Black Cat Weekly #116 E-Book

Norman Spinrad

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 395

Beschreibung

On behalf of the staff, the contributors, and myself, I’d like to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving. (You may all burst into traditional Thanksgiving carols, should you wish.)

Here’s our holiday lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Restavek,” by Neil S. Plakcy [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Case of the Tipsy Turkey,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“he Final Course,” by Stacy Woodson [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“Tiger Island,” by Carl Jacobi [short story]
Tiger Island, by Jack Ritchie [serial novel, part 1 of 3]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Baad-hin’jan and the Chickpea,” by Anna Tambour [short story]
“The Music of the Sphere” by Norman Spinrad [short story]
“Go To Sleep, My Darling,” by Winston K. Marks [short story]
“The Statistomat Pitch,” by Chan Davis [short story]
The Eagle’s Wing, by Francis Jarman [serial novel, part 1 of 4]

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE RESTAVEK, by Neil S. Plakcy

THE CASE OF THE TIPSY TURKEY, by Hal Charles

THE FINAL COURSE, by Stacy Woodson

TIGER ISLAND, by Carl Jacobi

TIGER ISLAND, by Jack Ritchie

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

BAAD-HIN’JAN AND THE CHICKPEA, by Anna Tambour

THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERE, by Norman Spinrad

GO TO SLEEP, MY DARLING, by Winston K. Marks

THE STATISTOMAT PITCH, by Chan Davis

THE EAGLE’S WING, by Francis Jarman

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE FACTIONS IN THE SENATE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

“The Restavek,” is copyright © 2023 by Neil S. Plakcy and appears here for the first time.

“The Case of the Larcenous Leprechaun” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

“The Final Course,” is copyright © 2019 by Stacy Woodson. Originally published in Flash Bang Mysteries. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Tiger Island,” by Carl Jacobi, was originally published in Thrilling Adventures, May 1937.

Tiger Island is copyright © 1987 by the Estate of Jack Ritchie. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Jack Ritchie.

“Baad-hin’jan and the Chickpea” is copyright © 2015 by Anna Tambour. First published in The Finest Ass in the Universe by Anna Tambour, Ticonderoga Publications, 2015. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“The Music of the Sphere” is copyright © 2011 by Norman Spinrad. Originally published in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, July 2011. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Go To Sleep, My Darling,” by Winston K. Marks, was originally published in Infinity, November 1958.

“The Statistomat Pitch,” by Chan Davis, was originally published in Infinity, January 1958.

The Eagles Wing is copyright © 2015 by Francis Jarman. Reprinted by permission of the author.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

On behalf of the staff, the contributors, and myself, I’d like to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving. (You may all burst into traditional Thanksgiving carols, should you wish.)

Here’s our holiday lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Restavek,” by Neil S. Plakcy [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“The Case of the Tipsy Turkey,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

“he Final Course,” by Stacy Woodson [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

“Tiger Island,” by Carl Jacobi [short story]

Tiger Island, by Jack Ritchie[serial novel, part 1 of 3]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“Baad-hin’jan and the Chickpea,” by Anna Tambour [short story]

“The Music of the Sphere” by Norman Spinrad [short story]

“Go To Sleep, My Darling,” by Winston K. Marks [short story]

“The Statistomat Pitch,” by Chan Davis [short story]

The Eagle’s Wing, by Francis Jarman[serial novel, part 1 of 4]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

THE RESTAVEK,by Neil S. Plakcy

Biff Andromeda was the only Miami private eye who was also a centuries-old genie. His clients were required to sign a contract granting them a specific wish—give me proof that my husband is cheating on me, find my lost dog, track a missing amulet, and so on. There was a great deal of work for a private eye with a foot in both this world and the shadow one, and he had many connections in the community, including Mirlandy Saint-Fenix, a mambo, or voodoo priestess, who specialized in family troubles.

One Monday morning, he was sitting at his office sipping tea from a glass. In the human world, he took the form of a bald man, six-four, with a muscular build and a deep tan. There was a hint of the Oriental around his eyes, accentuated when he smiled. Raki, the squirrel who had adopted him, was curled up in the corner sleeping, but when Mambo Mirlandy opened the glass office door to the outside, Raki scurried for safe haven beneath Biff’s desk.

Mirlandy was tall for a woman, nearly six feet, and she had the regal bearing of someone who had been a queen in a previous life. Her skin was mahogany-colored, her wiry black hair going gray as she neared her seventies.

Biff and Mirlandy had met a few months before when Biff was investigating the theft of a piece of art from a Haitian museum in North Miami. They had recognized a kinship in their mutual ability to see beyond this world.

That morning, she had a meek, dark-skinned young woman with her. In contrast to Mirlandy’s brightly-colored pants suit and African-style headdress, the young woman wore a gray dress that could have been a maid’s uniform. “This is Lydie Belizaire,” Mirlandy said, in a rolling accent. “She need your help to find her lost daughter, Mousseline.”

“Please, sit down,” Biff said.

