Black Cat Weekly #96

By Henry S. Whitehead, Adrian Cole, Naomi Hirahara and 5 more

Our 96th issue introduces some new contributors to the magazine—Smita Harish Jain (with an original mystery, thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and Naomi Hirahara (with a riveting reprint mystery, courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman). Also on the mystery front, we have a pair of British classics: a Sexton Blake detective story by Hal Meredith and a novel by William Le Queux.

When it comes to fantasy and science fiction, we’ve achieved an appealing balance. Adrian Cole and Henry S. Whitehead deliver two distinctly different nautically-themed stories. Also featured is Robert E. Howard’s eerie tale, “The Dream Snake.” (The Whitehead and Howard pieces originated from Weird Tales, and Cole’s work could easily have found a home within its pages.) Complementing the mix are science fiction stories by Arthur Leo Zagat and Russ Winterbotham, both prolific during the Golden Age.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“An Honorable Choice,” by Smita Harish Jain [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Case of the Taken Trophy,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“Off the 405,” by Naomi Hirahara [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Empty Tin,” by Hal Meredith [short story, Sexton Blake series]
The Gamblers, by William Le Queux [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Running with the Tide,” by Adrian Cole [short story]
“Sea Change,” by Henry S. Whitehead [short story]
“The Dream Snake,” by Robert E. Howard [short story]
“No Escape from Destiny” by Arthur Leo Zagat [novella]
The Red Planet, by Russ Winterbotham [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Jul 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667640631

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

AN HONORABLE CHOICE, by Smita Harish Jain

THE CASE OF THE TAKEN TROPHY by Hal Charles

OFF THE 405, by Naomi Hirahara

THE EMPTY TIN, by Hal Meredith

THE GAMBLERS by William Le Queux

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

RUNNING WITH THE TIDE

SEA CHANGE by Henry S. Whitehead

THE DREAM SNAKE by Robert E. Howard

NO ESCAPE FROM DESTINY, by Arthur Leo Zagat

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

THE RED PLANET, by Russ Winterbotham

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

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

An Honorable Choice is copyright © 2023 by Smita Harish Jain. and appears here for the first time.

The Case of the Taken Trophy is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Off the 405 is copyright © 2021 by Naomi Hirahara. Originally published in The Silver Waves of Summer. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Empty Tin, by Hal Meredith, was originally published in Answers, 10 April 1909.

The Gamblers, by William Le Queux, originally appeared in 1901.

Running with the Tide is copyright © 2015 by Adrian Cole. Originally published in Creeping Crawlers, Shadow Publishing (UK). Reprinted by permission of the author.

No Escape from Destiny is copyright © 1948 by Arthur Leo Zagat, renewed 1976. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Sea Change, by Henry S. Whitehead, was originally published in Weird Tales, February 1925.

The Dream Snake, by Robert E. Howard, was originally published in Weird Tales, February 1928.

The Red Planet, by Russ Winterbotham, was originally published in 1962.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 96th issue introduces some new contributors to the magazine—Smita Harish Jain (with an original mystery, thanks to Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken) and Naomi Hirahara (with a riveting reprint mystery, courtesy of Acquiring Editor Barb Goffman). Also on the mystery front, we have a pair of British classics: a Sexton Blake detective story by Hal Meredith and a novel by William Le Queux.

When it comes to fantasy and science fiction, we’ve achieved an appealing balance. Adrian Cole and Henry S. Whitehead deliver two distinctly different nautically-themed stories. Also featured is Robert E. Howard’s eerie tale, The Dream Snake. (The Whitehead and Howard pieces originated from Weird Tales, and Cole’s work could easily have found a home within its pages.) Complementing the mix are science fiction stories by Arthur Leo Zagat and Russ Winterbotham, both prolific during the Golden Age.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

An Honorable Choice, by Smita Harish Jain [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Case of the Taken Trophy, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Off the 405, by Naomi Hirahara [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Empty Tin, by Hal Meredith [short story, Sexton Blake series]

The Gamblers, by William Le Queux [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Running with the Tide, by Adrian Cole [short story]

Sea Change, by Henry S. Whitehead [short story]

The Dream Snake, by Robert E. Howard [short story]

No Escape from Destiny by Arthur Leo Zagat [novella]

The Red Planet, by Russ Winterbotham [novel]

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

Enid North

Karl Wurf

AN HONORABLE CHOICE,

by Smita Harish Jain

If we don’t tell your parents soon, Neeta, you will have to marry Pankaj, Gunav said.

Neeta wasn’t listening. She had surrounded herself with newspaper clippings of every death in the village over the past few years and was organizing them into categories.

Burning. Poisoning. Beating. Stabbing. Shooting. Twelve! Twelve people are dead. She bunched up the articles in both hands and rained them down around her. Then, she picked up the one she had placed to the side and thrust it at Gunav. How can we tell them? she demanded.

Gunav joined her on her bed and read the article to himself. When he was done, he returned to the paragraph he assumed was concerning Neeta and read it aloud.

