Who Knows Where It Goes (A Story From the Dark Side), Page 2

  He finished his sandwich, finished his fries, finished his Pepsi. And left the waitress a very good tip, because he’d taken up a lot of her time, and because his failure wasn’t her fault. And, finally, because it didn’t matter anymore if she remembered him.

  It was past nine when he got home. He’d told his wife he wouldn’t be home for dinner, but she’d made a casserole and offered to warm it up for him. They were eating out less since his business failed, and she’d surprised him by blossoming as a good cook. Nothing fancy, but good simple dishes.

  She’d be a good mother, he was confident of that. That hadn’t been on his mind when he married her. He chose her because she’d be a good companion, an attractive and personable partner in social situations. And now they were going to have a baby, and she was going to be a good mother.

  “We can live in a trailer,” she’d said, when the hedge fund turned out to be a Ponzi scam, when it was clear that the money was irretrievably gone. “I don’t care where we live, or how we live. We’re two people who love each other. We’ll get by.”

  But of course she cared, and of course he cared, and they couldn’t swap this house for a double-wide, surrounded by the kind of neighbors who wound up flunking sobriety tests on Cops. They loved each other, but how long would they go on loving each other in a trailer park?

  He said he’d have the casserole for tomorrow’s lunch. He’d had an interview, he told her, and it was promising, with a decent prospect of some case-by-case consulting work. The hours would be irregular and the work off the books, but he’d be well paid. If he got the work.

  She said she’d keep her fingers crossed.

  He slept late, and when he did get up she’d already left for a doctor’s appointment. He found the casserole in the refrigerator and nuked a helping in the microwave. It was spicy, and not his usual breakfast fare, but he ate it with good appetite. The coffee she’d made was still hot, and he drank two cups.

  He’d slept soundly, and any dreams he’d had were gone and forgotten when he opened his eyes. But he’d gone to sleep with a question, and now the answer was miraculously there.

  He got in his car, drove for an hour and a half.

  The town he’d picked was one he’d been to only a handful of times, and not at all in at least ten years. At first glance it looked the same, but then it hadn’t changed much since before he was born. It had been a mill town, and the industry moved south after the Second World War, and the local economy had settled into a permanent state of depression. There were changes over the years—strip malls thrown up, a drive-in theater torn down—but the town went on, always a decade or two behind the curve.

  There was still a Main Street, and there were still shops on it, but it seemed to Colliard that there were more vacant storefronts than he remembered. A sign of the times? Or just the next phase in the continuing decline of the place?

  But what did it matter? He wasn’t looking to start a business, and if he did he wouldn’t start it here. He hadn’t been here in years, and in an hour he’d be gone, and it would be more years before he returned. If he ever came back at all.

  Oddly, there were places he recognized. The drugstore on the corner of Main and Edward. The sporting goods store diagonally across the street. The little shop halfway up the block—Mulleavy’s, the sign announced. He remembered the name, but had long since forgotten what it was Mulleavy sold, if he’d ever known in the first place.

  Two doors down from Mulleavy’s was a hardware store. He noted it, unable to recall it from a previous visit, and he thought of another hardware store, and that made the decision for him. He circled the block, parked right in front of the hardware store. There were plenty of empty parking spaces, right there on Main Street, and that told you pretty much all you needed to know about the town, and what it was like to be in business there.

  Be doing the man a favor.

  He stood out front for a moment, checked out the fly-specked merchandise in the front window. The shops on either side were vacant, and the For Rent signs in their windows looked as though they’d been there forever. Colliard drew a breath, let it out, opened the door.

  No customers, and no one else either, not for the moment. Then a man in his sixties, balding, round-shouldered, emerged from the back in response to the little bell that had announced Colliard’s entrance.

  “Hello there,” he said brightly. “We get that rain yet?”

  Were they going to talk about the weather? No, the hell with that.

  Colliard drew the gun, watched the man’s eyes widen behind his glasses. He shot him three times in the chest and once behind the ear.

  Wipe the gun and drop it? What, and then go looking for another one?

  He put it in his pocket and left.

