficult and disturbing decisions. Whatever your tastes, I’m sure you’ll find something to enjoy here and maybe something to surprise you.

Table of Contents

The Way to a Man's Heartby Gary Cahill
A Week Abroadby Tom Ward
The High Roadby Sarah M. Chen
Interview Room C by Josh MacLeod
Hostage by Tekla Dennison Miller
Trouble's Bruin by Laird Long
Three Times a Killer by Michael Haynes
Polly Wants by Kou K. Nelson
Hazard Pay by Nick Andreychuk
The Woman Who Rowed Away by Tom Swoffer
The Uninvited Spookby C. D. Reimer
But Not Forgotten by by Martin Roy Hill
The Little Outlaw by Mike Miner

• Language: English
• Publisher: in potentia press
• Release date: Mar 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9780991783113

Book preview

The Way to a Man’s Heart

by Gary Cahill

The first Plan B story is a tale of felonies, fishermen and foodies, not for the faint of heart. Of course, the faint of heart wouldn’t be here in the first place.

Diver Joe slipped and slithered and stumbled through the pre-dawn dank, between the lobster pots. Less than an hour to sunrise, running way late, riding the edge the way binge drinking makes you—sure, one more, plenty of time. Until the clock runs out.

Rockport had been a dry town forever; archetypical, right down to the de rigueur liquor store just across the city line, decked out like a Christmas tree; winking, beckoning. In time, the law moved on to allow serving legal hooch with a proper dinner, and a looser attitude prevailed, in general, about getting gassed now and then. But touristy galleries, shops, and charm kept the place a heavy duty anachronism up the road on Cape Ann from wilder and hard-worn Gloucester, the historic fish town famous for courageous captains, storms of the century, and an indulgent undercover world of vice that would stroke-out most modern Americans. The natives learned to put on a happy face for visitors, but beneath the veneer in underground Gloucester the fleet’s always in—without the spiffy uniforms. Along the entire Cape, like anywhere, human weakness and desire proffered piles of criminal cash, and Diver Joe was off to retrieve a to-the-gills green-stuffed duffel bag from the bottom of Rockport Harbor.

Mask, foot fins, small scuba tank and a cord-drawn navy blue ditty bag—Joe quick-changed at the edge of T-Wharf, his street clothes left on the rocks above the tide line. He submerged and moved away and down and aimed for the breakwater. At its outer reaches the harbor was no more than twenty-five feet deep, way less in close. The duffel was guaranteed waterproof to thirty, easy enough to find among the buoys he’d mapped in memory. Chuckling over maybe being arrested for drunk diving; seriously hoping the sun and the local watermen didn’t rise too soon. Lobstering was permitted an hour before and after daylight, so a zippy in-and-out for Joe was paramount.

But staring into the business end of a pump action bird gun off the stern of an outboard-motored utility boat was unexpected. As was the kid behind the gunman with the fishing gaff, a tool somewhere between meat hook and harpoon. Behind the shotgun was Sammy Calley, mid-fifties, sea-weathered well past that, denim pants and jacket over a snap-up lumberjack, with his son, Gorton’s-fisherman-yellow slickered Davey, holding the whale gutter like a bayoneted rifle. Already balding at twenty, there was a great darkness behind Davey’s eyes and no fear or regret in seeing dead things in front of them. Sammy kicked over a rope so Diver Joe didn’t need to keep treading.

Diving’s illegal in Rockport Harbor, and plenty other places ’round here, ’cept sometimes if you’re working on a boat, sounded Sammy’s New England-achusetts twang, accent ludicrously over the top, hard-angled arrogance amplified by having the upper hand. It played like a north of Boston reading of Deliverance, or Cool Hand Luke. You weren’t planning a little nightshift dirty work on my lobster boat, were ya? More than enough trouble catching those bottom bugs and tryin’ to sell ’em to city markets when nobody’s got the proper money anymore. Barely make a fuckin’ dime, and you’re down there messing me up, yankin’ my boat out from under me? Sabotage? That it? Joe knew this guy didn’t believe that. Salty’d seen the bag, if not while cruising the harbor then obviously now, tethered to Joe’s midsection.

Diver Joe started to tell him, making more sense than either Calley could grasp.

Listen, you know I wasn’t screwing with anybody’s boat. There’s the bag. I had to do it and not be seen, it’s going somewh—

Whoa, whoa, nothing’s going nowhere, and ... what’s your name again, there, Flipper?

Joe. You’ve seen me around.

Yep, yes, Joe the Diver, up from Florida early in the summer. Tanned and blonde. Made yourself useful around town, I know, fittin’ in real nice. What’s in the bag, Diver Joe? And what a bag, my, my. Where d’ya get something so rough and ready?

