Tape

by C.M. Albrecht

Wanna be a shamus? Just put on a trench coat and insert an ad in the Penny Saver. Hey, it works for Vero and Izzy. It works so well that they find themselves up to their fedoras in murder — and they may be the killer's next victims! Tape. You'll be all wrapped up in this sticky mystery.

978-1-59431-910-5 Also available in RTF and HTML formats.

Suspense/Mystery/Crime

Chapter 1

Shorty

A white prison van pulled up before the small bus station and its sole passenger, clutching a clear plastic bag of clothing, stepped carefully down onto the sidewalk.

The driver, a middle-aged red-faced man who had never missed a meal in his life, smiled grimly and moved his gum to one side of his mouth.

"Be smart, Shorty," he said in a deep tired voice. "Get in there a buy yourself a one-way ticket out of here and don't ever come back." But, he silently added without a change in his expression, you will.

Shorty--Jesse Thompson--smiled just as grimly. "Don't worry. I'm all through with that. I've been saved by the grace of Jesus and this time I'm really starting a new life."

The driver nodded and popped his gum as he stepped on the gas. The van pulled away leaving Shorty standing on the sun-drenched sidewalk with two hundred dollars 'gate money' in his pocket, and all his worldly belongings in the clear plastic bag.

He looked over at the hardware store across the street, up at the clear sky above his head and then took his first real breath of freedom. Even in the van, he was still part of the prison system, but now…his mouth twisted in a sort of smile. He scratched the bald spot on top of his head and headed into the tiny station.

Inside he sat at the lunch counter and ordered a cup of coffee. He just sat for a minute. Although he wasn't hungry, he enjoyed the smells of bacon and other odors coming from the kitchen, and he even smelled the faint perfume the waitress wore. It had been a long time since he smelled the nearness of a woman.

Shorty figured the waitress had already made him for a parolee, even though he had his sleeves rolled down to cover his mostly prison-made 'sleeves', the tattoos he had picked up over the years. The waitress probably saw a lot of ex-cons come through this coffee shop; Shorty knew they all had a look about them.

He pulled a paper napkin from a metal holder and spread it on the Formica countertop. He pulled a stub of a pencil from his denim jacket pocket. He began writing on the paper napkin. He labored over the spelling as well as the difficulty of writing on such fragile paper, but after a few moments with an occasional pause to sip the hot coffee, he had his list. It wasn't very long.

1. Get a room.

2. Get Gorman

3. Get Wilson

4. Get a job and go straight.

Shorty studied his list while he sipped his coffee. Finally he smiled grimly, showing yellowed teeth. He held the napkin firmly down and underlined Gorman and Wilson. His lip curled. He sipped more coffee and studied the napkin with satisfaction. He nodded. He folded the napkin and dabbed his lips with it and shoved the napkin into his side pocket and went out into the lobby and bought a bus ticket to Sacramento.

Chapter 2

Mustard

Shorty Thompson leaned back on his narrow bed and studied his newspaper. At least he had television in the slammer--and medical care--and his meals. He scratched the bald spot on top of his head. Sometimes they make a lot more out of freedom than it really is, he thought. Freedom to do what? Starve to death? Freedom to sit around the waiting room at the county hospital all day to get a couple of aspirin and a pat on the head? He rattled his newspaper.

Well, job one was to concentrate now on his main target. The trigger man. The man who killed his big brother in cold blood. But Gorman wouldn't be easy. Big, street-wise and tough. A man who was always ready, and always packing.

Shorty lay thinking for a while. The old man? No problem there. Piece of cake.

The old man had a granddaughter too. Shorty considered this with relish. He might just get a little more mileage out of this than he'd expected.

His gray eyes roved over the drab little room. He crossed his feet on the bed.

His stomach growled. Man, he thought, I'm getting hungry. He looked at his watch. He could hike down to a McDonald's or someplace...but he hesitated. He was going to have to be mighty careful. Skipping parole didn't give him much time to take care of business. They'd be on the lookout for him soon if not already, and he couldn't afford to get busted before he got finished doing what he came to do.

"I'd get out of town," he whispered almost audibly, "but first I got to take care of business." Shorty got up and stretched and looked around for his shoes.

Just then he heard a door shut and peeked out the window that gave onto the meager front yard. He watched his buxom landlady, Mrs. Arliss, step carefully down the three front steps. She steadied herself with a cane. Shorty watched her until he could no longer see her as she moved out of his line of sight to the driveway where she kept her old Pontiac. After a moment, there was a slight whine of a starter and then the muffled purr of a motor. He kept his eye glued to the window and watched the Pontiac back very slowly down the driveway and into the street. After what looked like a difficult moment, Mrs. Arliss managed to get the vehicle straightened out and rolled away. "Old bitch can't even drive a car," he grumbled.

At that moment the idea popped into Shorty's head that he might get a bite from the kitchen while the old lady was out. Her eyesight didn't seem to be too good anyway. His money wasn't going to last forever. Better be frugal.

Cautiously, although he knew no other roomers would be in the house at this time of day, Shorty moved down the hall and turned into Mrs. Arliss's spotless kitchen. The tile counters lay bare and shiny, the oak cabinets neatly closed, the sink empty save for an upside down water glass at the edge.

He carefully removed two slices of bread from a package in a cream and baby blue bread box and closed it exactly as it had been. Then he peered into the refrigerator and found a packet of bologna. He just as carefully removed two slices and placed them on a slice of bread. His eye caught a yellow bottle at the bottom. Mustard. He removed the plastic bottle and squeezed a bit onto the other slice of bread, replaced the mustard and closed the refrigerator and dusted the counter off with his shirtsleeved elbow. Then, sandwich in hand, he slipped back out, down the hall and into his room.

