The Black Lizard Anthology of Crime Fiction by Ed Gorman

Author:Ed Gorman [Gorman, Ed]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0887390390
Publisher: Black Lizard Books
Published: 1987-05-31T21:00:00+00:00

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I wish to acknowledge my debt to two books. Maxwell Street by Ira Berkow, and The Plot to Kill the President by G. Robert Blakey and Richard N. Billings; however, the bulk of the research (conducted by myself and George Hagenauer) for this work of historical fiction came from newspapers of the day.

M.A.C.

Set ’Em Up, Joe

Barbara Beman

Barbara Beman has written under pen-names in two or three genres and is only now attaching her real name to her droll, stylish and occasionally violent tales of modern urban warfare. By the time this book has appeared, two new novels by her will have appeared and Beman the brand-name will be launched.

The pay-off was only $10,000, and God knows people die every day But something about this one smelled like ten day old hamburger trying to pass for fresh. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something didn’t compute.

For one thing, the life insurance policy was only six months old, which meant an automatic review. And although the deceased, William Crocker, had passed his physical with flying colors, the death certificate read cirrhosis of the liver. Crocker had just turned 23.

The beneficiary of the policy was Crocker’s employer, Joseph Callahan. I guess I could buy that. The policy was strictly small potatoes. Maybe this Callahan had been a father figure, a friend as well as a boss. But Crocker had only applied for a social security card directly before taking out the life insurance with Consolidated.

As I said, something down in Florida was in the state of rotten. I could smell it all the way from the main office. And I had to go to Miami anyway, on another case. Some broad holding a million dollar policy had tried to poison her husband.

Turned out the old man was running around with a young nurse, who foiled the plot. Now the old lady was screaming for her premiums back.

I made a note to check on the Crocker-Callahan mess while I was down there. At least I figured it was a mess. Something about a 23-year-old kid dying of liver failure stuck in my craw. I’ve been a scotch drinker all my life and never had more than an occasional twinge the morning after a bad night. Or maybe it’s the mornings that are bad, after a good night.

Anyway, I decided to do a little investigating. Ask a few questions. Sometimes my hunches paid off. And I was pretty damned curious.

By the time I reached the southwest section of town, I was parched for a cold beer. But I pulled over to a U-Tote-Em and bought a Dr Pepper instead. August in Miami is enough to make a man kill for a cold beer, and the air conditioning in my Chevy rental was on the blink. But something about my talk with the doctor—the one who signed Crocker’s death certificate—had me spooked. Thus the pepper upper.

“Ah, yes, William Crocker. Some case,” Dr. Ortega had told me. He was a compact man, slate gray eyes, rimless spectacles, a nervous giggle.

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