"Believed to be gotra—descended from a common male ancestor within six generations—the couple was doused in kerosene and set on fire, a warning to other families to be careful whom they let their children marry. The village council had cautioned the parents against allowing the illegitimate union to happen—claiming it could be incestuous—and insisted the mistake be corrected."

Gunav knew that in the cluster of villages to which Odapur belonged, the determination about lineage relied on memories handed down within families. For those families with unknown ancestries, the burden of showing there were no common relations fell to the couple. With no way to prove something might not have happened, many village youngsters hoped the council would allow their marriage and took the risk. For some, it worked.

Gunav said all this to Neeta, but his words did little to comfort her.

* * * *

Judge Dalal returned to the courtroom after a short deliberation. He glanced at the defendants standing in the dock across from the witness stand, then turned to face the villagers who had assembled in the public seating area. He cleared his throat and, when the crowd quieted, delivered the verdict.

Section 299 of the Indian Penal Code describes culpable homicide as the intentional or unintentional death caused by a person or persons who act with the knowledge that their actions will likely cause the end of life of another or others. In the case brought against the Chabras and the Ghoshes—the parents of the boy and the girl—after careful deliberation, I have found no evidence to suggest that these deaths were anything more than a Romeo-and-Juliet-style double suicide.

The bodies of Aakash Chabra, eighteen, and Kashvi Ghosh, seventeen, had been found in Darshani Park—one in a large suitcase, floating in the pond, and the other hanging from the branch of a peepul tree. The girl’s body unfolded easily when the police opened the travel trunk, suggesting she hadn’t been in there long. Her glass bangles were still intact, their red-and-gold color confirming what everyone suspected—that she was a new bride at the time of her death. The boy’s neck was snapped, and his head was lolling against the rope attached to the thick branch.

The judge went on to explain that, based on the evidence he had heard from the police and the testimonies given by the friends and families of the poor, misguided unfortunates, the boy had placed Kashvi inside the suitcase after she died from drinking the paint thinner she had stolen from her parents’ house, and then had hung himself on the nearby tree.

Gunav looked around the courtroom and found that everyone was nodding along with the judge’s explanation. Only he and Neeta were shaking their heads.

"This is just another sad example of jiddi children, who were looking for attention and chose to take dramatic action, Judge Dalal said. I find the accused to be Not Culpable." He nodded to the parents in the dock, then rose and left.

The spectators who were gathered in the courtroom broke into spontaneous applause, as did the defendants, the police investigators, and the attorneys—their relief palpable. Since the recent ruling of the Supreme Court that granted so-called love marriages like Aakash and Kashvi’s protection from disapproving family members and others, the people of Odapur worried their children would make bad decisions, with no regard to the shame they brought on their families. Judge Dalal’s decision gave them peace of mind.

* * * *

Outside the courthouse, a fight ensued between the villagers and civil rights activists from Gurgaon, the closest big city to Odapur.

Why did you not report her death to the police? What were you trying to hide? A group of protestors hurled accusations at Kashvi’s parents.

"Our daughter took her own life. It is sad, but it is not the business of the police. It is her right, her adhikaar." Arvind Ghosh, the father of the dead girl, shouted at the cameras and reporters that had accompanied the demonstrators.

You should have gotten the death penalty, a protestor said. That is the law.

The villagers had largely ignored the Supreme Court’s edict for the two years since its passage and held trials only to appease outsiders, who came to Odapur to expose what they thought were barbaric practices. The villagers knew what these interlopers didn’t: that a life without honor is a life not worth living.

What will you do now? a reporter asked the activists.

"We will fight the khap panchayats that are encouraging these murders, one of them said, referring to the village councils. Judge Dalal is the head of the Odapur khap, and we will fight to remove him from his position on the bench, before one more child dies."

The reporter turned to the camera and explained the role of these councils to the audience.

"The khap panchayats have ruled villages in the remotest parts of India for centuries and have eschewed interference from those who would question their diktats. These self-appointed leaders safeguard the traditions established by their predecessors and determine punishments for any trespasses against them. Most of them come from the ranks of artisans and tradesmen—tailors, cobblers, dairy farmers—people in a position to see and hear what happens in the village."

Gunav listened to her words and thought about his own father—a jewelry maker who had been part of the khap since before Gunav was born—asking customers probing questions about their children and even themselves, trying to root out those villagers engaged in relationships outside of marriage, inter-caste relationships, inter-religion ones, and others deemed improper by the council.

How will you stop them? the reporter asked, turning back to the activists. The villagers welcome their leadership.

Leadership? a young man scoffed. It’s control, revenge. Anything to enforce their views and keep their power.

The villagers are convinced that love marriages are an indictment of their parenting and fear public censure, or worse, the girl with him said, gripping his hand tighter.

They think sacrificing one child to keep the rest in line is a small price to pay for maintaining a family’s honor, the man said, his face red with indignation.

