Black Cat Weekly #77 (eBook)

Wildside Press (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2023
514 Seiten
Wildside Press (Verlag)
9781667681658 (ISBN)

Infos

Our 77th issue features a pair of original stories, one by Jesse Lee (which does double-duty as mystery and science fiction), and one by Phyllis Ann Karr (another of her weird westerns, again featuring itinerant gambler Bart Maverel). Plus we have a Bruce Arthurs suspense tale, the first Stainless Steel Rat short story from Harry Harrison, and even a long-long essay from Harlan Ellison! And the usual great selection of science fiction, fantasy, crime, and mystery novels and short stories. As always, special thanks to our acquiring editors, Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman, for their help with this issue. Here's the lineup:

Here's this issue's lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

'Dirty Water,' by Jesse Lee [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

'A Shipshape Reunion,' by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

'Beks and the Second Note,' by Bruce Arthurs [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

'Dirge for a Nude,' by Jonathan Craig [short novel]

The Powder Dock Mystery, by Reed Fulton [novel]

Nonfiction:

'It's No Longer Astounding!' by Harlan Ellison

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

'Kitty Wampole,' is copyright © 2023 by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]

'The Stainless Steel Rat,' by Harry Harrison [short story]

'The Eleventh Hour,' by Edwin Balmer & William B. MacHar [short story]

'Date Line,' by Noel M. Loomis [short story]

'White Spot,' by Murray Leinster [short novel]

Textauszug

DIRTY WATER,
by Jesse Lee

The Esplanade is the stretch of public green space that extends for three miles one way along the Boston shore of the Charles River from the Boston Museum of Science to the Boston University (BU) Bridge. In addition to providing a beautiful natural landscape, the park is home to the iconic Hatch Memorial Shell, various historical monuments, recreational facilities, and over five miles of pathway for walking, running, or biking.

—https://esplanade.org/the-esplanade/

* * * *

When the walker first spots the person in the Red Sox cap, he knows this is the one. His heart knows, revving up. The person is alone, plugged into some kind of fast music, moving their shoulders to it. The walker takes out his own earbuds in order to fully focus on what is happening on the Boston Esplanade on this muggy July evening. Sun about to set, fewer joggers and bikers and pedestrians than usual. Air quality warnings are keeping people inside.

This past year and a half has been a war, and the walker is a foot soldier on a solitary mission. Not his first mission, and not his last. He stays a good quarter block behind the target, scoping from an angle. The person is easy to keep in his peripheral vision because of their bright orange T-shirt, which clashes with the red of the cap.

They’ve both just passed the docks, usually crowded with sunset peepers at this time of day but now nearly empty. The target slows a little. Dark clouds are rolling in overhead and a shifty wind has started up from the water. The target moves over to the side of the path and the walker watches them digging in their front jeans pocket for something, which they then hold up in front of their face. When he gets closer, the walker sees it’s a cigarette, even though there is no smoking in the park. The target continues to hold it up, staring as though hypnotized.

This is going to be even easier than the walker thought. He saunters right past, slows a little, and then half turns.

“Need a light?” One of the few intimate interactions allowed between complete strangers.

The target doesn’t respond. Earbuds, the walker remembers.

“Hey, do you need a light?” This time almost a shout.

Finally the target looks up, nods.

* * * *

Even in the time of masks Henry Weber never had trouble recognizing any of the tenants in his building, always addressing them by surname and proper salutation. He knew all their regular visitors as well.

The best concierge in Boston. We’re so incredibly lucky.

The Chelsea Arms, two blocks from Storrow Drive, walkable to the Museum of Fine Arts and an easy five-minute drive to Fenway Park, was a landmarked building of thirty units, half studios and half one bedrooms. Its elegant Georgian brick façade with snow-white trim opened out onto a small cobblestone plaza. For twenty-odd years Henry had manned the door from eleven a.m. to seven p.m, five days a week. Week-ends were handled by a Black guy named Dave Ortiz, no relation to Big Papi. The rest of the time residents used two separate keys to enter the building, one to the outer door which let into a foyer, the second to the lobby proper.

Henry knew he cut a striking figure in his forest-green uniform. He was as alert and emotionally steady as the catcher he’d been for the few years he’d played Triple A before a knee injury knocked him out of the game for good. Not tall but well proportioned, clean shaven with fine fair straight hair although his nose was maybe too big and his hazel eyes set a little too close together. His long-deceased father was German and English and he had been brought up as a single child by his mother, who was of southern Italian descent, in the South of Boston, aka Southie.

