[Dorothy Parker 03] - Mystic Mah Jong by Agata Stanford

Author:Agata Stanford [Stanford, Agata]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
Goodreads: 12356268
Publisher: Jenevacris Press
Published: 2011-07-07T23:00:00+00:00

Mr. Benchley

Franklin Pierce Adams— “There are plenty of good five-cent cigars in the country. The trouble is they cost a quarter. What this country needs is a good five-cent nickel.”

Aleck

Chapter Eight

“Nightcap, Benny?” said the verbose Mr. Benchley.

With gun aimed at us, Benny Booth backed toward the open doorway, giving the false impression of retreat. Through my fear I could see his desperation—gun hand trembling, eyes wild, legs spread apart as if trying to balance on shaky pins. All in all, these unsettling symptoms were even more alarming than they would have been had his demeanor been cool: The gun’s trigger was cocked and the man holding it was obviously half-crocked. Anything could happen.

“Now, don’t you try anything, you two,” he said, whipping the gun around. “You,” he said pointing at Fred, “Benchley. Sit down next to Mrs. Parker.”

The gun fired.

Mr. Benchley’s top hat flew to the wall.

Woodrow barked.

“Now you’ve done it!” said Mr. Benchley, turning on his heel to verbally blast Booth. “You’ve killed a perfectly good topper. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I didn’t mean to do it. I’ll buy you another.”

“I should say so. That hat put me out a good fourteen-fifty!”

Gun hand wobbly, Booth was coming unhinged. His voice shaking, he hoarsely ordered, “Sit down!”

Woodrow barked some more.

My friend squeezed in between me and my pup. I could feel his knees shaking.

“Keep him quiet, or else.”

“Benchley?” I asked.

“The mutt.”

“What’re you going to do, shoot him?” Nobody threatens my puppy.

“I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“Then, why don’t you put down the gun and I’ll fix you a drink. We can talk like civilized human beings without guns waving around. Someone could get hurt, old sport,” said Mr. Benchley. “You’ve already killed a perfectly fine hat, and the way your hand is shaking, you’re liable to take out Mrs. Parker’s Corona, and then where will she be?”

“A jokester, hmmm? You crazy?”

“One man’s lunacy is another man’s reason, I suppose.”

“Whom are you quoting?” I asked.

“No one, just me.”

“What the hell does that mean,” I asked, annoyed. “‘One man’s lunacy’?”

“I’m not sure yet; it just popped into my head.”

“And so will a bullet if you don’t shut up!” said Benny, drawing our attention back to the gun.

Woodrow growled, head bobbing back and forth, following the motion of the gun from side to side, up and down.

“I’m warning you. I don’t want to hurt the dog.”

“I suppose it’s sort of like the adage, ‘One man’s garbage is another man’s—’”

“Shut up!”

“All right, sorry,” said Mr. Benchley. “Just trying to be—”

The ivory-and-silver-knobbed walking stick came down hard on the back of Benny Booth’s head, and as he slumped to the floor, Woodrow leapt from the couch to stand guard on the fellow’s chest.

Aleck stood majestically in the doorway, his huge frame draped dramatically in his theatre cloak, the wide-brimmed black hat atop his head, his cane raised at the ready like a swordsman anticipating ambush. I couldn’t help thinking of a miscast, paunchy, sloth-footed actor auditioning for the role of Cyrano de Bergerac.

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