Black Cat Weekly #78

By Wildside Press

Our 78th issue features another lineup sure to please. We have an original mystery by Tom Milani (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken). Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman has selected a great mystery by Brian Cox. Our other two Acquiring Editors, Cynthia Ward and Darrell Schweitzer, are still on break, but we hope they will be back soon.

I’ve balanced out the mystery side of this issue with a Sexton Blake story and a Hulbert Footner novel. For the fantasy side, we have three tales: a Frostflower & Thorn short story from Phyllis Ann Karr, a Jules de Grandin occult detective story from Seabury Quinn, and a ghostly tale by Grant Allen. On the third side, we have three science fiction stories—tales by Joe Bigson, Bill Venable, and Lester del Rey. Fun stuff. I hope you enjoy it.

Here’s this issue’s lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“Night of the Laundry Cart,” by Tom Milani [Michael Bracken Presents short story] “A Valentine by the Numbers,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery] “The Frozen Fiske.” by Brian Cox [Barb Goffman Presents short story] “The White Mouse,” by Hal Meredith [Sexton Blake novelet] Cap’n Sue, by Hulbert Footner [novel]

Fantasy & Science Fiction:

“A Night at Two Inns.” by Phyllis Ann Karr [Frostflower & Thorn short story] “Pallinghurst Barrow,” by Grant Allen [novelet] “The Man Who Cast No Shadow,” by Seabury Quinn [Jules de Grandin novelet] “I Like You, Too—” by Joe Gibson [short story] “If At First,” by Bill Venable [short story] “Moon-Blind,” by Lester del Rey [short story]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Feb 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667681719

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

NIGHT OF THE LAUNDRY CART, by Tom Milani

A VALENTINE BY THE NUMBERS, by Hal Charles

THE FROZEN FISKE, by BRIAN COX

THE WHITE MOUSE, by Hal Meredith

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CAP’N SUE, by Hulbert Footner

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

A NIGHT AT TWO INNS, by Phyllis Ann Karr

PALLINGHURST BARROW, by Grant Allen

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

THE MAN WHO CAST NO SHADOW, by Seabury Quinn

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

I LIKE YOU, TOO— by Joe Gibson

IF AT FIRST, by Bill Venable

MOON-BLIND, by Lester del Rey

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Night of the Laundry Cart is copyright © 2023 by Tom Milani and appears here for the first time.

A Valentine by the Numbers is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

The Frozen Fiske is copyright © 2016 by Brian Cox. Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, September 2016. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The White Mouse, by Hal Meredith, was originally published anonymously in Answers, May 15, 1909.

Cap’n Sue, by Hulbert Footner, was originally published in 1927.

A Night at Two Inns is copyright © 1985 by Phyllis Ann Karr. Originally published in Sword and Sorceress II, ed. by Marion Zimmer Bradley. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Pallinghurst Barrow, by Grant Allen, was originally published in the Illustrated London News, Christmas Number, 1892.

The Man Who Cast No Shadow, by Seabury Quinn, was originally published in Weird Tales, February 1927.

I Like You, Too— by Joe Gibson was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, October 1948.

If At First, by Bill Venable, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, Winter 1954.

Moon-Blind, by Lester del Rey, was originally published in Space Science Fiction, Sept. 1952,

under the pseudonym Erik van Lihn. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

A few days ago (as I write this), a Clarkesworld Magazine made national news by closing to submissions because of a deluge of AI-written submissions. (Clarkesworld promptly closed to submissions.) The world is ending! cry editors. "500 computer-written submissions! It’s too much! We simply can’t have computers writing fiction!"

How silly. Personally, I don’t care if a computer writes a short story. If it’s a great story, it should be published no matter how it came to be. The problem is, without any creative spark involved, AI-written fiction is simply not of publishable quality…yet. I’m sure someday computers will be able to churn out competent fiction to order. But, based on my own tests of the various AI-writing tools, computers aren’t anywhere near that point right now. The stories are synoptic and feel like something a gradeschooler would turn in for a creative writing assignment. Just not good enough by even minimal editorial standards.

