Black Cat Weekly #128

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

LETTER FROM A LONE PROSPECTOR TO HIS MOTHER, by William Burton McCormick

THE WILD WEST WHODUNIT, by Hal Charles

CONFESSIONS OF AN INVISIBLE HIT MAN, by Steve Janko

THE MARINA CASE, by Henry T. Parry

THE CRYSTAL CLAW, 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

WRONG DOOR, by Janice Law

ONE TOUCH OF TERRA, by Hannes Bok

A PRISON MAKE, by William W. Stuart

BEAUTY INTERRUPTED by Charles L. Fontenay

THE INVADING ASTEROID, by Manly Wade Wellman

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

Letter From a Lone Prospector to His Mother is copyright © 2024 by William Burton McCormick and appears here for the first time.

The Wild West Whodunit is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Confessions of an Invisible Hit Man is copyright © 2024 by Steve Janko and appears here for the first time.

The Marina Case is copyright © 2024 by the Estate of Henry T. Parry and appears here for the first time.

The Crystal Claw, by William Le Queux, was originally published in 1924.

Wrong Door is copyright © 2024 by Janice Law and appears here for the first time.

One Touch of Terra, by Hannes Bok, was originally published in Fantastic Universe, December 1956.

A Prison Make, by William W. Stuart, was originally published in Amazing Stories, July 1962.

Beauty Interrupted by Charles L. Fontenay, was originally published in Infinity, August 1958.

The Invading Asteroid, by Manly Wade Wellman, was originally published in 1932.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

This issue has one of the best original stories we’ve published: Janet Law’s brilliant Wrong Door, a tale very much in the classic Twilight Zone tradition. Don’t skip it! Though Janice is best known for her mystery stories, this one proves she can write masterfully in any genre.

But great stories don’t stop there. Our Acquiring Editors, Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman, have both found original stories this time—from William Burton McCormick and Steve Janko. Plus I’m pleased to present another new mystery story from the late Henry T. Parry. Parry was very much a hobbyist writer for Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. His work started appearing there in the 1960s, and if the editor didn’t buy a story, he set it aside and moved on to another one. He didn’t send them to other markets, like any pro writer would have done. His daughter has entrusted his unpublished stories to me, and I am going through them and seeing which ones still work. (His last story appeared here in BCW #105.) I date The Marina Case to the early 1970s, and it’s a solid mystery that surely would have found a home had he submitted it to more than one editor.

Our mystery novel this time is William Le Queux’s The Crystal Claw, a Golden Age page-turner. And, as always, we have a solve-it-yourself puzzler from Hal Charles.

Turning back to the science fiction end of things, in addition to Janice Law’s tale, we have classics by Hannes Bok (miners on Venus!), William W. Stuart (a man wakes in a futuristic jail with no memory of how he got there!), and Charles L. Fontenay (envy leads to discovering an Earthman’s secrets!). Our SF novelet is an early space adventure from fantasist Manly Wade Wellman.

Here’s the complete lineup—

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

Letter From a Lone Prospector to His Mother, by William Burton McCormick [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Wild West Whodunit, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Confessions of an Invisible Hit Man, by Steve Janko [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Grass Is Not Always Green, by Henry T. Parry [short story]

The Crystal Claw, by William Le Queux [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

Wrong Door, by Janice Law [short story]

One Touch of Terra, by Hannes Bok [short story]

A Prison Make, by William W. Stuart [short story]

Beauty Interrupted by Charles L. Fontenay [short story]

The Invading Asteroid, by Manly Wade Wellman [short 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

LETTER FROM A LONE

PROSPECTOR TO HIS MOTHER,

by William Burton McCormick

February 12, 1921

Dearest Mama,

We’re rich!

Remember, how you told me to stay in St. Louis with Joanna? Warned me not to trek on out to the Nevada badlands looking for my fortune? That it was a one-in-a-million chance, and I might die in some rocky side canyon off the Colorado River from avalanche, poisonous critter, or heat exhaustion? How you said even if I found a gold strike, some devilish claim jumper would split my head open from behind and take it all?

