Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

For him, but not for Gloria. Not for a girl whose idea of roughing it was traveling tourist. So the dream had to go. And in its place, the plush house in Burbank, the country club, the cottage at Tahoe, and Gloria. All of which cost money, lots of it, especially Gloria. But the money came easy. As easy as throwing up a shopping center or housing development.

A far cry from the dream, but he could take it as long as he had Gloria.

That was the joker. He hadn’t had her very long. And yet he couldn’t let go. She was his sickness and there was no cure. Not until now. He’d finally found the answer. The final medication to all the years of pain and humiliation.

Stockwell stabbed out the cigarette in the ash tray. It was time. Darkness had descended like a black shroud, wrapping itself around him. The proper mantle for what he had to do.

First he had to know if she was alone. He got out of the car and walked along the crest of the bluff to the carport that belonged to Gloria’s cabana. The Ford Fairlane in the carport looked like a rental. The door was unlocked.

Stockwell found the rental papers inside the glove compartment, made out in Gloria’s name. He found something else too. On the floor, a crumpled cigarette pack. The brand was strong, unfiltered, not like the mild cigarettes Gloria smoked. A man’s brand. His question was answered.

He started cautiously down the steps to the beach. Lights spilled from most of the bungalows below. A mixture of laughter and music drifted toward him with the slight breeze carrying the dank fragrance of the ocean. Someone having a party, he thought. But no one in sight. Good.

He reached the beach. Sand got into his shoes as he waded toward Gloria’s bungalow.

It looked completely dark. Stock-well stopped a few yards away and listened. There were no sounds but the rhythmic roll and slap of the surf minging with the tinkle of music and laughter.

He hoped they wouldn’t be making love when he found them, that he’d be spared that final humiliation. The screen door at the back complained slightly as he eased it open. He was relieved to find the inner door was open. Now that he’d come this far, he wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Inside he paused to let his eyes adjust to the blackness. There was no sound except the whisper of his own cautious breathing. Gradually, the forms of an ice box and stove took shape in the darkness. An even blacker opening to the right showed him the way to the living room. He started through it, feeling his way as if he were walking barefoot on broken glass. His palms were sweaty now, the gun hot in his grip.

He stopped, his heart pounding wildly. He’d remembered how it had been in Korea — the prisoners the Gooks left behind, on their knees as if in prayer, their brains splattered all over the ground.

The gun was like a hot poker in his hand now. He must be crazy to think he could kill like that, like the Gooks. No, only one bullet in the gun would be necessary. The one reserved for himself.

He started to raise the gun, turning it toward his temple, when he saw it! There in the darkness, a dull tip of light. He watched it float up, glowing brighter. A face began to materialize. Gloria’s face, eerily illuminated, suspended in blackness.

Maybe he was crazy. Then he saw the cigarette between the smiling lips. And her voice, soft and mocking.

“Hello, darling. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Something hard jammed painfully against the base of Stockwell’s spine. Another voice, a man’s, said, “Easy, Stockwell! Just drop the gun and this thing won’t go off.”

Stockwell did as he was told, blinking in the sudden flare of light from the table lamp. Gloria was curled up in the arm chair next to the lamp, her long model’s legs protruding from a turquoise shift. Her sensuous mouth was smiling its usual mocking smile.

“Darling, how nice of you to drop in.”

“Hello, Gloria,” Brad Stockwell said thickly.

“Get his gun, baby,” the man behind him said. “Keep him covered while I tie him up.”

Gloria uncurled herself from the chair and picked up the .22 at Brad’s feet.

Her gun. He’d bought it for her when they were first married. He watched her thumb off the safety with a long polished nail, the way he’d taught her, and level the gun at his stomach. The pressure left his spine. A moment later his arms were jerked painfully behind his back, and something that felt like soft cloth was being wrapped tightly around his wrists.

“That won’t be necessary,” Stockwell said. “I’m over the revenge obsession.”

The voice behind him snarled a reply.

“Okay. On the couch, Stockwell!”

Stockwell felt a hand shove him roughly toward the long beige couch. He was surprised by the sudden flash of anger that surged through him. He spun around to confront the man, Gloria’s latest lover.