The Best American Mystery Stories 2016 by Elizabeth George & Otto Penzler

Author:Elizabeth George & Otto Penzler [George, Elizabeth & Penzler, Otto]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780544527973
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 2015-12-31T21:00:00+00:00

No stranger to tight spots, Lafferty had indeed found himself naked in tight spots before, although tight spots such as those had generally been occasioned by a jealous lover, never before by two calm and ugly men. And seldom before had weaponry been involved, except for the once near Ballyjamesduff, the weapon in question having been a sailing cookie jar (the jealous lover in question having been of the female persuasion), a far cry indeed from a nine-millimeter pistol.

They brought him to the lounge, where he stood naked, dripping into the carpet. The nakedness was the worst of it and no place to hide, his heart wanting to jump from his throat. The man with the daffodils was the older and fatter of the pair, with lips and ears as thick as your thumb, his jacket brown and stained and two sizes too tight. “Where’s the woman?” said he.

“What woman?” Lafferty said.

“What woman says he,” said the fat man.

“The woman whose name is on the fucking sign out in front of the fucking house,” the other man said. He was skinny and pink and jumpy, twitching the gun as he spoke. The black eyes of him never rested on any one object too long, and his checkered jacket was yellow and baggy and blue.

“Did you look in the bed?” Lafferty said.

“Did we look in the bed says he,” said the fat man.

“Of course we looked in the fucking bed,” said the skinny man.

Lafferty said, “She was there when I slipped in for my tub.”

“She was there when he slipped in for his tub says he,” said the fat man.

“Listen,” said Lafferty, “could you quit repeating everything I say?”

“Could I quit repeating everything he says says he,” said the fat man.

“Well, it is bloody fucking annoying,” the skinny man said.

“That’s your problem,” said the fat man. “No appreciation of irony whatsoever. Everything’s black and white to you.”

“We got a job to do, and last I looked irony wasn’t in the job description.”

“That’s your problem, right there,” said the fat man, the tips of his ears turning red. “No appreciation of irony whatsoever.”

“Can I put on my clothes?” Lafferty said.

“Fuck no,” said the skinny man.

“The nakeder you are,” the fat man explained, “the less likely are you to run. And the less likely you are to run, the less likely your man here will have to put a bullet in you.”

Lafferty’s knees gave a lurch, his stomach a roll. “Can I sit?”

“Can he sit says he,” said the fat man.

They regarded the sofa beside them, deep and plush and beige, five oversized sections arranged in the shape of an L. “That’s one L of a sofa,” Lafferty said.

It took a moment or two till the skinny man sniggered. Didn’t the fat one chortle as well. “One L of a sofa,” exclaims he, and they both gave in to the laughter. “One L of a sofa!” said the skinny man. They laughed for a minute or more, Lafferty standing bewildered behind his smile. The fat man wiped his eye.

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