They must be taught a lesson.

* * * *

You were a good boy, Vijaya Ghosh said to Deepak, patting his hand and smiling.

Deepak was a classmate of the couple whose bodies were found in the park, and the woman praising him for alerting her to their elopement was the dead girl’s mother.

Gunav and Neeta sat on opposite sides of the small dirt field, where chairs were set up for the elders and small straw mats for everyone else. They listened as neighbors discussed the events of the trial and everything leading up to it.

"I was knowing what they were doing was wrong, Aunty. They behaved in besharam ways in school also, kissing and touching," Deepak said, not hiding his disdain.

He was the youngest child of Hastilal Bartwal, a member of the village khap. His father, dressed in his usual white pajama and kurta with worn brown juttis—the standard uniform of the khap—looked on proudly, his girth spilling onto his thighs. Next to him, Arvind Ghosh, his fellow council member, patted him on the back and praised him for raising his son in the old ways.

Only because of you were we able to bring them back from Delhi, Ghosh said to Deepak, who basked in the attention.

What Ghosh didn’t say was that he and his wife promised Aakash and Kashvi a proper marriage in the village, with their families and friends present. Then, when the young couple returned, their parents had them killed for disgracing them with their inter-caste marriage, while their families and friends watched.

"We are sorry we could not have you come, na, Aakash’s mother said to her friend. We had to keep the numbers small. Those bastards from Gurgaon come here with their cameras to tell who knows what to anyone with a TV."

Her friend agreed. We cannot be too careful these days, isn’t it?

Aakash’s mother shook her head, and others around her muttered their contempt for the activists.

Gunav’s anger welled up inside him. These women were talking about having spectators see them force poison down a young girl’s throat, while her husband watched, and then break his neck and transport both bodies to a staged suicide scene.

They brought shame upon our families, Arvind Ghosh said. What choice did we have?

* * * *

Gunav and Neeta left the neighborhood gathering—separately and with several minutes between their departures, so as not to raise anyone’s suspicions about their relationship—and went back to her room. With her family still at the neighborhood gathering, they had time to figure things out.

We cannot tell anyone. Neeta spoke between sobs, barely able to get her words out. "We cannot even trust our own friends. The khap has gotten to everyone."

She was right. If he and Neeta were discovered, they would be beaten and killed, their bodies wrapped in burlap and disposed of in the nearest canal. They would be identified by a scrap of clothing or a piece of jewelry, and their deaths would be ruled suicides, no matter how absurd the possibility.

We can run away, go somewhere far, where they cannot find us. Gunav tried to reassure Neeta, but even he was unconvinced by his words. All the money the two of them had would buy bus fare only to the next village, where the Odapur khap also had representatives.

What if we... Neeta started, then shook her head.

We could always... Gunav let the thought drift away.

They went on like that for almost an hour, evaluating options that were increasingly more desperate, more far-fetched. By the time the reality of their choices sank in, they had lost track of the time.

What are you doing, Neeta? Her mother’s voice echoed in the small room.

Neeta snapped around, and Gunav jumped off her bed.

Pankaj and his family will be here in one week. What are you doing with this boy? her father demanded and slapped her hard across her face.

Gunav lunged at him, but Neeta’s brothers stopped him before he could move even a centimeter.

Neeta’s father slapped her again, warning her about the dangers of disobeying him, while her mother looked on.

No! Stop! Gunav fought against the brothers’ grip, but they were stronger and easily overpowered him.

When her father stopped hitting Neeta, her mother told him, We must be careful with her until the wedding.

Her meaning was not lost on anyone: her family would have to keep a close eye on Neeta, or they would be forced to go the same route as the Chabras and the Ghoshes had.

The guests will begin arriving in a few days, Mummy, and then all the celebrations will start, one of her brothers said, as if a few people and a small party was all it would take to make Neeta forget about Gunav.

She does not want to marry Pankaj. She wants to marry me, Gunav blurted out.

Gunav! No! Neeta said, then looked at each of her parents in turn.

For a minute, no one said anything. Gunav had not been in the pool of boys whose parents they had approached with a rishta, a proposal of marriage, for Neeta. Both of their families came from the same small town in Rajasthan, and the risk that they might have shared a distant line was too great to even consider.

"Madarchod!" Neeta’s brother said and punched Gunav in the stomach.

Gunav dropped to his knees, only to be met with a swift kick to the face from her other brother. He wiped the blood streaming from his nose and forced himself to his feet.

Get out, Gunav, and do not come back! her mother warned.

This is not over, he said before disappearing through the open doorway.

Mummy, Papa, please! Neeta begged.

Enough, Neeta! We have already fixed your marriage to a suitable boy, her father said before leaving the room.

* * * *

This is a good idea. Neeta’s mother praised her daughter, as she watched her stir the burfi ingredients on the stove. "It will look so nice that you are wanting to sweeten your elders’ mouths at the sangeet tonight."