Joe, trying to keep it civil, Northwest somewhere ... Oregon, maybe? Made for mountaineering, for some reason waterproof to 10 meters, 10 yards, whatever. Grinning. I don’t know how many fathoms.

Sammy didn’t crack a smile. Apparently not a laughing matter.

Insistent. What’s in the bag, Joe? Quick, Davey with a half-lunge, Sammy’s left hand holding back his kid. Show us what’s inside the bag, or Davey’s gonna show us what’s inside you.

Joe was still in the water, the bag on the deck, waiting to be flayed, but Davey seemed to admire the thing as he opened the seals and the zippers and freed well into six figures, banded grands and five-Cs and on down, piles of it.

The hoarse awed whisper was Sammy’s. How much?

Three hundred thousand, a little over. Don’t know exactly.

It looked like six billion.

Diver Joe knew where this was going, tried to head it off with the truth.

Listen, this is not local. It’s about Rhode Island, you know what I mean? Providence? Familiar with what goes on in Providence all these years? With who’s waiting for this? Joe watched the money going back into the bag, gun barrel at the bridge of his nose. Careful.

"Listen to me, this is the real deal. I was planted here for this. We dunked it to cool it off, and now it’s—"

We, huh? The bag held too much to allow Sammy to think straight. Who’s we? An army’s comin’ to bail you out, escort all this to the bigwigs in the million dollar suits, am I right? Please, you’re all alone here.

"Not for long. Up from Connecticut and New York, tonight. They’re both in on this, and we’re responsible, severely responsible, for getting this to—"

"Both? Both? There’s gonna be only two of them trying to ride this out of here?"

The gun shook in his hands. "Break my back when the money’s good, now I’m breakin’ it when the money’s for shit, and if you think this God-sent whorin’, gamblin’, drug money’s leavin’ my hands with only two of anybody—"

Either one’s always been enough, from what I hear. We’re meeting on Bearskin Neck after everything shuts down tonight. Wise up. Just let it go, or bring me over there with the duffel and arrange something, work it out. Nobody in charge ever wants a mess, any attention. They might settle with you. Within reason.

Joe didn’t sense any recognition of reality, much less reason, with the Calley family. He tried to not sound desperate. You take this, you run, they’ll find you. These guys, some other guys, doesn’t matter, they’ll get you and your son. Worth a shot mentioning the kid.

Oh, I guess we’ll need to meet the tough guys over on the Neck. But I don’t think Diver Joe Makes Three is going to happen.

A train out of New York, running on the New Haven line, stopped at Norwalk and passengers stepped off, one with an illegit name for a bastard boy. Mom called him Johnny Ray after her favorite ’50s cloudy-eyed balladeer, and the Connell thing was pasted on, JonRay knew, to obscure his parentage. No father ever around that he could remember, but he’d always been treated with deference in the city, respect he assumed reflected some serious wiseguy’s tryst leading to his appearance on Earth. Having no idea if he was Italian enough to ever be a made man, or full on Irish, or even just a little Azorean, he chose to honor a roughhewn appreciation for street food and big flavor by identifying himself as Gourmandish, eating his way, con brio, through the local cuisines everywhere he was assigned, as they called it—barely gaining a pound, loving every bite. JonRay was looking for a starchy lump named Glen.

Not his real name either, but a mutation of Geraldo Leonardo Simone, everyone hoping for his sake the Geraldo part wasn’t after the TV talk show guy, but knowing better. Glen had the Town Car, found JonRay, and they got started, heading to a rendezvous at Rockport, Massachusetts. It was early afternoon, and JonRay was stoked.

Ready.

Set.

Although a faithful trencherman, he’d skipped breakfast.

Go.

Oh, man, before we leave town, Swanky Franks, whadaya say? Couple o’ dogs, real vampire killers, then hit the road, got plenty of time, and they’re—

"We just got in the car and you’re talkin’ about hot dogs? Vampire killers? What the hell ... what?"

JonRay, perplexed. Garlic, in droves. Swanky’s is not just some hot dog dump. In fact, Connecticut’s kind of a happy hot dog hunting ground. Blackie’s in Cheshire, Rawley’s, I mean Paul freakin’ Newman ate at Rawley’s, oh, and Super Duper Weenie, exit 25, off Route 95—

"Four fuckin’ hot dog joints in 30 seconds? This how it’s gonna go? You know, I heard about you. They warned me. Look, I’m in with you and Florida blondie on a delivery … He waited. Dramatically. ... but without all this one from column ‘A’ shit," and he waited again on his leftover 1960s’ laugh line. Hadn’t been funny then.

