The Best American Mystery Stories 2002 by James Ellroy; Otto Penzler

Author:James Ellroy; Otto Penzler [Penzler, James Ellroy; Otto]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

STUART M. KAMINSKY

Sometimes Something Goes Wrong

From The Mysterious Press Anniversary Anthology

“You sure?”

Beemer looked at Pryor and said, “I’m sure. One year ago. This day. That jewelry store. It’s in my book.”

Pryor was short, thin, nervous. Dustin Hoffman on some kind of speed produced by his own body. His face was flat, scarred from too many losses in the ring for too many years. He was stupid. Born that way. Punches to the head hadn’t made his IQ rise. But Pryor did what he was told and Beemer liked telling Pryor what to do. Talking to Pryor was like thinking out loud.

“One year ago. In your book,” Pryor said, looking at the jewelry store through the car window.

“In my book,” Beemer said, patting the right pocket of his black zipper jacket.

“And this is. . .? I mean, where we are?”

“Northbrook. It’s a suburb of Chicago,” said Beemer patiently.

Pryor nodded as if he understood. He didn’t really, but if Beemer said so, it must be so. He looked at Beemer, who sat behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the door of the jewelry store. Beemer was broad shouldered, well built from three years with the weights in Stateville and keeping it up when he was outside. He was nearing fifty, blue eyes, short, razor haircut, gray-black hair. He looked like a linebacker, a short linebacker. Beemer had never played football. He had robbed two Cincinnati Bengals once outside a bar, but that was the closest he got to the real thing. Didn’t watch sports on the tube. In prison he had read, wore glasses. Classics. For over a year. Dickens. Hemingway. Steinbeck. Shakespeare. Freud. Shaw, Irwin, and George Bernard. Then one year to the day he started, Beemer stopped reading. Beemer kept track of time.

Now, Beemer liked to keep moving. Buy clothes, eat well, stay in classy hotels when he could. Beemer was putting the cash away for the day he’d feel like retiring. He couldn’t imagine that day.

“Tell me again why we’re hitting it exactly a year after we hit it before,” Pryor said.

Beemer checked his watch. Dusk. Almost closing time. The couple who owned and ran the place were always the last ones in the mall besides the Chinese restaurant to close. On one side of the jewelry store, Gortman’s Jewelry and Fine Watches, was a storefront insurance office. State Farm. Frederick White the agent. He had locked up and gone home. On the other side, Himmell’s Gifts. Stuff that looked like it would break if you touched it in the window. Glassy-looking birds and horses. Glassy, not classy. Beemer liked touching real class, like really thin glass wineglasses. If he settled down, he’d buy a few, have a drink every night, run his finger around the rim and make that ringing sound. He didn’t know how to do that. He’d learn.

“What?”

“Why are we here again?” Pryor asked.

“Anniversary. Our first big score. Good luck. Maybe. It just feels right.”

“What did we get last time?”

The small strip mall was almost empty now.

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