“You know what is restavek?” Mirlandy asked as they sat on the plush armchairs across from his massive Oriental-style desk.

Biff nodded. In Haiti, wealthier families often took in young children, either orphans or those whose parents couldn’t support them, and gave them food and shelter in exchange for domestic duties. They were called restaveks, or stay-withs, and the fortunate ones were allowed to go to school and treated more like extra kids than slaves.

“Lydie, she was hotel maid in Port-Au-Prince, but hotel close, maybe three, four months before earthquake. She have no money, and only job she can get is in Cap-Haitien, where she cannot bring Mousseline. So, she give her to family as restavek.”

Lydie began speaking rapidly in Creole. Biff could understand only a few words of the spoken language, though because of its close relationship to French he could figure out more in print. Mirlandy listened, then took the woman’s hand in hers and squeezed.

Then she turned back to Biff. “Soon after earthquake, this family leave Haiti for Florida.” She pronounced the country’s name Ayiti, as it was in Creole.

“Did they take Mousseline with them?” he asked.

“Lydie think so, yes, though is very hard to find information. Many peoples leave Haiti quickly without records.”

The younger woman spoke again, but this time Mirlandy held up her hand and told her to wait. “Lydie pay much money to smuggler to come to Florida to look for Mousseline, but cannot find family, or daughter. She ask me for help but I cannot.”

“What information does she have?”

“Not much. The family name Jean-Louis. She have address back in Port-Au-Prince, but that neighborhood all gone now.”

“Why does she think they’re here in Miami? There are big Haitian neighborhoods in Canada, in New York, in other cities.”

“The lwa tell me so.”

A lwa, Biff knew, was a powerful spirit intermediary in voodoo.

Mirlandy held Lydie’s arm up to Biff. “Here, take her hand, you will see.”

He stood up and walked around the table to the young woman. He took her limp hand in both of his, closed his eyes, and let the magic work.

Mirlandy stood in front of an altar decorated with lively paintings in the Creole style—bright colors, almost cartoonish humans, angels, and devils. She wore a flowing white dress with lacy sleeves, and a white cap embroidered with what looked like tiny pearls.

She sprinkled cornmeal on the concrete floor, then squatted beside it and drew a symbol with her finger. When she stood again, she began to sway and dance, and Biff heard her repeat the name Erzulie, the lwa, or god, associated with the Virgin Mary in voodoo.

Suddenly, Lydie began to move, awkwardly at first, then more smoothly. Biff knew that this was the time when the lwa “possessed” the body of the supplicant. Erzulie was one of the gentlest of the lwa, but Lydie’s movements were not gentle at all, and she began shouting in Creole. Mambo Mirlandy looked frightened and began speaking quickly herself. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the possession was over, and Lydie fell to the ground in a heap.

Mambo Mirlandy opened a wire cage and removed a white chicken from it. She pulled a knife from a shelf and slit the chicken’s throat in one swift move. The bird twitched in her hands, and then regurgitated a long worm.

Lydie released Biff’s hand, and the vision disappeared. Biff felt drained by the connection to the dark magic, and once he returned to his seat, he picked up the hand-made brass lamp that rested at one side of his desk. It had been forged more than a thousand years before, by a metalsmith in Constantinople who had a touch of magic in his fingers. It was about twelve inches long, with an ornate, half-moon shaped handle and a long narrow spout. The brass lid had been engraved with an image of the Hagia Sophia cathedral, which added to its mystical power.

He wrapped his hands around it. The brass was always warm to the touch, and as he rubbed the lamp, he felt power and energy move from its reservoir into him.

“What did Erzulie tell you?” he asked Mirlandy.

“She say that the girl come to Florida, that she is close by and in danger.” She reached over and took Lydie’s hand again. “I talk to many families, asking who they know who have restaveks. I find some, but not Mousseline.”

Biff held up his hand to stop her. “And you just left them?” Biff asked. “Like slaves?”

She straightened her shoulders. “I do not leave any child in such place. I see good families, who feed children and give them clothes, let them go to school. Is charity, not slavery.”

“Fine. Let’s go back, then. You believe that Mousseline is here in Miami, but you don’t know where, and don’t have any leads.”

“Just this.” She lifted the shopping bag and extracted a worn stuffed dog with one floppy ear. The head had been carefully stitched where the other ear had once been.

He put down the lamp and took the dog from her. He opened his third eye, the metaphysical gate to higher realms, and flexed his fingers and toes, letting the energy flow into him. He had an acute sense of smell, fifty times better than any bloodhound. His vision was well above average; he could read a license plate on a moving car a quarter of a mile away. Like a dog, he could hear up to 100,000 vibrations per second.

He hoped that there would be enough of the girl’s residual energy and love in the stuffed dog to help him detect reverberations of her scent and aura.

“I’ll take the case,” he said, when he was confident he could sense those faint traces. After Lydie signed the contract, he thanked her and asked if he could keep the dog.

When the two women left, the squirrel came out from beneath the desk and climbed up Biff’s leg, then jumped to the bookcase beside him. “You didn’t like her, did you?” Biff asked Raki. “Too much magic, right?”

