In Laymon's Terms

As he drove down the road, he thought about her. She had been a nice woman with obvious class. Crazy, but nice. Her husband must’ve been a nut to cheat on a good-looking woman like her, unless of course it was because of her craziness.

He thought it nice that she had told him so much about herself. It felt good to be trusted with secrets.

He wondered how far she would have driven him. Not far enough. It was much better having the car to himself. That way he didn’t have to worry. And the $36 he found in her purse was a welcome bonus. He’d been afraid, for a moment, that he might find nothing but credit cards. All around, she had been a good find. He felt very lucky.

At least until the car began to move sluggishly. He pulled off the road and got out. “Oh, no,” he muttered, seeing the flat rear tire. He leaned back against the side of the car and groaned. The sun beat on his face. He closed his eyes and shook his head, disgusted by the situation and thinking how awful it would be, working on the tire for fifteen minutes under that hot sun.

Then he heard, in the distance, the faint sound of a motor. Opening his eyes, he squinted down the road. A car was approaching. For a moment, he considered thumbing a ride. But that, he decided, would be stupid now that he had a car of his own. He closed his eyes again to wait for the car to pass.

But it didn’t pass. It stopped.

He opened his eyes and gasped.

“Afternoon,” the stranger called out.

“Howdy, Officer,” he said, his heart thudding.

“You got a spare?”

“I think so.”

“What do you mean, you think so? You either have a spare or you don’t.”

“What I meant was, I’m not sure if it’s any good. It’s been a while since I’ve had any use for it, you understand?”

“Of course I understand. Guess I’ll stick around till we find out. This is rough country. A person can die out here. If the spare’s no good, I’ll radio for a tow.”

“Okay, thanks.” He opened the door and took the keys from the ignition.

Everything’s okay, he told himself. No reason in the world for this cop to suspect anything.

“Did you go off the road back a ways?”

“No, why?” Even as he asked, he fumbled the keys. They fell to the ground. The other man picked them up.

“Flats around here, they’re usually caused by cactus spines. They’re murder.”

He followed the officer to the rear of the car.

The octagonal key didn’t fit the trunk.

“Don’t know why those dopes in Detroit don’t just make one key that’ll fit the doors and trunk both.”

“I don’t know,” the young man said, matching the other’s tone of disgust and feeling even more confident.

The round key fit. The trunk popped open.

The officer threw a tarp onto the ground and then leveled his pistol at the young man, who was staring at the body of a middle-aged man who obviously had class.

Self-published in July 1971

Self-published in September 1971

Originally Published in Debonair, February 1976

It was a case of “The best laid plans of rapes by men going oft astray...”

tan answered the ringing telephone. “Wide World Travel, Mr. Dallas.”

“Hello. I’m Cindy Hart, and I’m calling in reference to your want ad in the Times. The secretarial position.” The girl’s voice had a quiet, feminine quality without a trace of the cold steel he heard so often in women calling about his ads. Cindy Hart sounded like a warm, open woman. One of life’s winners.

“Would this morning be convenient for an interview?” Stan asked.

“That would be just fine, Mr. Dallas.”

“Very good. We’re located at 110 Weston Avenue, Suite 1408. That’s on the fourteenth floor. Does eleven o’clock sound all right?”

“Just fine. That’s 110 Weston, Suite 1408, at eleven?”

“Right. I’ll look forward to meeting you Miss Hart.” Stan hung up, wiped the sweat off his hands, and stepped out of the telephone booth.

His car was parked at the curb. He got inside and took a deep, trembling breath. Then he looked at his wristwatch. 10:10. Fifty minutes to kill. No, not to kill—to savor. With shaking hands, he lit a cigarette.

The telephone rang. He inhaled deeply, and wondered whether to answer it. Why not? Maybe he could set up a two o’clock appointment for that office building on Central. It was locked on Saturdays, but that wouldn’t give him much trouble. He climbed from the car and walked over to the telephone booth.

“Wide World Travel, Mr. Dallas.”

“I’m calling about the job. Are you the man in charge? Get me the man in charge.”

“I’m sorry, but the opening has already been filled.”

“Sure, sure. Don’t give me the run-around, mister. Get me the man...”

“Get stuffed,” Stan said, and hung up.

The next time the telephone rang, he stayed in his car with his eyes shut, and thought about the soft, warm voice of Cindy Hart.

At 10:40, he pulled away from the curb.