The wedding festivities had started a few days ago, and the sangeet—a celebration of song and dance performed by friends and family of the bride and groom—was the last of them before the wedding ceremony.

Neeta smiled at her mother. This was one of the few times she had been let out of her locked room since her parents had found her in there with Gunav, and she did not want to go back.

"You are happy, na, beta? It is Pankaj only that you are wanting now?" Her mother nodded along with her questions, answering them for Neeta.

Her parents had not allowed Gunav to return to the house, despite his repeated pleas and attempts. He tried complaining of his plight to anyone in the village who would listen. He lashed out at Neeta’s parents for what they were forcing her to do, but it all fell on deaf ears. Most people moved away from him quickly, fearing that word of their conversations would get back to the khap. With nowhere else to turn, he went to Babaji, an elder who was not part of the council, but who held sway with the villagers because of his age.

I will lose her, Babiji. Please, you must help me, he said to the old man.

"Arre, Neeta has moved on only. The tilak ceremony has been done, and she is getting her haldi and mehendi, he said, listing the final preparations before the actual vows. It is too late."

Gunav grew more desperate. If you do not stop her, Babaji, I will kill myself.

She is wanting to marry Pankaj, and all of your craziness will not change anything, Babaji said, before sending him away.

Word of Gunav’s behavior got back to Neeta’s family.

I never knew he was like this, Mummy, Neeta said, letting her eyes moisten.

"Mummy and Papa are always right, beta," her mother said.

Before Neeta could respond, their conversation was interrupted by shouts coming from the kitchen window. It was Gunav.

You cannot do this! Neeta, please, he begged.

Neeta turned to her mother.

"It is done, Romeo, her mother said, emphasizing the word as a reminder of Judge Dalal’s verdict. We have told you already, so many times, to stop bothering Neeta. Stop coming to the house. She is not interested in you." Then, she sent Neeta’s brothers outside, to chase him away.

Neeta returned to her cooking but never mentioned that Gunav had been at the house all morning.

* * * *

On the day of the sangeet, Neeta was dressed in a new chiffon sari with matching shoes and jewelry. In her hennaed hands, she held the tray of burfis she had made and waited for her mother, sister, and aunts to take her to the gymkhana, where the sangeet would take place.

When they arrived at the site, they found guards and villagers blocking all the entrances, so Gunav could not get inside. They parted long enough to allow Neeta and the other women through, then closed ranks again. Neeta spent the next hour, while she waited for the sangeet to begin, with her family, talking about the performances they would see that evening.

Mummy! Papa! Gunav’s voice broke through their merriment.

Even though he was not allowed into the wedding, his parents, who agreed with Neeta’s about the indecency of their children’s plan to marry, were welcomed as important guests. Gunav pleaded with them to help him.

Gunav’s parents remained seated. Instead, Neeta’s father and brothers ran outside, bringing several other men with them. There they found Gunav, wielding a knife and demanding to see Neeta. He was facing off against two men from the village, neither of whom had thought to bring a weapon to a wedding.

Gunav, Neeta called to him from behind her brothers. When they tried to get her to go back inside the gymkhana, she ignored them.

Gunav, you must go. It is over now, she said, a calm in her voice that reassured everyone.

He dropped his knife and ran to her, tears flowing from his eyes.

She stepped back and held up a hand. No.

He kept running towards her. Please come with me, Neeta. It is not too late. I love you.

Before he could reach her, several men tackled him to the ground, raining down punches, while he begged Neeta to marry him, not Pankaj.

After several more blows, the fight was gone from him, and he stumbled away from the gymkhana and from Neeta.

* * * *

When all the guests had been seated, Pankaj and Neeta greeted their parents and special guests in the front row of the audience. In a few minutes, family and friends would take the stage and tell the couple’s story in song and dance. First, though, the elders would be served by the bride-to-be, who would feed them sweets made by her own hands, as a show of gratitude and respect.

Thank you, Pankaj, Neeta said.

He was following behind her, holding the tray of burfis. As she made her way from one family member to the next, she told everyone what they would be receiving.

For you, Dadaji, your favorite, pistachio, she said to Pankaj’s paternal grandfather and placed the thick square inside his mouth.

The rest of the row clapped and awaited their time with the bride-to-be.

Dadiji, she said to Pankaj’s grandmother. "I hope you like this carrot burfi."

The old woman took the sweet and patted Neeta on the head.

Next was Gunav’s mother. "Aunty, you will have almond burfi?" she asked before feeding her the treat. The older woman smiled and accepted the offering.

"Bap re, you have put so much of clove and cardamon in this," she said but still finished it, because not doing so would be considered an insult to Neeta.

Neeta blushed, as if embarrassed, and continued down the row.

One by one, she fed them, and when she was done, the crowd applauded her efforts.

For the next hour, everyone enjoyed the musical performances, before returning to their homes to rest for the long day of wedding rituals which would start in the morning.