The squirrel chittered eagerly, jumped from the bookcase to the windowsill, then ran around the office several times. Biff didn’t speak squirrel, though he could, on rare occasions, communicate with the little rodent telepathically. “Settle down,” he said sternly. “I have to concentrate.”

There were several Haitian-American neighborhoods in Miami-Dade and Broward counties. After doing some quick research, Biff grabbed the stuffed dog and left the office with Raki on his shoulder. Since he could not transport himself from place to place without the use of a car, he drove his Mini Cooper down to Little Haiti, just north of downtown Miami, because that was where many recent immigrants ended up.

Over the next two days, when he did not have work on other cases, Biff walked up and down each sunbaked street in search of clues. Despite the poverty around him, he sensed a great deal of hope coming from the run-down apartment buildings, the storefronts with signs in Creole, the neatly-dressed dark-skinned children heading to and from school.

He had finely tuned senses, and by focusing on the idea of a restavek and the emotions that would accompany such a life, he was able to find several cases of restavek children, as Mirlandy had. But he had to agree with her; these children were safe and well-cared for, and not in any danger. And none of them were Mousseline.

Raki was fascinated with the stuffed dog. Whenever they were in the car, he sniffed and pawed at the toy, as if he too could read the psychic vibrations from it.

When Biff felt he had exhausted all possibilities in Little Haiti, he turned to North Miami, a neighborhood where many Haitian families had been able to buy homes and start businesses. When he took to the sidewalk, Raki rode on his shoulder, sometimes darting through the trees.

The streets were broader there, lined with all varieties of palm trees, from the towering kings to the squat cabbage palms. The homes were small but well-kept, with hedges of bright red hibiscus and banana trees in side yards. It was more sprawling and harder to navigate, and by Friday afternoon he was exhausted and downcast. He knew the girl was out there, but where?

He decided to sleep in on Saturday morning to recharge his batteries. He woke just before noon to Raki’s angry tapping on the bedroom window with his tiny claws. He let the fuzzy-tailed rodent inside, and Raki scampered down the hall to the kitchen, where Biff left a bowl of water and a tray of candied walnuts on the counter. He’d once tried leaving the bowl on the floor, but Raki reminded him that he was a squirrel, not a bloody dog.

Biff was an ifrit, a type of genie whose power came from his connection to the earth. His on-and-off girlfriend, Farishta, was a marid, a water spirit, and much more powerful than he was. She could summon raging storms with the flick of a finger, move through the sky on a gust of rain-soaked wind, swim through the depths of the ocean like a dolphin. She was sexy, beautiful, and mischievous. He hadn’t seen her for a few weeks; she was off causing trouble somewhere among the warring tribes of Afghanistan.

Maybe Farishta could provide the feminine energy that would help him locate the missing girl. He turned to a portrait painted of Farishta in Constantinople in the 17th century. She wore a belly-baring silk blouse encrusted with tiny diamonds and ballooning harem pants in the same pale pink silk, and her black hair was twisted into an elaborate braid, studded once again with sparkling diamonds.

He focused his third eye on the portrait and sent a message to Farishta.

“Ah, my Bivas, you summoned me.” At the sound of his age-old name, Biff turned to his right and saw Farishta beside him. She was as lovely as ever, her abundant black curls in tendrils around her heart-shaped face, her sable eyes as piercing as ever. She wore the tight-fitting harem pants she favored, and what looked like a sports bra covered with a filmy blouse. The outfit accentuated her curves and Biff felt a wave of lust wash over him.

She stepped up on her toes to kiss him on the lips, then backed off and handed him a chilled bottle of Italian prosecco. He put the bottle aside, took her in his arms and kissed her, until suddenly Farishta pulled away and screamed.

“Raki!” Biff said. “You know Farishta hates it when you jump into her hair.”

The squirrel’s long, fluffy gray and brown tail was all that was visible as Raki burrowed deep into Farishta’s curls. Biff grabbed the tail and extracted him, as Farishta shook her finger and said, “Naughty squirrel!”

“He loves you,” Biff said. Raki squirmed out of Biff’s grip and scurried across the room, leaping from the floor to the chest to the door frame. As soon as he was out of the room, Biff closed the door, and returned his attention to Farishta. She had already opened the prosecco and poured them two glasses. He twined his arm around hers and lifted his glass to his lips, focusing on her deep ebony eyes.

Farishta put down her glass and tugged at Biff’s. He tossed his glass into the air and pointed at it as it tumbled. In a flash, it exploded into a spray of multi-colored fireworks. “Always the showman,” Farishta said, as they fell into bed together.

* * * *

When they woke the next morning, curled together in Biff’s bed, he stroked Farishta’s black curls. “I have some work to do today,” he said. “I could use your help.”

She yawned and stretched. “But it is Sunday. The day of rest in the western world.”

He sat up and explained the situation to her, and by the time he was finished she was ready to go. “Come, come,” she said. “Do you know where to begin?”