But in 5 or 10 years, I’m sure they will be able to fake it well enough to reach minimal publishability standards. And when that day comes, we’ll see a glorious explosion of niche content. Mysteries with toy poodles as detectives, set on Mars, in the 25th century? Why not! Sherlock Holmes and H.G. Wells teaming up as pro wrestlers in 1910 Brooklyn, NY? Of course! Albino alligators in dirigibles fighting Nazis in World War II? Perfect! Whatever your mind can imagine, a computer will be able to write it…and get it done in minutes. It will be the Golden Age of Specialized Storytelling. Think of all the Star Trek fan fiction… Or sequels to favorite novels… Or the Tom Swift/Hardy Boys teamup adventures…

For mass audiences, though, I think human storytellers are going to be employed for a long time to come. The ability to think outside the (computer) box will always keep human-written tales more interesting that rehashed and recycled plots, based on computer analysis of half a million novels.

But I’m willing to be proved wrong. It’s the quality of the story that matters most in the long run—at least to me. But I don’t think I’m wrong.

* * * *

Speaking of quality storytelling, our 78th issue features another lineup sure to please. We have an original mystery by Tom Milani (thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken). Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman has selected a great mystery by Brian Cox. Our other two Acquiring Editors, Cynthia Ward and Darrell Schweitzer, are still on break, but we hope they will be back soon.

I’ve balanced out the mystery side of this issue with a Sexton Blake story and a Hulbert Footner novel. For the fantasy side, we have three tales: a Frostflower & Thorn short story from Phyllis Ann Karr, a Jules de Grandin occult detective story from Seabury Quinn, and a ghostly tale by Grant Allen. On the third side, we have three science fiction stories—tales by Joe Bigson, Bill Venable, and Lester del Rey. Fun stuff. I hope you enjoy it.

Our cover is by the incredibly talented Luca Olesti.

Here’s this issue’s lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Night of the Laundry Cart, by Tom Milani [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

A Valentine by the Numbers, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

The Frozen Fiske. by Brian Cox [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The White Mouse, by Hal Meredith [Sexton Blake novelet]

Cap’n Sue, by Hulbert Footner [novel]

Fantasy & Science Fiction:

A Night at Two Inns. by Phyllis Ann Karr [Frostflower & Thorn short story]

Pallinghurst Barrow, by Grant Allen [novelet]

The Man Who Cast No Shadow, by Seabury Quinn [Jules de Grandin novelet]

I Like You, Too— by Joe Gibson [short story]

If At First, by Bill Venable [short story]

Moon-Blind, by Lester del Rey [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

NIGHT OF THE LAUNDRY CART,

by Tom Milani

(with apologies to Chrétien de Troyes)

Nick Melvin liked hanging out with Guinevere between sets. She was a curvy girl with a baby-talk voice and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Before he had to go back on stage, she scrawled her phone number on the wall next to their table using lipstick the color of the Days of Future Passed album. It was a record he had been listening to a lot lately, particularly when he was missing Marie or angry at her, the two emotions alternating with such frequency they had become one—angry-missing or missing-angry—he could never decide which.

He had been standing at the table, and now he took the stool Guinevere—he guessed her name was as real as her phone number—had just vacated. He spun a napkin with his finger, the edges darkening from the damp on the table.

That’s the number she gave you?

J.B.—Jill Bademagu, owner of Gorre’s and the last name no one could pronounce—nodded at the wall, her expression half contempt, half pity.

It’s not like I haven’t played it a thousand times, he said. Jenny was a second-set staple of the Lancers, the band he’d founded, second set being that point in the night when Gorre’s customers had enough liquor in them, they would sing along to the chorus but not so much they’d try to sing the verses as well.

J.B. smirked. Got to give her points for creativity, I guess.

Mel tipped his beer toward her. I guess.

She went back behind the bar, and he finished his beer in silence. When it was time for the Lancers’ next set to begin, Mel balled up the napkin and shot it into the wastebasket on the other side of the bar.

Nothing but net, he said. And the crowd goes wild. Not this crowd, he thought.

* * * *

Artie was tired of Gwen’s running around. Sure, he was older, and Gwen had needs, needs he couldn’t always satisfy, at least not until the blue pill kicked in, so he tried to understand. But a scruffy guitar player? A jazz drummer, sure, he could see the attraction there. Or even the lead singer. Girls were always hot for those guys, going all the way back to Sinatra, Elvis, Jim Morrison, Bon Jovi. The band didn’t matter. All it took was a strong jaw, smoldering eyes, and insouciance—that was the word Gwen used one time. Even after he looked it up, he didn’t get it. If he stopped paying attention to her, she got right in his face, telling him he didn’t care about her blah, blah, blah, and yet she thought those singers were hot stuff because they were so unattainable.

