Murder by Candlelight (43 page)

This was in reference to the three player
gambling game in which Howard Kunkle cheated Bud -- regularly.

Normally, a three-man game.

Subtract one man -- Kunkle
-- and that left a two-man game. A three-man game again, if Z
joined. Except ... that Bud had corrected himself, by saying, with
Z joining, it would be a
two
man game.

Leaving ... a mystery man. Another regular
player, the usual game featuring Bud Izard, Howard Kunkle, and
....

Lee Dotson.

The obvious meaning of Lee Dotson's name and
number appearing in Howard Kunkle's book was that Dotson was the
third man of Bud's regular gambling game. Poker, probably, given
the decks of marked cards in Kunkle's secret drawer.

Dotson. A man who, like Howard Kunkle, had
been murdered.

Z turned. Looked across the bar at the thick
witted fat man. "Sorry," Z said softly.

"Sorry for what, Z-man?" Bud was all smiles
again. "Don't be sorry. I love you like a brother. Always remember
that. You was my hero in high school. And you're more of my hero
now. A man couldn't have a better friend in all the world."

Z didn't know what to say.

"Who else would have done for me what you
done. And then clam up when I ... made a mistake."

"Some men need killing."

"Right."

"Some men ... but not others."

Caught in mid-smile, all Bud could croak
was, "What?"

"But not Lee Dotson."

Again, the hangdog look.
"Well," Bud started slowly, "I got to thinkin'. With Howie being
dead and all, and Lee in the game, and knowin' I owed Howie and
that he was puttin' pressure on me, I
had
to be rid of Lee, too. There was
no other way I could be safe. There was no other way I could
protect my property, here."

"I see that. But it isn't ... right."

"Right? What you mean, right? Is it right
that I got to make my living in a hell hole like this?" Bud was
waving his ham-handed arms, his voice climbing toward falsetto.
Again, was gushing sweat. "Is it right I had that disease and
couldn't learn to read?"

"No. But that doesn't change things."

"You're goin' to tell after all, ain't
you?!"

"Yes."

"Not if I got anything to say about it!"

Suddenly, from under the bar, a large
automatic appeared in Bud's fat hand.

"I gone too far to stop now, Z." In addition
to sweating, Bud was trembling. A rare sight in a man that large.
"I got to save my property."

So, it had come down to this. All Z's adult
life he'd known how it would end. Face down in an alley. And
there'd been times -- more of them recently -- when Z had looked
forward to his struggles ending.

Funny, when it came right down to it, how
much he wanted to live!

Z was shaking. His legs -- numb.

Staring into the black barrel, it was all Z
could do to keep his teeth from rattling out of his mouth.

Still, an important difference between a man
and a woman was that a man could not show fear.

Z swallowed hard so he could speak.

"Right here? In your own place?" Z's rasp
was stronger than he thought it would be.

"I'll say you come in to rob me. I had to
protect my property." Bud's eyes had gone wide. And dead.

"Got a spare gun?"

"What you talking about?"

"A spare, no one can trace. Like some cops
carry. A gun to plant on the poor dumb fuck they just shot dead. So
they can claim they shot in self defense."

"What ...?"

"'Cause I don't have a gun on me."

Bud just stared, his eyes seeing emptiness.
Sweat dripping off his jowls.

"You going to say I pointed my finger at
you, so you blew me away in self defense?"

"I ... love you, Z. Like a
brother.
Please
,
don't ..."

"I can't get you out of this one, Bud.
Nobody can. You got to get out of this fix by yourself."

With an effort that took what was left of
Z's fast-draining reserves, he turned again.

Took a shaky step toward the door.

Took another, all the while waiting for the
report of the big gun and the slug to tear into his back.

Grasping at any hope, Z called to mind the
first time he'd been shot; how it hadn't been that bad ... honesty
making him admit he'd been brave because he hadn't seen the bullet
coming. All he could recall of being shot was waking in the
hospital, and the long recovery he'd had.

This time, it would be different.

First, he'd hear the blast of the gun and
feel the shock.

Then the searing pain.

Then ... nothing. Forever.

Meanwhile, he still shuffled toward the
door. His legs rubbery.

A roar! -- the ear-shattering explosion
rocketing in the hard-walled tavern, a paralyzing sound that jerked
every muscle in Z's body, the shot fired by the large bore
automatic followed by the tinkling sound of smashing glass and a
secondary thud that shook the room.

All while Z was falling. Falling.
Falling.

To hit the hardwood floor like the scattered
limbs of a stringless puppet!

The breath knocked out of
him, it was an agonizing minute before Z could breathe. An eternity
of wondering if he
could
breathe.

Followed by a hiss of sucked-in air; after,
sickening pain ....

But only in his knee. ..........

Had Bud shot him in his bum ...? No. The
dagger-pain in his left knee was familiar.

Testing arms, legs, body, Z found he wasn't
hit.

What had happened? ......

Slowly, as the bright agony in his left knee
dulled, Z was able to scramble his good leg under him. Enough to
crawl on hands and knee to a table.