Farishta was a water spirit, so she could command the moisture in the humid Florida air to create a tiny whirlwind that would spirit her—and Biff, if he was holding her hand—to wherever she wished to go.

“I guess we should start in Little Haiti again,” he said.

She shook her head. “No, you have already been there, you said. Where have you not looked?”

He thought for a moment. “When I worked with Mambo Mirlandy the last time, she mentioned that many of the earthquake refugees had landed in Miramar—far west of here, on the edge of the Everglades.”

“Then we shall go there.”

He picked up the stuffed dog and she took his hand and commanded the whirlwind. Just before they left the house, Raki appeared and jumped onto Biff’s shoulder. The three of them sped west, above the broad strip of I-595, which linked the western suburbs to the urban core of Fort Lauderdale. They landed at a complex of buildings called the Miramar Town Center. “So, we are here,” she said. “You are the detective. Detect.”

Raki jumped down from his shoulder and scampered up a palm tree. He looked at Farishta in her harem pants and smiled at the memory of what the harem had been like in the time of the great pashas, the overwhelming sense of female bodies close together, the trickle of water in the baths, the scene of perfume in the air.

“Bivas!” Farishta said. He realized that his body had reacted to those memories. “Cover yourself or we will cause a scene!”

He quickly adjusted himself inside his baggy shorts and explained to Farishta, “I had a vision of a harem. I wonder if this girl could be held somewhere with other women.”

“A modern harem would not be so elegant as in the old times. And there would be much more testosterone, from the constant flow of men.”

She licked her index finger and held it up to the wind. “This way,” she said. She called for Raki, and when he returned to them, she took Biff’s hand and they entered the whirlwind, moving slowly past housing developments so new the paint had not yet faded in the bright Florida sun, along busy streets that had been mere pathways through sawgrass a few years before.

They kept going west, closer and closer to the edge of the Everglades, until Farishta landed in front of a house in the old Cracker style, probably a farmhouse until the owners had sold their land to developers. No gated entrance, no surveillance. The grass near the street was flattened and brown, the result of many cars driving and parking.

They stood in the shelter of a palm apple tree, surrounded by its bitter, yellow-green fruit. “One of us needs to go inside,” Biff said. “To make sure the girl is there, before we call the police.”

Farishta looked at the squirrel. “You wanted to come with us,” she said. “Now it is time for you to earn your walnuts.”

Raki chittered eagerly. She held him in the palm of her hand and communicated with him telepathically. Biff envied her that ability; sometimes he was completely baffled by the little rodent.

The squirrel jumped from her hand and scampered across the dead grass to the house. He clambered up a downspout, then ducked into an open window.

“How are you going to know when he finds something?” Biff asked.

“He will come back.” She turned to him. “We are a good team, you and I. Think of the fun we could have together if you gave up this silly obsession with helping humans and joined me in making mischief.”

“It’s not a silly obsession,” he said. “You know the rules that govern our kind. I am required to grant wishes, just as you are required to disrupt evil and cause trouble to the wicked.”

“And is that not what you do?” she asked. “Just under a different disguise.”

Biff thought about how much fun it would be to travel the world with Farishta on a cloud of mist, joining their powers. But in the end, they were two different spirits—he loved his domestic comforts, the connection to the earth that grew as he remained in one place. He even liked the squirrel’s company.

“There he is,” Farishta said, pointing to the third-floor roof, where Raki was crawling gingerly across a rusted gutter that hung from a single nail. With a powerful thrust of his back legs, he jumped from the roof to the topmost branches of the pond apple, shaking loose a piece of rotten fruit that dropped to the ground in front of Biff and splattered, only narrowly missing the tasseled point of his silk slipper.

The squirrel scampered down the tree trunk and launched himself onto Biff’s shoulder, chittering rapidly. Farishta listened, then nodded. “The girl is alone in a third-floor room,” she said. “But there are many other people in the house, men and women.”

“He’s sure that’s the right girl?” Biff asked.

“Yes, yes, I described her to him.” She crossed her arms over her chest, the filmy sleeves of her blouse fluttering in the breeze. “And now?” she asked.

“If we call the police, they’ll put Mousseline in state custody. I’m sure she has no immigration papers, and if her mother claims her, they’ll both be sent back to Haiti.”

“Where there is no future for either of them,” Farishta said. “So we must remove the girl and return her to her mother before alerting the police.”

Biff pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his shorts and called Mambo Mirlandy. He arranged to have her bring Lydie to the house in Miramar. Then he called his friend Jimmy Stein, a police detective who worked in the unincorporated part of Miami-Dade County around Biff’s office.

“You do know it’s Sunday, don’t you?” Jimmy asked when he answered the phone.

“You’re Jewish,” Biff said. “Your Sabbath was yesterday. And all I need from you is a contact, somebody in the Miramar police.” He explained the situation, leaving out Mousseline and her mother.

“If you’re talking human trafficking, you don’t need local cops. You need either state or Federal. Hey, you remember Hector Hernandez, don’t you?”

