Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

“Lady, that car hates me. I been by your place three times. You see what happened.” He pointed out his visible wounds. When he started rolling up his pants leg, I figured I’d seen enough. I held up my hand in warning.

“Look,” I said firmly, “I paid you to do a job. I don’t care if you crush it, bum it, or put it down a garbage disposal one piece at a time. Just get rid of the car.”

“Okay, okay. But maybe this is worth a little more than we figured.”

“We’ll talk about it.” I made my voice icy. I stood up. I tapped my watch to let him know the interview was over.

Donnie and I and the kids drove over to his mama’s for her birthday two days later. Donnie’s mama is a confused woman in polka dots who insists on calling me Lorene, so I don’t go there often. But this was an occasion for Bull to make his move. I swallowed my pride.

He made his move, all right. Cop cars and fire engines blocked both ends of our street when we got back. Flames were roaring up from our garage and coming awfully close to the house.

“Oh, honey,” I said, turning tenderly to Donnie. “The garage! Your Princess must be all burned up.”

Donnie clamped his right hand over his heart. He started gasping for breath. “Sugar, tell me it ain’t so,” he whispered, as though he were breathing his last.

Little Donnie and Sherri started crying in stereo from the back seat. I told them to take care of their daddy and patted Donnie’s head.

“Stay here. I’ll run up the street and talk to the cops.”

Run? I practically danced down the block. My troubles were over, the tormenter melted to scrap. However, my glee turned to gloom when I saw the wicked stepcar squatting untouched at the curb. An interfering neighbor bragged loudly to one and all about how he’d heroically braved the flames to roll the car out of the garage to safety.

Donnie walked up with a kid tucked under each arm, his face a mask of pure joy. I instantly went into my “I love this car” act. I went so far as to lean over and kiss her shiny red roof. I was immediately sorry about this because a hot ember had landed right where I kissed. My lips blistered up.

But that was nothing compared to the condition of the incompetent hit man, as I found out the next day. He was now minus his eyebrows and had a new hairstyle that I’d call blackened stubble.

He pounded the table. “Don’t ask me to go after that evil tin monster again. She’s too smart. Besides, I done figured out a better moneymaking plan.”

“What’s that?” I squeaked, suspicion dawning.

“Well now, you wouldn’t want your insurance company finding out how that garage fire started, would you? From now on, lady, you’ll give me a regular paycheck to keep quiet.” He picked some crud off his cast and flicked it my way.

Bull smirked, ignoring my tears and protests of poverty. He stood up. He tapped my watch to let me know the interview was over. I drove home in a sick daze.

That was before I had time to think. Bull’s expecting his first payment next week, and he’ll get it all right. Only it figures to be his last payment, too. I have a new hit man. Or should I say, hit car? You see, the Princess and I had a little talk, and we’re the best of friends now. Bull will be fatally struck by a red ’57 Chevy. After that, I won’t go into the Princess’s garage and she won’t come into my house.

Hot Wire

by Steve Corwin

P. J. McLean, chuckling at the memory of the flying sofa, crested the top step and paused before an ornate hall mirror. He straightened his tie, flexed his forty-five-year-old biceps, laughed at himself, and turned crimson on discovering he was being watched.

The freckled, heart-shaped face peering over the door chain held mixed amusement and apprehension. “You seem awfully cheerful.”

“Sorry. I was just thinking about an old photograph. I’m expected by Mrs. Zoe Zack.” The extended business card was examined briefly, then tucked away.

His observer unchained the door and stepped aside. “Come in, we’ve been waiting for you. I’m Tina, my grandmother’s in back. Between the heat, her gout, and the fire she’s not doing well.” Answering the unspoken question with a fleeting smile, she said a bell was wired to the downstairs street door.

The living room reflected a sparse tidiness sharpened by light flooding in from overhead dormer windows. McLean followed Tina Zack’s athletic figure across the room and down a narrow hall with scrubbed plaster walls desperately needing paint. Along the baseboards, hinting at the building’s age, old fashioned gas valves stuck out ready to trip the unwary. The pungent odor of smoke tinged the air. It belonged to a fire barely kept out of the apartment by luck and a deteriorating brick wall. The fire had ravaged City Center Antiques two nights earlier and had killed the store’s owner, Clement Firth.

Tina stopped before a closed door, rapped lightly, and went in, beckoning McLean to follow her into a smallish room of faded opulence.