* * * *

By the time the villagers found Gunav’s and Neeta’s parents dead in their beds, Neeta was in her wedding sari, sitting next to Gunav in a small temple outside Dhankot, far enough away from Odapur that she wouldn’t be found, if they even bothered to look for her. As for Gunav, they would assume he had gone mad—judging from his behavior over the past two weeks—and disappeared, maybe even carried out his threat to kill himself.

Eventually, someone would notice gold jewelry missing from his father’s shop—enough for Gunav and Neeta to start their new life together—but no one would know that a small scoop of the cyanide salt his father used to clean the gold was also missing. Gunav had brought it to Neeta on the morning of the sangeet—as they had planned after the neighborhood gathering—knowing its almond taste would blend with the almond burfi she was making, and the cloves and cardamon would take care of covering up any lingering signs. The other burfis needed no added ingredients because they would be consumed by the extended family.

When the priest finished the final prayer of their wedding ceremony, Gunav and Neeta left the temple, ready to live with the choice they had made.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Smita Harish Jain has short stories in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and anthologies for Akashic Noir, Mystery Writers of America, and others. Her stories have been selected as a top-ten favorite in the Ellery Queen Reader’s Poll and received a nomination for an ITW Thriller Award. This is her first story for Black Cat Weekly.

THE CASE OF THE TAKEN TROPHY

by Hal Charles

Trying to find Coach Edwards, Detective Claire Crosse walked into the training room at half-time of the championship game. Sitting in the trainer’s tub, her head protruding above the ice, was Laney Weaver, Claire’s successor at quarterback for the Femmes Fatales.

You look cold, said Crosse.

No colder than the reception I get when I tell folks I’m playing quarterback in the Woman’s Football League, said Laney. They pull you out of retirement as my back-up?

Coach Edwards called and asked me to come over immediately. Something about the League trophy we won last year being missing.

Would you believe I received a soft tissue injury in my right shoulder on our first offensive play of the second quarter?

There you are, Crosse, said Coach Phyllis Edwards, coming into the room. Want to suit up?

Nothing would please me more if the doctor hadn’t given me a choice of football or my brain. Where was the trophy stored?

Since we were division champions with the better record, we got to play at home, so I locked it in our locker room as we took the field for the opening kickoff.

Obvious question, said Crosse, who has keys?

I do, Assistant Coach Helms, General Manager Whitlock, and head cheerleader and coach, Missy Quick, so the cheerleaders can change before and after games.

I know your assistant coach was so proud of last year’s victory that if you lose they are going to have to pry the trophy from her vise-like grip, pressed Crosse, but where’s Helms now?

You rang? said the assistant coach, sticking her head into the doorway. Five minutes till the second half starts, Coach.

Coach Helms—

You don’t have to finish that sentence, Crosse. You know my routine. I always leave the locker room about five minutes before everyone else and return later. I have to get to the press box to call defenses."

"Thanks for reminding me, Coach.

Gotta run, said Helms. There’s a spare uniform in locker 07 if you want to suit up.

Crosse tried not to let the nostalgia at winning the League’s inaugural championship game wash over her as she climbed the stairs to the general manager’s box. She found Diane Whitlock sitting in her favorite chair swigging a bottle of pink liquid. Number 11, it’s good to see you. Excuse me, but I need anything I can find to calm my acetic stomach.

Good to see you, Dianne.

What can I do for you?

You follow your usual habit of leaving for this perch five minutes before kickoff?

I like a good `Win one for the Gipper’ speech as much as the next person, but I want to be here when the game starts.

Crosse traipsed down to the field, where she found Missy Quick exhorting her cheer squad to show more fire this half. The pert blonde then demonstrated how to perfectly execute the `Fight `em, Femme Fatales’ cheer."

You didn’t happen to leave the field at any time in the first half, did you? The game trophy is missing from the locker room, and I was told you have a key.

Of course I wouldn’t desert my post. I’m not a quitter like somebody else I know.

Let’s not make this personal, Missy, said Crosse.

Too late. It is personal, Ms. Quitter. We were a shoe-in for the championship if you’d played, which would have put more fans in the stands, and we’d have more people to cheer in front of.

My decision wasn’t easy, admitted Crosse.

I’d rather have Laney Weaver leading this team than you, anyway. I bet she breaks your touchdown record this half.

Crosse stepped in closer. First, Missy, you are going to tell me where you hid the trophy, and second I am going to arrest you for its theft.

Solution

Detective Claire Crosse knew Missy had to have left the field at the end of the first quarter, or she would have known quarterback Laney Weaver was injured. Missy returned the trophy, which she had stolen rather than take a chance on the team losing. Unfortunately, there were no cheerleaders to lead in the county lockup.

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.

OFF THE 405,

by Naomi Hirahara

August, 1968

Ah, there it is. From their Oldsmobile Cutlass, Noriko Shimizu pointed to the familiar, tattered red flag next to Lifeguard Station Number Six at Huntington Beach.

