Apeshit Read online

  “Nothing doing, sister. You stay put and I’ll be back for you after we see to little Timmy.”

  She shrieked, and the clapboard door hardly muffled it. “Tim! Tim! Get me out of here!”

  “Yell all you want. Timmy’s busy.”

  She beat her fists against the door again, screaming for Tim. I slammed the heel of my gun against the door and she stopped suddenly. “That’s better.”

  Once I was sure the outhouse door was good and secure, I ran at full sprint past the cabin and the now lopsided tent. I didn’t stop till I practically ran into Pinky and Reardon.

  “Am I interrupting?” I said.

  Pinky covered Reardon with his gun, but the man hardly looked scared. Reardon had the silver thing stuck half in his mouth like a penny candy he wanted to last a while. He blew into it like jazz man’s trumpet, but not a sound emerged except the rush of air.

  “Maybe I am the voodoo boss,” he said. “And maybe you will shoot me. But you ain’t going to make it out of these swamps alive. Not this time. Them dogs are hungry and Chicago hoods are on the menu.”

  Pinky took a step closer and punched Reardon hard. The man staggered back. Pinky gave the man’s whistle chain a good yank and it came free. The whistle fell into the dirt and I picked it up. “That ain’t a voodoo hex,” Pinky said. “It’s a dog whistle.”

  Tim spat. His saliva was thick with blood and a thin line dribbled down his chin unnoticed.

  “Why just us?” I said. “Why won’t they come after you?”

  He looked at me like I was an idiot, so I slammed the butt of my pistol into his cheekbone. “Feel like talking now?”

  “No need,” Pinky said. “I can tell you why.”

  Reardon’s eyes got big and white as milk saucers. “Your lady-friend the laundress made sure the laundry came back smelling all nice, like flowers. And you’ve been training the dogs to come running for food when they hear that whistle and smell the bougainvilleas haven’t you?”

  Timmy gaped. “How did you know that?”

  Pinky sniffed. “Lucky guess. You seen the size of my beak?”

  The baying dogs could be heard now, fierce and hungry and getting closer.

  “But we’re wearing brand new clothes that your Betty has never touched,” I said, figuring out Pinky’s strange arrangements at last. And the bundle he’d taken out into the swamp? All the old clothes that Betty had laundered, plus a couple pounds of ground up beef and butcher’s scraps. The dogs weren’t coming to get us anytime soon.

  Timmy realized he’d been beaten all the way around and his shoulders slumped. “Where’s Betty?” he said. “If you hurt her…”

  It was an empty threat, considering the situation, and we let it hang there in the air for a minute like a sad balloon before it dropped to the ground, deflated.

  “It wasn’t her idea,” he said. “She just did what I asked. She’s the one who talked me into just giving you boys a warning instead of letting the dogs have their way with you.”

  We could hear the high-pitched yelps and barks of joy and hunger-maddened posturing as the dogs came upon the meat and our old suits off in the distant swampland.

  “Please don’t hurt Betty,” he pleaded. “She hasn’t even seen you two. Let her go—Let us go, and I’ll give Chicago 50% of my output, not to mention 50% of the business I’ve brought in with the voodoo boss scam. What you say, fellas?”

  I looked at Pinky. He still had Shillelagh pointed right at Reardon’s nose, but with his other hand he scratched thoughtfully at his chin. He raised an eyebrow at me, questioning.

  Reardon’s eyes didn’t look like they could get any wider or more pitiful and begging as they rolled in their wet orbits toward me. He nodded his head at me as if willing me to agree.

  “I’ll see your fifty percent of output and collections, and raise the boss’s share of collections to seventy-five percent.”

  Reardon gulped, swallowing air.

  “Seventy-five—”

  Pinky wagged the gun at him. “That, or maybe we tie you up naked with a bunch of bougainvillea and Wally plays a little ditty on that whistle.”

  Timmy shook his head violently. “No. No! I’ll go along. Please.”

  “You sure?” I asked him. “I do so love the wind instruments.”

  “Please,” he said again, falling to his knees. “Tell Chicago I’ll be their boy from now on. What you say, fellas?”