Biff had worked with Hernandez, an agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, on another case. The FDLE were effectively the state police. “Yeah.”

“I’ll call him for you. Give me the address where you are.”

Biff read it out to him. “But give me a half hour before you call, all right? I’ve got something I have to do.”

“This is serious, Biff. You don’t want to get involved in this kind of crap. Leave it to the FDLE.”

“All I need to do is get one girl out of there before the officers get here,” Biff said.

“You’ve got a half hour. But don’t let these guys slip out of your fingers. This is bad business.”

“I understand.” Biff ended the call and looked around. As an earth-bound spirit, he drew his energy from the ground, while Farishta drew hers from the water. How could they master the air?

“Can you make a whirlwind to move an object, if you’re not personally connected to it?” Biff asked Farishta.

She looked insulted. “Of course, I can. What kind of an ifrit do you think I am?”

“A beautiful, talented one,” he said. “Come on, I saw a pile of junk in the backyard. There might be something we can use.”

Raki led the way around the corner of the house to where the backyard abutted a mangrove swamp. Broken pieces of furniture, bald tires, and what looked like construction debris were strewn haphazardly around the bare grass. Biff walked around, surveying, until he found what he wanted. “This,” he said, pulling a roll of worn carpet from the debris. It was cheap and mass-produced, and it smelled of mold and feces. To Biff’s sensitive nose it was like burying his face in a pile of dog excrement.

“A magic carpet?” Farishta asked, hands on her hips. “Really, Bivas?”

“Really. Unless of course you can’t make one work.”

She pointed her index finger at the roll of carpet, and tiny puffs of air appeared, unrolling it. It was even dirtier on the inside and the ends were frayed, but it would do. She waved her hands over it and tiny waterspouts appeared, scrubbing the fabric clean. Then she summoned a heated breeze which dried it.

By the time they returned with the carpet to their observation post beneath the pond apple tree, Mambo Mirlandy had arrived in a beat-up old Toyota. Lydie rushed out of the car, this time wearing a pink polyester dress with a small matching hat. She looked like she had just come from church. In halting, heavily-accented English, she said, “You find my daughter?”

“Yes, but we’re going to need your help to get her out,” Biff said.

He explained the plan to Mirlandy, who translated it into Creole for Lydie. The young woman who looked doubtful and afraid. “She asks if this is safe?”

“We wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t,” Biff said.

Farishta took Lydie’s arm and led her to the carpet, speaking to her in a low voice. Lydie settled on the remnant, her legs tucked beneath her, the one-eared stuffed dog on her lap. Biff noticed that she had a small pink pocketbook clutched in her hands.

Farishta pointed at the carpet and those tiny whirlwinds appeared again, lifting the frayed edges, and gradually moving it vertically. Lydie grabbed the edges of the remnant as she rose up along the side of the house, but her ascent was smooth enough that her pink hat didn’t budge from her head. Finally, she reached the open window on the third floor, and she inched close to the window, calling softly to Mousseline in Creole.

With his super-sensitive hearing, Biff could hear the words but not understand them. Soon he saw the girl’s frightened face appear at the window.

“I may need your help, Bivas,” Farishta said, as the girl slipped one bare foot out the window. She wore only a lightweight nightgown. “Take my hand and anchor yourself.”

He did as she asked, focusing on her and drawing power from the earth beneath his feet. Then he channeled that power toward Farishta, feeling the extra weight as the girl climbed onto the carpet, grabbed the stuffed dog from her mother, then nestled against her. He was able to control the pull of gravity so that the carpet didn’t plummet but instead floated to the ground. Lydie clutched her daughter to her, and her pink hat slid sideways, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“That was strong magic!” Mirlandy said, when the rug was on the ground.

Lydie stood up but Mousseline remained on the carpet, her eyes still wide with terror. “You go now,” Biff said. “Quickly. The police will be here any minute.”

Lydie knelt beside her daughter and spoke to her again, and the girl took her mother’s hand. They hurried to Mirlandy’s Toyota, the stuffed dog dangling from Mousseline’s other hand.

As it pulled into traffic, Biff saw Hector Hernandez’s unmarked vehicle approach. He and Farishta remained in the shadows as the FDLE agent and his backup approached the front door of the house, banged on the door, and announced themselves.

Biff was surprised at how many young girls there were in the house, all of them managed by three young Hispanic men and two older black women.

When they were confident that the house was empty and the FDLE agents had everything under control, Biff, Farishta, and Raki returned to the townhouse. “Where did we leave off last night?” Biff asked.

Farishta took his hand. Raki screeched and scampered away, and Biff and Farishta fell into each other’s arms once more.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I hope you’ve enjoyed this story, and that if you have, you’ll check out Biff’s full-length adventure, Genie for Hire: A Biff Andromeda Mystery, available in e-book and print format from booksellers and online vendors, including Amazon.com.

Biff, Farishta and Raki join forces once again to battle Russian mobsters along Miami’s beaches, solving murders and halting illegal arms trafficking as they do.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Neil S. Plakcy (mahubooks.com) is the author of more than fifty novels in mystery, romance, and adventure. He lives in south Florida with his husband and two rambunctious golden retrievers.