Well, none of those terrible things happened, Mama, though you were right about the landscape. It’s hotter here than Hell on a July day. The Devil himself sleeps in the shade and only comes out at night. I know. I seen him. Or thought I did once. And there are rattlesnakes called diamondbacks, Mama. Some of them are as long as a man is tall. I found ’em in the holes and curled up on the roads at sundown. And sidewinders too that move, well, sideways when they should move back. But the snakes don’t trouble me none. The people are good for the most part and the winters are tolerable, even pleasant, if you avoid the mountains.

I built a cabin at the bottom of a rocky gulch near the Colorado. Used old wood from an abandoned mine. It’s twenty miles outside a gold town called Searchlight. No one comes here. I can prospect for days without seeing another soul. Once a month I get supplies in Searchlight, but other than that I’m on my own. They’re all afraid in town. You see. Mama, there’s a ghost. He’s the devil I said I glimpsed earlier. Not an actual spirit, but a living man who haunts these lands. An outlaw. A killer. He preys on lone prospectors, murdering them for their food, boots, and any ore they’ve found. Some say The Ghost is a white man from San Francisco. Others believe he is a Paiute Indian named Queho or Quejo. The townsfolk say he is a half breed, who’s killed men of all his mixed bloodlines. Who knows? No posse can catch him. That’s why there’s a rule in Nevada that no man should prospect alone. As you said to me, dear mother, when last we said goodbye. Don’t go gold huntin’ without your comrades. Well, they gave up long ago, Mama. And I’m still here. The Ghost hunts down stragglers out in those isolated canyons. The last murder was in a small houseboat moored at a bend in the Colorado near Bullhead Canyon on the Arizona side. Snuck in through the porthole. Strangled the owner in his bed, according to the sheriff. Took only shoes, tobacco, and a harmonica. Some nights, I swear I hear that harmonica on the river winds but can’t say from whence it came.

Pardon the ink splatters on the page, Mama. I have to keep getting up from the table while composing this letter to check the desert around. The nighttime coyotes are yipping a terrible fuss outside the cabin. Maybe a cougar’s come down from the mountains. Those cats will eat coyote pups, Mama, if they get hungry enough in winter. That must be it. Nothing else big enough out here to scare ’em like that. Horses can’t get down these steep canyon walls. I guess a mule could. Or a man. But the man would have to be terribly determined.

I threw a few empty cans to scatter the coyotes, but it won’t shut ’em up. Anyway, I’ve kept you in suspense long enough. How did we come to be rich, Mama? Down in the deepest gulch in these abandoned lands, betwixt Boulder Canyon and El Dorado, I found ore. With my trusty pickax, it’s as fine an instrument as ever made in my hands, Mama, I split the stone in a cave at the base of the canyon wall. Discovered a pure vein of gold, unlike any since the Quartette or Duplex mines outside Searchlight. I hung out a claim notice on the rock that read Any sheepherding sons of bitches that I catch digging in these here claims, I will work buttonholes in their pockmarked skins. Pardon the language Mama, and the unchristian threats, but you’ve got to use these kinda words to intimidate jumpers. I’ve already registered the claim. Five days it took me to reach the county seat in Pioche and five days back. Now, I’m waiting in my cabin for the government man to confirm. He’s slow in coming. Two days overdue. Hope the Ghost didn’t snare the inspector on some remote desert road. Why if he did, that outlaw would have a map right to the gold site and this cabin. That’s a joke, Mama. Those government men are well-armed. Carry Colt revolvers. No one’s harmed a government man in almost thirty years. What are the odds my fellow would fall prey to a highwayman? More likely he fell prey to a Searchlight cathouse. (I heard rumors there are cathouses in Searchlight, Mama, not that I know from personal experience). Well, if the inspector ain’t here by the time I go into Searchlight to mail this letter, I’ll register a complaint. Government never does what you want, do they? Not in a timely manner.

We’re going to have a nice life, Mama. I’ll use the claim to get a loan and hire thirty men to mine the site. I think it’ll cost about five dollars to unearth a ton of rock, but gold is twenty-six dollars an ounce. Should be richer than Croesus. Soon, I’ll send for you and Joanna. Joanna deserves a wedding. I kept her waiting too long. You’ll have grandchildren to look after. Like you always wanted. They got nice houses out here on parts of the river. Like the mansions of the Deep South. We’ll build you one. Import the wood from Crescent Mountain.