  I gave Pinky a curt little nod that he interpreted as ‘kick Timmy in the stomach’. Which he did. Timmy cried out and bent in two.

  “We’re taking what you got ready, and you’re still behind. If there isn’t a delivery to our man in Mobile in two weeks to catch you up to the new agreement, more than just a couple of us will be down here, and it won’t go so easy on you.”

  Reardon sobbed. “Thank you. I’ll deliver. I promise.”

  Pinky kicked him again, tossed me the whistle and we each grabbed a wooden milk crate full of whiskey-filled mason jars. Tim Reardon, Voodoo Boss of Des Ourses Swamp, Louisiana, didn’t get up to follow us.

  At the cabin, Betty had started up again pounding against the outhouse door. She yelled Tim’s name and few other choice words. As we passed the cabin, I ducked in for my new jacket. I slipped it on and pulled the hand-sewn voodoo doll from one of the pockets, setting it atop the crate full of whiskey. Once the hooch was stowed under the car’s bench seat, I grabbed up the doll and laid it carefully on the hood of Reardon’s Packard.

  “Nice stitchwork, Betty,” I yelled toward the outhouse door. “You should keep your nose out of the bootlegging business. People tend to get dead in it, if they fall in with the wrong gang.”

  Silence greeted us at that, and Pinky started cranking on the T-Model to turn it over. I slid behind the wheel and waited to push the starter button and adjust the switches.

  Finally, the engine sputtered to life and Pinky bounded in beside me.

  “You sure do have a way with things,” I said to him, backing the car up.

  He was quiet.

  “How’d you know it was a dog whistle calling them?”

  “Heard it,” he said. It was the first inkling I had that maybe Pinky was a little more different than just being a big-nosed bruiser who wasn’t any more Irish than I was Nicaraguan. Not that it made much nevermind to me. He was a good partner, and you can’t just whistle one of those up whenever you want to.

  He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it up to his oversized nose. He gave a good honk as Tim came around the side of the cabin and rushed to let Betty out of the outhouse. The car bounced down the spongy dirt road out of Des Ourses Swamp, past Rowland and out of Louisiana.

  “When we get back to Chicago,” Pinky said, about an hour later, “You still going to get that flower perfume for Daisy?”

  “Maybe,” I fibbed. I’d had my fill of the smell of bougainvillea. “But I am going to see if the boss’ll spring for some new suits. This one’s just not up to my standards.”

  “Yeah,” Pinky chuckled. “He’ll probably cover it. Cost of doing business.” He reached back under the bench seat and pulled out a jar full of clear, strong-smelling whiskey.

  “You thirsty?” he asked.

  I smiled and took one hand off the wheel.

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  Yvonne,

  Long time, no e-mail! How long has it been since your time at Oxford? No, no, don’t tell me any damning numbers. I’m trying too hard already to forget my age. Any chance of you coming across the pond and bringing those papers with you?

  Yes, my dear, you should consider this old crypto-anthropologist as “on the scent” as any one of those mongrels running amuck in Des Ourses Swamp. And if you can’t be convinced to visit, I beg—nay, demand—that you promptly scan the rest of those memoirs and send them post-haste! (It’s as polite a demand as you’ll ever get. Much more polite than the clamoring voices demanding my retirement, to be sure.)

  I urgently await your next installment.
r />   Augustine Renfro

  P.S. Demands and jocularity aside, Yvonne, I implore you: Keep these documents safe and tell no one about them! This is no mere gangland diary; Pinky Clade, once researched and verified with more rigor, could well be the sort of find that explodes history as we know it! (Not to mention forming the pinnacle of my academic career.)

  ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

  Lon Prater (The Hound Dogs in the Bougainvillea) has worked in the Reactor Compartments of USS Enterprise, edited the military’s textbook on arms deals, and kept things safe in the produce and laundry industries. He lives, writes, and games in Pensacola, Florida. Visit www.LonPrater.com to find out more.

  (back to table of contents)

  ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

  CASE OF THE ACCURSED AMULET

  by Timothy A. Sayell

  An Adventure of the Phantom Sleuth

  The heavy summer night smothered Stockport like a blanket. The oppressive heat of afternoon lingered in the close confines of the city and showed no intent of leaving. Some small relief came in a sea breeze from somewhere out on the ocean, but even this wind seemed reluctant to run through the streets.