Every late summer the Shimizus, the Hoshidas, and the Babamotos took their annual beach trip to Orange County. They all lived in San Gabriel Valley, a landlocked disk of land that held the smog against the low purple range of Southern California mountains.

The Babamotos, who had the largest brood at four children, were responsible for snagging the best location on Huntington Beach, which was one of the few with firepits. The family came early, before noon, even, to unload their beach chairs, umbrellas, bags of charcoal briquettes, and coolers filled with Coors, Cactus Cooler, and 7UP. The oldest children would then display a red flag as a sign of where the other families should park and meet.

Noriko’s husband, Fumio, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, grunted. This had been the most noise that he had made during their forty-five minute drive from Monterey Park, all the way to the 405 and finally the beach parking lot. He never had been that talkative, but lately his conversation had decreased to a mere dribble.

Their daughter, Judy, sitting in the back of the Cutlass, had been quiet as well, her nose in a book. Her weekday routine after coming home from high school was to escape to her room and close the door firmly behind her. What did American fifteen-year-old girls do alone in their bedrooms? At that age Noriko had no bedroom of her own, not to mention no privacy. She spent many afternoons of her World War II years in Tokyo hiding in bomb shelters, her neighbor’s breath hot against her neck and somebody’s knees touching hers.

Since she wasn’t needed at home much these days, Noriko had decided that she wanted to learn how to drive. Fumio took her out a few times, but their last session was a disaster. She had made a right turn on a red without checking whether an oncoming vehicle would be making a left onto the same lane. It turned out that one was, nearly causing a collision. The driver in the other car had blared his horn while Fumio screamed at her, saying that she had no sense. When they’d returned to the house, Noriko had wondered if he was referring only to driving or perhaps to life itself.

Finding an open parking space between a Wagoneer and VW Bug, Fumio parked, and the three Shimizus piled out of the Oldsmobile. The sun was already intense, and Noriko patted down her straw hat, which she had purchased from Thrifty’s. She retrieved a box of inarizushi—vinegared rice packed in light-brown fried tofu pockets—from the back seat while Judy hugged her striped beach towel close to her chest.

Fumio pulled on a pair of sunglasses to shield his trademark hooded eyes. Those reptilian eyes made him look interminably sleepy. His hair was becoming thin, but the strands remained jet black. He wore a cotton shirt, his swim trunks, and zori, the ubiquitous rubber kind with uncomfortable toe straps that were held to the base by circular knobs.

They walked past White families with their intense smell of either Coppertone or coconut-infused Bain de Soleil. The older ones rested underneath umbrellas while the younger ones and the ones who wanted to be younger baked themselves in the direct blaze of the sun.

The Shimizus entered into their spot, which was configured in the same way as previous summers. The cooler was positioned closer to the parking lot, while a collapsible metal table held hot dog buns, large ketchup and mustard bottles, and potato chips. A watermelon floated in a tub of water beside a melting block of ice. The firepit had not yet been lit yet. They would wait until everyone’s arrival.

Hello, hello, Shoko Babamoto greeted the Shimizus with flapping hands. Even at the beach, she wore her frizzy hair pinned in a bun. She wore no hat; her skin was dark, but not as dark as the men’s. A spray of freckles dotted her nose and upper cheeks.

You made it. Shoko’s husband had a gravelly voice that reminded Noriko of yakuzas depicted in Japanese gangster movies. He had a large gap in between his front teeth, perfect for him to hold his filtered Tareyton cigarette.

Noriko placed her department store box of homemade inarizushi on the table next to the hot dog buns. She found it easy to be with the Babamotos. The couple had given in to the chaos created by their four children, especially the three boys. Practically nothing bothered them. Their laissez-faire approach to child-raising inspired Noriko, who was more burdened by the minutiae of daily human interaction. Even now she watched as her daughter shyly approached the Babamoto girl. They were about the same age but went to different schools and only saw each other during these annual gatherings at the beach. Soon they were headed to an unoccupied spot to start building their giant sandcastle.

The Hoshidas arrived late, as they always did. They had no children and came in an old truck camper. The husband liked surf fishing and had retrieved a fishing rod and white pail, which once held five gallons of soy sauce, from the back cab. The wife, Cherry, followed, a visor shading her angled cheekbones. There was a severeness to Cherry, in both her appearance and personality. Her tongue could be sharp, sometimes cutting Noriko’s confidence to shreds. Cherry was a Kibei Nisei, like the men, born in America and raised in Japan, while Noriko and Shoko were full-fledged immigrants who couldn’t speak English well.

Judy and the Babamoto girl had returned to grab 7UPs from the cooler.

Hello, Auntie Cherry, Judy said, her towel tied around her waist. She wore a pink bikini tube top that had skinny straps that went from the center and tied around her neck.

Oh, Judy, what a cute bathing suit. Only for Cherry, Judy untied her towel and revealed her bottoms too. Oh, how many hours had Noriko spent in the department store waiting for Judy to make her decision of what suit to wear. And by the time she’d decided, she had refused to let Noriko even see it on her.