  The first thing he did was get out of town. There’d been no one around to hear the shots, and it might be an hour before anyone entered the store. The dead man was on the floor behind the counter, where he couldn’t be seen from the street. So there was no rush to quit the scene, but Colliard wanted to be away from there all the same.

  He drove well within the speed limit, knowing that a routine traffic stop was more to be feared than that someone would actually come looking for him. He had the murder weapon in his pocket, and a paraffin test would establish that he’d fired a gun recently. But they wouldn’t know that unless he found a way to call attention to himself, and this was something he’d long ago learned to avoid.

  He drove for a while, and when he stopped for a cup of coffee he picked a diner quite like the one with the nice waitress and the tasty sandwich and fries. All he had was coffee, and he took his time drinking it, letting himself sink into the reality of the present moment.

  He went over it all in his mind. And he tried to take his own emotional temperature, tried to determine how he felt.

  As far as he could tell, he didn’t feel a thing.

  No, that wasn’t entirely true. There was something he felt, something hovering on the edge of thought, visible only out of the corner of his eyes. And what was it?

  Took him a moment, but he figured out what it was. It was relief.

  He took out his cell phone, thought for a moment, put it back in his pocket. The diner had a pay phone, and he spent a couple of quarters and placed a call. The girl who answered put Sully on the phone, and Colliard said, “That order you placed the other day, I wanted to tell you I’ll be able to fill it tomorrow.”

  “You sure of that, are you?”

  “It might take an extra day.”

  “A day one way or the other doesn’t matter. The question is do you have the goods for the transaction.”

  “I do.”

  “It seems to me,” Sully said, “that it’s a hard question to answer ahead of the event, if you take my meaning.”

  “I know it for a fact,” Colliard said. “What I did, I went and took inventory.”

  “You took inventory.”

  “Checked the shelves myself.”

  He finished his coffee, and stayed at the table long enough to make another phone call. He used his cell phone for this one, there was no reason not to, and called his own home. The first three rings went unanswered. Then his wife picked up just before the phone went to Voice Mail.

  He asked how it went at the doctor’s office, and was pleased to learn that everything went well, that the baby’s heartbeat was strong and distinct, that all systems were go. “He said I’m going to be a perfectly wonderful mother,” she reported.

  “Well, I could have told you that.”

  “You sound—”

  “What?”

  “Better,” she said. “Stronger. More upbeat.”

  “I’m going to be a perfectly wonderful father.”

  “Oh, you are, you are. I’m just happy you’re in such good spirits.”

  “It must have been the casserole. I had some for breakfast.”

  “Not cold?”

  “No, I microwaved it.”

  “And it was good?”<
br />
  “Better than good.”

  “Not too spicy? So early in the day?”

  “It got me off to a good start.”

  “And it’s been a good day,” she said. “That much I can hear in your voice. Did you—”

  “I got the job. Well, case by case, the way I said, but they’re going to be giving me work.”

  “That’s wonderful, honey.”

  “It may take a while to get back where we were, but we’re finally pointed in the right direction again, you know?”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “Damn right we will. And we’ll be able to keep the house. I know you had your heart set on a trailer, but—”

  “I’ll get over it. What time will you be home? I should really get dinner started.”

  “Let’s go out.”

  “Really?”

  “Nothing fancy,” he said. “I was thinking along the lines of pizza and a Coke.”

  I hope you enjoyed

  ● Who Knows Where It Goes ●

  A Story From The Dark Side, by Lawrence Block

  Lawrence Block is a Grandmaster of the Mystery Writers of America, and winner of multiple awards, including the Edgar and the Shamus awards for his novels.

  I hope you enjoyed this story. If so, I’d love to hear from you.

  Email: [email protected]

  Twitter: @LawrenceBlock

  Blog:

  http://lawrenceblock.wordpress.com/

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  www.lawrenceblock.com

  If you did in fact like this story, you might enjoy more of my short fiction. Three collections of my short fiction are available as ebooks:

  Enough Rope

  One Night Stands & Lost Weekends

  Ehrengraf for the Defense

  Also available as special edition ebooks are Single Short Stories, Novellas, and a play. Subscribe to LB’s blog and sign up for the newsletter to get the latest updates on sales, new releases and special offers.

