Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

Zuniga closed his eyes; inside his mind he began visualizing the long drive northwest to Colorado, the vast shimmering plateau surrounding him — wait, modify that, erase the sunlit scene, replace it with total black; the landscape would be invisible in the darkness as Arturo sped along the interstate, absence of light matching his black mood — driving up there to pay back a wannabe player for not doing what he—

“That you, Arty?” the voice at the other end blurted.

Arty? What the hell was that — nobody called him that.

“Murphy?” he demanded.

“Uh... yeah — what’s up, pard’?”

“Where the hell you been the last three days?” Arturo demanded.

Pause. Clearing of throat. “I, uh, had a gas leak, they wouldn’t let me in — afraid of an explosion or something, I guess.” His voice sounded hoarse. From a cold or something. Maybe too much grass.

Arturo sighed. “I guess you heard the man’s history — why didn’t you call?”

The voice said, “Well, like I mentioned, they wouldn’t, uh, well... didn’t have your number.” Voice less hoarse, but more tentative. Maybe scared.

He was right, though. Zuniga hadn’t given him his number or, for that matter, even his location. Far as Murphy knew, Arturo was calling from New York City. The less clients or their operatives knew, the better — ah hell, Caller ID; Murphy probably had it, so he did have this number.

“You got my money?” Arturo blurted angrily.

He had a cash-only policy and it suited his clients perfectly ’cause they didn’t want ties to him, either. No such thing as too many precautions in his line of work.

When there was no answer, he asked, “Murphy — you got my money?”

“Yeah... I got your — yeah, I got it,” the voice replied, the tremulous hesitation putting Arturo on guard.

Something was wrong. Almost sounded like the dumb-ass didn’t know what they were talking about. Or maybe he was stalling or on a fishing expedition — oh shit, had this idiot been flipped by somebody? Was the call being monitored?

“You sound spaced, Irish,” Arturo said, letting scepticism and moderate disdain flow freely through his tone.

“Just, uh, just a little nervous, Arty.”

Arty again. Goddamn. Was this jerk flying on something?

“But you do have my money?” Arturo asked. “All of it?”

Another damn pause. “Yeah, I got it.” It was obvious that Murphy was thinking of something else. Bothered by something.

Arturo asked, “Got all of it, right?” Thinking: Don’t trust anybody — if Murphy isn’t playing him, he’ll reiterate the amount. Unless something else is wrong.

“How much is ‘all of it,’ Irish?” Arturo asked, focusing, listening closely for some kind of tell — some flicker in speech or ill-timed clearing of the throat. Anything.

No answer.

“You hear me, Murphy?”

“Look, I got your money but I gotta run now — I’ll be back—”

“Gotta run?” Arturo shouted, sure now that he was being messed with, being screwed over or something. “What the hell you mean, you gotta run?”

Click. Dead line.

Jack dropped the remote handset on the couch, the plastic device bouncing once on the cushion and then tumbling off onto the living-room carpet — Jesus, sweet Jesus. “...the man’s history,” this Zuniga guy had said. And he wanted money. Thinks he’s talking to some guy named Murphy. Jesus.

The phone lay on the champagne-colored “just have to have that shade” carpet his wife had picked out with her decorator — or Lifestyle Coordinator, as he liked to be called; slick black-haired dude with a goatee, liked to touch his female clients when he talked to them, and in a lingering fashion — speaking of black: The black phone seemed somehow sinister, deadly, lying there on the silky beige floor covering.

Don’t be stupid, Hafner. He fought the obvious conclusion the conversation evoked and tried to think of alternatives. Couldn’t it have been fairly innocent? Hell, car salesmen talked worse than that about customers — “taking their heads off,” “tearing out their throats,” “making a killing.” Could be something like that, something that only sounded like—

Call the cops! A strident voice inside his head urged him.

Jack leaned forward over the handset and then stopped himself. Frowned. Peered at his own reaching hand, saw the trembling, felt his whole body shaking. My God, I’m really frightened.

All he’d been doing was having some fun, messing with some idiot couldn’t get the right number and now he was in the middle of... what?

His mind shied back to the path he’d been on; he shook his head, thinking, If I call the cops, what then? Tell them what? Even if he quoted Arturo, there wasn’t anything they could check on, especially since Zuniga lived over in the middle of Texas. Who was gonna check out some call from way over there?