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

He sighed heavily and shook his head some more. Started chewing on his lower lip, trying to come up with an explanation that didn’t scare him so damn much — something other than what he really feared. He hurried over to the side bar and poured himself a good six fingers of bourbon, no ice. Goddamn frozen water takes up too much room in the glass, you don’t drink it fast the ice melts and waters down the booze.

Gulping it now, a molten sensation as the liquor hotly drizzles down his insides... He feels the sharp raised facets of the cut-glass tumbler under his fingers, hand trembling as he drinks, liquor dribbling down his chin, oddly cool on his skin while hot inside his throat, and now noticing more cool sensations from beaded sweat evaporating off his forehead.

Another belt can’t hurt, pouring, nodding at the satisfying clink of the bottle neck against the glass tumbler. He swigged it down, eyes darting around the room as though he expected Arturo to materialize in the living room and start blazing away with a pair of forty-fives.

“The man’s history.”

Jack sighed, not wanting to accept the obvious. But... ah hell, you can’t con a con man, even if it’s yourself — Zuniga was a hit man all right, no question about it; no use trying to kid himself, go into some kind of denial or something. And the guy wanted his money. Might be on his way here right now, coming up from that dry-ass San Antonio to lush, green Denver — Oh yeah, that’s helpful, a goddamn climate commentary — when Zuniga got here and found out he wasn’t Murphy he wouldn’t settle for just getting his money, he’d have to kill the imposter to cover his murdering Italian ass.

A frown on his face, not knowing why... then Jack realized that a question had arisen inside his head unbidden: Is Zuniga an Italian name? Or Spanish?

Yeah. Important distinction, Hafner. Like the climate.

A sustained sigh. He needed to gather his wandering speculations, forcibly herd his stray thoughts into some kind of coherent structure. If Zuniga was a hit man, then who had he killed? Somebody on the news? Senator or somebody? Probably a crooked office-holder, somebody got too close to the fire.

Jack tried to evoke his sense of humor: Hope it was a Democrat, some bleeding-heart liberal bastard maybe, one of those help-the-poor types, like his wife. Can’t be a crime to kill a Democrat.

A shudder played upward along his spine. Why couldn’t he see this as funny? It oughta be funny. Goddamn me anyway, always with the practical jokes. Old man Burke was right — they’ll be the death of me.

He picked up the TV remote and pressed the sliding-panel button and the wall parted, exposing the screen, already lighting up. Jack surfed until he got CNN and some talking head wearing glasses and a supercilious expression, telling about the tragic accident of a political activist, some guy with strong Washington connections. Small plane down in the mountains near Telluride, witnesses hiking the summertime ski slope reported a flash of light and some smoke while it was still in the air.

Oh Christ — guy who put the bomb on board now has his phone number, matter of time before he has the address. Jack tossed back another shot of bourbon just as the phone rang.

The chirping dark chunk of plastic seemed to mock him from the champagne carpet, loudly chortling like some kind of demented mechanical crow.

The phone rang four times before the answering machine switched on: same metallic voice as when Arturo had called before over the last three days.

“...at the sound of the tone.”

He said, “I know you’re there, asshole, pick up the damn phone.”

Faint sound of electronic pulses, barely audible white noise.

He punched in the numbers again and got the same response. And again...

Set the phone down and headed for the bathroom, blood rising under his skin all over his body. Hurrying now, near bursting — when he got angry he always had to go, couldn’t handle a full bladder and a chest flooded with molten anger.

Cocoa-colored ceramic walls flashed by as he headed across the gleaming swirls of brown, gold, and beige making up the Spanish-tile floor. Mirrors everywhere, the heavy flawless type with beveled edges, kind they sell you by the square inch.

Finished, Arturo quickly spritzed his hands under the gold faucet and dried on a thick beige towel. Maybe a wrong number. But the guy had known about the job, about the big shot being history, and about the money. Had to be Murphy.