The Deadline Lines

And what have we here? The mystery of the mystery writers. Who will win the competition? Who will plunge to an icy death in the unforgiving sea?

No.

I am Carswell Chalmers. Death on the Mississippi? Under the Blood Moon? Triple Play?

You’ve probably heard of my hero, detective Jack Manning. A man’s man. With a face like a dirty angel and two fist like pit bulls on speed. The dames can’t help falling in love with him, but his heart is in a locked box and he swallowed the key.

He’s too much of a man for the publishers these days. Now all they want are namby-pamby half-men with feelings who care about other people. Hmph. No wonder everything’s going to heck. In my day, if you were a man, you crushed your heart into a lump of coal and were only able to express yourself to stray dogs.

Sweetheart, I wrote twenty-seven novels on a typewriter—my fingers used to be so strong I could poke a hole in a brick wall with my pinky. And I did it too, just ‘cause I could and that’s what you did when you were a man. You put holes in walls.

I don’t need luck. I just need the judge to have half a brain and not give the award to a scribbling woman.

Greg, tell your wife to get me a drink.

What is a “trending”

I know what the internet is, Barbie. And I knew Rihara Menton. And she was a hack with terrible advice.

And then she walked into the room. Smile like barbed wire and legs like a stool. Tapered at the top and sturdy.

What.

I’ve been doing this a long time, sweetheart. Sometimes I narrate my own life—it’s more interesting than anything else going on around me.

She had skills, I could tell that much. The way she held that pen was no accident. She’d done it before, and she’d do it again.

You look like you robbed a pop-up Halloween store on the way over here.

Experience.

And then she walked in. A personality like a loaf of sourdough bread and the face to match.

No,

Hmph. Seventeen books. I wrote twenty-seven novels on a typewriter with a space bar I had to pound with both fists. That’s how a man writes books.

Don’t encourage him,

These creatures in the terrariums are poisonous, right?

Hey, kid, the spiders need hand-feeding. We all did it before, now it’s your turn.

I knew she was trouble. Trouble like a four-alarm beef burrito that had been left out in the sun for too long. The kind of burrito that makes you wish for death at three in the morning.

That windbag got an invitation? They’ll let anybody into a writer’s retreat these days.

Whiskey.

They were more eager than a basket of puppies on amphetamines. All wagging tails and stupid grins, ready to prove their worth to their new owner. I stood apart. Watching.

Figures.

Ladies. And Greg.

I surveyed the room. Which one of them was a killer? Not the husband with a skull as soft as a plush toy. He didn’t have it in him. He was like a helpless forest creature in a pit of wolves, hoping his little bunny eyes would keep the predators at bay. But that’s the thing about predators, weakness was irresistible, like the scent of a dead squirrel to a golden retriever. You couldn’t stop them from rolling in it. And these dames were gonna roll all over this chump.

Can’t help it.

His squeaky rabbit noises weren’t helping. The wolves were licking their lips.

The hens were clucking, but none of the roosters were interested.

Which one of them was going to kill the kid first? My money was on Legs. She looked like an angel, but all the angels left before I was born, now there were only devils in disguise. Turns out that disguise was pretty nice to look at, though. If this was eternal damnation, I was gonna be eternally grateful.

When she talked, she reminded me of my second wife, all sound and no fury.

Seriously, kid. the spiders need feeding.

She was a ghost, or the ghost of a ghost. What was her story? A broken heart? Broken ambition? Something smelled, and it wasn’t her nose.

The kid wasn’t even invited. His professor was.

You got a lot of ideas for someone who doesn’t seem to be writing a book.

You got cookies? Chocolate chip, not the generic crap?

If they drug the cookies, I guess they got me.

Rule one: No one murder each other. There. Done.

Rule one: Circus freaks don’t get to make rules.

You’re trying to get a room of writers to agree on something. We might as well start the killing now.

Sounds reasonable.

What if we need to go to the bathroom?

And, what?

Legs was right.

You can’t kill with social media, doll. You ever wrestle a tiger? Try me. I’m old, but I’m wiry like an orangutan.

Amateurs. If the power goes out, everyone light a candle and put it up to your face. That way we can see where everyone is.

You’re in international waters. Everything is legal.

Only one way to find out.

They tried. But every time someone looked up, they saw a killer looking back. We’re descended from killers, of course. A long line of predators. The ones who became prey never made it this far. All our ancestors have blood on their hands. Would we be like them?

I heard the sound of the surf. The water. Rushing. And crashing against the rocks. And then it occurred to me.

I need to go to the lavatory.

It cannot wait. Unless one of the ladies wants to accompany me.

Then you just won the lucky prize, kid.

I’m old. You’ll probably never get to experience it.

Are you gonna stand there and listen to the hens cluck, or are you gonna come see what a real man can do?

I was in the bathroom. I was concentrating. It takes me some time.

No one would suspect Greg for the murder because no one respects him. Or thinks he’s capable of much. Or thinks he can tie his own shoes. Or thinks—

I was in the lavatory—lavitating. Did you miss that part?

He and the kid were standing outside.

I said they could come in. Maybe they could learn something.

The lies were piling up faster than compliments in a British Baking Show. Was there a lick of truth to what was being said? All I knew was—I was probably going to need to go to the lavatory again soon. And now there was only half a man left to go with me.

You?!

Gymnastics.

I’ve seen some gymnasts do some crazy things. Bend themselves into pretzels. Wear leotards. Somersault across the floor silently, stab a man in the back, and then somersault away.

I didn’t like writers much, and the more these people talked, the less I liked them. They pinched each other like crabs in a bucket, fighting for scraps at the table of truth, each one hoping that their little book would be the ticket to fame or fortune or at least a well-cooked meal. But we were all in the pot now, and the temperature was rising, and soon we’d be boiled in our shells. The only thing that was certain: The kid was missing. But nobody was missing the kid.

Gymnastics.

How do you know so much about this?

And why should we listen to you?

Spongehead Squareface thinks he knows? pah.

Yeah we figured that part out.

Make sure to lock the door behind them.

His desperation stank like week-old milk. His mind was wheeling with thoughts of cash from the book deal. What was he going to spend it on? Beanie Babies. He had the Beanie Baby sickness, I could tell. Bongo the Monkey. Pinchers the Lobster. Even Chilly the Polar Bear. He’d get them, or he’d die trying. That’s the thing about the Beanie Baby train, once you get on board, you’re not getting off until you reach hell station.

Even in her will, she’s a condescending old bat.

there’s a knife sticking out of his back, genius.

Just stop talking you idiot.

All the little birdies had finished chirping, and it was time for a real man.

Dellacroix had made one mistake—a mistake that ended up with him face down on the carpet with a Kick Me sign that was actually a knife in the back. Stabbed in the back, Just like my ex-wife had done to me. It was a job for detective Jack Manning.

Only explanation Possible.

Put that thing down before you hurt yourself.

And you’re gonna be wrong ‘cause you’re an idiot. Like all the rest of these idiots.

Hm?

What about him?

What are you getting at?

How did you know it was a million bucks?

You’re right. I walked away with a million dollars. But not because I killed Rihara Menton. Because I solved her murder.

Because that’s how dames work.

I knew she was a dame.

Blowdarts are my specialty.

I underestimated you, kid.

I just thought you were a pair of legs and a pretty face.

With a butt to match.

It was all over and the dame was as dead as the kid. The other dames were alive. Nothing to do now but take a ferry ride back to Nowheresville and collect unemployment.