American Nocturne Page 2

  The title story, American Nocturne, also hits the right note for me. It has a jazzy, noir vibe, and even though I haven’t talked much about noir here, I’m a longtime fan. I even write noir dark fantasy stories. So Hank played the kind of smoky music I want to hear.

  Hank’s rather twisted sense of humor is evident in Midnight Bogey Blues, which starts with a pickup truck driving a back road (always a lure I’ll lunge at) and then goes immediately into a direction that I did not see coming. If the writers of Justified had been stoned out of their goddamned minds they mind have tried this as an experimental episode. Possibly after Raylan received a serious head injury. Lots of fun.

  Gomorrah is something else again. Very, very risky and very, very nasty. Which is exactly what this story should be. It’s a tale of bullying, homophobia and red comeuppance. Not for the whole family.

  Bone Daddy is a truly disturbing story with a necrophilia scene that made me want to drink whole milk and read the Bible. Seriously. I washed my hands afterward and forced myself to have pure thoughts.

  Hank hit it out of the park with A Murmur of Evil because it is not only a story featuring one of my all-time favorite TV characters, the seedy, cowardly yet intrepid reporter Karl Kolchak, but it’s an officially sanctioned Kolchak story. Hank got permission from Jeff Rice, creator of The Night Stalker shortly before the author’s death. And it catches the right flavor of the TV show. This is one they could use to re-launch that franchise.

  Having just written a weird west novel and a couple of weird west short stories of my own, I was primed for Phantom Hill. This captures that elusive element of dark magic and mystery that we glimpse in a lot of stories of gunslingers and cowboys and black hats. We glimpse it but it often flits away. Hank ran it down and corralled it nicely – if ‘nice’ is a word that can be applied to a story as dark as this.

  And Hank stays in the old west again for To Judge the Quick, the most literary and elegant tale in the collection, filled with rich imagery and character insight. This is a story about rough justice that is strangely satisfying.

  Nurture is one of those stories that seemed to leap off the headlines. No joke. The night before I read this disturbing story I’d read a news feature about how the majority of popular scientific studies were flawed, faulty or fraudulent. Nurture predicts that but goes a few very dark steps farther. No, that’s underselling it. Nurture is, in many ways, Hank’s darkest and most disturbing tale because it’s plausible in ways you’ll understand when you read it. Call it a nod to Edgar Allan Poe via Eli Roth.

  Then we jump back to the beginning of Hank’s career with Mugwumps, his first published short story. If this was all we had, the decision would be, “the kid’s got talent’. But seeded in among stories from later in his career we see that, yeah, he had talent, but he refined it over the years. If To Judge the Quick is elegant, Mugwumps is raw and rowdy fun. Not a happy tale, but a wild one.

  In terms of genre, Cold Service is straight supernatural thriller, but in terms of plot it’s a convoluted, twisted (in every sense of the word) story of madness, obsession, and revenge. You won’t see the ending coming. Not a chance.

  And the collection ends with an epic, existential science fiction tale, AB-IV with another little wicked twist at the end. A Schwaeble trademark.

  In all these twelve tales take you on a bumpy ride through the shadowy back roads of the author’s mind. It’s strange, strange country and the scenery isn’t always pretty… but it is one hell of a ride.

  Buckle up.

  Jonathan Maberry

  Del Mar, California, August 2015

  American Nocturne

  MIDNIGHT AND THE place was already dead. Les figured with no one else around the gal at the piano would notice him, but if she did she didn’t seem to care. Just kept stroking the keys and staring at her fingers, sidesaddle on the bench, legs crossed, a pale calf showing through the slit of her dress, playing something slow and dark with one hand while holding a cigarette in the other, wringing every note dry and making it look easy. He picked up the glass next to him, peered into it. Empty, but he couldn’t wait any longer for the bartender to come back, no matter how much he wanted one more. He’d already waited a long time for this. It was down to the two of them. There didn’t seem to be any point in dragging it out further. Not when he only had one night.

