Shaking his head dubiously, Stark slid the gun across the rock and slithered into the hole. The ladder chose that moment to break and he fell hard, but not far enough to do any damage. Overhead, the sky went black as Poe shoved the door over the hole.
“In pace requiescat!”
“What?”
Poe’s answer, if indeed he had answered, was drowned out by clanging and banging. It sounded like he was covering the door with heavy stones. Stark heard the cops scrambling up the steep rock, calling to each other, shouting at Poe.
“He went that-a-way!” Poe cried. “Look! He dropped his gun.”
Stark heard grunts, curses, the thump of rubber-soled shoes. Sirens. Then silence.
He waited a long time.
“Can I come out, now?”
Silence.
“Hey! Poe!”
Again silence.
“For crissake, Poe!”
He couldn’t reach the door. He wrapped his garrison belt around the broken ladder rail and climbed the rungs gingerly. The repair held until he pushed up. The weight of the rock was too much; the ladder twisted and he fell again. He landed flat on his back and in that position pushed the unbroken ladder rail against the door like a pole. The rocks were really heavy. Stark pushed up with all his might. Nothing. He took a deep breath and concentrated his considerable strength by imagining he was using the ladder to impale Edgar Allan Poe.
Slowly the door lifted. He could hear the rocks sliding off, a noise like fingernails on a blackboard. Suddenly the door felt light and it flew away and the sky poured in. Stark patched the ladder again, picked up the suitcase, and very carefully climbed out. The sun had set behind a Jersey condominium and the Hudson River was mauve and fading fast. The cops were gone. So was Poe.
Stark smiled. Not a bad deal. It was a mystery why Poe had split, but now all the money was his. The only thing he had lost was his gun, and he could afford to buy another.
About a year later, Stark was pretending to read magazines in a newsstand across the street from a lightly guarded Connecticut National Bank, when he spotted the name E. P. Allan embossed in shiny foil on a fat paperback mystery novel. His old friend Poe, who had saved his ass in Riverside Park and helped bankroll a memorable winter at a Bahamas resort.
The book, In Quick, Out Fast, was touted as the first in E. P. Allan’s new series of “astonishingly realistic” mystery thrillers featuring a brilliant armed robber who hit banks and armored cars. This first volume, of a projected ten, had already sold to the movies. A bunch of best-selling writers had given it glowing blurbs, but the one that speared Stark’s eye was lifted from a Kirkus prepublication review:
“More, much more, than an action-packed, crackerjack, unbelievably realistic yarn about a bank robbery on New York City’s East Side that goes bad. It’s as if you were there, shoulder to shoulder with a quick-thinking, fast-acting hero you will want to read about again and again and again. Read it and cheer. Read it and wonder how E. P. Allan could know such things. Read it and weep.”
JUSTIN SCOTT (aka Paul Garrison, aka J. S. Blazer, aka Alexander Cole) was nominated for the Edgar Award for best first novel and best short story. He writes the Ben Abbott detective mysteries set in small-town Connecticut. He cowrites the early-twentieth-century Isaac Bell detective adventure series with Clive Cussler; The Assassin, their latest Isaac Bell novel, debuted in March 2015. His novel The Shipkiller is honored in the International Thriller Writers anthology Thrillers: 100 Must-Reads. His main pen name is Paul Garrison, under which he writes modern sea stories and, for the Robert Ludlum banner, The Janson Command and The Janson Option.
CHIN YONG-YUN MAKES A SHIDDACH by S. J. Rozan
I have four sons and a daughter.
All my children are filial, even my daughter, Ling Wan-ju, whose American name is Lydia. She is a private investigator. This is a profession I do not approve of. I also don’t care at all for my daughter’s partner, the white baboon. In addition, it does not make me happy that her work requires that she associate with criminals. I would object to her associating with police also, but her childhood friend Mary Kee is a police detective, an important position. But all in all, I may say-only because it is true-that my daughter does her work with great competence. Often she is quite successful. She is young. She will find a more fitting profession as she matures.
Especially now that she has time to consider her future, since I have begun helping her with some of her cases.
She tells me she doesn’t want me involved, but in fact she is just trying to protect me from the low atmosphere of the detecting world. Like my other children, my daughter has no real idea of my life in China, or in Hong Kong, before I came to America with my husband. Nothing in her world is new to me. This is why I’ve attempted to discourage her from being involved with the sort of people I myself have always tried to avoid. But, as I say, she is young.
Of my four sons, the older two are married to lovely Chinese women. Each has given me two grandchildren. My third son is in love with a man. They think I don’t know, but I do. I regret the lack of grandchildren this situation will produce, but my son is an artist, a photographer, probably too distracted by his art to have been a good father in any case. And his partner is a charming, polite young man who takes good care of him.
This leaves my youngest son, Tien Hua, who prefers to be called by his American name of Tim-although I, of course, don’t call him that. He is a partner in a large corporate law firm. Many young men his age have settled down to raise families, but my son is still single. This is unfortunate. A young man alone in a large apartment is not a natural thing. He makes a good deal of money, but he works long hours, leaving him little time to search for a girlfriend. If he were to pay more attention, he would find one immediately because, although his manner might be regarded as too formal (my daughter, with a roll of her eyes, says, “He’s a stiff”), my friends assure me that Tien Hua is quite a catch. Handsome, intelligent, earning a very good salary, with advancement possibilities at his firm. I’ve offered to take him to Old Lau, the matchmaker, who could introduce us to any number of lovely, accomplished young ladies. The Jewish grandmothers at the senior center also have this custom. They call it “making a shidduch.” I’ve told this to my son, that this is a time-honored way in many cultures for young people to meet.
He thanks me but says he is too busy to date.
I believed that was true, until the phone call from him that started this case.
I was in my kitchen, measuring rice into the electric cooker, when the red telephone rang.
“Ma, I need to talk to Lydia right away. She doesn’t answer her phone.”
“Your sister isn’t here. She’s working.”
“That’s no reason for her not to answer her phone.”
“Perhaps it is.”
“Ma! I need her.”
My son’s voice, usually controlled, was surprisingly distraught. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t tell you. I need Lydia.”
My two youngest children are not close. Even as upset as he obviously was, Tien Hua would not call Ling Wan-ju to unburden himself. A suspicion took hold of me. “Are you intending to hire her professionally?”
“What if I am?”
His tone said everything I needed to hear. “The last time you did that, things did not work out very well.”