Dying For a Thrill by Mark Zubro

Author:Mark Zubro [Zubro, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: gay mystery
Publisher: MLR Press
Published: 2016-03-22T04:00:00+00:00

THURSDAY 10:52 P.M.

I sat with my head back on the seat. The cold through the smashed windows was actually kind of refreshing.

“We’re going to continue to pursue this case?” Jerry asked.

“If for nothing else, for our own safety. They want these gay geeks dead, and whatever we are to whoever, collateral damage or not, someone is trying to kill us. This has to be dealt with, and they are still our clients, or Vincek is.” I pulled in a deep breath. “And frankly, while it’s kind of a silly fantasy, I think it would be nice if there really was a group of gay guys with all kinds of expertise doing what they can to right wrongs.”

“Or they’re mad thieves willing to use anyone who gets in their way.”

I sighed. “There is that.”

I breathed deeply, reloaded my gun. Jerry was making his way north on Dearborn and then, just south of the Newberry Library back to Clark Street.

I said, “Take me up to Foster near the El. Nate, my lawyer, said one of his relatives was an old operative and would be willing to help.”

“At this hour?”

“Nate said I could call any time. The old guy was lonely and never slept.”

We struggled north. I phoned Nate who said he had called ahead for me. I gave him a brief outline of what we were doing. Mostly what he said were variations of, “Be careful.”

I promised him I would do my best.

At Foster, I told Jerry he could get to his sheik. I would take the El back to my place.

Henry Walsh lived on Magnolia two houses in from Foster Ave. Magnolia was just west of the El stop. He lived in a two story home covered in snow. The sidewalk in front of the house was clear. The path to the front door swept perhaps in the last hour.

I rang the bell. Through the gauzy front curtains, I saw a light turn on. A few moments later, a spotlight over the door began to glow bright yellow. Snow swirled in its beams. The outdoor light shone straight on me. He was in semi-darkness. I presumed this was deliberate.

The oak front door opened. Behind a storm door, a man gazed at me for several seconds. Then his eyes travelled from the top of my hat to my boots.

Through the glass, he asked, “You Mike King?”

“Yes.”

He unlatched the door and motioned for me to enter. He pointed to the mat. “Wipe your feet and then leave your boots on the rug. Coat, hat, and gloves on the pegs there.”

I did as I was told.

In the hall light, as I divested myself of winter garments as directed, I got a good look at him. He made Ian McClellan as Gandalf look young. A luxuriant growth of white beard could not hide his well-wrinkled face and neck. He wore a gray cardigan sweater and maroon sweat pants. He leaned on a cane. When my boots and outer garments were disposed to his satisfaction, he reached out a hand to me.

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