Cherry continued to chat so easily with Judy that Noriko couldn’t help feeling jealous. Cherry was a secretary at a high school and was used to being around teenagers on a regular basis.

After the girls left again and the three women settled back in striped lawn chairs, Noriko announced, I’m learning how to drive.

Why now? Cherry asked, pulling down the lip of her visor. You could have helped Fumio sooner if you knew how to drive.

Cherry’s words stung. She was right. Why had Noriko waited this long?

It’s fine. Shoko patted Noriko’s exposed lower arm. You’re doing it now. Maybe you can even work. Judy will be off to college soon.

Noriko nodded but not in agreement. Work meant only one thing—housework like what Shoko did or maybe working in a Japanese market. Because what could a woman who could only speak Japanese do in America?

The men sat closer to the surf so that Cherry’s husband could easily cast his line into the waves and wait for perch to tug at the cut-up sand crab that he had attached to the hook. Their shirts were now off, and they all sported striking, almost comical, farmer’s tans; their faces, necks, and lower arms the color of almost-burnt toast. In their low-slung swim trunks, their lean, sinewy muscles, developed from cutting lawns in hundred-degree weather, sometimes six days a week, were on full display.

Noriko secured the hanging string of her hat underneath her chin and walked to the shore.

The girls were forming a house with the wet sand while the Babamoto boys were deep in the surf on worn foam boards or bodysurfing. Soon Mr. Babamoto ran and dove into the sea with his sons. The yelps of children in the water punctuated the roar of the waves. Everyone seemed to have a place on this beach. Everyone except her.

When Noriko looked back at where the men had been sitting, she saw that her husband was gone. And then to Shoko—she was pulling out the watermelon that had been soaking in the metal tub.

Noriko trudged back to their site, sand gripping hold of her wet feet.

Where is Cherry? she asked.

Bathroom. That time of the month. Rotten luck, huh? Shoko said, cracking open the oblong watermelon with a knife from Japan.

Noriko nodded for no specific reason. More out of habit. Sometimes she nodded to indicate that she had heard what a friend was saying. But sometimes it was like breathing. She was unaware that she was doing it.

She drifted in and out of conversation with Shoko, thinking about the pointlessness of her life. Judy would be off to college some day soon. Noriko hoped that she would first attend East Los Angeles College and commute from home. But lately Judy exhibited the same restlessness as her mother. Actually, all three Shimizus seemed to be drifting away from each other like unconnected buoys floating in the water.

Noriko rose and helped Shoko salt the slices of watermelon and place them on paper plates. It had been a good watermelon with firm flesh and a brilliant red color. Shoko had chosen well.

Shoko poured the charcoal briquettes into the pit and doused the pile with lighter fluid. Noriko began to open the packages of hot dogs. She couldn’t help but to wonder what was taking Cherry such a long time to change her tampon. But perhaps she had soiled herself. Noriko took a deep breath. That was it. A flood of empathy washed over her. How could she be so suspicious of her friend? They had known each other ever since Shoko introduced them twelve years ago.

I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back, she called out as Shoko pushed a lit wad of newspaper into the pile of briquettes.

Even though Noriko was wearing closed-toe tennis shoes, she gingerly entered the dimly lit beach bathroom. It was plain concrete with disgusting, slippery floors.

No one was in line, and she quickly bent down to check the occupied stalls. No red-painted toes in white sandals. No sign of Cherry.

Maybe she had gone to the camper to deal with her woman problem. Or maybe she went to take a quick nap in the narrow bed above the cab. It was a tiny space that only someone around five feet could sleep in. And even then, you needed to scrunch up your legs to your chest.

Noriko quickly urinated, making sure that her bare buttocks did not touch the filthy toilet seat. She had even placed the paper on the seat even though she wasn’t going to sit on it. Just like her constant nodding, it was a habit with no reason.

There was no soap to wash her hands, so she dampened her fingers with a weak stream of lukewarm water from the faucet. While doing so, she gazed at her smear of a face in the metal panel across from her, where a mirror would have been in any other bathroom.

Released from the concrete restroom building, Noriko absorbed the expanse, now crowded with even more people. She decided to walk by the camper, just to check if Cherry may need her assistance. Her arm brushed against some car side windows as she walked in between parked cars before the camper came into view, parked in a far row. It was a Ford camper truck, a mint-green body with a white top.

A set of keys hung from the back door of the camper—multiple keys hanging from a chain, as if they were medals for Cherry’s work at a high school. Oh, you silly, Noriko thought. You need to be careful, Cherry. Any stranger can come and steal your keys. But then she looked down and saw them. Fumio’s slippers. Thin white top with a blue bottom. She knew they were his because his big toes were freakishly large and quite distant from the rest of his toes. They left deep, distinctive impressions on his slippers.

