Black Cat Weekly #102

By Joseph S. Walker, Marc Lecard, Larry Tritten and 7 more

Black Cat Weekly #102 has quite an eclectic lineup. We have modern mystery tales by Joseph S. Walker and Marc Lecard (thanks to Acquiring Editors Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman. A parody of Harlan Ellison’s work from Larry Tritten. Noir from Bruno Fischer. A story featuring traditional British detective Sexton Blake from Hal Meredith. Classic sci-fi by Lester del Rey. And let’s not forget our solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

We also have more than a few stories by famous authors that appeared outside of the genre for which they are most famous. This time it’s mystery writer Evan Hunter, plus horror writers Joseph Payne Brennan and H.P. Lovecraft, all with science fiction stories. Lovecraft’s first appeared as a 3-part serial in Astounding Stories.

How did Lovecraft’s work manage to appear in Astounding? For a brief time, he had an agent—who made the sale for him to a market that paid significantly more than Weird Tales. Surely Lovecraft never would have submitted to Astounding on his own. And never mind that it really is a science fiction story, though there are cosmic horrors as well. Literary quality sold it. And so Lovecraft became a science fiction pulp writer!

Evan Hunter—slumming in the science fiction field—sold his story to Science Fiction Quarterly—a respectable market, if not in the top tier. Brennan’s tale appeared as an original in his 1963 collection, Scream at Midnight.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

"Making the Bad Guys Nervous," by Joseph S. Walker [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

"Things That Go Bump," by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

"Teardown," by Marc Lecard [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

"Py Ponk," by Hal Meredith [Sexton Blake series, short story]

"Stop Him!," by Bruno Fischer

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

"Painbird, Painbird, Fly Away Home," by Larry Tritten

"Operation Distress," by Lester Del Rey

"The Dump," by by Joseph Payne Brennan

"Reaching for the Moon," by Evan Hunter

At the Mountains of Madness, by H. P. Lovecraft [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Aug 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667682358

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

MAKING THE BAD GUYS NERVOUS, by Joseph S. Walker

THINGS THAT GO BUMP, by Hal Charles

TEARDOWN, by Marc Lecard

PY PONK, by Hal Meredith

STOP HIM!, by Bruno Fischer

PAINBIRD, PAINBIRD, FLY AWAY HOME, by Larry Tritten

OPERATION DISTRESS, by Lester Del Rey

THE DUMP

REACHING FOR THE MOON, by Evan Hunter

AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS, by H. P. Lovecraft

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Making the Bad Guys Nervous is copyright © 2023 by Joseph S. Walker and appears here for the first time.

Things That Go Bump is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Teardown is copyright © 2008 by Marc Lecard. Originally published in Killer Year: Stories to Die For. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Py Ponk, by Hal Meredith, was originally published in Answers, April 17, 1909.

Stop Him!, by Bruno Fischer, was originally published in Manhunt, March 1953.

Painbird, Painbird, Fly Away Home, is copyright © 1998 by Larry Tritten. Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, September 1998. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Operation Distress, by Lester Del Rey, was originally published in Galaxy, August 1951. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

The Dump, by Joseph Payne Brennan, was originally published in Scream at Midnight (1963).

Reaching for the Moon, by Evan Hunter, was originally published in Science Fiction Quarterly, November 1951, under the pseudonym S.A. Lombino.

At the Mountains of Madness, by H. P. Lovecraft, was originally published as a 3-part serial in Astounding Stories (February through April, 1936).

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Issue 102 has quite an eclectic lineup. We have modern mystery tales by Joseph S. Walker and Marc Lecard (thanks to Acquiring Editors Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman). A parody of Harlan Ellison’s work from Larry Tritten. Noir from Bruno Fischer. A story featuring traditional British detective Sexton Blake from Hal Meredith. Classic sci-fi by Lester del Rey. And let’s not forget our solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

We also have more than a few stories by famous authors that appeared outside of the genre for which they are most famous. This time it’s mystery writer Evan Hunter, plus horror writers Joseph Payne Brennan and H.P. Lovecraft, all with science fiction stories. Lovecraft’s first appeared as a 3-part serial in Astounding Stories.

How did Lovecraft’s work manage to appear in Astounding? For a brief time, he had an agent—who made the sale for him to a market that paid significantly more than Weird Tales. Surely Lovecraft never would have submitted to Astounding on his own. And never mind that it really is a science fiction story, though there are cosmic horrors as well. Literary quality sold it. And so Lovecraft became a science fiction pulp writer!