Excuse the bad penmanship, Mama. Can’t see well with the candlelight flickering so fierce like someone just opened a door or window. Of course, that’s impossible. I’d have heard ’em even with darkness around me. No one’s that quiet. In the desert you can hear things for miles around. Nothing to worry about with my shotgun here across my lap. The coyotes have stopped their yippin’ outside, whatever was stirring ’em must have gone out of their sight. That’s a relief. Though it’s getting hellishly cold in here. Teach me to build a cabin from old mine lumber, but it paid off. That lucky pickax which found our fortune is right here against the table leg, Mama. Or I thought it was. Must have set it elsewhere, maybe near the window just out of candlelight. I’ll get up and check it when I’m done with this letter. Would hate to lose that ax, even if we are rich, Mama. The steel tip is well-cast, sharpest I’ve ever felt, prick your finger with just a touch and the ax-head flawlessly balanced. It makes a perfect woosh sound in the air when you bring it down to split a stone. Can split anything with ease. Woosh, woosh all day when prospecting. Like I’m in Heaven, like the wooshes are the fluttering wings of angels looking over me. Well, we soon will be in Heaven, Mama with all these riches around us.

I can almost hear that woosh now, like that angel is hovering over my shoulder, looking out for me, right beh

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

William Burton McCormick (williamburtonmccormick.com) is an Edgar-award nominated writer of thrillers and short stories. His first story for Black Cat Weekly, House of Tigers, was selected to the Honor Roll in The Mysterious Bookshop Presents the Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2023. His forthcoming novel Ghost, co-written with the late Senator Harry Reid of Nevada, will explore the murders and background of the mysterious outlaw mentioned in Letter from a Lone Prospector to His Mother.

THE WILD WEST WHODUNIT,

by Hal Charles

Entering through the saloon doors newly affixed to the high school gym entrance, State Police Detective Kelly Stone felt as if she had been transported back in time. Wooden facades of general stores, barber shops, and even a jail lined the walls where bleachers once stood. Overhead, a painted canvas sign blared WELCOME TO THE WILD WEST WEEKEND.

Kelly, Kelly, called a woman in a heavily painted face who was dressed like a dance hall queen, thank goodness you’ve come so quickly.

Is that really you, Madge? the detective asked the head of the chamber of commerce.

Right now, Madge admitted, I wish it weren’t.

What happened? said Kelly.

Someone stole Sutter’s gold dust. Well, it’s not really Sutter’s, but it is an authentic bag of gold dust, and we’re supposed to open our doors in less than two hours to my latest extravaganza. You’ll notice only three vendors are set up at the moment.

You locked the doors when you found out the gold had been stolen?

Absolutely. The gold thief has to be one of the three vendors.

That explains the long line outside of people screaming and cursing, said the detective.

What else could I do? said Madge. You’ve got to identify the thief quickly so that I can still open by noon. Even though I authenticated their resumes, I’m convinced one of these three vendors is really a thief.

No pressure, said Kelly. I guess I’ll start with that booth in front of the jail.

Hi, said Kelly, badging and addressing the first vendor who with his long coat and bright vest was dressed like an old-west gambler. Among the treasures, she spotted a Bowie knife, a saloon spittoon, and five playing cards in a plastic sleeve. Three aces and two eights, she said.

Deadman’s hand, purportedly belonging to Wild Bill Hickok when his game of five-card stud was interrupted by a bullet to the head. I’m Bart Matthison. Interested in any of my items?

Thanks, but I’m just looking. At that moment Kelly realized how hard it would be to find a bag of gold dust, so discovering the thief had to be based on her deductive skills.

She moved on to the next vendor, who with pigtails, a vest, and two toy pistols was dressed as many pictured Annie Oakley.

Betsy Brannigan, said the woman, boldly shaking her hand. I watched you and Bart. At least he didn’t refer to you condescendingly as ‘little lady?’

Smiling, Kelly looked down at the spread of western pulps and comic books. Her eyes gravitated to one of a plastic-encased comics. "Hopalong Cassidy, she said. I remember my grandfather talking about him. I knew he was in movies and TV, but not comics."

That’s issue 99 from DC Comics, explained Betsy. The first 85 were published by Fawcett till they went out of business. I can give you a deal.