He didn’t know how much more he could take. He arrived at Gorre’s between the Lancers’ sets. The room was so downscale he couldn’t believe Gwen would even step foot inside. Artie sat at a round table in the corner. The waiter mumbled an introduction, and Artie couldn’t tell if he said Gawain or Dwayne or something else.

I’ll have an old fashioned, Artie said. Gawain or Dwayne looked at him like he had an eye in the middle of his forehead. But what did he expect? The kid had round things in his earlobes you could hang a sport coat from, and his hair was the color of an oil slick.

Bring me a beer, Artie said.

When the kid started reciting the beer menu—like Artie cared—he said, Just give me whatever’s the lightest one.

We have a blonde ale.

Artie didn’t know if the kid was yanking his chain, but Gwen was blond—carpet and drapes—so he told the kid that sounded good.

He settled in with his beer as the Lancers returned to the stage. They looked like they were cast from dirtbag central. Skinny jeans, long hair, pale skin. The lead guitarist came up last. Cleaner cut than the others and not as pale either. Artie still didn’t see what was so special about the guy.

Until he started with Something, that Paul McCartney song Sinatra had covered. Guy had a good voice, and he sang it straight. Artie had to give him credit. But then he had to go ruin it by playing a lick and shouting Hey!

The people at the other tables cheered. Artie guessed this was a song the crowd knew. To Artie, it sounded like a bunch of noise, lyrics he couldn’t pick out. When the band came to the chorus, everyone in Gorre’s was singing along. As he listened, he couldn’t believe it. He squeezed his glass so hard he thought it would break. Gwen’s number—they were singing Gwen’s phone number like she’d shared it with everyone.

By the time the song ended he decided he was going to teach that guitarist the facts of life. You don’t go messing with another guy’s girl—not if you know what’s good for you—and you definitely don’t brag about it to a bunch of drunks like it’s a joke you’re all in on.

* * * *

Mel stepped out the back door. A service road ran behind the strip mall Gorre’s anchored. A dumpster stood to his right, whatever was inside starting to ripen. To his left was a rolling laundry cart belonging to the Suds and Duds that anchored the other end of the shopping center.

He’d begun smoking after Marie left him, but only on nights when he had a gig. Their problems began with his name, he thought. Until he met her, he’d been Nick or sometimes Nicky—J.B. used to call him that. But when he introduced himself to Marie at the bar, she said, You don’t look like a Nick. Let’s call you Mel. Much to the amusement of J.B. and the other customers. From then on, he was Mel. For a while, he even liked it, but once Marie left him, it was just another reminder of what he’d lost.

The back door opened, and Mel turned. An older guy stood in the doorway. He wore a navy sport coat, white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway to his waist, and tan slacks. Definitely not the typical Gorre’s customer.

Hey, you, the man said.

Another belligerent drunk, Mel thought. He tossed his cigarette and ground it under his boot.

Bet you think you’re smart, the man started.

Ten bucks, Mel said.

Now the man looked like he was trying to do long division in his head. Mel waited. The man took two steps toward him. Stay away from my girl, he said, punctuating each word by jabbing Mel in the chest.

He slapped the man’s hand down. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve got the wrong guy and the wrong bar.

The man shook his head. Ah, sorry. My mistake.

Mel turned away. Was a few minutes of peace between sets really too much to ask?

One more thing, the man said.

Mel sighed and faced him. The last thing he remembered was the man’s head coming toward his own and a sound like two billiard balls colliding.

* * * *

Artie had a good laugh at the kid, who he’d folded up in the laundry basket under some sheets. He wished Gwen were here to see it. He went back inside. A guy he recognized as the band’s drummer ran up to him.

Have you seen Mel? We’re about to go on.

He’s all washed up. Artie couldn’t help laughing at his own joke. The drummer didn’t get it, but what else was new?

You know you’re bleeding? The guy pointed at Artie’s forehead.

Artie touched his face, and his fingers came away sticky with blood. Guess he hit the guy harder than he thought. Served him right. But by the time he made it back to his table, he didn’t feel so good. Must have been something he ate—except he didn’t remember ordering any food.