Evan Hunter—slumming in the science fiction field—sold his story to Science Fiction Quarterly—a respectable market, if not in the top tier. Brennan’s tale appeared as an original in his 1963 collection, Scream at Midnight.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Making the Bad Guys Nervous, by Joseph S. Walker [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

Things That Go Bump, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Teardown, Marc Lecard [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Py Ponk, by Hal Meredith [Sexton Blake series, short story]

Stop Him!, by Bruno Fischer [short story]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Painbird, Painbird, Fly Away Home, by Larry Tritten [short story]

Operation Distress, by Lester Del Rey [short story]

The Dump, by Joseph Payne Brennan [short story]

Reaching for the Moon, by Evan Hunter [short story]

At the Mountains of Madness, by H. P. Lovecraft [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

MAKING THE BAD GUYS NERVOUS,

by Joseph S. Walker

Heston says you used to be a cop.

The stocky man didn’t wait for a response or invitation. He put his beer on my table with a substantial thump and dropped into the chair facing me. I shot a look across the room at Heston. He pretended to be too absorbed in carding some college kids to notice.

Bartenders are supposed to listen, not talk, I said. But, yeah, I was a cop.

And now you ain’t. Pulled over the mayor’s nephew or something, I bet.

I looked at him, tapping the scarred wood with my now-empty fifth drink. I have five drinks every night. The night I order a sixth will be the start of the end for me. Tonight, what came after the fifth drink, reliable as sunset, was a curdled self-disgust that turns against others very easily.

My new companion was oblivious to my mood. Thought you could help me with something. He held out his hand. I’m Gabe Lawson.

After a beat, I took the hand. Tim Chadwick.

I’ll tell you the problem I’m having, Tim. Lawson picked a cardboard coaster off the table and started absently shredding it. My mother lives in Applebrook. You know it?

Applebrook was a suburb west of the city. Affluent, but not wealthy. I’ve been there.

Her neighborhood’s getting hit hard by porch pirates. Two, three times a week she hears about somebody getting a package stolen. She’s lost a couple herself. Always somebody in shades and a hoodie, so cameras aren’t much good. You know anything about the lowlifes who do this?

Some, I said. Wasn’t my division, but you hear things. Usually it’s an impulse, just somebody who sees a chance to run off with something.

It’s happening way too often for that.

You do get organized rings sometimes, but they’re still amateurs. Pros aren’t interested in a package that might be granola bars and a six-pack of deodorant.

Some of her neighbors called the cops. They say they’ll patrol more, but that never lasts more than a day or two.

Sure. It’s nonviolent crime, usually petty theft. Most people don’t even call the police.

The table in front of Lawson was covered with tiny scraps of damp cardboard. He swept them onto the floor with the back of his hand and picked up another coaster. I want it stopped before these punks step up to break-ins and hurt somebody. Like my mother.

Tried going private?

I called one agency. They just about hung up on me. Said it wasn’t serious enough for the time and manpower it would take. Half the second coaster was gone. I was crying in my beer about it, and Heston said maybe you could help.

I’m only one man, Mr. Lawson.

Gabe.

I don’t have an agency. I don’t even have a license.

All I’m asking is, go see what you can see. Show Mom I’m doing something. I’d do it if I could get off work. I can handle myself. I boxed, back in the day.

I can tell. You’re sheer hell on coasters.

Look, tomorrow’s Monday. Go talk to Mom, drive around, hang out until five. The bastards always hit during the day. Take one week. Catch them or scare them off, I don’t care which.

And if I don’t come up with anything?

You go your way, I go mine, God bless.

I looked at my empty glass. Two hundred a day. In advance.

A grand for the week? Lawson got out his phone. No problem. What do you take? PayPal? Venmo?

Cash.

He looked like I’d asked the way to the nearest malt shop. Cash?

Legal tender for all debts, public and private.

Man, I haven’t carried cash in years.

There’s an ATM by the restrooms.

He stood, then hesitated. Think you can be out there by eight, put in a full day?

Let’s say ten. Most thieves sleep in.

* * * *

I don’t have a car anymore. I don’t have much of anything except a rented room, five drinks a night, and regrets. And now, I guess, a job.

I caught a bus and was in Applebrook by nine the next morning. I spent an hour walking the streets in a grid pattern, working towards Mrs. Lawson’s address.

The houses in her development were thirty or forty years old, and bigger than they should have been for the lots they squeezed onto. Most were two stories, and some had walk-out basements. Aside from a few dogwalkers and joggers, nobody was on foot. It was early summer, but there were no bikes on their sides in front lawns, no crudely chalked hopscotch patterns on the driveways, no basketball hoops mounted above garage doors. The childhood I remembered might have happened on a different planet.