  He weaved his way across the floor, avoiding chairs that hid in the shadows, and came to a stop in the curve of the baby grand, hands in his pockets. She was leaning over the keyboard, facing him, her elbow resting above it, flicking her cigarette into a martini saucer. She didn’t look up.

  “Took you long enough,” she said. She rattled two keys then ran a finger across several, falling back into the melody she’d started with.

  “Maybe I just wanted to let you finish.” He paused, waiting for her to respond. When she didn’t, he said, “What is it?”

  “It doesn’t really have a name. Do you like it?”

  “Not really, no.”

  She kept playing, head and eyes still down. “Why not?”

  “Nothing to do with you. I just like my stuff upbeat. This one’s a bit of a downer. Sounds... hopeless.”

  “Pieces like this are called nocturnes. They’re meant to capture the mood of the night, remind one of things that happen after dark. Originally, they were only played after sundown, usually quite late. Some composers would write them by moonlight, to help ensure they evoked the proper emotions.” Her hand stopped, hovering above the keys. For the first time she raised her head, flashed her eyes at him. Cloudy gray irises with maybe a hint of green, long lashes fluttering. “Is that how the night makes you feel, Mr Noonan? Hopeless?”

  She was a looker, that was for sure. Skin whiter than the ivory next to her, hair darker than the ebony. Her dress was as red as her lips, which were plenty, and matched her nails. The cloth of it was shiny and smooth and showed a lot of that white skin.

  “Detective. And you can cut the routine, Lady. If you know my name, then you know why I’m here.”

  The woman lowered her fingers, making them dance along the keys until they couldn’t go much higher. Her thumb and ring finger drummed two discordant ones rapidly and she stopped. “Do you know what makes music, Detective? It’s not the notes. It’s the space between notes. Quite the metaphor, really.”

  “If you think I’m gonna bite, you’re wrong. You may be a sweet slice of cake, but I’ve been looking for you for quite some time.”

  A tiny laugh escaped her nostrils as she covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Something funny?”

  “You sound like you’re in a movie. Sweet slice of cake? Do you think people really talk like that?”

  “We can dispense with all the charming banter. The top of my hourglass is running empty. I need to get this all figured out soon, like yesterday. That’s where you come in. I think you know what I’m talking about.”

  “Are you a gambling man, Officer Noonan?”

  “Like I told you, it’s Detective. And I’ve been known to wager a few bills on a game every now and then.”

  “A few bills? I think you’re being modest. But I’m willing to bet you’re not here on official police business, are you, Detective?”

  “It’s official enough. Tracking you down wasn’t easy, you know.”

  “And now that you’ve found me – what happens next? Are you going to arrest me?”

  “You’re going to show me where it is.”

  “Interesting. And what exactly is it you expect me to lead you to, Detective?”

  “I think you know that, too.”

  “Oh, I know, yes. What I’m asking is, do you?”

  “Cute. Why don’t you get your pretty little rear end off that seat and we can go for a ride. You can take me to it and we can get this over with.”

  “Everything is over with eventually, Detective.” She took a drag off her cigarette and eyed him with an enigmatic smirk, blowing a stream of smoke that curled up and out of sight.
“It’s only a matter of time.”

  * * *

  The house was a tumbledown shotgun shack, last on the left. The street dead-ended just short of a freeway, with an enormous palm tree overshadowing everything, its fronds spreading out from the concrete wall that sealed off traffic and draping over the front yard.

  The road was quiet. And dark. No one was around – no cars on the street or TVs visible through windows, not even sounds from the highway. Even the streetlight was out. The only illumination was from the moon high overhead, though that was more than bright enough to see by. Moon shadows darkened the landscape into a gray-scale patchwork.

  “Care to explain what we’re doing here?” Les said, eyes moving from the front of the house down the gravelly drive to the detached single-car garage in the rear that looked about to collapse. “You’d better not be playing me.”

  “You wanted me to take you to what you’re looking for. This is the first stop.”