  Despite the refreshing sea air, the waterfront still suffered from stifling temperatures. Nevertheless, a mysterious figure skulked the docks clad in a dark trench coat and wide-brimmed hat. The coloring of his costume allowed him to blend almost perfectly with the deep shadows, unseen by dockhands, sailors, and other denizens of the nighttime wharfs.

  Ignoring these potential distractions, the Sleuth exercised his enviable patience, waiting for the object of his mission. It arrived at eight minutes past midnight, when the S.S. Gertrude Burrows pulled into port, ending its long trip from Africa. Through a sweat-soaked mask the Sleuth watched it dock, and knew it was time to learn the validity of his tip-off.

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  The Gertrude Burrows was a sturdy freighter, finished only a few short months before the invasion of Poland. Thanks to the war contracts won by the Burrows Shipping Line, it was chiefly employed to transport precious supplies to the Allied war machine. As such, the cavernous cargo hold was all but empty on the return voyage, much to the Sleuth’s chagrin. According to his information, something was going to be stolen off this boat tonight. Alas, he lacked further details.

  Undaunted, the Sleuth turned away from the open hatches and traversed the main deck. He made up his mind to locate the records room, where he expected to find a cargo manifest among the ship’s logs.

  The Sleuth made it to the shadows beside the mast-house without being spotted by any of the crew. He was casing an opportunity to bolt unseen to the bridge castle when his keen ears detected a muffled moan and a soft thump. The Sleuth peered around the corner of the mast-house and spied a sailor laying prone on the narrow walkway between the two open cargo hatches.

  With haste, the Sleuth ran to the victim, dropped to one knee, and pressed two fingers against the man’s neck in search of a pulse. He sighed in relief as he felt the rhythmic throb of pumping blood. The sailor moaned and stirred. With a start, the Sleuth reached into his trench coat and pulled out his disguise kit.

  The kit was a shiny silver flip-top box, like an oversized cigarette case. He flipped the lid open, plucked out a random mustache and pressed it onto his upper lip. The Sleuth then ripped the mask from his face, and thrust it and the kit back into his coat as the sailor’s eyes flickered open.

  The Sleuth smiled, reached out to assist the man to his feet. “There now, you’ll be all right in a mo…”

  The sailor’s fist shot out, caught the Sleuth squarely on the chin, knocked him off his feet. “So! Troyin’ t’get the jump on me, are ya?”

  The Sleuth frowned in astonishment as the sailor jumped up from the deck and balled up his fists for a fight. He was young, not very tall, but blessed with beefy arms that packed a wallop. The Sleuth scrabbled to his feet, held one hand out in a calming gesture as he thrust his other hand into one of his pockets. “Wait! You don’t understand…”

  The sailor advanced behind a ready pair of fists. “Sure then you’d best be makin’ me understand, afore I give ya a damn good thrashin’! Who are you? What’s yer business aboard this here ship?”

  The Sleuth drew the badge from his coat pocket and held it out before him. “Saunders, War Department!”

  The sailor froze in place and stared with wide eyes. Then he unclenched his fists and fidgeted with embarrassment as he stammered, “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir! Ya must understand, to awake after bein’ kayoed like that, an’ seein’ a stranger on deck…”

  “I understand perfectly,” the Sleuth replied with a kind smile. Then the grin vanished, leaving only the usual steely stare. “What’s your name, sailor, and what happened here?”

  The sailor, still wide-eyed, stood up straight, brought one hand to his temple in salute. “Deck hand Mike Flaherty!” He slumped where he stood, frowned away for a moment. “Sure and the truth is that I’m not rightly certain what happened. One moment I’m openin’ the hatches to the cargo hold, next thing I know I wake up with a bump on me noggin and you hoverin’ over me.”

  The Sleuth placed a hand on Flaherty’s shoulder. “You didn’t see who attacked you?”

  “No, sir.”

  The Sleuth ran his gaze across the ship’s deck, spied nothing amiss. “Listen carefully, Flaherty. My people have obtained information that this ship has been targeted for a robbery tonight. My guess is that the guy who clobbered you is my thief. So I need a list of the cargo you’re carrying so we can identify his target and nab him!”