THE CASE OF THE TIPSY TURKEY,by Hal Charles

As Detective Mandi Rhodes hurried toward the commotion in downtown Elk Creek, she hoped nothing had happened to interfere with the city’s annual Thanksgiving parade. Winding her way through the crowd of onlookers, she saw a figure in a brightly-colored turkey suit sprawled on the sidewalk.

“What happened to Mr. Hastings?” said Mandi to the gray-haired woman kneeling next to the fallen figure.

“I don’t know,” said the woman Mandi recognized as Hiram Hastings’ wife, Julia. “We drove into town this morning in such a hurry we didn’t have time for breakfast or even our morning coffee. Hiram was so afraid he’d be late for the start of the parade.”

“When did you first notice something was wrong?” said Mandi, motioning for the crowd to keep their distance.

“We were in the officials’ tent, and everything was fine,” said Julia. “We headed for the parade starting point, and Hiram began to stagger, then fell.”

As Mandi leaned down to make sure Hiram was breathing okay, her eyes widened. “It appears our Tom Turkey’s tipsy.”

“That can’t be,” said Julia, helping her still-groggy husband to his feet. “Hiram’s been a teetotaler all his life.”

“Julia,” said Mandi, “I know alcohol when I smell it, and that’s alcohol on Hiram’s breath.”

Julia shook her head as Hiram pulled himself out of the turkey costume.

“You said Hiram was okay until you left the officials’ tent,” said Mandi.

Julia nodded.

“That’s right,” said Hiram, steadying himself. “It wasn’t till I grabbed a couple of gulps of coffee from the thermos we brought from home that I started to feel a little woozy.”

“I think we’d better take a look at that thermos,” said Mandi as she and Julia helped a shaky Hiram back to the officials’ tent.

“You don’t think someone put something in Hiram’s coffee?” said Julia, pointing to a large thermos on a table at the rear of the tent.

“My coffee did taste a little funny,” said Hiram, “but I just thought you were trying a new blend.”

Mandi held the thermos near her nose. “Whoa!” she said, shaking her head. “Who was in the tent with you earlier?”

“Just the three parade officials: Marla Collins, Benny Newsome, and our new mayor, Ralph Sampson,” said Julia.

“I’d better have a chat with those three,” said Mandi. “And, Hiram, you’d better get a few cups of real coffee.”

Mandi found Benny Newsome at the parade starting point. The young schoolteacher was struggling to put on the turkey suit.

“Mr. Newsome,” said Mandi, flashing her badge, “could I have a minute?”

“Please be quick, Detective. The parade is scheduled to start in a few minutes, and—”

“And you just can’t wait to take Hiram Hastings’ place as the star of this shameful spectacle,” came a shrill voice from the left. “I can’t believe we still celebrate the sacrificing of such a noble creature.”

Mandi turned to see a pencil-thin woman in a tie-dyed t-shirt racing toward them.

“Marla,” said Newsome, zipping up the suit and grabbing the head piece, “you became a parade official for no other reason than to lobby us to replace the turkey as the Grand Marshal. Well, Hiram may be down, but as they say in sports, it’s the next man—or turkey—up.”

“Not so fast,” said a tall man in a dapper three-piece suit.

“Mayor Sampson,” said Mandi.

“Newsome,” said the mayor authoritatively, “I’m afraid I can’t let you marshal the parade. The city’s insurance only covers Hiram Hastings, and since our favorite fowl is wasted, I have no choice but to cancel the parade.”

“You have my vote!” shouted Marla.

“Hers might be the only one you get next election,” said Mandi.

SOLUTION

When Mayor Sampson alluded to Hiram’s being drunk, Mandi realized he could have known that detail only if he had spiked the coffee since Julia and Mandi had kept the reason for Hiram’s condition a secret to protect his reputation. Confronted, Sampson confessed that he wanted to sideline Hiram so he could cancel a traditional parade that didn’t fit his “modern” agenda for Elk Creek. Benny Newsome surrendered the turkey suit to a sobered-up Hiram, and the parade took place, if a bit behind schedule. Mayor Sampson was recalled later that year.

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcasesthe best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

THE FINAL COURSE,by Stacy Woodson

Six siblings. Six dishes. Six courses of holiday hell.

But not this Thanksgiving. There will be no comments about my extra weight or my single status or my stringy hair. My invitation. My house. My rules. My way. We will have a pleasant meal.

Even if it kills us.

I slide into my seat, look at the heads gathered around the table, and give thanks for the spread in front of me: Mary’s marrow mashed potatoes, Stan’s giblet stuffing, Carl’s candied yams, Roberta’s sweet rolls, and Tom’s creamy turkey casserole. Our holiday meal wouldn’t be complete without his savory contribution.

I dutifully scoop a serving of each onto my plate and inhale. Everything smells divine. All seasoned with something special, something only each family member can provide, and I pause to appreciate this moment—this feast from family.

“Shall we?” I reach for my fork, not bothering to wait for an answer.