  “First stop? Doll, I don’t think you appreciate the pressure I’m under here. I don’t have any time for detours. I need answers.”

  “Relax, Detective. Do you want to find it, or not? If so, this is the first place we have to look. I assume you know where we are.”

  Les huffed and stepped off the street onto the curb, giving the house a closer look. It seemed like he’d been there before, but in the partial wash of moonlight, its details obscured in inky recesses, he was having trouble placing it. Like a memory that kept scooting just out of reach.

  “Does the name Tommy Nifong mean anything to you?”

  Les shot a look back at her over his shoulder. “Tommy Nifong?” He stared at the house again. Now he saw it. He’d been there before, all right. It looked different in the daylight. A lot different, apparently.

  “I take it he’s someone you know,” she said.

  “A low-level snitch. Three-time loser, always trading dirt for a pass. Every badge in south LA knows him. You’re saying he’s got some information? What am I supposed to do? Knock?”

  The woman shrugged. “You’re the detective.”

  Les started to say something sharp, something to put her in her place, then thought better of it. If this was the way she wanted to play it, fine. He reached beneath his coat for his service revolver, then decided against that, too. Tommy Nifong wasn’t likely to try anything. The little crapweasel was scared of his own shadow.

  The front door seemed too direct, too out in the open on the quiet street. Sounds would echo, lights would turn on, someone might shout through a window wanting to know who was ringing the bell at this hour. Even rundown hellholes could have nosy neighbors. He walked across the front lawn, or what there was of one, to the driveway. He’d go around back. Maybe knock. Maybe not, if the door was unlocked. He’d play it by ear.

  Every footfall crunched, making the walk seem long. The pebble-strewn drive continued past the house to the garage. Les stopped and looked at the back of the house. The moon was brighter back there, beaming its bluish glow without obstruction, bathing the patchy ground and dilapidated garage in pale neon. The backyard was a littered with refuse that formed little islands of junk. A bicycle on its side with one wheel half buried, surrounded by an assortment of gears and chains. A roll of chicken wire tangled in weeds next to a scattering of lumber. A wooden doghouse with a large dog bowl in front of it.

  He walked to the back door and hopped up the step. The glass outer door was cracked and broken. It creaked open when he touched it. The interior door was ajar. Even in the moonlight, Les could see the jamb was split and separated. Kicked in at the latch.

  Les put two fingers on the door and pushed, his other hand reaching for his thirty-eight.

  Enough light crept in from outside for him to see he was in a kitchen, and that in the middle of the kitchen was a table. He could make out a dark shape, like someone sitting across from where he stood, facing him. He switched his gun to his left hand, reached over and patted the wall until he found a light switch.

  A single naked bulb popped on overhead, the burst of yellow chasing away the darkness, scattering it to other rooms.

  White guy. Skinny. Crew cut. Acne on his forehead. His arms were pulled back behind the sparkly green vinyl chair, bound with telephone cord and duct tape to the chipped and grimy chrome frame. The guy’s head was back, pointed at the ceiling, but not looking. A bib of blood covered him from his chin, spreading out over the ribbed cotton of his wife-beater. One eye was swollen closed. The other bulged sideways, staring at nothing.

  Les circled the table and lowered himself into a crouch next to the body, taking a closer look. His eyes moved to a ballpeen hammer on the table, then down to the man’s feet. Both ankles were strapped with duct tape to the corresponding legs of the chair. Both feet were bare, both pulverized beyond easy recognition. Shards of bone jutted through torn flaps of skin, gristly chunks of hamburger protruding like explosions. The only thing that resembled feet at all were the swollen, black toes, and not by much.

  A knotted, bloody sock sat in a lump on the floor behind the chair. Les picked it up. The cotton stretched down, its contents heavy.

  “Looks like someone beat us to it.”

  Les turned his head to see the woman standing in the doorway, backlit by the moon. She leaned against the jamb and retrieved a cigarette and lighter from a small purse.

