The Fifth Grave: And Other Terrifying Tales of Homicide in the Heartland (1998) by Billie Sue Mosiman; Martin H. Greenberg

Author:Billie Sue Mosiman; Martin H. Greenberg [Greenberg, Billie Sue Mosiman; Martin H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

I Always Get the Cuties

John D. MacDonald

John D. MacDonald (1916—1986) wrote sixty-nine novels during his more than thirty-five years as a writer, but his Travis McGee books are what earned him a permanent place in the mystery canon. Described as a “tattered knight on a spavined steed” by his creator, McGee was the epitome of the private detective in the 1960s and ’70s. His short fiction was often just as powerful; the following story, which combines a clever murder mystery with an ironic twist, is an excellent example.

Keegan came into my apartment, frosted with winter, topcoat open, hat jammed on the back of his hard skull, bringing a noisy smell of the dark city night. He stood in front of my birch fire, his great legs planted, clapping and rubbing hard palms in the heat.

He grinned at me and winked one narrow gray eye. “I’m off duty. Doc. I wrapped up a package. A pretty package.”

“Will bourbon do, Keegan?”

“If you haven’t got any of that brandy left. This is a brandy night.”

When I came back with the bottle and the glasses, he had stripped off his topcoat and tossed it on the couch. The crumpled hat was on the floor, near the discarded coat. Keegan had yanked a chair closer to the fire. He sprawled on the end of his spine, thick ankles crossed, the soles of his shoes steaming.

I poured his brandy and mine, and moved my chair and the long coffee table so we could share either end of it. It was bursting in him. I knew that. I’ve only had the vaguest hints about his home life. A house crowded with teen-age daughters, cluttered with their swains. Obviously no place to talk of his dark victories. And Keegan is not the sort of man to regale his co-workers with talk of his prowess. So I am, among other things, his sounding board. He bounces successes off the politeness of my listening, growing big in the echo of them.

“Ever try to haggle with a car dealer, Doc?” he asked.

“In a mild way.”

“You are a mild guy. I tried once. Know what he told me? He said, ‘Lieutenant, you try to make a car deal maybe once every two years. Me, I make ten a day. So what chance have you got?’”

This was a more oblique approach than Keegan generally used. I became attentive.

“It’s the same with the cuties. Doc—the amateurs who think they can bring off one nice clean safe murder. Give me a cutie every time. I eat ’em alive. The pros are trouble. The cuties leave holes you can drive diesels through. This one was that woman back in October. At that cabin at Bear Paw Lake. What do you remember about it. Doc?”

I am always forced to summarize. It has got me into the habit of reading the crime news. I never used to.

“As I remember, Keegan, they thought she had been killed by a prowler. Her husband returned from a business trip and found the body.

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