On stage, the band members were looking at each other and shrugging their shoulders. A table full of girls started chanting, We want Mel. We want Mel. The lady everyone called J.B. opened the back door and shook her head at the band.

Artie couldn’t figure out what that was all about, but when the drummer pointed at him, he knew it was time to leave.

* * * *

Mel felt himself moving, almost as if he were floating. He heard voices that sounded like they were far away, and he smelled bleach. When he opened his eyes and couldn’t see anything, he flailed. As he pushed the sheets covering him away, he and a dwarf holding onto the laundry cart yelled at the same time.

Soon the cart was surrounded by women who appeared to be trying not to laugh and mostly failing. They spoke to each other in Spanish, and Mel picked out the words cabeza and loco. He grabbed the sides of the cart and tried to pull himself up, but he and the cart wobbled so much he sank into the sheets again.

Lulled by the rumbling of the dryers, Mel closed his eyes, only to open them when he felt the cart tipping forward. He found himself on his hands and knees, the sheets tangled across his back like a saddle. Now the women weren’t even trying to hide their laughter.

As Mel staggered to his feet, the women in the laundromat backed away. The dwarf stood his ground.

What are you doing sleeping in my cart? he asked, his jaw jutting, his hands on his hips.

Mel tried to think.

We were between sets, he started.

Now the dwarf began pointing at Mel, hopping from one foot to the other. You play with the Lancers. He turned to the women. He’s their lead guitarist. He faced Mel. I love your version of ‘Jenny.’

More than the man who head-butted me, Mel said to himself, as his memory of the old guy telling him to stay away from his girl finally surfaced.

The dwarf became serious again. Why were you in my cart?

Unsatisfied customer, Mel said.

The dwarf shrugged. It happens.

* * * *

Artie, I can’t believe you did that.

Gwen’s face was red, and her eyes had narrowed. It wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for.

I wanted to prove how much I love you, doll.

Don’t call me ‘doll.’ Mel and I are just friends.

Just friends? Is that why he was singing your phone number? Everyone in the place was singing along with him. Artie stopped when he saw Gwen’s jaw drop. He knew he’d given her something to think about—how it wasn’t right for a guy to be blabbing a girl’s phone number to the whole world. Now her lips were quivering, and Artie realized she was about to cry. He held his arms open, waiting for her to fall into them.

Instead, she doubled over, laughing. Is that why—is that what you thought—that the Lancers—

Artie shifted his feet, not getting the joke. Stop that, stop laughing at me.

She straightened up and snorted, her face filled with contempt. You are such a loser, Artie.

That was the last straw, so Artie slapped her. It was the first time he’d ever laid a hand on Gwen, but a guy had his limits. At least it stopped her laughing, but he worried it had been a mistake.

I’m sorry, doll—baby. I shouldn’t have hit you, but you got me all riled up, laughing like that.

That’s okay, Artie. I know you didn’t mean it.

Gwen smiled at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

* * * *

He’s an idiot, Gwen said. Sorry about the bump on your head.

Mel touched the swelling, which had yet to go down. He wasn’t much of a fighter, but he was still embarrassed at being ambushed by an old man.

What did you tell him about me? he asked.

That we were friends. He thought you were insulting me by singing my phone number.

Mel’s head spun. Her phone number was real. "Wait, what? He thinks I wrote that song? About you?"

Like I said, he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Playing in bars as long as he had, Mel had seen his share of stupid. But this was taking it to another level.

Did you explain that the song came out in 1981?

He slapped me before I had the chance to.

Mel was thinking it was about time he made his move when he saw Marie walking toward him. She was usually a jeans-and-T-shirt girl, which suited Mel fine, but tonight she was wearing a sleeveless top and a skirt—with flounces. He guessed his surprise must have shown because Gwen turned to see who he was looking at.

She’s pretty, Gwen said. Someone you know?

That’s my ex, he said.

Did you leave her, or did she leave you?

I— Mel started.

Kidding. There’s no way you’d leave her.

Mel wondered if there were a woman alive who couldn’t read his mind.

Hey, Mel, Marie said.

Hi, he said.

Marie smiled and looked from him to Gwen. Aren’t you going to introduce me?

Mel sighed. Marie, this is my friend Gwen. Gwen, Marie.

So, you’re the one who broke his heart, Gwen said.

And I suppose you’re going to fix it, Marie said.

Maybe, Gwen said.