Maybe later, said Kelly. As she walked across the gym to the third vendor, she pulled out her phone and checked Betsy’s version of Hoppy’s publishing history. Absolutely accurate. Vendor three was dressed as an old-time peddler, complete with the pince-nez. On his table were a series of hats from sombreros to Stetsons to smaller ones.

You see them up close, even the sombreros, Kelly said to the vendor, and you realize that ten-gallon is a misnomer.

Very observant, he said. Even the biggest hat could hold only a few quarts, and if it did, the hat would be forever ruined. I’m not really a haberdasher, officer, he said. Virgil Weeks is the name. I would say that any of them look better than those straight-brimmed hats your troopers wear.

How did you know I was state police? posed Kelly.

Madge told us.

I did indeed, said Madge, appearing from behind. I hate to press you, but we need to open.

Glancing at the clock, Kelly said, Go ahead. It’s not even high noon yet, but I know who’s lying.

SOLUTION

Kelly arrested artifact-dealer Bart. While every school child knows a dead man’s hand consists of two black aces and two black eights, nobody knows what the unturned card was in Hickok’s hand. The gold dust was found in the lining to the coat worn by Bart, and the real Bart was found tied up in a motel.

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, forBlack Cat Weekly.

CONFESSIONS OF AN INVISIBLE HIT MAN,

by Steve Janko

I finally got up the nerve to move to a spot closer to her during class. I’d been watching her for almost two weeks since first deciding to give yoga a shot. I needed to stay in shape, and the classes were free, or at least covered by our HOA dues here at Siesta Harbor Haciendas, a fifty-five-plus active-seniors living community. Plus, I thought there might be some attractive single women doing downward dog. Turns out she was the only one. The rest were mostly zaftig, overly made-up, bottle-blond, aging Midwestern women, trying their darndest to stay attractive for their overweight and overbearing retired husbands. And, I guess, so they could try to look their best as they spent their afternoons sunning themselves in their bathing suits by the pool. Funny, none of their husbands seem to feel the same need, as I was the only man in the class.

I didn’t position myself right behind her, but a row back and off to the side. Unlike the other women, she was thin, slim-hipped, with small breasts. She had her long, gray-streaked locks tied back in a careless ponytail with a purple scrunchie. Her firm, lithe body defied her age as she performed the various yoga stretches. I liked what I saw and made up my mind that I’d strike up a conversation as soon as class ended.

You’re pretty good at this stuff, I said as we rolled up our yoga mats.

Excuse me? she replied, finally noticing me.

This yoga stuff, you look like you’ve been doing this for a while.

Oh, yeah. I’ve been at it for quite some time. Puts me…in tune with myself.

Well, obviously it’s paid off. You’re in great shape.

Thank you. She sat back on her haunches, strapping her rolled up mat. It’s more than just the physical part though. Clears my mind and gets me focused for the day.

I see.

This your first time here?

Actually, I’ve been coming for the past two weeks.

Oh, I don’t remember seeing you before, she said as she gazed at me queryingly.

So much for your focus. I smiled. I seem to be the only guy in here.

I’m sorry. That’s funny, I’m usually pretty observant.

Oh yeah? I covered my eyes with my hand. What color are my eyes?

She laughed. Okay, you got me, and then she said, Blue! when I removed my hand and held it out to her.

Charlie Murdoch.

Katie. Katie Sinclair.

Care to grab a cup of coffee? I asked as we headed for the door.

* * * *

She didn’t want coffee but suggested the juice bar adjacent to the Siesta Harbor Haciendas’ pickleball court. She ordered some green concoction with soy-something and kale. That didn’t sound like something I wanted. I remembered having and liking OJ and carrot juice once, so I ordered that. I thought the carrot juice might impress her.

I still can’t believe I didn’t notice the one man in yoga class for the past two weeks.

Don’t worry about it. I have a knack for that. Being invisible. It helped me for years in my line of work.

I take it you’re retired now? she asked.

I suppose so. I’m here now. This is a retirement community, isn’t it?

I guess so. She grinned, showing off the crow’s feet at the corners of her green eyes and the smile lines on her cheeks. It was the only hint of her age that betrayed her. Even her naturally gray-streaked locks, now free from her scrunchie, had more of a youthful appearance than any woman I’ve seen trying to battle age with hair coloring.

But you’re not retired, are you? I’ve seen you working at that art store, or gallery, or whatever it is.