While Noriko was absorbing Fumio’s slippers tossed next to Cherry’s white sandals outside, she heard noises coming from the camper. She pressed her ear against the door. She recognized the grunts. The camper, in fact, was even starting to rise up and down. She should just open the door and confront them. She imagined Cherry’s pert breast smashed into Fumio’s face, his eyes wide open, which was the case only right before he climaxed.

Noriko started turning the knob. But no, she couldn’t bear it. And what could she say?

Those two had enough verbal skills to turn the situation back on her and make her feel guilty. Somehow she would be the culprit, the guilty one who allowed all this to happen. And what if she and Fumio did get divorced, which she sometimes secretly feared? What would happen to her? Her family in Japan wouldn’t take her in. And Judy. Judy would probably blame her too.

Noriko carefully removed the heavy set of keys from the knob and then opened the driver’s side door. She eased herself up to the seat. There was a pillow on the passenger side, and Noriko pulled it up behind her back. She leaned to the side to find the ignition and slipped the car key into it.

As she abruptly backed out of the parking lot, the grunting and moans immediately ceased. In its place, Hey, what’s going on? It was Cherry’s perfectly enunciated English.

What the fuck—

The camper shook as bodies jumped down from the sleeping nook. There was a narrow window from the camper to the driver’s seat. The plastic pane slid open. Noriko. Fumio sounded anguished, more emotion than Noriko had ever heard from him.

What does she think she’s doing? She doesn’t know how to drive something like this. Cherry again accusing her of being subpar.

Noriko sped out of the lot.

As she made a hairpin turn onto a main boulevard, Fumio cursed, then Noriko heard bodies toppling down. Stop her, Fumio. She’s going too fast.

The scent of Fumio’s aftershave returned. He was back at the window, his eyes as lifeless as the poor fish Cherry’s husband had caught. We can talk about this, Noriko.

Ha! Talk? Now he was ready to talk? The driver of a station wagon, a couple of surfboards tied up on the roof, blasted his horn at the camper as Noriko swerved in front of them and went faster.

She heard clattering from the other end of the camper. Cherry was trying to open the back door, but for what purpose? It’s not like she could safely jump from a car traveling fifty miles per hour.

As Noriko neared her destination, her gaze left the road long enough to register the sweat pouring down her husband’s forehead. Wrong way! he yelled. Wrong way!

Noriko wasn’t stupid. She saw it. The sign, DO NOT ENTER. But it only gave her more courage to put her foot all the way on the gas pedal, jump the curb, and speed onto the off-ramp to the 405.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Naomi Hirahara is an Edgar Award-winning author of traditional mystery series and noir short stories. Her Mas Arai series features a Japanese American gardener and Hiroshima survivor who solves crimes. Her first historical mystery, Clark and Division, won the Mary Higgins Clark Award in 2022. The follow-up, Evergreen, will be released in August 2023. Currently living in her birthplace, Pasadena, California, she was an editor of The Rafu Shimpo newspaper. Her website is naomihirahara.com.

THE EMPTY TIN,

by Hal Meredith

I.

The good ship Darley Dale, homeward bound from Valparaiso to Hull, came ashore on a wild and stormy October afternoon in Cleveden Bay, on the Sussex coast. Thanks to the gallantry of the local lifeboat men, every soul aboard was saved; but, in jumping from the wreck to the lifeboat, one of the crew, named William Sheen, slipped and fell. He struck his head with so much force that he became unconscious.

The rescued men were taken to the village inn—the Golden Lion— where Sheen, after being examined by the local doctor, was undressed and put to bed. The rest were provided with dry clothes and dosed with hot beef-tea and coffee. Then Mrs. Brewster, the landlord’s wife, who was extremely short-sighted, set to work to dry the twenty-four dripping suits of clothes belonging to the shipwrecked mariners.

When shaking the water out of Sheen’s coat something fell from one of the pockets. Mrs. Brewster picked it up, and found it was a flat, oval tin canister, such as tobacco is often sold in. The tin was empty, the outside label had been removed, and the lid was missing. Thinking it was of no value, she tossed it aside.

Later in the day—to be precise, about one o’clock on Friday afternoon—Jimmy Brewster, the landlord’s five-year-old son, searching round for something to play with, found the tin which had fallen out of Sheen’s coat-pocket. Unseen by anybody, he picked it up, and left the house for the beach to make sand-pies.

About a quarter of an hour later, Sheen recovered consciousness. As soon as he was able to speak he asked for his coat. Mrs. Brewster and Captain Smith were in the bedroom at the time. The captain handed Sheen his coat, and Sheen, with a strained and anxious look on his face, thrust his hand into one of the pockets. A look of dismay crossed his face when he found that the pocket was empty.

There was a terbaccer-tin in one of these ’ere pockets when I came ashore, he said, striving with a visible effort to speak calmly. It isn’t ’ere now. Where is it?

A hempty tin without a lid? asked Mrs. Brewster.

Yes, said Sheen eagerly.

I threw it away, said Mrs. Brewster.

Threw it away? screamed Sheen, his eyes ablaze with fury, and every