I followed Martha’s Marvelous Tips for a memorable Thanksgiving—plan menu, prepare food, make sides ahead of time, and create memories that will last a lifetime. Martha Stewart knows her stuff. Everything is perfect thanks to her advice and my detailed planning, especially the food. It’s hard to pick where to start.

Chunky casserole, marrow mash, candied yams, my fork continues to hover.

The yams are brown and buttery, and the way they are caramelized is Food Channel worthy. I decide to start there.

I stab a piece, stop to pluck an eyelash from my food, and Carl’s glazed eyes stare back at me. It’s the same bored look he gives me when I discuss politics, my job, anything related to my life. Normally, my stomach tightens and blood rushes to my ears.

But not today.

Carl doesn’t bother me anymore, thanks to Dr. Damen and his Shrink-Tok videos.

Breathe, focus, harness—Dr. D’s mantra and techniques helped me find my personal power. He changed my life and my relationship with my family. I’m proud of the strength I’ve managed to muster.

I ignore Carl’s incessant stare and take a bite of the yams.

My lips pucker.

The outside looks good, but the inside is bitter. I should have expected this kind of showing from Carl. He’s always bitter about something: the war, his business, having me for a sister. Condescending, bitter Carl. Why would his candied yams taste any different? I return the fork to the table and reach for my wine, ready to wash away the yams and the bad memories, but my glass is empty.

“Oops.” I laugh. “Silly me.” Consumed by all the meal-making frenzy, I forgot to pour the wine.

I stand, tug at my stretchy pants—left hip, right—then push through the door to the kitchen. Jars of spices, bags of sugar and flour, cutting boards, carving knives, rolling pins, fresh pie crusts waiting to be filled, I sift through the cluttered counter and search until I find the wine buried behind stacks of plastic wrap. It’s red with a screw cap, a blend, a bottle pulled from the grocery store aisle. Wine not fit for human consumption—at least that’s what Mary will say. I can already hear her needling me about my unacceptable beverage choice and other culinary transgressions of mine that she’s gleefully cataloged over the years.

My hand tightens around the bottle.

Despite my newfound freedom, Mary gets to me. She is talented that way.

Breathe, center, harness.

I close my eyes, cycle through Dr. D’s mantra, and push the voices away. When I’m centered again, I return to the table and put the bottle next to a carving knife. I unscrew the cap, smiling at Mary, fill my glass, and take a long satisfying sip. Then another, until I drain the glass.

The sweet rolls call to me now.

I lift one from my plate, rip it in half, slather both sides with butter—enough to make even Paula Deen raise her eyebrows. The sugar, the yeast, the grease, it all smells so good. My mouth waters, and I’m ready to take a bite.

But I can’t.

Thanks to Roberta.

I can already hear her ridicule me. The last thing I need is a piece that big with an ass my size—at least that’s what she said during my fortieth birthday dinner when I tried to enjoy a piece of cake. My entire life she has pointed out my flaws, and her insults still echo in my head.

All their insults.

Too ugly to go to prom. Too fat to be a bridesmaid at my sister’s wedding. Too inarticulate to speak at my mother’s funeral. Too stupid to have a real opinion about anything. The adopted sister—at least that’s what they told people—because they didn’t want to claim me.

But I am one of them, an amalgamation of their worst features, the ugly duckling. A blemish on their otherwise flawless family, and they all hate me for it.

My jaw clenches, fingers pinching the roll tighter and tighter, squeezing so hard that butter slides down my hand and drips onto the table.

Breathe, center, harness, breathe—

I drag in a long breath.

Exhale.

Return the roll to my plate, wipe my hand with a napkin, and brace myself for Roberta. But she doesn’t say anything. None of them do.

Of course, they wouldn’t…couldn’t.

Another long breath, I exhale deeper into my chair, and savor the silence. I reach for the wine, and my arm bumps the table.

Tom wobbles.

I reach to steady him and miss.

His head rolls along the table, teeters on the edge, and thuds to the floor. He continues to roll until he hits the buffet table and comes to a stop. His empty eye sockets stare back at me. I sigh. Tom always wants to be the center of attention.

The doorbell rings.

I smile. Penelope is here.

Just in time for dessert.

I stand, smooth my apron, and reach for the carving knife. Gripping the handle, I make my way across the blood-stained carpet to greet my sister.

The final course is here.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stacy Woodson is a US Army veteran, and memories of her time in the military are often a source of inspiration for her stories. She made her crime fiction debut in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine’s Department of First Stories and won the 2018 Readers Award. Since her debut, she has placed over thirty stories in anthologies and publications—two winning the Derringer Award. You can follow her at stacywoodson.com.

TIGER ISLAND,by Carl Jacobi

The island came into sight off the Morinda’sport bow at six bells in the afternoon watch. Haxton was on the bridge when Fail, the first officer, strode out of the wheelhouse to meet the skipper who had just come up from below.