It’s an artist co-op. We use it as a gallery, but we all put time in working there. Have you been there?

Yes, I was in last week. I bought one of your paintings. The harbor scene. I put it up in my living room. It spoke to me.

Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I remember selling the painting but… I didn’t even recognize you.

That’s okay. No one ever notices me. And you were busy. Story of my life I guess.

That seems rather sad.

Not really. I’m used to it.

You said it helped you in your career. So, what were you, some kind of a secret agent or something?

No. I smiled. But good guess.

"So, what did you do?"

I was a professional hit man.

Katie laughed at the absurdity of my answer. I knew she would. But it was the truth. She played along, humoring me. Is that something you had to go to school for?

No, I kind of fell into it. I’d never told anyone the truth about my career, but I wanted to get to know her better, so I decided to be honest. After all, what could she do?

Fell into it?

Yeah. I did someone a favor. Got away with it. Word got around in the right circles, and business just kind of took off. I guess you can say I was following in the family business. My father was an exterminator.

You’re funny, she said, still smiling, not taking me seriously.

He was. But he died when I was kid. Cancer. I think it was from all the chemicals he used. Back when they were using DDT and all that toxic stuff. But he killed a lot of rats and vermin in his day. I guess I just followed in his footsteps.

Where are you from?

New York. The Bronx originally but lived all over the city at one time or another.

Well, that explains it. Being a professional hit man, I was going to say New York, Chicago, or maybe Kansas City, but you don’t have that Midwestern vibe.

And you? Where are you from?

I grew up in Connecticut, Greenwich, then moved to the Palm Beach area after I got married.

Married, huh? And, your husband? Divorced…?

Dead. Technically, missing presumed dead. They never found his body.

I’m sorry.

Don’t be. Had he stuck around we would have been divorced.

How’d he’d go missing? Went out for a loaf of bread and never came back?

No. He uh, chartered a sailboat. Had this idea that we should take separate vacations so we could see where our marriage was heading as it was falling apart. I was all ready to file but he urged me to wait. He said he was going to go out and—she indicated with air quotes—find himself.

You think he did? Find himself?

Maybe. But no one else found him. They found the boat, but no Frank. Had to wait three years to have him officially declared dead and collect the life insurance.

So, he just vanished?

It appears so. Fell overboard and drowned most likely.

Interesting… Kids?

She shook her head. What about you? Ever married?

No, it didn’t really fit with my line of work. I was in a couple of long-term relationships, but it’s hard to lie all the time. You understand, I had to be very secretive. About what I did, that is.

Being a hit man and all, she said, smirking, still thinking I was joking.

Exactly. It’s not something you can talk about at the dinner table. You know, ‘How was work today, honey?’ ‘Oh fine, blew a guy’s brains out while he was getting a haircut.’

She laughed. I can see how that would be a conversation stopper.

* * * *

We had finished our drinks and compared notes about Siesta Harbor Haciendas. She’d been living here for two years after finally selling her McMansion in Palm Beach once her husband was declared deceased. She said she always preferred the Gulf Coast. I explained that I just moved in about a month ago. We were hitting it off fairly well when Katie noticed the time and said she had to get to the co-op. I walked her to her hacienda, a west-end waterfront stilt house, dodging golf carts that many of the residents used for transportation. We talked about her painting. She’d had a career as an illustrator for years until her husband, who was twelve years older than her, made her give it up so she could be his eye-candy trophy wife, on his arm for all his business functions. He was one of those South Florida land developers who always had some shifty real-estate deal going. It helped him reel in the big money types having a younger, attractive, artsy, educated wife who could entertain, mix cocktails, and befriend investors’ wives while Frank did the dog and pony show. Frank had some big successes that made his name in the right circles, but there were more than a few times his investors lost money on sham development deals. But no matter how big a flop a deal turned out to be, Frank never lost a dime and somehow always made out handsomely. I was starting to see how Frank might go missing.

When we reached Katie’s house, I asked her out, and she agreed to have dinner with me that evening. Told her I’d pick her up at seven and walked back to my place overlooking the marina. I picked it because I had the idea of maybe getting myself a boat someday. Maybe do some fishing.