Henry’s very first week on the job he had been tested. Old Professor Plaster had caned out of the elevator for his morning constitutional, lifted his Panama to Henry, gone out for his round of the block. Upon return another doff and then a sit down on the brown velvet sofa in the lobby. At first Henry thought the man had dropped off, and then he noticed that Professor Plaster’s eyes, although not exactly open and staring, were not closed.

It was not Henry’s first dead body. But even though he had cause to call 911 again on subsequent occasions, the neighborhood was tranquil, even during the baseball season, when you could hear raucous cheers drifting over from Fenway. In March 2020, of course, Boston was a ghost town. Throughout lockdown Henry never missed a day of work, unlike Dave, who freaked out so that at the beginning the building was locked up on week-ends. When people were afraid to go to the store it was Henry who would carry grocery deliveries up to each resident’s front door. He would even haul their garbage bags out to the cans in the alley out back.

Years before Covid, Henry’s mother thought his job was dangerous.

“The Boston Strangler.”

“The Boston Strangler just did women, Ma.”

“The first victim was in Fenway. And there were two others in Fenway as well.”

It was the fairy tale he’d been hearing all his life. His mother had been a nurse at Mass General during the reign of terror. No matter what he told her—It’s the day shift, Ma—she fussed and fretted. Of course he never described to her how much he looked forward to his commute, especially the walk home, when he’d changed out of his uniform and was just a civilian like everyone else on the Esplanade.

Through a high school buddy, he’d rented a basement one-bedroom in a Back Bay townhouse, on a street even fancier than the one where he worked, although much further from the Charles. Henry liked knowing he was close to the water. One of his childhood dreams had been to crew on a steamship, the kind that transported wheat and corn all over the world.

Aside from his old steamer fantasy, Henry was not a natural thrill seeker. He didn’t play video games and these days only watched baseball when he was in a bar. He liked to read spy stories and history and listen to ’60s and ’70s rock, the more obscure the better. He did spend quite a lot of time on social media and was an enthusiastic member of several private groups. These groups had been mostly talk until the pandemic, when things had started getting really interesting. There were calls to action. Henry began to post more frequently.

* * * *

The two of them are silent as they lean over the flame of the Bic. It takes a couple of tries because of that impish wind. The walker himself is a secret smoker. Not in his apartment, but after midnight certain bars in Boston lock the doors and put out ashtrays. The light of the filthy day is fading and the target’s face looks better, almost attractive, with thin lips that are somehow sensual.

In a normal transaction of this kind the target would say Thanks and the walker would continue on his way. Now they continue standing there, not speaking, angled about a foot apart on the walkway, which is now nearly empty. Over the sound of the traffic on Storrow Drive the river sighs and swirls below the embankment. Muddy lights are blinking on across the water in Cambridge.

The target seems in a dream, but a much more tranquil one than when listening to the mysterious hyper music. How old? There is something about the slow lifting of the cigarette that makes the walker think: not too young. The baseball cap is tilted in a way where the walker can’t check for an Adam’s apple. The target stands a couple of inches shorter than the walker—smaller than the walker had guessed—and the T-shirt—losing its color now in the dying light—is baggy enough to hide the contours of the torso.

But the walker knows.

Even when they were young, the walker thinks, this person was not beautiful. As the target smokes and looks into their dream, the walker feels a strange pity, but not enough for him to walk away. A mission is a mission.

* * * *

When people asked Reyna Gomboa Carson what she did for a living and she replied, “Doula,” there was always a smile until she added that she was not a birth doula but an end-of-life doula.

What? People did not like the sound of that.

She would explain: “You have many birthdays but you only have one deathday. I am there to make your deathday as easy as possible. I am there to see you off.”

When lockdown began, Reyna’s husband Doug insisted she stop working. It broke Reyna’s heart, because now of course her cell was ringing nonstop. On the news she watched how intensive-care nurses used iPads for patients and loved ones to say good-bye. She couldn’t stop crying.

“I have to do something,” she told Doug. “This is not how the universe is supposed to work.”

He said, “You are only one person, mahal. Just wait it out. This won’t last forever.”

Reyna was the youngest of seven and by the time she was sixteen she was ready to leave her tiny home village in Lanao del Sur, Philippines. Her mother had died a month after Reyna’s birth and she barely saw her father, who owned a construction company and had a mistress with a second family, so she was basically brought up by her older siblings. Benigno, the second child and first boy, was the smartest of all of them, graduating early from high school and getting into Wesleyan College in Connecticut, USA. When Beni started his residency as a pediatrician in Los Angeles, he sponsored Reyna and she enrolled in the nursing program at...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 19.2.2023
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Science Fiction
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• Schlagworte: Anthology • Crime • Fantasy • Mystery • Science Fiction • Sci-fi • Short Stories
• ISBN-13: 9781667681658 / 9781667681658