Mel asked himself if they knew he was still standing there. Then, because things weren’t weird enough, the dwarf walked into the bar. But walk wasn’t the right word. He sauntered as if he owned the place.

I just came to check up on you, the dwarf said.

What happened? Marie asked.

He got knocked into a laundry cart, the dwarf said.

By my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, Gwen said.

Please don’t laugh, Mel said, but he was too late.

When Marie could speak again, she said, I’m sorry, but you have to admit—

He found you? Gwen nodded at the dwarf.

The dwarf pointed at Mel. I came to retrieve the cart, and when I brought it back to the laundromat, he rose from the bottom like Lazarus. Scared me to death.

He works at the Suds and Duds, Mel started, though by this point he realized his presence was unnecessary to the conversation.

"I own the Suds and Duds," the dwarf said, puffing out his chest and somehow growing two inches taller.

"You own it?" Gwen said.

Hector Ruiz, at your service.

He took Gwen’s hand and kissed it. Mel could have sworn she tittered.

* * * *

Artie didn’t know how things had gone so far south so fast. One minute he had a beautiful girl on his arm, the next he thought he was defending her honor, only to have her laugh at him.

And then he’d slapped her.

They’d had their ups and downs before, but at least there were feelings behind them. Now, she looked at him like she didn’t care one way or another what happened. That had to change. There was no way he would let her run off with some two-bit musician who didn’t have the chops to shine Frank’s shoes.

He hired a locksmith to install a deadbolt on his bedroom door, one keyed from both sides. The guy tried to tell him that violated all kinds of fire regulations, but Artie asked him if fifty bucks was enough to make him forget the code for once.

It was.

Artie figured he’d wait for Gwen to go to bed, then lock her in for the night. It was a master suite, so it wasn’t like she’d be needing anything. He’d go to Gorre’s and take care of that smart-ass guitarist and anyone who got in his way. As long as she didn’t wake up, Gwen wouldn’t even know that he’d left. But just to be on the safe side, he’d take her phone with him. And if she asked about the deadbolts, he’d tell her he was worried about her safety because of all the break-ins in the neighborhood.

He found a postcard with the Lancers’ schedule in Gwen’s purse. Most of the dates were on weekends, but this week the Lancers played on Thursday, which was perfect because Gwen said she’d be coming over then.

The last thing was he needed a gun. But that was going to be easy. His friend Kay sold handguns on the side and owed Artie for fixing him up with his sister, even if it didn’t exactly work out. Forty stitches had left a nasty scar that Kay’s beard couldn’t hide, but Artie told him chicks dug those, so it wasn’t that big a deal.

He figured he’d stick the gun in the skinny guitarist’s face when he came out to smoke, and together they’d walk to Artie’s car. He’d make the kid drive to Logres Salvage Yard, where he’d dispose of him in one of the cars waiting to be crushed.

* * * *

Hector waved at Mel when he was in the middle of the Free Bird solo. Mel wasn’t a fan of the song—he always made the drummer take the vocals—but the guitar part let him strut his stuff. So, he figured Hector was just into Skynyrd, until he saw him pointing at a table where Marie was sitting.

Mel closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in his playing, tried to ride the patrons’ energy. But this early, the crowd was sparse and uninterested in his guitar-hero pyrotechnics. When he opened his eyes, Hector was standing a few feet from the stage, arms crossed, staring at Mel. He supposed his solo had passed its expiration date, so he nodded at the drummer and abruptly ended the song.

We’ll be back after a short break, he said, placing his guitar in its stand. He stepped off the stage.

That was excessive, Hector said.

Great, another critic, Mel thought. He followed him to the table where Marie sat. Tonight, she had on jeans, and underneath her ruffled top she was wearing a push-up bra. Her lips bright with lipstick, her eyes dark with mascara, she seemed happy to see him. It occurred to Mel that she might want to get back together, but given how clueless he usually was, he didn’t trust his feelings.

Still, he figured there was no harm in stating the obvious. You look great, Marie.

She rolled her eyes. Could you have dragged that solo out any longer?

It’s about Gwen, Hector said.

What about her?

She’s locked in Artie’s bedroom, Marie said.

The boyfriend? Mel asked.

Soon-to-be-ex, Hector said.

Why doesn’t she just leave? Mel asked.

What part of ‘locked in’ don’t you understand? Marie said.