It was ten on the dot when I rang the bell of a blue house in the middle of the block. A tall, gangly woman, somewhere in her upper sixties, opened the door. The hair pulled back into a gray ponytail had apparently never been dyed. She wore a checkered work shirt with rolled sleeves and streaks of paint across the front.

Mrs. Lawson? My name is Tim Chadwick. Your son hired me to look into the package thefts around here.

Well, I didn’t do it, she said. You can search the place. Seeing my expression, she smiled. I’m kidding. He called me. Do you have ID?

I showed her. She nodded without really looking and stepped aside to let me in. No car?

Strange car in your drive might make the bad guys nervous, I said. I’ll try not to get in your way. All I need is a room where I can watch the street. I’ll probably walk around the neighborhood a few times a day.

The living room she led me to had the comfortable air of a space that saw a lot of use. The furniture was well broken in, and books and magazines were scattered over every flat surface. An upright piano in one corner had piles of sheet music stacked on top. The big window looked out over the street. This will be fine, Mrs. Lawson.

Call me Sandy. I should have gotten rid of that wretched name when Gabe’s father ran out on us.

What’s your maiden name?

Windkloppel. Just sings, doesn’t it? Would you like some coffee?

If it’s no trouble. Sandy.

I moved one of the smaller chairs to see as much of the street as possible, while staying mostly hidden behind the blinds. When Sandy came back with a cup of coffee, I put it on a small table by my elbow, along with a notepad and a pen.

What’s your plan? she asked.

"Plan is a generous word. I sat down. The first day or two I’ll mostly watch, try to get a sense of patterns. Look for cars or people who seem out of place or go up and down the street too often. See how the delivery people operate. I figure I’ll sit for a few hours, take a walk, rinse and repeat."

It seems like you’re counting on luck.

Not much more I can do solo. If I was doing this right, I’d have two or three people in unmarked cars and surveillance cameras at every corner. We’d be working with the delivery companies, putting out fake packages with trackers.

That sounds expensive.

And that’s why you get one guy counting on luck.

I hope you have it. Did you want me to stay with you? I was painting, on the back porch. The morning light is perfect there.

Pretend I’m not here. I’ll let you know if I go out.

* * * *

Watching—really watching—takes practice, patience, and attention. Most people these days can’t do it. Five minutes in, they need to get out their little external brain to check email or see what Harry Styles is up to or throw birds at pigs or some damn thing. I get a phone sometimes, when it’s a real necessity for a job, then ditch it as soon as I can.

I took notes on every vehicle and pedestrian I saw. There weren’t many. Sandy Lawson lived on one of the main arteries of the subdivision, but often four or five minutes would go by with nobody at all passing. I figured by Wednesday afternoon I’d be bored enough to start taking notes on the squirrels.

At half past eleven, a woman in her early twenties, wearing yoga pants and a crop top, came out of the house next door. I observed her closely as she stretched and set off jogging. I saw no indication that she was intending to steal packages, but it’s important not to eliminate suspects prematurely.

Ten minutes later, the garage door across the street opened. A man in khaki shorts, black socks, and Birkenstock sandals came out with a leaf blower. He spent fifteen minutes meticulously working over his front lawn, blasting every fallen leaf and loose blade of grass into the street or a neighboring yard. The machine’s whine set my teeth on edge, and I was glad when he went back inside.

The first delivery truck went by just before noon. FedEx. It didn’t stop on Sandy’s block.

At twelve thirty the jogger returned, shiny with sweat. She slowed to a walk in the driveway, arching her back and stretching her arms. She didn’t have any packages. I’m pretty sure she didn’t have any loose change or pocket lint, either.

Sandy carried in a tray with sandwiches, bags of chips, and cans of soft drink a little after one. Lunch?

That’s nice of you.

She put half of the food on my table and took hers to a chair beside the window. Can I sit here and eat with you, or would that make the bad guys nervous?

I’m pretty sure the bad guys are otherwise occupied. I’ve had three delivery trucks, sixteen cars, and four pedestrians.

Sounds riveting.

You could sell tickets. The sandwich was ham and cheddar. Have you lived here long?

Since it was built.

Changed much?

Just the way everything has, I expect. I used to know everyone within three blocks of here, but they died or moved. Most of the new people I only know to wave at.

People fall away, I said. It’s the curse of aging.

One of the curses. Sandy washed down a bite of her sandwich. I Googled you.

That’s never good news. Should I leave?

I try not to judge, Tim. You’ve had your troubles. We all do.