JonRay’s mood was dampened. A little. He hoped side-splittin’ Glen didn’t have a million of ’em.

Well, listen, you can’t deny the pizza, some of the greatest in the world is in New Haven. Man, since the ’30s, Pepe’s and Sally’s, the Spot, and Modern, there’s a Pepe’s right here in Fairfield now, and what’s that other new one over—

Glen was adrift, trying to understand, a renegade among Italians, being what used to be called a meat and potatoes man; way past well-done and boiled plain, respectively.

Jesus. Bread dough with whatever you got sittin’ around put on top, right? Basically? It’s all spiced up and you get it with burned edges sometimes and— Oh my God, Glen, please, already JonRay could hardly take any more.

What a dope.

There must be something. Ice cream? I scream, you scream ... forget it. White Farms,—ooooh, White Farms—right where they were headed; their black raspberry would be lost on this guy. Doughnuts; Coffee An’ in Westport versus New York’s Doughnut Plant? In the city Mark’s got the edge with organic ingredi... forget it. Aaaah, ace in the hole, seafood. Fried clams, even better on Cape Ann than Cape Cod, oysters, those sweet, tiny Maine shrimp, so many places ... forget it. This guy’s benchmark for fried fish was that finned scaly cardboard at the local deli every Friday, just like Mom used to buy when she thought the Church was still forcing it down your throat. Christ almighty already. Just deadhead to Rockport, leave Glen to his white bread double mayo on a buttered dinner roll or whatever, and see if anybody at the luncheonette ever found the old recipe for that butter-creamy clam chowder. Best ever, anywhere. Two years ago a waitress promised she’d look.

And the lobster place on Bearskin Neck, Moore’s. Oh, man. Then just sit back, wait out the twilight, the evening, the last straggling tourists, meet with Joe and his duffel bag and baby that money all the way into Big Daddy’s arms, back down in Providence.

That is, meet with Joe up past the strudel place, and just sublime it is, stall a little bit leaving town until it opens early in the morning, grab a white bakery boxful for the road. Hey, never know when you’ll be by here again. Golden opportunity. Really shouldn’t pass it up.

Glen showed concern for his teammate. Ah, sorry. Jesus Christ. And I should come up with another God to swear on.

JonRay was not in the mood anymore. How’s Yahweh? Ganesha? Shiva?

What?

Oh, just swear, go ahead. Christ. That’s right. Christ.

See? See what I mean? JonRay, I think I’ll just call you ‘Hungry’ the rest of the trip. No, you know what? ‘HungRay’, what with your name and all. Yeaaah.

JonRay was hoping Glen got his own filthy joke, though it seemed unlikely. He tried.

"Whoa, come on, the ladies love me, but you’re embarrassing me here. I know lesser men envy real men, but... "

Glen stared ahead, looked left, checked the rearview, merged left, looked straight ahead again.

Just driving. Not a word.

Hopeless. You know what?

Forget it.

The phone call was less than comforting; an hour late, gruff, grumbling, and not Diver Joe on the other end. Joe was sick, no, couldn’t talk, but he had a carry bag he needed delivered to some friends, in town for the salt air and stunning sunsets. Just trying to do the right thing, be on the Neck after it shuts down.

Click.

What the hell.

The brevity left more time to pointlessly triple check their loaded 9s, and dwell a little on the rocking sundown they’d just witnessed. People paid a lot to bed-and-breakfast near Pigeon Cove and watch the day drop off a granite coastline into open water. Worth every penny, thought JonRay.

Worth every dime, said Glen.

Close enough.

Heavy, thick, warm for October, fog and mist and dew points giving after-midnight Bearskin Neck the movie look of East London, Whitechapel—home of the Ripper. Soles sucking up wetness, kissing the dark with every step toward land’s end, where the breakwater jutted out to confront the open Atlantic invading the stony harbor. JonRay to the left, Glen the right, guns pocketed, walked toward the traffic turnaround where the stores and restaurants stopped and the road fell away on each side to popweed, sea moss, and water lapping at the angled rocks. Some days you could watch terns and gulls dump clams and crabs over the edge to crack open the shells. Smart little bastards.

Davey got the drop on JonRay, junior pointing a javelin with a sickle on the side, apparently designed to scare you to death before you bled out, just to be sure. Glen faced the more understandable bird gun in the hands of a jean-clad human weathervane, shifting the barrel back and forth in front of him, guarding the duffel bag behind him. For now it’s hands up. They’d move for their hardware soon enough.

JonRay called out to Sammy Calley across the street. "How come no Joe on the phone? Something