Shorty swallowed the sandwich ravenously and seriously thought about going back for a second, but his natural caution told him she might just notice if too much of anything was missing. Her refrigerator was nearly empty already.

At that moment he heard a sound, and looked out through his window. Mrs. Arliss's car was turning into the driveway. It looked as if someone was with her. Shorty sighed. Smart move not to go back. He sat back down on his single bed and then threw himself down on his back, his hunger assuaged for the moment anyway.

Gloria Arliss showed her seventy years. Although at one time she and her husband, Albert, had owned a small hardware store, it had gone 'belly up' as Albert always said. He blamed it on the rapid growth of the huge chain companies. Losing the store had been just too much for Albert, and he lived only three years longer. Gloria Arliss tried her hand at various other lines over the ensuing years, but little by little her resources dried up and, reduced to her pension, all she had left was their roomy clapboard home. At least, thank god, that was paid for. She firmly resisted the pressure to borrow money on it or get involved in one of those reverse mortgages. Instead, she began to take in roomers.

A hard-working woman, Mrs. Arliss maintained a spotless home. She cleaned the guests' rooms daily, made their beds and changed the towels and linens weekly. Each guest had a key to the house and most of the time her guests did not abuse the privilege. They came and went quietly without creating a disturbance. If a guest showed signs of being late with the rent, Mrs. Arliss showed no mercy. She immediately evicted them. In a worst case scenario, she removed their luggage and locked them out of their room. It didn't pay to get behind on the rent in her house, and she made sure her guests all knew that.

As the women entered the house, Shorty got back to his feet and silently opened his door a bare crack. He stood listening. Gloria Arliss's friend, Martina Alvarez, same age as Gloria, followed her into the kitchen. They placed their bags on the table and Martina plumped down on a chair and rested her hands on her round tummy while Gloria turned to the coffeemaker to turn it on. Suddenly she swung about and stiffened. "Hmm!"

"What?" Martina asked. "What the matter?"

"Gloria looked steadily at her friend. "Mustard," she growled in a voice her tenants seldom heard.

"So what mustard? I like the mustard."

"I smell mustard," Gloria said. She turned her gray head, raising it slightly, sniffing. "Somebody's been in my kitchen."

"There is somebody home?"

"There shouldn't be. Everybody works days. Well, except--" She moved closer to Martina and lowered her voice. "There's my new tenant. He's supposed to be out looking for a job, but I wonder...besides, I'm not too sure I can trust him anyway. I'm pretty good at judging people you know."

Shorty had heard enough. Suddenly that feeling washed over him, a sudden familiar lust, his lust for blood. He was almost glad the old bitch smelled the mustard. She must have a nose like a bloodhound. He hadn't really planned this, but Jesse Thompson was a man who didn't need much encouragement to do what he was about to do.

She asked for it and Shorty was the man only too willing to give it to her. His blood lust pulsed at the thought and he moved quickly to the small carry-on he had bought. He pulled out a heavy fisherman's knife with a thick eight-inch blade, deeply serrated along the spine. He hefted it with appreciation. 'You won't be a virgin much longer, baby," he whispered caressing the razor edge. Holding the knife behind his back he moved silently out into the hall and came around into the kitchen. Gloria Arliss noticed him first, and seeing her head jerk, Martina turned her own head and looked.

Shorty's thin lips twisted into what he hoped was an ingratiating smile. "Hi ladies," he said. "May I come in for a minute? I'm getting hungry and I thought I smelled mustard."

Before a completely speechless Gloria could formulate a reply Shorty stepped quickly up behind Martina, and with his eyes fixed hypnotically on Gloria, he drove the blade deep into the base of Martina's neck. She uttered a faint "ˇAy...!" as he ripped the knife out tearing flesh. Blood gushed from the savage wound and from her mouth and nose. Shorty squeezed his legs together in excitement and followed her ay with his own sigh of deep fulfillment. His slit eyes remained fixed on Gloria, enjoying the shock and horror that came over her face.

After what seemed an eternity during which time had come to a standstill, Gloria finally found her voice. One hand clutched at her throat and she let out a horrible scream. She made a move to run but like a hawk on a field mouse, Shorty already had her in his talons. He plunged the knife deep into her back twisting it and staying with her as she went down. He grasped a fistful of gray hair and pulling her head back, tore the knife from her back and slashed the bloody blade across her throat. She gurgled once as blood spurted from her open carotid arteries and Shorty then casually dropped her face down into the spreading pool.

Shorty's thin body thrilled in pleasure. He hadn't expected any excitement so soon, and besides, his plans…he couldn't let this interfere with his plans.

He turned back as his ear picked up the sound of Martina moaning. "Jesus," he said. "You're one tough old bitch." He bent and pulled her head back by the hair and slashed her throat in the same way as he had done to Gloria. As blood spread on the linoleum around Martina, Shorty wiped the blade of his knife on her blouse. After that, he slowly licked the blade clean on both sides, loving the taste of iron-rich blood. He smiled in satisfaction.

Now that both women were dead, Shorty pulled down paper towels from the roll beneath the cabinet and wiped blood from his hands. Then he got bread, bologna and mustard and--seeing that the coffee was ready now--he poured himself a cup and stood just out of the bloody arena of death and ate two bologna sandwiches with mustard and drank his coffee. He ripped a couple more paper towels from the roll and carefully wiped everything he had touched in the refrigerator. He went over his steps and wiped down everything he had touched, wadded the towels into a ball and jammed them into his pocket. He checked to make certain he had not left any bloody footprints.