It’s a deadbolt that’s keyed on both sides, Hector said.

That’s against code, Mel said.

Artie must have paid off the locksmith, Hector said. Either that, or he wasn’t union.

Marie slapped the table, and Mel and Hector jumped. Could we focus here? We can debate building codes later.

She’s got a point, Hector said. Artie’s on his way to kill you.

What did I do?

He thinks Gwen’s planning to run off with you, Marie said.

He took her phone, Hector said.

How do you know all this? Mel asked.

I knew Artie was bad news, so I gave Gwen a burner phone, told her to call me anytime.

Mel sighed.

You didn’t have a chance with her anyway, Marie said.

Mel wondered if he ever needed to speak again.

We have to rescue Gwen, Hector said.

I’m in the middle of a show, Mel said.

Hector and Marie glared at him.

I think your career will survive, she finally said.

What do you propose? Mel asked.

Hector and Marie leaned toward him, their heads almost touching. When they finished talking, Mel thought it was the craziest plan he’d ever heard. He was about to tell them he wanted no part of it when Marie’s hand found his thigh.

* * * *

Artie liked the look of the hot little number standing at the far side of the stage by the back door. Nice makeup, and her jeans were painted on. She’d tied her shirt at her breastbone so that her flat stomach showed, and above that, zowie. Two melons, ripe for picking. She seemed to be checking him out more than she was the dirtbags on stage. Which only said she had good taste.

Artie figured if he could get her talking before the band ended its set, maybe he could have something on the side for nights when Gwen wasn’t in the mood. He loved Gwen’s curves, but the way she liked to eat—he didn’t know, he might have to speak to her about that. Not this one. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her.

He walked toward the girl without taking his eyes off her. Once she saw him coming, she smiled.

Hey, doll, he said.

Hey, yourself.

Artie thought her perfume was like ambrosia. He nodded at the stage. You like the band?

She shrugged. They’re okay.

My name’s Artie. He held out his hand.

Marie. She gave his hand a good squeeze.

Nice to meet you, Marie. Can I buy you a drink?

I’d love an old fashioned, but the idiots at the bar don’t know how to make one.

Where have you been all my life? Artie thought. There are other places, he started. What kind of music do you like?

I grew up listening to Sinatra, Dean Martin, Perry Como—my father was into those guys. She went on to name a few big bands, telling him how she’d been a military brat and that her father’s music had been the one constant in her life.

Artie thought this was too good to be true, until she put a hand on his chest and said, Am I talking too much? I’m sorry, when I get nervous, I just talk so much—

Artie leaned in and kissed her. The way she responded, it was like electricity went through his whole body, and he hadn’t even taken one of the blue pills.

When they pulled apart, she said, You’re a good kisser, Artie. Not many guys know how to kiss.

I do more than kiss.

She let herself fall against the door, her eyes half-shut. Do you, Artie?

Something had changed in her expression. A challenge was there now, but it was one he was up for. She looked left and right, before grabbing his hand and pulling him outside.

The laundry cart he’d thrown the guitarist into was still there. She took his arms and spun him so that he was facing the door.

You move fast, doll.

She stood close to him. I want a real man, Artie. I’m tired of boys. Show me what kind of man you are.

He grabbed a handful of her hair and pushed her to her knees. Open wide.

Before he could get his zipper down, something rustled behind him. He looked over his shoulder, and the littlest man he’d ever seen popped up from the laundry cart like a prairie dog.

By the time his brain registered the taser the dwarf was holding, it was too late. Two darts buzzed into his back, and his body jerked as if doing the St. Vitus dance.

When his eyes could focus again, he was on the ground, and the lead guitarist was going through his pockets.

He held up Artie’s revolver. Naughty, naughty, he said.

Artie was going to tell him what he could do with the gun, when he saw the barrel swinging toward his head.

* * * *

Marie sat next to Mel on his couch. They were watching the local news. A reporter standing in front of a gas station a few miles from the Suds and Duds pressed a hand to her earpiece before speaking.

A man wearing only a bedsheet was found wandering past the Gas ’N’ Go late this evening. Police said the man, Arthur ‘King’ Mazilli, claimed to have been assaulted by a dwarf wielding a taser. Mazilli, who is a convicted felon, had an unloaded revolver in his possession that police believe was used in a recent murder. He is currently being held without bond at the county detention center. Back to you, John.