* * * *

Back at my place I finished my normal workout doing my push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups on the bar I rigged up under my stilt house. I then fixed a sandwich for lunch, read the New York Post online, and stared at Katie’s painting. It was a sunset scene of a quiet marina with many docked boats and masts shearing the sky. It was very detailed for a watercolor, and I wondered if that was the illustrator in her showing herself. There was one single sailboat heading out the channel and on one of the empty docks stood a lone woman in silhouette, waving. I looked closer and wondered, was that Katie waving goodbye to her husband? I filed that away to bring up over dinner if the conversation lagged.

Later, I took a nap, then shaved, showered, and dressed for our dinner date. I put on my new off-white linen suit with a navy-blue shirt, hoping I didn’t look too much like I was auditioning for some senior-citizen version of a Miami Vice spin-off. Katie met me at the door when I came to pick her up. She wore a demure, floral-print, sleeveless dress that showed off her figure and firm arms and was short enough to show off her toned, tanned legs. It clung to her body where it should and hung free where it should. She looked like a million bucks and blushed slightly when I told her so. I suggested an upscale seafood place in town on the pier, overlooking the bay that I had passed a few times as I was checking out the area. She said that was a great choice, having been there before.

* * * *

Being new to town we traded small talk on the drive over about different restaurants in the area. She gave me the lowdown on the local attractions, the best beaches, and the ones to avoid during tourist season. At the restaurant I tipped the maître d’ for a window table in a quiet corner. It overlooked the water as the sun was setting. We ordered cocktails and eased into conversation.

So, are you going to come clean with me about what you did for a living? she asked, smiling warmly.

I already did.

Come on, you put down ‘professional hit man’ as your occupation on your tax returns?

No, of course not. The IRS thinks I was an investment consultant. Which was partially true.

Aha, now the truth comes out.

Well, I did that out of necessity. It’s not like I got a regular paycheck. I had to set up a legitimate business for myself. Over the years, I acquired a number of different identities, or aliases if you will. Some of these identities also became my investment clients. The way I worked it was, I was paid in large sums of money, which were deposited into offshore accounts, under different names, different shell companies, different accounts that I’d set up. I’d then move it around into different investments, through my consulting firm. It was a bit of work juggling it all and avoiding suspicion, but I enjoyed the challenge. Taxes were paid when and where needed, and any improprieties were virtually untraceable. Sometimes being visible is the best way to be invisible. It protected me, my money, and people who hired me.

How did you learn to do all that?

That is what I went to school for. Accounting mostly. Some finance, economics, tax law. Got an MBA and even completed a CPA course, but never bothered to get the certification.

Sounds like you could have made a good living just doing that. My husband could have probably used you.

Yeah, but then I’d have to deal with real clients. That would have been a big risk factor. Better to be invisible in that respect and not have to trust anyone else.

So, Charlie Murdoch? Is that an alias?

No, that is my real name.

Aren’t you afraid I might go to the police with everything you’re telling me?

And tell them what? That some old geezer in your senior-citizen community is telling you he’s a retired hit man? What do you think they’d do?

I guess you have a point. She chuckled. But I wouldn’t consider you an old geezer.

Thank you, I said, smiling.

She leaned in over the table conspiratorially after looking around to see if anyone was paying attention to us. Did you really kill people?

Yes, quite a few actually.

How exactly does one get started in something like that?

"Well… I think I mentioned the first time was sort of a favor. I was twenty. I had a good friend, name was Tony. Me and Tony grew up on the same street, hung out together ever since we were kids. He had a younger sister, Teresa—I think she was sixteen at the time, still in high school—who’d had been…raped, I guess would be the best word for it. She ended up getting pregnant. They were from a good Italian Catholic family, and it really tore them up for Teresa to get an abortion. I was pretty close to them, the whole family I mean. They tried to keep it all hushed up. Never went to the police or anything.

"One day not long after it happened, Tony and I were out drinking, and he told me the whole story. Teresa told him who did it. This guy named Sal from the neighborhood. A real slimeball. Thought he was God’s gift to women. One of those Disco-boy assholes. This was 1979, and he thought he was John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Sal somehow got with Teresa and gave her a quaalude. She passed out or was too out of it to know what was going on, and he had his way with her. Tony was livid. I had never seen him so angry. He was dead serious when he told me he was going to kill the bastard. Told me how and when he would do it. I told him, no, don’t do it.