  “That’s impossible!” the deck hand replied, rubbing the lump on his head. “After we drop off our shipment, we always return home empty. There is no cargo on board.” A thought flashed through his mind and his face turned toward the bridge castle. “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Mr. Wilson, he’s the mate, he went ashore and brought back a small package which he kept in his cabin,” Flaherty told.

  “What was it?” the Sleuth pressed him.

  The sailor shrugged. “I assumed it was some souvenir for his family.”

  The Sleuth snorted. “It could be intelligence vital to the war effort!”

  “No!” Flaherty gasped. “Mr. Wilson’s no spy! He can’t be!”

  The Sleuth narrowed his eyes. “We’d better make sure of that. Take me to him.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  The sailor guided the Sleuth through the ship to the officers’ quarters. “This is it, Mr. Saunders.” With a curt thanks, the Sleuth rapped on the door. A few seconds went by with no response, and he knocked again. Flaherty shrugged. “Could be that he’s up on the bridge. Come along, I’ll take ya straight there,” he said as he started down the corridor, waving for the Sleuth to follow.

  The Sleuth took a single step before he heard the thump beyond the door. “What was that?” he asked as his hand flew to the handle. He found the portal unlocked, and flung the door wide.

  The mate’s cabin was a fifteen-by-ten box with modest furnishings and in the middle of it all two men were caught in a dance of death. The victim, blond haired and blue eyed, was dressed in a typical naval uniform: a blue blazer and slacks over a white turtleneck. In manic desperation, he clawed at his throat. The garrote was pulled tight by the strong hands of the Chinaman behind him, who looked like something out of a nightmare in his black cap and changshan. Surprise was in his murderous eyes as they flashed to the open door, and he yanked on his wire with renewed effort.

  The Sleuth charged into the cabin, threw one fist into the Chinaman’s ribs. The pain raced through the villain and his grip on the garrote loosened until Wilson pulled free, gasping for precious air.

  “Mr. Wilson!” Flaherty exclaimed from the doorway.

  The Sleuth swung his fist again, but the Chinaman blocked and threw a punch of his own. The Sleuth crashed onto the bunk, and Flaherty ran in to replace him. One hit to his gut and another to his jaw sent the deckhand crumbling to the ca
bin floor. The Chinaman snatched a small package wrapped in brown paper from the table below the porthole even as Wilson, still massaging his tender throat with one hand, pulled a gun from his dresser drawer. Almost as though expecting it, the Chinaman grabbed a book from the table and flung it at Wilson as he whipped around.

  The book collided with the gun barrel, knocking it aside as it fired. The wild shot hit the lamp, plunging the cabin into darkness with a short rain of glass. Undaunted, the Chinaman bolted for the lighted hallway, slamming the door shut behind him.

  “He’s getting away!” the Sleuth cried as he jumped over Flaherty and rushed for the door. He burst into the hall, checked both directions and spied the Chinaman’s long, braided queue vanish around a corner and charged in pursuit.

  The Sleuth chased the clanging footsteps up a stairwell, the two sailors trailing in his wake. The Chinaman, package in hand, bolted across the open deck on course for the aft guard rail and the open ocean beyond. Without pause, the Sleuth ran after him, Flaherty at his heels. Wilson stepped to the side, raised his pistol and croaked out the fair warning, “Halt or I fire!”

  Ignoring the alert, the Chinaman leapt for the rail and the gun in Wilson’s hand barked a vicious thundercrack. The Chinaman, still clutching the topmost rail, fell over the barrier and dangled above the churning waters below. Breathless, the Sleuth braced himself against the railing and clutched at the assassin with desperate fingers. The killer looked up at him, his mouth trembling as though he struggled to speak. Instead, he released the rail and fell into the water, leaving only the package in the Sleuth’s hands.

  The Sleuth frowned down at the watery grave, but the killer’s body never floated to the surface. There was no smaller craft nearby, no convenient getaway boat in sight. Wilson and Flaherty joined him at the rail as other sailors arrived, ready for trouble, attracted by the gunshot.