Mel muted the sound. Marie punched his arm. Our plan worked.

It had. Artie’s clothes, wallet, and bullets were in a dumpster on the other side of town. Swaddling him in a sheet was Hector’s idea.

You know the police will follow up, Mel said.

Hector will deny everything and have witnesses to back him up. Artie came gift-wrapped to the cops—why would they look him in the mouth?

Mel shook his head. He was still running on adrenaline. After he’d cold-cocked Artie, he and Hector had stripped him while Marie got her Subaru. The rear seat was folded down, and he and Hector wrapped Artie in a sheet and shoved him inside. Hector pocketed Artie’s keys, telling Mel and Marie he was going to get Gwen.

The entire time Marie was driving, Mel watched the back seat to make sure Artie was still breathing and not trying to get out. Marie finally told him to chill. She parked behind the Gas ’N’ Go, and Mel pulled Artie from the car. Awake now, and struggling with the sheet, Artie took a swing at Mel. He ducked and jumped into the car. Marie stomped on the gas, and they rounded the building. She skidded to a stop by the cashier’s window.

What are you doing? Mel said.

She banged on the horn. Hey, she yelled at the cashier. There’s a guy wearing nothing but a sheet running around out here.

The clerk looked bored, until Marie pointed at Artie, who’d managed to extricate the revolver from the folds of the sheet. The clerk ducked from the window as Marie sped off.

Marie punched his arm again. We did it.

Hector got the girl, Marie was back, at least for now, and the only person in jail was Artie. Mel figured that qualified as a happy ending.

Do you think you could call me Nick? he asked.

Marie took his face in her hands and smiled.

Not a chance, she said, and kissed him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tom Milani’s story A Hard Night in Hamburg appeared in Groovy Gumshoes: Private Eyes in the Psychedelic Sixties, published by Down and Out Books and edited by Michael Bracken, in April 2022. A retired technical editor, Tom lives in Alexandria, Virginia, with his wife, glass sculptor Alison Sigethy.

A VALENTINE BY THE NUMBERS,

by Hal Charles

Talk about making a girl feel at home, said Elke Johannson as she looked at the brightly colored card on her student lounge desk. Noticing the three round pieces of chocolate lined up below the card, she scooped it up and read the message inside: GLAD YOU SAILED INTO MY LIFE. The card was unsigned.

Since Elke had arrived in the states, courtesy of an exchange program with her university in Oslo, everybody had treated her like one of the gang. She never dreamed, however, when she described to her fellow grad students the Norwegian tradition of gifting one’s Valentine with an anonymous card signed only with a number of dots representing the number of letters in the sender’s name that she would actually receive such a card. According to tradition, if she could guess his name, the sender would owe her a chocolate egg to celebrate the day.

Looks like you have a secret admirer, said Joyce Collins, Elke’s roommate and best friend, grabbing the card. But where are the dots? How are you supposed to figure out who sent you this lovely message?

Elke glanced at the desk. I guess my admirer signed his name with candy instead of ink.

Three pieces, mused Joyce. Whom do we know with such a short first name?

A bit disappointed that the signature eliminated Brad Simmons, the somewhat bashful guy in her study group, Elke said, There’s Pat Billings. Pat was the hunky student all the girls had crushes on. I see him almost every day on my way to the library, and he always smiles and says hi.

Forget it, girl, said Joyce. Mr. Muscles broke a lot of hearts last weekend when he gave Tammy Clinton an engagement ring.

Oh, said Elke.

Don’t forget Mel Abrams, said Joyce with a sly grin. Didn’t he invite you for coffee last week? A girl could do worse than the president of one of the biggest fraternities on campus.

Mel spent our entire time together trying to talk me into letting him copy my lecture notes from American History, said Elke. When he had no luck, he even stuck me with the check. I think his intentions were anything but romantic.

Elke scanned the large room where all the grad students in her department gathered between classes. Anyone could have placed the card and candy on her desk. But a three-letter name—that eliminated most of the eligible males.

We have to get going to class pretty soon, said Joyce, interrupting Elke’s thoughts. Identifying your admirer will have to wait till after we visit Medieval England.

Elke laid the card on her desk. What about Art Flemming? she said as they headed for the door. I sat across from him at lunch yesterday, and it seemed he wanted to ask me something.