Reaching up, he pried himself to a standing
position -- immediately leaning heavily on the solid table.

Turning, Z glanced behind him, certain he
would see Bud behind the bar, the fat man taking greater care to
aim ....

Instead, saw ....

Nothing.

But chaos.

Two rows of shelving back of the bar had
been knocked down, their polished glassware shattered to the floor.
The mirror behind the bar was also broken.

But ... that was all.

Turning again to limp forward, handing
himself from table to table, an eon took him to the tavern
door.

Gathering himself, Z opened the door to
flounder through to the outside, the Cavalier, like the loyal
mongrel that it was, wagging its tail beyond the sloping walk.

Needing another moment before putting his
full weight on his bad leg, Z leaned against the abused brick wall,
sagging back to look up at the wonders of the night! So black. So
cold. Z seeing nothing but the misty lights of Kansas City beyond
the cloud-wrapped river, fog clawing up the river bank, its white
tendrils groping for the street.

A marvelous night to be alive!

Like Scrooge in the old Christmas story, Big
Bob Zapolska felt himself ... reborn.

The first thing tomorrow, he'd call Susan.
For reasons he no longer had the faintest idea about, he'd been
short-changing Susan, lately, bad-mouthing her to himself. But that
was over. Once more, he'd come to see how lucky he was to have
classy Susan for his girl, a rough cob like Z possessing a
beautiful, much-too-good-for-him lady like that. He'd stopped a
bullet for her once. He'd do it again -- any day. Every day.

After calling Susan, he'd phone Jamie
Stewart. He'd been too hard on her, as well. He'd tell her the
truth about the pictures; that she had the only copies; that he
wasn't holding them over her.

He also have to thank John Dosso.

And a call to Harry Grimes would now be
proper.

Pulled together at last, less shaky, Z
crippled across the sidewalk; clumsily stepped off the curbing into
the street.

Hobbling around the back of the Cavalier, Z
opened the stamped steel door to wedge himself into the thinly
padded driver's seat, using both hands to drag in his bad leg.

Fishing out the key, he cranked up the
still-warm engine.

Easing the transmission off park, he drifted
off, making an immediate U-turn for home.

As for what had just happened, Z was no
longer interested. Let one of Bud's late-night drunks stagger in,
totter to the counter, after getting no service, lean across to
find Bud bleeding out behind the bar.

But not a suicide, to be found and reported
by Bob Zapolska. Z's horror dreams made out of phantoms ... the
last thing he wanted, was to see the real thing.

###

Author's Note

While
Murder by Candlelight
is set in
Kansas City, Missouri (largely in Kansas City North), the book is a
work of fiction -- all the way. Fiction in this book also means
that, in addition to the characters being fictitious, so are many
aspects of the city. While major roads, shopping centers, theaters,
restaurants, etc., appear in the books, the reader will find that
little is "as it should be." The roads don't go where they should;
buildings that don't exist have been "created"; actual buildings
sometimes changed and/or relocated. (One of the joys of
fiction-writing is that you're not bound by the truth.) Besides
"manufacturing" locales where I needed them, I also "rearranged"
the city to keep readers with nothing better to do from trying to
find the detective's home or his office, or the homes and
businesses of friends. (People are still writing to Sherlock Holmes
at Number 221 B Baker Street -- because it is an actual address!)
What this means is that no one will be annoying you by showing up
at your house or place of business to ask stupid questions about
your connection to Big Bob Zapolska.

* * * * *

About the
Author

John G. Stockmyer is an individual whose
irrepressible creativity has manifested itself in many ways: as a
poet, teacher, produced playwright, author, co-owner of an
educational materials business, creator of a time-machine
simulator, and, more recently, as a podcaster and producer of
eBooks. During his career he has received awards for scholarship,
numerous teaching awards and, as a writer, was a Thorpe Menn
finalist.

He is the co-author of
three non-fiction books:
Unleashing the
Right Side of the Brain
- The Stephen
Greene Press,
Life Trek: The Odyssey of
Adult Development
- Humanics, and
Right Brain Romance
-
Ginn Press. He is also the author of over 20 works of fiction,
including the Crime/Hard-Boiled "Z-Detective" Series, and the
Science-Fiction/Fantasy "Under The Stairs" Series. He has also
written a quirky vampire novel titled,
The
Gentleman Vampire
.

John G. Stockmyer is now semi-retired from a
40+ year career as an Ancient/European History Professor at Maple
Woods Community College, but still teaches and writes part-time. He
currently lives in Kansas City, Missouri with his wife Connie.

For more information about
the author, and to download or purchase Print Books, eBooks and
Audio-Books from the "collection," please visit the John G.
Stockmyer "Books" Web site at:
www.johnstockmyer.com/books

If you enjoyed
Murder by Candlelight
,
you'll probably also like Book #4 in the Z Series:
Where Angels Fear to Tread
. Book #4 (ebook version) is currently $5.00, at the author's
web site.

To send questions or comments to the author,
send an e-mail to: [email protected] (all e-mails are
screened/forwarded by the author's son: John L. Stockmyer)