  “You knew we’d find him like this,” Les said.

  The woman tilted her head and raised the cigarette to her mouth, the lighter just behind it. Her face was too dark to read, and the sudden flash of flame while she took a drag did little more than camouflage her expression with misplaced shadows.

  “Who do you think did it?” she said, replacing her lighter and gesturing with the glowing end of the cigarette.

  Les let his gaze linger on her for a moment, still unsure what to make of her, then turned his attention back to the body and shrugged. “Hard to say. They used the hammer on his feet. That should have been enough to get him to talk. Either he didn’t, or they didn’t like what he had to say. That’s when they let loose with this.”

  He held up the sock, tugged at the dangling loose end sticking out of the knot, looking at the fabric. The heavy end swayed like a pendulum.

  “Probably the socks the kid was wearing. Doubled up. Filled with heavy-gauge washers, I’d say. Probably from a tool box in the garage. This is what they worked on his head with.”

  She blew out a long plume of smoke. “And why would they do that?”

  “Because whoever it was wanted something, something he wouldn’t give them. Kid probably knew he was dead either way, wouldn’t give it up. The person who did this was past getting him to talk. He was just angry.” Les looked at the bloody socks, frayed and dirty and sagging from the weight. He tossed the lump onto the table, where it made a clanky thud. “And I’m guessing you know exactly who we’re talking about.”

  “Do you want to run me in, Detective? Book me? Question me?” She stepped forward into the light, raised a finger. “There’s a phone. Why don’t you call it in, if that’s the case. It is a homicide, isn’t it? And you are a cop, aren’t you?”

  Les looked over to the corner. A black phone sat on the formica countertop, wedged between islands of clutter. He imagined the receiver as a matador’s hat, two round ears. He stared at it, but didn’t move.

  “Now that we’ve got that settled,” she said. “Let’s stop pretending. Do you want to find what you came here for, or do you want to keep acting like this is about me?”

  He watched the phone for another few seconds, then shot the woman a look and let his gaze roam the small room. Ratty cupboards all open, a few plates and cups and glasses shattered on the countertop and the floor. His attention gradually settled back on the body.

  “Anyone who would take the time to work someone over like this would toss every inch of the place before leaving. Going over it again would be a waste of time.”

  She nodded, looked at her cigarette. “This young man, Tommy N
ifong... you said he didn’t talk, right?”

  “Does it look to you like he talked?”

  “If that’s true, he must have known whoever did this wouldn’t find it in the house, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I guess. What are you getting at?”

  Inclining her head, she puffed out a ring of smoke and stuck a finger in it. She swirled the finger in a growing circle until the smoke spiraled into nothing. “If you were wanting to hide something, something you wanted to keep close by, but didn’t want anyone else to be able to find, where would you hide it?”

  Les looked down at the bruised, bloody face. He raised his head and peered through the back door. “Garage?”

  “But would you? Or would you think about it and realize that was the second place someone would look after they’d ransacked the house?”

  “Look, Lady, if you know where it is, quit playing these games. I’m starting to lose my patience. That sand is running out.”

  “Then try harder. Where would you look next, Detective Noonan? Or, let me put it this way. Where is the last place you’d look?”

  Les walked to the back door, glaring at her as he passed. He stopped in the doorway and surveyed the lot. Rundown garage to the right – too obvious not to have been checked. The whole yard would have been walked at least once, looking for a patch of ground that had been dug. His line of sight passed over the pale glimmer of the old bicycle, the overgrown roll of chickenwire. It would have been hard to check everything. The pressure would have been on to get out of there. They couldn’t have taken their time, not with a body in the house. They’d have felt exposed. They would have rushed.

  He found himself staring at the doghouse, uncertain why. He glanced back over his shoulder to the woman, who took a final drag on her cigarette before snuffing it out on the laminate table top. She hooded her eyes, blinking slowly. He expected her to nod or gesture, had to remind himself she couldn’t read his thoughts.