Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

The sun shining in his bedroom window awakened Billy Joe the next morning. He had a leisurely breakfast and took his second cup of coffee out on the front porch. Pa’s truck was parked out front. Billy Joe hadn’t heard him come in, but that wasn’t unusual. Billy Joe was a sound sleeper.

About fifteen minutes later Boss came walking into the yard, no worse for the wear and tear. Ignoring Billy Joe, he went to his customary place under the porch to lie down.

Billy Joe got dressed and puttered around the house most of the day trying to figure out how to explain his new-found wealth. He knew Pa would want to know where he got the money when Billy Joe walked into Lonzo’s that night. Billy Joe finally decided that since he turned eighteen today, and was legally an adult, he didn’t have to explain anything to anybody.

About four that afternoon, Billy Joe showered, dressed, and put some of the money in his wallet. He had hoped to get a ride to town with Pa, but Pa was still asleep. He figured that now that he was an adult it wouldn’t look just right if he rode his bicycle into town. He decided he would hitchhike and was walking down the road when Sheriff Hamilton pulled off on the shoulder in front of him and stopped. The sheriff got out, the deputy stayed put. “Afternoon, Billy Joe,” said Sheriff Hamilton, smiling.

The sheriff had never been nice to him before, and it made Billy Joe nervous. “Hello, sheriff.”

“Got some news you might be interested in. You remember those two guys I stopped down by the lake yesterday, don’t you? Well, it turns out they got killed by some drug dealers over in New Orleans. Seems they tried to sell them some flour. Imagine them trying something that stupid. Funny thing is, they were both covered with bite marks from a large animal. Isn’t that odd?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Billy Joe, wondering how much the sheriff knew.

“You know what else those guys were into? Counterfeiting. They made counterfeit twenties. Not very good ones. Not good enough to fool anyone who was paying attention.”

Billy Joe’s heart sank. Damn! All that money was counterfeit. There went his birthday celebration.

“Get in, Billy Joe,” the sheriff said, smiling again and opening the car door.

“W-W-Why? What’d I do?” Billy Joe asked, trying to keep from panicking.

“Nothing. At least nothing I can prove. I saw you all dressed up and I just figured you were going to town to register to vote and needed a ride. I’m always available to assist my constituency, you know.”

Tall Tommy and the Millionaire by S. S. Rafferty

Thank God February has only twenty-eight days because it is the worst month for business at the bistro I own on Third Avenue. Right after the holidays my society swells start their exodus to Palm Springs, the Riviera, or places that are invariably named Costa Del Something and cost del everything. By February first, I could rent the joint out as a warehouse or a branch of Campbell’s Funeral Home. This can be very depressing to a standup comic like me, so in February, I relax the house charge account limit and let my riffraff pals in for the company of it. Costly, but comforting. Without an audience, I veg out.

The only problem is on the first Monday in the month. The assemblage in the bar lounge is paying more attention to Tall Tommy Tanuka than they are to me.

Ingrates.

But who’s to cavil. Tall Tommy is the best in his business, which is being a professional liar. I don’t mean like an ad man or a PR guy — mere pikers. Tall Tommy is world class in mendacity, and he makes one swell living at it, too, which is another reason not to cavil because at least he’s paying cash for his potables.

You see, Tall Tommy Tanuka sells lies to people in tight spots. For instance, let’s say a guy gets lost with a bimbo for a couple of days and wants to go home to wifey. What excuse is he going to use? Most of us would come up with some wimp-type lie that a cloistered nun could see through. But call in Tall Tommy, and man, you’ve got yourself a beauty, a scenario complete with all the trimmings. He is so good that in his presence polygraph machines blow fuses and truth serum curdles.

So it’s around eleven P.M. of this Monday in a dreary February, and Tall Tommy is telling us about a mob type who’s on his deathbed over in Jersey and calls for Tanuka’s services. The hood knows that his minutes are numbered, and he wants a great story to tell St. Peter so he can get inside the gates of heaven. It’s the high point, the apex, of Tall T’s career — he’s going to put one over on God. Now that’s chutzpah; that’s a pro!

His rendition is so terrific it is moving Barry Kantrowitz, my partner (and former agent, when I was working the flat floors on the road) to tears.

“You know, Chick,” Barry says to me, “this is the ligner of ligners. Even God would believe him!”