  Stories From the Dark Side

  “Catch & Release” (a fisherman)

  “A Chance to Get Even” (a poker game)

  “Dolly’s Trash & Treasures” (a hoarder)

  “Headaches and Bad Dreams” (a psychic)

  “In For a Penny” (New York noir)

  “Like a Bone in the Throat” (revenge)

  “Scenarios” (a man with imagination)

  “Sweet Little Hands” (a cheating wife)

  “Three In The Side Pocket” (a failed scam)

  “Welcome to the Real World” (a golfer)

  “Who Knows Where It Goes” (a job hunter)

  “You Don’t Even Feel It” (a boxer’s wife)

  Bernie Rhodenbarr

  “The Burglar Who Smelled Smoke”

  “Like a Thief in the Night”

  Chip Harrison

  “As Dark As Christmas Gets”

  Ehrengraf For The Defense

  “The Ehrengraf Defense”

  “The Ehrengraf Presumption”

  “The Ehrengraf Experience”

  “The Ehrengraf Apointment”

  “The Ehrengraf Riposte”

  “The Ehrengraf Obligation”

  “The Ehrengraf Alternative”

  “The Ehrengraf Nostrum”

  “The Ehrengraf Affirmation”

  “The Ehrengraf Reverse”

  “The Ehrengraf Settlement

  Keller

  “Keller in Dallas”

  Four-Part Novellas

  “Speaking of Greed”

  “Speaking of Lust”

  A One-Act Stage Play

  “How Far”

  Short Stories

  “Almost Perfect” (baseball and adultery)

  “A Bad Night for Burglars” (a bad-luck burglar)

  “Terrible Tommy Terhune” (a tennis player)

  “A Vision in White” (another tennis player)

  For a list of all my available fiction, with my series novels listed in chronological order, go to About LB’s Fiction. And if you LOVE any of these stories, I’d really appreciate it if you’d tell your friends—including the friends you haven’t met, by blogging, posting an online review, or otherwise spreading the word.

  Thanks!

  Lawrence Block

  Available Now! The complete collection of Martin H. Ehrengraf stories.

  Includes the newest story, The Ehrengraf Settlement.

  You've never met a lawyer like Martin Ehrengraf. He never loses a case, and rarely sees the inside of a courtroom. Nor does he pass his hours poring over dusty legal volumes, or searching the Lexis database. Ehrengraf is a criminal lawyer who takes cases on a contingency basis; he collects a fee only when his client goes free. And that somehow never fails to happen happens, because his clients always turn out to be innocent.

  Ehrengraf's debut came in 1978, in Ellery Queen. Ten stories appeared between then and 2003, and now, after almost a decade, the dapper little lawyer is back (only in eBook form, and only for Kindle) in "The Ehrengraf Settlement." All eleven Ehrengraf stories, exclusively eVailable as Kindle Select titles, have now been gathered up into this full-length eBook.

  In 1994, when there were only eight stories about the fellow, a small press collected them in a limited edition of Ehrengraf for the Defense. (That little volume commands $250 to $1250 on the collector market—if you can find it.) Edward D. Hoch, acknowledged master of short mystery fiction, wrote an appreciative introduction, and Lawrence Block added an afterword. Hoch's introduction is reprinted in our new enlarged eDition of the stories, and Block has updated his afterword.

  Lawrence Block has peopled his fictional universe with a host of memorable characters. If you want a walk through the dark and gritty streets of Manhattan and the outer boroughs, Matt Scudder's your man. If you need a lighthearted and lightfingered companion to lift something from a safe in a triple-locked apartment, you want Bernie Rhodenbarr. If you have to get someone out of your hair once and for all, you'd better get Keller on the case.

  But if you're facing a murder charge, and if the evidence is overwhelming, you want the one man who's not only prepared to believe in your innocence but able to demonstrate it to the world. You want Ehrengraf.

  Just make sure you pay his fee...

  Available now on Amazon

  Ehrengraf For The Defense

  The Complete Short Story Collection