I was spared answering by a piercing sound from outside. Khaki shorts was back, sweeping his noisemaker across his grass, though there didn’t seem to be a single illicit leaf on it. That’s odd, I said. He just did that about an hour ago.

Sandy peered around the edge of the window. That’s Carl Levy. He grew up here, but his parents are gone now. He’s been working from home since the pandemic. She leaned back. Sometimes I think he has OCD. He spends hours working on the garden in back, then he’s out front waking the dead with that thing five or six times a day. It’s maddening, until you get used to it.

How long does that take?

I’ll let you know when it happens.

* * * *

I went for a walk after lunch and tried to look like I was jotting down snatches of poetic inspiration, as opposed to license plate numbers. When I got back, I found a paper plate with three cookies on my table. Sandy was at the piano, energetically tackling a series of Elton John tunes. I watched the road, nibbled, and listened. I don’t know enough about music to put a name to what she was doing wrong, but she was doing a lot of it. The notes were mostly correct, but each one seemed either far too long or way too short, giving the music the jerky cadence of a sputtering engine.

After twenty minutes she spun to face me. Terrible, right?

Better than I could do.

I never touched a key until about three years ago. I was thinking how I’d always wanted to play an instrument, so I decided to go ahead and play one.

Beats staring at a TV all day.

I started painting the same time. I’m even worse at that.

Carl Levy’s leaf blower started up again. Christ, I said. Play as bad as you want if it’ll drown that out.

* * * *

Carl was at it again when I got to Sandy’s house Tuesday morning. She had coffee ready, and we watched together as he dealt severely with purely hypothetical leaves.

Were his folks like this? I asked.

Not in the slightest. That yard used to be a real eyesore. His father was a gearhead, always taking a car apart in the drive. Carl doesn’t even own one.

Sounds like Carl needs to work some things out.

Don’t we all? She looked at me. So, what would you say you accomplished your first day?

Not much. I sat and flipped to a fresh page in my notebook. I have the start of a rough list of vehicles that belong in the neighborhood. I saw several delivery people leaving stuff on porches, and none of them seemed like they were paying attention to anything around them. They most likely wouldn’t notice being followed or watched by anybody halfway competent.

Sandy sat in her corner chair. It was too cloudy for painting, she said, so she’d keep me company for a bit. I imagine they’re on too tight a schedule to be that attentive.

Sure. I’m more interested in something that didn’t happen.

What’s that?

I walked around this neighborhood several times yesterday, looking closely at homes and cars, writing things down. Nobody challenged me or asked what I was doing. Nobody called the cops. As far as I could see, nobody noticed me at all.

For lunch, Sandy went, as she said, Full Retro Suburban: frozen fish sticks. Afterward she started in on a batch of John Mellencamp tunes. I went out for one of my recon walks when she hit what I think was the second verse of Jack and Diane.

Aside from the overcast sky, I might have been walking through a rerun of the day before.

Sandy spent much of the day reading in her corner. We didn’t talk much, but I didn’t mind having her there.

At a quarter to five she put her book down and rolled her shoulders. Another day in the books, she said. It’s really nothing like TV, is it?

What’s that?

What you’re doing. Police work, I guess. A stakeout. She had trouble saying the word with a straight face.

No, it’s not much like TV. A lot of it is paperwork and politics. A good chunk of the rest is trying not to fall asleep.

Why did you want to do it?

I took my time answering. My dad was a cop, I finally said. I never really thought about being anything else.

Do you miss it?

That, I didn’t have an answer for.

Across the street, Carl Levy started his fifth session of the day with the leaf blower.

* * * *

Wednesday was sunny again. Sandy spent some time on the back porch, but she wandered into the living room occasionally. She was there a little before noon, asking if I had any requests for lunch, when I cocked my head and held up my hand for silence.

Sirens. Nothing unusual in that, but these were coming closer. Very close.

That’s at least two cruisers, I said. Ambulance too, I think.

Car wreck?

Maybe. Neither of us believed it. The sirens cut out with a squawk, and I stood up. That wasn’t more than a couple blocks away. I’m going to check it out.

"I have an impulse to say be careful, Sandy said. I can’t imagine why, except that’s what the woman would say right now in a movie."

I turned right out of Sandy’s front door and walked past four houses to the corner. Halfway up the cross street, three cruisers and an ambulance were parked at different angles in front of a white house. Two paramedics on the porch were strapping a man in an oxygen mask onto a gurney. A couple of uniforms strung yellow tape from the corners of the porch out into the yard. Neighbors stood in their yards, trying to watch without