Unless Art has broken it off with Nora Amburgy, Joyce said, I don’t think he would dare send a Valentine card to anyone other than her.

As the two friends exited the lounge, Joyce said, her eyes suddenly sparkling as if she had just discovered fire, Do any of the guys go by three-letter nicknames?

Elke thought for a second. I don’t think so.

A deflated Joyce shook her head. Why couldn’t your mystery man have just signed his name?

Elke smiled. The puzzle makes the identification ‘sweeter.’

The friends shared a laugh as they entered the classroom. For the next hour Elke’s mind was more focused on her modern-day admirer than any of the medieval knights discussed by the professor.

When Elke and Joyce returned to the lounge, they saw a tall, slender figure standing near Elke’s desk.

Dexter Elam? blurted out Joyce. No way.

Dexter, said Elke as she approached the desk.

Turning, the breaded grad student said, Elke, I have a confession to make.

Yes?

I walked by your desk earlier this morning.

And?

I couldn’t resist picking up one of the pieces of chocolate. I hope you can forgive me.

Elke’s face brightened. Dexter, treat yourself to another piece. I’ll be enjoying a delicious chocolate egg before the day is over.

SOLUTION

Dexter’s confession told Elke that originally there were FOUR dots under the card. When she confronted Brad Simmons, he produced a large milk chocolate egg and an even bigger smile for his Valentine.

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

THE FROZEN FISKE,

by BRIAN COX

When they were of an age when any future still seemed possible, Alan and Gene talked of moving to the Yukon. The romance of vast wilderness enticed them away from the confines of concrete, out of the reach of frustrated fathers and distracted mothers, and into a world of Kodiak bears, snowshoes, dogsleds, salmon runs, and perilous mountain ranges. The boys collected topographical maps of Alaska and made lists of necessary equipment and sketched plans while walking to school or while wandering patches of woods that speckled the county.

Alan said they could pan for gold, and they practiced for hours some days in a shallow bend of the Fiske River, using pie pans sneaked from home.

One winter afternoon when they were thirteen, they stood on the bank of the Fiske under the Pershing Parkway overpass. Traffic rushed above them with a rhythmic thump and thrum. The sky was low, the clouds a thick swollen gray smoke. A new layer of snow stretched a hundred yards across the river, untouched but for a few small animal and bird tracks. The river ran on away from the two friends east and west like a wide white ribbon.

A sense of isolation held Alan and Gene silent as they considered the river.

Wanna cross? asked Alan after a bit.

Sure, said Gene, very much unsure. Is it frozen?

It should be.

What if it’s not?

Alan laughed. That would suck.

Hold on to me, said Gene as he extended a foot out onto the snow-covered ice. Alan took his friend’s hand and sought secure footing.

You got me?

I got you.

Don’t let go, man.

I won’t.

I’m serious.

I won’t.

Gene poked his boot through the snow, probing until he felt ice, then shifting his weight to test the ice’s strength. He listened for the first creak of cracking. He transferred his full weight onto the ice.

I think it’s okay, he said.

The two boys moved out onto the river. They walked as if not to stir a sleeping baby, each foot pushed ahead so their balance was never fully committed forward. Gene counted each step.

If you fall in, put your arms straight out, he told Alan.

That’s for quicksand, said Alan.

Same idea, said Gene.

A hundred deliberate paces brought them to the middle of the river.

The point of no return, said Alan.

The wind whirled around them. Snow dust sprayed their bare faces and spiraled up into the steel supports of the overpass. Whenever the ice made a sound like a board splintering, they tensed still and waited for the shiver to pass before taking another step, and then, while being careful not to break their concentration or disturb their balance, they would release a short laugh as if they had been foolish to be terrified that the ice might betray them by giving way. If either boy had been alone, he would have turned back long before. They continued on only because neither could bear the shame of acknowledging fear before the other.

When they were within twenty yards of the far shore, the temptation to bolt for the bank was powerful, but they resisted, holding to the cautious cadence that had served them well so far. At last, they were over and threw themselves onto snow-covered ground, their legs jittery with released tension. They rolled over on their backs and howled.

"We could have died," crowed Gene with delight.

* * * *

Alan’s phone call three hours before dawn one day in April was the first time Gene had heard from his childhood friend in years. He knew from Alan’s parents, though, that Alan had moved back north months before from Florida, where he’d lived for a decade with one