“There she is, sir,” Fail said, eyeing without interest Captain Ganler’s drink-reddened face. “Tiger Rock dead ahead. We slide in to the lee of it, same as before, eh?” He awaited confirmation.

Ganler swayed slightly, jerked the glasses to his eyes. He looked a long time, first at the island and the little cove, then at the horizon. Then he nodded.

“Quarter speed. See if you can find the same anchorage. Haxton!” he answered thickly.

Haxton, a frown on his lean face, turned and came forward. He hadn’t liked Ganler’s looks the day he came aboard. Now that the skipper was drunk, he liked them even less.

“Haxton—” Ganler rubbed a beefy hand over his unshaven face and spat over the rail, “haul that newfangled diving gear of yours on deck and get ready for a dive. Move, damn you! Want to get as many shells as we can before dark. Fail will go down with you.”

For a moment while he relit his cigar, Haxton studied the skipper coldly. Then he nodded, stepped to the port ladder and headed below.

Somehow this job, which had seemed such a gift from the gods before, had taken on an unsavory aspect. Not to have accepted would have meant another two months on the beach back in Port Moresby, of course. Pearl fishing was pretty much a closed game these days. A diver out of work couldn’t be very choosy.

Yet he had known what he was up against when he shipped. The Morindawas a dirty, rat infested tramp. Captain Ganler had a blood temper that came to a head on the slightest provocation. Fail, the first mate who was to help with the diving, was a hard faced scoundrel. A nondescript Limey for a Second, Eurasian quartermasters, and a lascar Chinese fo’c’sle didn’t improve the picture.

The Morindahad come up through the Dampier straits, taking on copra along the New Guinea coast. But Ganler had discovered something that put copra in second place in his mind. He had outlined the situation to Haxton before sailing.

Just south of the line in longitude 142° 19' E., was Tiger Island. A British possession, uninhabited, with a virgin bed of pearl oyster on the south bank. Outside the Queensland boundaries; therefore open fishing.

“But it’s sixteen fathoms and too deep for the natives,” Ganler had said. “I need another diver. I’ll pay you regular rates and passage back. What say?”

Haxton entered his cabin, opened a chest and began to haul out his heavy diving dress. There was a fly in the ointment somewhere, he felt sure. It was odd for one thing, that a ship of such low tonnage carried a wireless in these seas. Yet that proved to be the one favorable item. For Simms, the wireless op, was the only man with whom Haxton had cared to make friends. There was something about his quiet attitude that inspired confidence.

The diving dress laid out on the floor, Haxton stripped and donned a suit of underwear. He was pulling on his heavy socks when the door opened and Simms entered.

“Hello,” the op said. “Understand you want me to handle your lines.”

He was a tall man. Clear grey eyes were shining pleasantly under the visor of his blue cap. Haxton nodded.

“Help me carry this stuff out on deck. I’m going down right away.”

By the time two Malays on the after well-deck had clumsily helped Haxton into his rubber suit, the Morindahad reached a point just within the entrance to the cove. Ganler bawled a command. A gong clanged, and the engines came to a dead stop. The anchor chain shot out through the hawse hole. Beyond, Tiger Island presented its silent, palm-fringed shore.

Fail got into his own suit, a cheap piece of shoddy that had seen better days, and the two divers stood waiting orders.

“Now listen.” Ganler looked at them with bloodshot eyes. “Fail, you go down first. Three jerks on the line if it’s the right spot, and Haxton follows. It’s sixteen fathoms, but you’re stayin’ below until you get a good load. Remember, we’re after pearls, not button shells.”

The copper helmet was fastened down on the head of the first mate. He went overside in a stream of bubbles. Almost immediately his line jerked three times. Haxton motioned Simms to his side.

“Ganler’s drunk, so I’m depending on you,” he warned. “That pump—”

“Don’t worry,” Simms nodded, as he replied quietly. “If any of these swabs interfere, there’ll be trouble.”

Simms helped the Malays place the helmet on Haxton’s head. He gave it a quarter turn, locked it into position. The lead belt and heavy breastplate were already secured. Haxton seized his electric lamp. Native handlers lifted him overside onto the sea ladder.

For an instant he hung there, the water swishing over his head. Then with a jerk, he began to descend. The water changed quickly from blue to pea green. Air gurgled out the exhaust valve in the back of his helmet. He swallowed several times to relieve the heavy sensation in his ears and throat. Down, down he went, while the pressure against his suit slowly increased.

An eternity, and then abruptly his lead shoes struck bottom.

He jerked his life line once, stood motionless, waiting for that first dizzy feeling to pass. He switched on his lamp and looked about him. Five feet away stood Fail. Magnified by the water, the man seemed twice his ordinary height.

Two large wire baskets settled to the bottom, each at the end of a separate line. With his lamp feebly illuminating his movements, Haxton seized the nearest. Fail stepped to his side; they pressed their helmets together, a method of conversing under water.

“You work here. I’ll go farther in. Take the big ones, not those that are too young.”

Haxton nodded. He looked down at the oyster bed. No yellow or inferior green edged shells here. They were pure white. Chances were, it would be rich in pearls.